evangeline.

Joe kisses like somebody getting progressively more distracted. Like every new sound you make against his mouth derails his train of thought entirely.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters again against your lips.

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, well.” Another kiss. Slower this time. “Still true.”

You smile slightly into his mouth, but it disappears quickly when Joe’s hand slips lower against the bare skin above your shorts.

Not enough to cross any real line.

Just enough to make heat curl low in your stomach.

The festival still rages around you in flashes of colour and bass and distant shouting, but out here near the edge of the grounds everything feels slightly softer somehow. More private.

Or maybe Joe just has a dangerous ability to make you forget other people exist.

His forehead drops briefly against yours.

“You have any idea how hard it’s been not dragging you somewhere quieter for the last hour?”

You laugh breathlessly. “Joe, we literally just met.”

“Yeah.” His thumb strokes lazily against your waist. “Feels unreal honestly.”

The crazy thing is, you know exactly what he means.

Because strangers aren’t supposed to fit this easily.

You’re supposed to still feel awkward around him. Self-conscious. Aware of yourself.

Instead, standing here pressed against the side of a food truck while festival lights flash multicoloured across Joe’s face, you feel weirdly known already. Like your body decided to trust him before your brain caught up.

Joe kisses you again before you can think too hard about that.

This one gets messy almost immediately.

His hands settle firmly at your hips while your back presses harder against the metal behind you, mouths parting instinctively against each other as the music somewhere behind you drops heavier again.

Joe groans softly when your fingers tighten in his hair.

“You like that?” you murmur.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Don’t start sounding smug.”

You tug lightly again just to watch his composure disappear further.

“Oh, you definitely like that.”

“Baby,” Joe says weakly, “you cannot say things like that while lookin’ at me like this.”

You grin. “Like what?”

“Like you already know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

Maybe you do.

A little.

Because Joe reacts to everything immediately.

Every touch lands visibly somewhere on him before he can hide it. The hitch in his breathing whenever your nails scrape lightly against his neck. The way his hands tighten instinctively at your waist every time you press closer.

And God, he keeps looking at you.

Not shyly either.

Openly.

Like he still can’t quite believe you’re real.

His mouth drifts from yours eventually, kissing slowly down your jaw instead, then lower toward your neck while his hands flatten harder against your waist.

The bass from the stage vibrates through the metal behind you. Somebody screams drunkenly somewhere nearby.

Joe kisses the sensitive spot beneath your ear and murmurs, almost absently, “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Your breath catches embarrassingly fast.

Joe notices immediately.

Of course he does.

A grin tugs briefly at his mouth against your skin before he kisses you there again, slower this time, while your fingers tighten instinctively in his curls.

“You know what’s really dangerous?” he says quietly.

“What?”

“The fact I genuinely can’t decide whether I wanna keep kissing you out here all night or drag you back to my hotel immediately.”

Heat rushes hard through your stomach.

“Joe.”

“I’m serious.” His nose brushes yours briefly before he kisses you again. “You’re making it very difficult to behave like a normal person.”

You laugh softly into his mouth, but it dissolves quickly when his hand slides beneath your shorts just enough for his fingertips to brush the top of your thigh properly.

Not enough.

Nowhere near enough.

But your whole body still reacts instantly.

Joe exhales sharply against your lips.

“…Jesus Christ.”

Your forehead knocks lightly against his shoulder as you laugh breathlessly. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’re grinding against me beside a food truck.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Joe actually groans at that, head dropping briefly against your shoulder while your hands drift lower across his chest.

The tension between you has become almost unbearable now. Sweat-slick skin. Tangled breaths. Joe’s rings cold briefly against your waist every time his hands shift.

You can feel how hard he’s trying not to completely lose his mind.

Which becomes significantly harder to ignore when he presses closer and you realise exactly how affected he is.

“Oh,” you murmur quietly.

Joe immediately looks vaguely tortured.

“Yeah,” he says weakly. “Oh.”

Something about the honesty of it makes your stomach flip violently.

Not because it’s arrogant.

Because it isn’t.

Joe looks genuinely overwhelmed by you.

Your mouths crash together again before either of you can think too hard about it, messier now, all tongue and heat and bad decisions. Your hands slide beneath his shirt instinctively, fingertips dragging across warm skin while Joe makes another rough sound low in his throat.

Then your hips roll against his without meaning to.

Joe goes completely still for half a second.

“…okay,” he says suddenly, breathless against your mouth.

You blink slightly. “What?”

“I need to stop before I make an extremely poor decision in public.”

You laugh softly. “That responsible of you?”

“No.” Joe kisses you once more, quick and rough. “I just think if I finally get you alone properly, I wanna do this right.”

That lands somewhere deep enough inside your chest to feel dangerous.

Joe notices your expression immediately.

“There’s that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one where you start realising I’m charming.”

You snort loudly.

“Oh my god.”

Joe grins lazily, clearly pleased with himself again now that he’s regained approximately three percent of his composure.

Then, quieter, “You wanna get outta here?”

You look at him for a second.

Sweaty curls. Pink lips swollen from kissing you for the better part of an hour. Glitter smeared faintly across his cheekbone beneath flashing festival lights.

Joe looks wrecked already.

Entirely because of you.

That’s a difficult thing to say no to.

So instead you hook your fingers through the front of his shirt and kiss him first.

Joe makes a startled sound against your mouth before immediately pulling you closer again, one hand flattening instinctively against the small of your back.

“That a yes?” he murmurs.

You smile slightly against his lips.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Where exactly you’re taking me.”

Joe’s grin turns slower this time. Warmer somehow.

“My hotel,” he says quietly. “If you want.”

And God.

Maybe it’s reckless.

Maybe it’s the music and the heat and the fact his mouth still tastes faintly like vodka cranberry and mint gum.

Or maybe it’s just him.

But you nod anyway.

Joe kisses you once more like he physically can’t help himself.

Then finally, reluctantly, pulls himself away enough to grab your hand.

And neither of you lets go the entire walk out of the festival.

The taxi ride back into the city is significantly less respectable than either of you intended.

Not that either of you were aiming particularly high to begin with.

The second the car pulls away from the festival grounds, Joe’s kissing you again like he physically cannot help himself, one hand sliding immediately onto your thigh while your back presses against the door beside you.

“You are-” he says breathlessly against your mouth before kissing you again, “such a bad idea.”

You grin into the kiss. “You started it.”

“No,” Joe mutters, lips brushing yours again. “Pretty sure you looked at me first.”

Your laugh dissolves embarrassingly quickly into a quiet sound when his hand slides higher up your leg beneath his jacket draped over your lap.

Still public.

Technically.

Which somehow only makes it worse.

Or better.

Definitely worse.

The city streaks past outside in blurred gold and neon while Joe kisses you slow and messy beside the window, all warm hands and swollen lips and the lingering taste of alcohol.

You can feel the driver very deliberately trying not to look in the mirror.

Joe notices too.

Which absolutely does not improve his behaviour.

“If this guy crashes because you keep making out with me in his eyeline, that’s on you,” you murmur against his mouth.

Joe laughs softly, forehead knocking briefly against yours.

“Baby, you climbed into this taxi already lookin’ at me like that. I never stood a chance.”

His thumb strokes slowly along the inside of your thigh.

Your legs squeeze together instinctively.

Joe notices immediately.

Of course he does.

A dangerous grin appears against your mouth before he leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You keep doin’ that,” he murmurs quietly, “and I’m genuinely not gonna make it upstairs.”

Heat floods through you so fast it’s almost humiliating.

“Joe.”

“What?” His mouth drifts lazily down your neck now. “Just bein’ honest.”

You’re suddenly very aware of how long this taxi ride is taking.

Joe’s hand tightens slightly on your thigh when you shift closer, fingertips pressing just enough into your skin to make your stomach flip again.

“You’re awful,” you whisper.

“Mhm.” He kisses you again immediately. “Still came back to my hotel though.”

Your fingers slide beneath the collar of his shirt, nails scraping lightly across warm skin.

Joe groans softly against your mouth.

“There it is,” you murmur smugly.

His eyes narrow slightly. “You really enjoy seeing me lose composure, huh?”

“You lose composure very prettily.”

Joe actually laughs at that, the sound low and wrecked from kissing you for the better part of the evening.

Then he glances briefly toward the front of the taxi before leaning close again.

“You know what’s really not helping?”

“What?”

“The fact I can already tell you’re gonna sound gorgeous when I finally get you alone.”

Your breath catches hard enough that Joe immediately looks pleased with himself.

“Oh, that got you.”

You cover your face briefly with one hand. “You cannot say shit like that in public.”

“We’re in the back of a taxi at one in the morning after grinding on each other beside a food truck. I think we’re past public decency.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you loud enough that the driver definitely hears it this time.

Joe starts laughing too, head dropping briefly against your shoulder while your hand grips instinctively at the front of his shirt.

For a second, neither of you can stop giggling.

Tipsy.

Overheated.

Slightly delirious from chemistry.

Joe looks up at you eventually, still smiling slightly, curls completely ruined from your hands.

Then, softly, “You’re really pretty when you laugh.”

God.

That one lands harder than the filthy comments somehow.

You kiss him again before he can see it affect you too much.

Joe hums softly against your mouth, one hand sliding firmly to your waist now as you shift half into his lap without really deciding to.

The movement pulls a sharp inhale from both of you.

“Jesus Christ,” Joe mutters weakly.

You’re suddenly very aware of exactly how little space exists between your bodies now. Very aware of the fact his hand’s spread possessively across your hip beneath your top. Very aware of how badly you want this.

Joe’s mouth drifts slowly along your jaw again while the city glows outside the windows.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs quietly.

Instead, you kiss him harder.

Joe makes a low sound against your mouth that nearly finishes you off on the spot.

The taxi cannot possibly be moving fast enough.

The hotel room is quiet in a way the festival never was.

No screaming crowds. No bass vibrating through your chest. No flashing lights.

Just soft city glow filtering through massive windows while the door clicks shut behind you.

For the first time all night, neither of you speaks immediately.

Joe stands with his back against the closed door, staring at you like he’s trying to process the fact you’re actually here.

Your makeup’s smudged slightly beneath your eyes. His shirt’s creased beyond saving. Both of you still smell faintly like sweat and alcohol and summer heat.

Joe looks devastating like this.

Real.

You step toward him slowly.

Joe’s hands find your waist instantly the second you’re close enough, like reflex now, and the kiss he pulls you into feels different from the others immediately.

Less frantic.

Still hungry.

Still messy around the edges.

But softer too.

Like now that he’s finally got you somewhere private, he wants to take his time.

His thumbs drift slowly beneath your top while your fingers slide into his curls again, and Joe exhales quietly against your mouth like the touch physically affects him every single time.

“You have any idea,” he murmurs softly between kisses, “how hard it was not touching you properly tonight?”

Heat curls low in your stomach again.

“You touched me plenty.”

Joe laughs quietly against your lips. “Not nearly enough. Not like I'm gonna.”

The backs of your thighs brush lightly against the edge of the bed as Joe keeps kissing you deeper, slower, one hand sliding carefully up your spine while the other settles warm against your hip.

The city lights spill gold across his face when he pulls back slightly to look at you.

And there it is again.

That look.

Like he’s slightly overwhelmed by you.

“You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?”

You smile despite yourself, but it disappears quickly when Joe kisses slowly down your jaw again, mouth warm against your skin while his hands drift beneath your shirt properly this time.

Palms against bare skin.

The contact pulls a quiet breath from your chest immediately.

Joe notices.

Of course he does.

His head lifts just enough for his nose to brush yours.

“You okay?”

The fact he asks nearly ruins you completely.

Not because you aren’t okay.

Because he cares enough to check.

You nod softly.

“Yeah.”

Joe studies your face for another second anyway before kissing you again.

Slower now.

Intentional.

The kind of kiss that feels like being gradually undressed emotionally alongside physically.

His hands push gently beneath your top again, fingertips spreading carefully against your waist while your own drift lower beneath the hem of his shirt.

Warm skin. Soft hair beneath your fingertips. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Joe shivers slightly when your nails scrape lightly across his stomach.

His forehead drops briefly against yours while you giggle at his reaction.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Watching you fall apart? A little.”

Joe groans quietly at that before kissing you harder again, one hand sliding into your hair while the other hooks beneath your thigh instinctively, pulling you closer against him.

The friction makes both of you inhale sharply.

And suddenly the room feels much warmer.

Joe’s mouth leaves yours long enough to kiss slowly down your neck, lingering beneath your jaw while your hands tighten automatically in the fabric of his shirt.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs distractedly against your skin.

Your stomach flips violently.

“Joe.”

“Hm?”

“You say things like that very casually.”

Joe grins against your throat.

“Sorry.” Another kiss. “You’re just very distracting.”

Your laugh dissolves into a quiet gasp instead when his teeth scrape lightly against the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

Joe immediately goes still.

“…shit.”

You blink at him slightly dazed. “What?”

“That noise.” He looks faintly tortured suddenly. “You cannot make noises like that while we’re trying to behave like normal adults.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Pretty sure we lost that battle hours ago.”

“Fair.”

Joe kisses you again before either of you can think too hard about anything.

Then his hands slide lower.

Over your waist. Your ribs. Your thighs.

Like he can't decide where he wants to touch first.

Every touch feels slightly reverent. Like he’s trying to memorise you already.

You tug him closer by the front of his jeans and Joe groans softly into your mouth.

“Baby.”

The word lands hot beneath your ribs.

You kiss him harder in response.

Joe nudges you backwards gently, and the way he looks at you when you sit down nearly knocks the breath clean from your lungs.

Completely gone for you already.

And honestly, you’re not doing much better.

Joe steps between your knees instinctively, fingertips brushing your jaw slowly while city lights glow warm against his skin.

Then, quieter, “You sure?”

Your chest aches a little unexpectedly.

Because God.

You barely know this man.

And somehow he’s still being gentle with you.

You reach for him immediately, fingers curling through the front of his belt loops to tug him closer again.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

Joe looks wrecked already.

He obeys instantly.

The second you've got him laying over you, forearms bracketing either side of your head, your hands are all over him.

You tug desperately at his shirt, and he quickly gets the message, lifting his arms one at a time so you can throw his shirt somewhere behind your head.

He's so gorgeous it almost distracts you for a second. Soft skin stretched over lean muscle, broad shoulders, hairy chest, soft stomach that still somehow feels solid beneath your palms.

You're still staring slightly when he leans back down with a smug smile to kiss you again.

Your hands grip his shoulders tightly as he shifts his weight onto one arm, the other sliding beneath your shirt to cup one of your breasts through your bra.

The sound that leaves your mouth is downright sinful, and Joe immediately bucks his hips forward against yours with a low groan.

He sits back on his heels, straddling your thighs, to tug your shirt over your head, then your bra. The second your chest is bare beneath him, he goes visibly distracted.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters under his breath, eyes fixed on you like he can’t decide where to look first.

You grab the back of his neck immediately, pulling him back down into another deep kiss before he can keep staring long enough to make you self-conscious.

The feeling of his bare chest pressed against yours is almost overwhelming. His chest hair brushes against your sensitive nipples every time he moves, and he swallows every soft noise you make like he’s addicted to hearing them.

His hips grind steadily against yours now, and you can feel exactly how hard he is even through his jeans and your shorts.

Then he pulls away, sliding lower down your body until his mouth hovers over one of your nipples.

Fuck.

Those eyes.

The look he gives you with those hazel eyes is genuinely unfair.

He keeps eye contact as his lips wrap around your nipple, the hand not supporting his weight squeezing your other breast while his tongue circles slowly around the sensitive bud.

Your hips jerk instinctively beneath him.

Your fingers tangle tightly in his curls, tugging lightly at the overwhelming sensation.

“Fu- fuck, Joe,” you whine, your head tipping back despite how badly you want to keep watching him.

The sight of him between your breasts, lips swollen already from kissing you all night, is enough to ruin you by itself.

He switches to the other nipple, kneading slowly at the one he’s just been sucking on while a rough groan vibrates against your skin like he’s getting as much out of this as you are.

You grab his shoulders to drag him back upwards until his face hovers over yours again, immediately pulling him into another hungry kiss.

Your hands slide between you to undo his belt while he kisses you breathless, helping you shove it open before sitting back briefly to unzip his jeans.

He stands just long enough to kick them off before climbing back over you again.

Now he’s only in his boxers, and you can see the shape of him properly for the first time.

Fuck.

You’re practically drooling.

Joe slides your shorts slowly down your legs, leaving both of you in nothing but underwear.

The second he starts grinding against you again, he gasps softly into your mouth at how wet you already are for him, even through the layers between you.

“Got you this worked up already, huh baby?” he teases, though the confidence barely masks how affected he is too, hips stuttering slightly against yours every few seconds like he’s struggling to stay composed.

“Shut up,” you murmur, laughing breathlessly against his lips.

The kisses soften after that.

Slow down slightly.

Like both your nerves have finally caught up with you. Like it’s suddenly dawned on both of you what the next step actually is.

Joe presses gentle kisses down your jaw, your neck, between your breasts, lower toward your stomach, while his hands draw slow circles against your hips until he’s hovering between your thighs.

“This okay?” he asks softly.

The look on his face nearly melts you on the spot.

You have to pull yourself together just enough to nod.

“Please, Joe.”

At that, his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear as he slowly peels them down your thighs, your hips lifting automatically to help him.

The look on his face when he finally sees you properly almost finishes you off by itself.

Your folds are swollen and slick with arousal already, and Joe genuinely looks overwhelmed for a second by the sight of you.

He glances up briefly to find you watching him, already desperate.

Then he drags his tongue teasingly between your folds.

Your reaction is instant.

Head thrown back. Eyes squeezed shut. A helpless sound leaving your throat from that tiny bit of contact alone.

Joe kisses your clit softly before sucking it gently between his lips, and you already know you’re done for.

This time he dives in properly.

Still gentle.

Still attentive.

But greedier now that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

His tongue laps between your folds while his hands hold your thighs open for him, alternating between kissing, sucking, licking until your whole body feels unbearably sensitive.

“Joe, I-” you barely manage.

“What is it, baby?” he mumbles against your skin, lips curving slightly against you.

“Wanna cum on your cock. Come here.”

Fuck.

Joe swears he nearly comes in his boxers hearing that.

He crawls back up your body immediately, kissing you hard the second he reaches your mouth again.

Your hands reach down desperately to shove his boxers lower, and the second his cock springs free, your eyes widen slightly.

He’s gorgeous.

Thick and flushed and leaking pre-cum already.

You wrap your hand around him instinctively, barely able to fit your fingers fully around the girth, and swipe your thumb through the bead of pre-cum at the tip before bringing it to your lips.

Joe groans loudly at the sight, forehead dropping briefly into the crook of your neck while his hips jerk helplessly against yours, the head of his cock catching against your folds for the first time.

Both of you gasp.

“Need to be inside you, baby,” he says breathlessly. “That okay? Can I?”

He’s rambling now, and you’re nodding before he’s even finished speaking, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer while one hand grips his shoulder and the other tangles tightly in his curls again.

“Please,” you murmur against his lips, pulling him into one more deep, messy kiss as he finally pushes inside you.

The sounds both of you make are genuinely obscene.

The stretch burns slightly at first, but the feeling of fullness almost immediately overrides it.

You need more.

“Fuck me, Joe,” you whisper.

You feel him shudder hard above you at the words.

He kisses you deeply as he starts moving, grinding into you with slow, steady thrusts that knock breathless moans from your chest almost instantly.

Everything about it feels messy and desperate. Like neither of you can think clearly enough to maintain rhythm properly.

One of Joe’s hands grips tightly onto your thigh wrapped around his waist, grounding himself in you while keeping you spread open beneath him.

The roll of his hips feels devastating. The low sounds leaving his mouth against yours are enough to push you dangerously close embarrassingly fast.

And somehow, despite how filthy this is, it still feels painfully intimate too.

Too intimate for people who met tonight.

You already know you’re never getting enough of him after this.

“Jesus, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, honey,” Joe groans against your neck after a few minutes. “You gonna cum for me?”

His hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in slow, steady movements that make your whole body jolt.

You whine helplessly, head tipping back while your legs tighten hard around his waist.

“That’s it,” you gasp. “Right there- fuck-”

The orgasm hits suddenly and hard, rolling through your entire body at once.

Your back arches off the mattress, chest pressed flush against his while your thighs shake violently around him.

Joe groans loudly into your neck at the feeling of you clenching around him, thrusting a few more desperate, uneven times before stilling completely as he comes hard inside you.

His mouth finds yours immediately.

And somehow that’s the part that overwhelms you most.

Not the orgasm.

Not the sex.

The kiss.

Slow and deep and almost unbearably intimate while both of you fall apart together.

As the adrenaline finally starts fading, your legs slowly loosen from around his waist while Joe lowers himself carefully on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he already belongs there.

He presses lazy kisses against your skin while he slips slowly out of you, and you whine softly at the loss, making him laugh quietly against your throat.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs.

You can’t exactly find it in yourself to be mad about it.

Later, much later, the city’s gone quiet outside the windows.

Joe’s lying shirtless beside you beneath tangled hotel sheets while your head rests heavy against his chest.

Neither of you has managed to stop touching each other for more than about thirty seconds all night.

Even now his fingers drift lazily across your bare shoulder while your leg stays tangled loosely with his beneath the blankets.

The adrenaline’s finally worn off enough to leave something softer behind.

Exhaustion. Warmth. That strange intimacy that appears late at night when everything starts feeling slightly more honest than usual.

Joe presses a sleepy kiss against the top of your head.

“You know what’s crazy?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“I almost didn’t go tonight.”

You lift your head slightly. “Seriously?”

“Mhm.” Joe’s fingers drift slowly through your hair now. “Tour’s been insane recently. I was exhausted.”

A smile tugs faintly at your mouth.

“Well. That would’ve been tragic for you.”

Joe laughs softly beneath you.

“See?” His arm tightens slightly around your waist. “There’s that ego again.”

“You like my ego.”

“Unfortunately, yeah.”

You grin sleepily against his chest while silence settles comfortably around the room again.

Then, eventually, “What happens tomorrow?”

Joe goes quiet for a second.

Not awkward.

Just thoughtful.

“I dunno,” he admits softly. “Guess we find out.”

His honesty feels strangely intimate somehow.

No performance. No fake promises about fate or forever after six hours together.

Just openness.

Possibility.

Joe’s fingers drift absently down your spine again while the city glows quietly beyond the windows.

Then, after a pause, “But I do know I’m taking you to breakfast.”

You laugh quietly. “That confident I’ll still be here?”

Joe looks down at you then.

Really looks at you.

And something in his expression softens all over again.

“Honey,” he says quietly, “I really hope you are.”

You notice it properly one rainy Thursday night in his bedroom.

The windows are cracked just enough to let cool air drift through the room, carrying the smell of wet pavement and summer rain. Somewhere outside, thunder rolls softly across Hawkins while Steve kisses you against the edge of his mattress, one hand curved carefully around your waist.

You pull back just enough to murmur, “Hey.”

Steve chases after your mouth instinctively before catching himself halfway there.

“Hm?”

“Slow down.”

The words clearly catch him off guard.

Steve blinks once, hands still settled warm against your waist. “What?”

You smile slightly despite yourself, brushing your thumb softly beneath his jaw.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” Your hand trails lightly down his arm. “Acting like you’re being timed.”

A faint line appears between Steve’s eyebrows immediately.

“I just thought we were-”

“We are.”

You kiss him again before he can spiral into apologising for something he hasn’t actually done wrong.

Slower this time.

Careful enough that he has to feel it.

Steve makes a quiet sound against your mouth - soft and startled, like the gentleness caught him off guard - and something warm and painful pulls tight beneath your ribs.

The real thing reveals itself quietly after that.

Steve Harrington is very good at taking care of people. He remembers how everybody likes their coffee. Notices when someone’s cold before they do. Gives pieces of himself away so naturally he probably doesn’t even realise he’s doing it anymore.

But the second somebody tries to hand that tenderness back to him, he gets almost shy about it.

You guide him backwards slowly until the backs of his knees hit the mattress.

“There,” you murmur softly. “Better.”

Steve looks at you with an expression that suddenly feels much younger than the rest of him. Not nervous exactly. Just unaccustomed to being handled this carefully.

“You’re being weirdly nice to me,” he says suspiciously.

You laugh under your breath. “That’s a horrible thing to say to your girlfriend.”

“No, I mean-” Steve runs a hand awkwardly through his hair. “Usually you’re the one getting taken care of.”

“And?”

“And…” His shoulders lift faintly in another helpless shrug. “I dunno.”

“Steve,” you say quietly, “when’s the last time you actually relaxed?”

Steve snorts immediately. “Probably 1984.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

You stare at him for a second before both of you start laughing softly.

The tension loosens after that. Only slightly, but enough.

Steve’s shoulders drop beneath your hands while your fingers continue moving lazily through his hair. He closes his eyes for barely a second at the feeling before catching himself doing it.

Interesting.

“You like that?” you ask softly.

Steve opens one eye immediately. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use that voice like you’re discovering something.”

Your smile widens. “I am discovering something.”

Steve groans quietly while you scratch lightly against his scalp again.

His entire body visibly relaxes.

“Oh my god,” you whisper dramatically. “You’re basically a rescue dog.”

“Wow.”

“You are.”

Steve tries rolling his eyes, but it loses some impact when he’s actively leaning into your hand now.

“There he is,” you murmur softly.

Something in Steve’s expression changes at that. Tiny and fleeting, but noticeable. Like the affection in your voice hit him harder than expected.

You kiss him again, carefully, slower than before, and this time Steve follows your pace automatically. His hands still twitch occasionally like instinct keeps trying to pull him back into urgency, but every time he starts rushing ahead, you guide him back down again.

A hand against his jaw.

Fingers through his hair.

A kiss slow enough to feel deliberate.

Gradually, Steve starts melting beneath it.

You can read him everywhere if you know where to look - in the hitch of his breathing, the way his eyes flutter shut when your nails scrape lightly against the nape of his neck, the quiet sounds he tries unsuccessfully to swallow whenever you touch him somewhere sensitive.

The calmer he gets, the softer he becomes.

Not grasping now. Not hurried.

Just warm hands sliding beneath your shirt to feel your skin. His thumb drifting absentmindedly along your waist while he kisses you like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.

At some point he just… looks at you.

Really looks at you.

“What?” you murmur.

Steve shakes his head once, gaze still fixed on your face.

“Nothin’.”

“That’s a lie.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “You’re just really pretty.”

Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.

“Steve.”

“I’m serious.” His fingertips brush beneath your jaw now, mirroring the way you touched him earlier. “You’re always taking care of everybody too, and somehow you still…” He shrugs slightly. “Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

His expression softens.

“Like I’m worth being gentle with.”

The air leaves your lungs all at once.

God.

There he is.

You kiss him before he can look away.

Slow, lingering.

Your hand settles against his cheek while Steve sinks gradually backwards onto the mattress beneath you, one arm wrapping around your waist like he wants to keep you there.

“You know what your problem is?” you murmur softly against his mouth.

Steve looks mildly offended already. “Excuse me?”

“You think love only counts when you’re giving it.”

Something fragile flickers briefly across his face.

You smooth your thumb beneath his eye.

“But you’re allowed to have it too, honey.”

Steve goes very still beneath you.

Then, quietly, “Oh.”

Your chest aches.

You kiss him again before he can retreat into embarrassment, letting your hands drift slowly over him without urgency now. Every time he starts trying to touch you more than letting himself simply exist in the moment, you pull him gently back down again.

“Relax,” you murmur at one point, fingers brushing through his hair.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re flexing every muscle in your body.”

Steve pauses.

“…shit.”

You laugh softly and kiss him before he can get embarrassed about that too.

Slow at first. Patient. Your hands stay gentle where they move across him, fingertips dragging through his hair, down the warm skin of his neck, over his shoulders where tension still sits stubbornly beneath the surface.

Steve keeps trying to kiss you harder. Instinctively reaching for more every time things soften too much, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with tenderness unless it’s swallowed immediately by hunger.

“There you go,” you murmur softly against his mouth when his breathing finally starts slowing again.

Steve exhales shakily through his nose.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, warm and slightly restless against your skin, but even now he’s still touching you more than letting himself be touched.

You notice immediately.

So you shift carefully into his lap, knees settling either side of his hips while Steve looks up at you with that same slightly dazed expression he’s been wearing ever since you told him to slow down.

“Hi,” you whisper.

His hands instinctively settle at your waist.

“…hi.”

You smile softly before kissing him again, slower this time, letting your hips roll gently against his just enough to pull a low sound from deep in his chest.

Steve has never been particularly good at hiding what you do to him.

You kiss along his jaw slowly while your hands push his shirt up over his stomach.

Steve helps automatically, tugging it off quickly before immediately reaching for you again.

“Patient,” you murmur softly, catching his wrist before he can pull you fully against him.

Steve actually flushes.

“Sorry.”

The instinctive apology twists awfully somewhere beneath your ribs.

“You don’t have to apologise for wanting things.”

Something in his face softens immediately.

You kiss him before he can say anything self-deprecating in response.

Then your hands are everywhere.

Slow. Thorough.

Tracing freckles across his shoulders. Fingertips dragging lightly through the hair on his thighs while you push his jeans slowly down his legs, Steve lifting his hips automatically to help you. Nails scratching gently down his stomach just to feel the way his breathing catches every single time.

Steve looks overwhelmed by the attention already.

Not embarrassed exactly.

Just… unaccustomed to being looked at this carefully.

“You okay?” you murmur softly.

Steve nods immediately.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just- fuck.”

You laugh quietly against his mouth.

His hands tighten instinctively at your hips when you grind down against him again, only your underwear separating you now, slow enough now that every movement feels deliberate.

Steve’s head tips back slightly against the pillows with a quiet groan.

“Oh, you like this,” you whisper.

Steve opens his eyes immediately, looking mildly betrayed by how easily you figured that out.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I am.”

The honesty pulls another helpless sound from him.

You kiss him again while your fingers slide into his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp in that same way that made him melt earlier.

Steve’s whole body reacts instantly beneath you.

The version of him that only appears once he finally stops trying so hard to hold everything together.

All soft mouth and pink cheeks and helpless little reactions he clearly wasn't expecting you to notice. It makes your chest ache almost as much as it turns you on.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you murmur without thinking.

Steve goes completely still beneath you.

Then, “Jesus Christ.”

You blink. “What?”

“Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

The confession hits hard enough to momentarily knock the breath from your lungs.

Because of course they haven’t.

People want things from Steve constantly. Protection. Confidence. Control. They like him loud and capable and steady. Impossible to knock over.

You’re not entirely sure anybody’s ever let him simply be soft before.

One hand settles carefully against his cheek while the other carefully pulls his boxers down his hips.

“Well,” you murmur, kissing him once, “they were stupid.”

Steve laughs weakly into your mouth right before you sink down onto him slowly enough that both of you end up breathless from it.

Not rushed.

Not frantic.

Just warmth and pressure and Steve’s hands gripping your waist almost reverently while his forehead drops heavily against your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he whispers shakily.

You move carefully above him, slow enough to feel every reaction pull across his face. Every little loss of composure. The way his mouth falls open slightly whenever your hips drag just right.

Steve keeps trying to help.

Thrusting upwards instinctively. Grabbing at you like he wants to give more than he’s taking again.

Each time, you guide him back down gently.

“Lemme take care of you for a second,” you whisper against his mouth.

Steve actually whines quietly at that.

Steve hides his face in your neck immediately, clearly mortified.

But he still lets you keep going.

Lets you hold him there long enough for all that constant tightness in him to finally start giving way. Lets himself melt beneath your hands instead of constantly trying to stay composed for your sake.

When he finally falls apart, it happens quietly.

Your name breathed shakily against your throat. Arms wrapped around you so tightly that it almost feels emotional.

Afterwards, Steve just stays there for a second, forehead pressed against your collarbone while both of you try to catch your breath.

Then, quietly, “…I think you broke me a little.”

By the time you finally settle fully against him afterwards, Steve looks almost dazed from the softness of it all.

His hair’s a mess beneath your fingers, cheeks flushed warm pink, one arm wrapped heavily around your waist while rain continues tapping steadily against the windows outside.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Steve just traces absentminded patterns against your back while your legs tangle together beneath the blankets.

Eventually, very quietly, he says, “That was nice.”

You smile immediately into his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Steve hums softly.

Then, after a pause, “Nobody’s ever really… slowed down for me before.”

The confession lands gently between you.

You lift your head enough to look at him properly.

Steve already looks slightly embarrassed for admitting it out loud.

So you kiss him once, soft and lingering.

Then again. Then one more time just because you can.

Steve laughs quietly against your mouth, finally relaxed enough now that the sound comes easily.

“There he is,” you murmur again.

This time, Steve doesn’t try to hide when he smiles.

A dramatic moan rips out of his throat. You slap your palm over his mouth and his blue eyes twinkle on yours.

He peels it off his lips, amusement flickering across his face. “You can be rough with me, bun. I can take it.”

“Bun?” You echo with a raised eyebrow as you unclasp your bra.

“Bunny,” he grins, his eyes zeroing on your tits as the lace material falls as well. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, his rough fingers reaching out, looping around the band of your panties at your hips, tugging them lower. A deep groan rumbles out of him, vibrating against your lips.

He dips in kissing his way up your stomach, over your chest, up your neck, his hands resting against your back, pulling you into him.

“I was minding my business, Di Laurentis. You are the one that begged me to come here—”

“I did,” he answers honestly. “And aren’t you glad you did?” The look he gives you makes your heart flutter, dimples popping into his cheeks. “You love me.”

“I like you,” you say, fighting a grin.

“Give it another week. You’ll be at the bar next weekend fighting for my attention. I know it. I’m perfect.” His mouth curves. “Boyfriend material.”

“Boyfriend material? Says the man that’s never asked me on a date,” you whisper as your lips press against his neck. You feel his pulse race and, as cool as he’s playing it, you can tell he’s nervous.

“Lies. Didn’t know that was still an option,” he says as your mouth traces a path over his chest and stomach as you sink to your knees. “You gonna say ‘yes’ this time?”

“You’re keeping score?”

“I always keep score,” he huffs out a breath.

Your fingertips skim along the sharp lines of his hips, making the muscles in his stomach tighten. “You’re growing on me, Dean. What can I say,” you whisper.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift as a stupid-excited laugh slips out of him. Steam curls through the room as the water grows warmer. “You know what?”

“What?” You murmur as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His breath catches in his chest when you press a kiss on his tip.

“I…” He mumbles, watching you lay out your tongue and glide up the side of him. The thought dies behind his eyes in real time. “S’unimportant,” he murmurs as your lips wrap around him.

You take him in your mouth inch by inch, his lips parting, brows softening. The wet sounds of your mouth on him leave him reaching out and squeezing the edge of the sink for support, his other hand resting on your head.

“There is no way you’re gonna stand there and pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing all night,” he grits out.

You pop off his cock and the breath punches out of him, spitting on his dick before you smile, stroking him lazily with your fist. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” he grins. “You spent three hours winding me up.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” he snorts. “You love that shit.”

“Maybe a bit,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across him and making goosebumps fan across his tanned skin.

“Knew it.” Dean smirks, that smug little look he had when he walked out with his arm around your shoulders at Malone’s tugging at his lips again.

“I was just having fun,” you look up at him through your lashes, far too innocently for how you’re working him in your hand.

“Trust me, I noticed. Love when you tease me—love when I get anything from you.”

You roll your eyes, warmth pooling in your cheeks, running your nails up his thighs.

“I’d sit through another three hours of it.”

“That so?” You ask.

“Mhmm,” he hums as his hold on your head gets tighter, guiding you back toward him. You wrap your lips around him and his jaw clicks, eyes rolling back in his head when you let him use you a little. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat, spit seeping from the corners of your lips.

“So fuckin’ good at suckin’ cock, baby. Jesus Christ,” he rambles breathily, thrusting deeply a few more times before giving you back the reins.

You moan around him and his eyes screw shut, the thick muscles in his thigh shaking as his dick swells on your tongue.

“Not gonna last if you let me use you like this. I’m gonna—Fuck,” he gasps when you release him from your lips, stroking him with your tongue flat and your breasts pressed together.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, white ropes of cum landing on your tongue and chest as steam hangs heavy in the air.

Dean catches your wrists, pulling you up off your feet and into his arms. You wrap your legs around his trim waist, melting into him as he breathes laboriously, coming down from his high.

“Goddamn, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good at that,” he mumbles breathlessly. “Do you know how good you make me feel?”

You hum into the kiss, catching his bottom lip between your teeth as he steps into the shower with you.

The water is warm, remnants of his release rise off your body, swirling down the drain. He tilts in, tongue slipping in your mouth before your lips even touch.

Your gasp breaks the kiss as your back presses against the cool tile wall, so cold it sends shivers straight through you.

Dean reaches for the shower head, taking it off the base and turning it to a steady stream. He sets you down on your feet and your brows furrow in confusion because no matter how many times you've found yourself in Dean Di Laurentis's shower, he's never done this.

He kicks your foot out gently. The corner of his mouth curls as he sees you start to put the pieces together.

“Dean?” You breathe out a laugh.

“You ever done this before?” His voice drops as he grips the detachable shower head in one hand, the other pinned just over your shoulder as he looks down at you.

“I mean maybe,” you admit.

“Well,” he laughs, clearly excited by the idea. “We’re gonna have to talk about that later. No one’s ever done it for you?” His eyes flick down as the warm water sprays against your thigh, working upward.

You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no’.

“How romantic,” he whispers. “I’m your first and only. Love that for me.”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, your focus falling to the narrow space between you.

You gasp when the water hits your pussy, surging over your clit and making your knees buckle. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck for support, a moan echoing through the bathroom.

“Baby… Fuck, baby. Too much?”

You shake your head rapidly, feeling your heartbeat climb, nails clawing into his skin. “So good,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”

Dean moves his arm from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer, rocking slowly, increasing and decreasing the intensity, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Dean’s lips quickly lock onto your skin, kissing you harshly before biting down, making you cry out.

He watches your face as you drift closer and closer to your breaking point.

You feel your pleasure building fast, the pressure mounting stronger than anything you’ve felt in a while.

“You like that, huh?” He grunts.

”Mhmm,“ you whimper as your vision starts to cloud.

“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. This is just a warm-up—”

“Dean!” You cut him off, crying out in pleasure as you wrap your arms tighter, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He lets out a devilish laugh, forcing the stream a little closer. “D-Dean,” you stutter.

“What, angel?” Your body jolts as you fight him slightly in overstimulation, continuing to ride the waves of your orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing. ”Does it feel good, baby?“

“Yes, fuck!”

“Then just take it,” he soothes, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for air. Dean returns the water head to the base, cranking up the heat, pressing you into the wall once more as you continue to kiss, ears ringing, body tingling head to toe.

“Fuck me?” You whimper, desperation laced in your tone, but he’s already reaching above the shower, patting around the windowsill until he finds a condom.

He brings the package to his teeth and tears it open, watching as you roll it on, the thick weight of his cock squeezed in rubber.

Dean reaches down, taking a grip on your thigh, looping it in his bicep, muscles flexing as he lifts you slightly.

“Shit,” you whine as he circles your sensitive clit with the ribbed rubber on his tip, making him smirk. Dean traces the tip through your folds, teasing your entrance.

“Dean. Please.“

“Please what?” He teases you again.

“Fuck. Me.”

“Baby…” He lets out a gravelly laugh. “Beg harder.” Dean swipes his head across your clit again, making you gasp.

”Dean, can you please fuck me? Ple—” He thrusts his cock into you, rutting up, breasts pressing flush to his broad chest as he steals your breath.

Dean grabs your ass and picks you up swiftly, causing you to sink deeper on his cock and moan onto his lips.

He pins you to the wall, tilting in, drilling you into the tile quickly. His strokes are merciless, incredibly deep as you cling to his shoulders again. The hot water cascades down your body, flowing between the two of you, the sensation on your clit alone almost enough to send you over the edge. But it’s not enough. You want to feel him.

“Baby,” you murmur and he melts at the sound of your voice, pushing himself even closer. “Can we… I—” Your voice stutters with each snap of his hips.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your mouth.

“I wanna feel you—”

His hips lose their rhythm and his reaction speaks for itself, but he’d never leave it like that. “You serious?” He pants, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you whisper, and he growls out a breath. “Is that okay?”

“Begging too? Fuck me. You even gotta ask?”

“Take it off,” you whisper, and the look on his face is so pleased it nearly makes you laugh.

“Hands against the wall,” he mumbles, chuckling under his breath when he sees your legs trembling after he pulls out.

He grabs the condom by the tip, tugging it off, letting it slip down the drain without a second thought.

Dean grabs your hips impatiently, bullying you toward the wall before pressing himself deep. Your eyes slam shut as you tip your face toward the ceiling. Your mouth falls open as his big hand comes up, curving around your shoulder, the other drifting to your waist, using his hold to fuck into you harder.

“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, every muscle at work, water flying with each rough clap of his hips against your ass, his blonde fringe, wet and messy when you look over your shoulder, his parted lips curling into a smirk.

“Dean…” You sigh, feeling yourself about to cum again, your head throbbing with your heartbeat.

“Yeah? That’s the spot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whine, cock-drunk, thighs quivering uncontrollably, making you lose your rhythm.

“Let me, baby. Let me,” he groans.

Dean fucks into you, striking the perfect angle, making your muscles tense up. “Shit… Right there, Dean. You’re gonna make me cum.“

“Pussy was made for me. Cum on my cock.”

You let out a cry far louder than intended in a house full of hockey boys. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

Dean quickly grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth, shaking his head ‘no’ as he tacks it and the other to the small of your back.

“Never do that again,” he pants through parted lips, punctuating each word with a rough snap of his hips.

The knot in your stomach tightens—threatening to snap. “Dean,” you gasp.

“Me too, baby. Fuck. Me too,” he moans, as his hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling back.

Your orgasm spills over, your hand coming back to wrap around his wrist, pussy squeezing him so tight he’s hissing out a breath.

“That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.”

His hips snap into you one last time, filling you with his warmth, his blunt nails digging into your skin as his rhythm stutters out.

You can feel everything at this moment—the spasm of your sex and the throb of his cock. Your head falls between your shoulders in exhaustion, but he uses his hold on your neck to guide you back to his lips instead.

A soft laugh escapes him against your mouth, your post-sex giggles bouncing off the walls of the shower as you soften into his arms.

“Aren’t you glad you came home with me?”

You go to say something smart, but he kisses you instead, stealing the words before they leave your mouth. He turns you back toward him, not letting you get far at all. His big arms wrap around you, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“What I tell you, huh?” He grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Shower sex is hot.”

“Mhmm,” you hum into yet another kiss and he can’t stop grinning.

“Tomorrow. Seven PM. You and me. What do you say?”

Your lips brush over the top of his, the tension between you thick and charged as you make him sweat it out a little more. His fingers flex against your waist.

“Okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, unable to hide your smile.

“That a yes?” He asks.

“That’s a yes,” you answer, and he sighs in relief.

“I mean did you wanna hear the speech I had in case you said ‘no’ again?”

“Was it good?” You taunt.

“Amazing—pathetic as hell,” he answers simply, his hand following the rush of water down your skin.

Your fingers drift into his hair, tugging at the root and he smiles, the stupid-pretty dimples popping yet again, making you absolutely weak.

“See? You love me.”

“I like like you at best,” you smile, matching his hushed tone.

And for the first time all night, Dean goes quiet. A smile pulls at his lips as he tilts in, cupping your cheeks in his hands.

“No shit? Like like, huh?” He teases against your mouth, chuckling when he says it back. “That’s pretty goddamn close if you ask me—”

“Don’t start,” you whisper, fighting a smile before he kisses you.

“Give it a week.”

The bar was lit up by multi colored flashes. It almost felt like the walls were banging from the loud bass coming from the live band. The floor was full of people dancing, drinking and laughing. There was a smell in the air – cheap vodka, twelve different kinds of perfume and shitty bar food. It was overstimulation thrown into one building.

But it was so much fucking fun.

You, Robin and Nancy were dancing – well, attempting to – in the middle of the dance floor. Eddie and his buddies were to thank for the volume of the music as they played their cover of Enter Sandman.

The three of you were three drinks and two shots into the night and it was obvious Robin was already drunk, Nancy was teetering the line, and you were in a state of blissful tipsy.

It was a three day weekend and for the first time in months, the whole groups schedule managed to align perfectly. While you and the girls danced, Steve and Jonathan were ordering more drinks at the bar.

Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve

As soon as your brain reminded itself of your boyfriend, your eyes began to scan the crowd. You were a clingy girl on a regular day, but adding alcohol into the mix? You were about five seconds from sewing your skin to his.

Nancy and Robin continued to dance together as you stood on the tips of your toes to look for him. He was basically a damn tree, it shouldn’t be hard to find him!

Finally, your eyes graze over the far right side of the bar and you see his beautiful floppy hair. His back is to you on the dance floor, and he stands shoulder to shoulder with Jonathan as they wait for the drinks.

A dopey smile breaks onto your face at the sight of him, your feet are tingling to run to him. Quickly, you turn to the girls and grab their arms.

“C’mon! Steve’s at the bar!“ You urge them and make it a point to ignore the way they playfully roll their eyes. You don’t wait before you’re making your way to him, practically skipping the whole way.

You kept your eyes on him as you approached him. He still hasn’t turned around but with the view of his back, you were not complaining. Steve and Eddie had grown even closer this last year and he wanted to support Eddie so much that he’d bought a brand new outfit for tonight.

He still didn’t quite capture Eddie’s metal style but he tried. He went with an all black outfit: a nicer pair of new black jeans, a plain black shirt – a fitted one. One that clung to his skin so nicely you could see every ridge of muscle he had in his abdomen – and a new leather jacket thrown over it.

Truth be told, you were about five seconds away from devouring him. But tonight was about being with friends and you wanted to spend time with them, even if your boyfriend looked like that.

You were only a few feet away from reaching him when a girl slid into the chair next where he stood. The movement was so slick, effortless – like she fit right next to him. She rested both her elbows atop of the bar, swirling the barstool so her legs were only a few inches from his waist.

She had a look in her eye and you recognized it immediately, because it was the exact one you had. Hunger, desire, want. All aimed at your boyfriend.

Easily, she raised her hand and slid it up his bicep. Steve looked at her then, expecting it to be you but when he saw it wasn’t, his eyes flickered down to her palm on his arm.

Immediately, he dropped his arm from where it leaned on the bar and turned away. He was still looking at her but he pushed himself backwards, almost until his back was fully leaning into Jonathan’s chest. It might have been funny if it wasn’t for the girl touching him.

Still, it didn’t seem to deter her. She smiled up at him, the gloss on her lips glistening under the flashing red lights. You couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying from where you stood and a few seconds later, Robin and Nancy barreled into your back.

Their confusion quickly dissipated when they realized why you had stopped. The girl had leaned even closer into Steve’s spaced, her chin resting in one of her palms. She was still smiling up at him – not a friendly smile, a sultry one. She was a beautiful girl, there was no denying it and you wondered if Steve also noticed.

Jealousy bubbled in your chest. You weren’t worried about him or his loyalty, but there was no reasoning with a drunk version of yourself seeing another girl flirt with him.

Without much thinking, you resumed your walk towards him – Nancy and Robin hot on your tail. Now, you were able to hear the conversation.

“Uh yeah, I’m not sure,” Steve’s voice rang in your ears first. “My girlfriend picked the spot,”

Good. He mentioned me. She’ll get the hint, you think.

“Girlfriend?” The girl echoed, her fingers tapping against the counter top. “Is she here?”

“Yep,” Steve replied. You could tell he was uncomfortable and he was being as dry as he could be without coming off as an asshole. From behind him, you noticed the way Jonathan also seemed to look uncomfortable.

“Hmm,” She hummed. Her eyes raked down his body before looking back up at him. The same hand he shrugged off only a few minutes earlier came back up and landed on him again, her fingers curling around his elbow. Finally, you were right next to Steve, but neither of them noticed yet. “I don’t see her anywhere,”

Before Steve could respond, your own hand raised and you easily grabbed hers and pushed it off him again. You barely glanced at her as you wrapped your own arms around his neck, pushing your chest into his own.

When Steve looked down at you in his arms, you felt his entire body relax. He didn’t spare another glance at the girl before his arms wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer to him.

“Hi baby,” You smiled, leaning on the tips of your toes to kiss him. He smiled into it and you could feel the girls eyes burning into the back of your head. Steve murmured a greeting back against your mouth, but before he could deepen in, you maneuvered your body to lean your back to his chest.

The girl looked at you now, almost glaring at you, but you smirked back at her.

“Thanks for keeping my seat warm. You can go now,” Your voice was syrupy sweet but it was more than clear how little kindness it carried.

Her eyes narrowed just a bit. “I was actually pretty comfortable,”

You sent her a fake sympathetic pout. “I’m sure you were – not anymore though,”

Even if there was a part of you that could have felt even remotely threatened by her, the warmth of Steve’s body behind you and one of his hands holding onto your hips and the other arm wrapped around the front of your shoulders, silenced those feelings immediately.

Her eyes glanced down and she seemed to also notice the way he was holding onto you. She scoffed before reaching over the bar, quickly plucking a pen and a napkin before scribbling over it. When she finished, she hopped off the stool and stood directly in front of you, the napkin in hand.

She looked back at Steve behind you and slid the napkin towards him. You could feel it now – the way you were glaring at her and from beside you, you saw the way Nancy and Robin also were. “Here’s my number,” She glanced back down at you. “For when you get bored tonight,”

The words landed exactly where she intended them to and if it weren’t for Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, you would’ve pounced on her. He felt the way your body tensed and held you closer to his chest.

Before you could react, Steve raised the napkin. Still looking at her, he crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and threw it over the other side of the bar. You watched the way her expression pinched, and a look you clearly recognized as embarrassment covered her features. “I’m good.” He said simply, both hands sliding down your sides to land on your hips. Easily, he spun your body around so you were facing him again.

Oh, he was so fucking hot.

Neither of you paid any attention to where the girl wandered off to. Steve was smiling down at you and that was enough for you to feel like you were going insane.

The smile on his face, his rejection of that girl, his hair, his fucking outfit. Nope, you were done restraining yourself.

You grabbed Steve’s hand and glanced over at Nancy, Robin and Jonathan. The three of them were looking at you expectantly but you didn’t give them a chance for questions.

“Be right back,” You rushed, tugging Steve along with you. You heard a small surprised sound come from him as you pulled him along.

“Wait! Where are you guys going?” Nancy asked, and Robin snicked beside her. You didn’t respond as you pulled Steve further into the crowd and towards the other side of the bar. But you were able to catch Robin’s last comment.

“Twenty bucks says they’re gonna bone in the bathroom,”

Hopefully no one takes that bet – because she’s right.

Still holding onto Steve’s hand, you approach the women’s bathroom and swing the door open. When you let go of his hand, he stands directly in front of the doorway, still not entering, and you quickly wander through the stalls to make sure it’s empty.

Once you’re sure it is, you turn back to Steve and you twist the front of his shirt in your hand and drag him into the bathroom.

“Woah baby, wh-what are you doing?” He laughs nervously, quickly catching his balance against the porcelain sink. You lock the door behind him and within seconds, your hands are tugging at his leather jacket and shoving it off his shoulders.

Breathlessly, Steve murmurs your name. First and last.

“Hey, this is the women’s bathroom, all of our friends are outside and anybody could walk in right now,”

He’s so damn cute when he tries to be so serious.

Without his help, you’ve managed to strip his jacket off his shoulders and your fingers are working at unbuckling his belt. As you pull the metal away from the buckle, you look back up at him.

“The doors locked. You’re right, our friends are outside and if anybody walks in,” You pause for a moment and pull his belt from the loops of his jeans, dropping it to the ground. “Then they can watch.”

Something in Steve’s eyes switch and within seconds, his mouth is on yours. It’s messy and desperate, and you’re moaning into his mouth immediately. His hands raise, both palms holding your cheeks as he deepens the kiss.

The sound of your lips sloppily meeting his fills the room and the sound of the band playing begins to fade away as he kisses you. Between your bodies, your hands slip beneath his black shirt and trace the skin of his stomach. You can feel the way his muscles twitch under your touch and he begins to walk forward, until your back his pressed against the wall of the stall.

Steve pulls his mouth away from yours and his lips begin a trail from your lips to your jaw and down your throat. He lands on that patch of skin where your neck and shoulder meet and bites.

You whine into the air, palms sliding up his sides and curling around his biceps. His teeth graze against your skin again, but this time his tongue swipes over it right away to soothe it and then he’s sucking that piece of skin into his mouth.

You can feel the mark already beginning to form and your stomach flips. You bring your hand back up to his face and you pull him away from your neck to kiss him again.

One hand continues to cradle his jaw and the other tangles itself in his hair. All the while, Steve brings his hands between your bodies and shoves your skirt up, all the way until it’s bunched around your waist.

Without breaking the kiss, his large hand splays across your thigh, gripping the skin and hikes your leg up until it’s resting over his hip. His other hand curls around your throat, not to squeeze but to keep you grounded to him.

Steve pushes you further back into the wall and grinds his hips forward. You moan is muffled against his mouth when you can feel the clothes outline of his cock grinding into your core. The denim of his jeans slides perfectly against the cotton of your panties, feeding you a delicious feeling of friction.

Your eyes squeeze shut at the way his hips rut into yours and you’re both whining against each others mouths. His hand slips from its place on your thigh and trails up, up, up until the tips of his fingers graze against the wet spot of your panties.

At this point, you’re not even kissing anymore. The rock of his hips and the touch of his fingers knocks all common sense out of you and you’re left breathing against his mouth. His fingers continue to tease you. He runs them up and down your clothed pussy, still not giving you any skin to skin contact.

“Steve-Steve please,” You’re mindlessly begging for more and you can feel the way he smirks against your lips.

“What is it, baby? Tell me what you need,” He murmurs, carefully tracing the hem of your panties. When his thumb pressed against your clit, you break.  

“I just – I just want you Steve, please,” You cry out, hands tugging at the ends of his hair.

To your surprise, he doesn’t tease anymore. Two fingers curl around the side of your panties, sliding them over and finally, they sink into the warm heat of your pussy.

Steve’s reflexes are quick – his hand flies to cradle the back of your head when you throw it back with a moan, making sure you don’t slam it against the wall.

Your head thuds against his palm and you’re whining into the air as his fingers thrust in and out of you. While you keep your eyes squeezed shut, Steve keeps his eyes on the way his fingers disappear in and out of you.

The air is filled with the sounds of his uneven breathing, your moaning and the sounds of your slick drenching his fingers. Your wetness leaks down his fingers, all the way down to his wrist.

“Fuck baby, you’re soaking me,” He groans, resting his forehead against yours. You whine incoherently and he feels the way you clench around his fingers at his praise.

It’s almost embarrassing how quick he can get you off but your mind finally came back to you. Steve was always the dominant one and he could so easily turn you into putty in his hands, but you came in here with one purpose – and that was reminding him who he belonged to.

With every bit of strength you had left, you opened your eyes back up and look up at him. He was still so lost in the way you were sucking his fingers in that he didn’t notice the mischievous look in you eyes.

Almost reluctantly, you wrapped one of your hands around his wrist and halted his movements. His gaze flicked up to yours, confusion and concern swirling in his expression.

“Why’d you stop me?”

Wordlessly, you drop your thigh from where it rested over his hip and the clack of your heel slamming back onto the floor echoed in the room. Keeping your eyes locked onto his, your fingers worked fast to pop the button of his jeans and the sound of you pulling his zipper down bounces off the walls.

“What was that girls name?” You asked softly, hand slipping into his jeans. Your palm gently grazed his length, but still not touching - teasing him the same way he did you.

“What?” Steve asked breathlessly. He kept his eyes trained on you and the movement of your hands.

“From the bar. What’s her name?”

“I don’t know baby,” He shook his head, groaning when you tightened your grip on him.

“No? Do you think she’s pretty?” Without waiting for a response, your hand slid beneath his boxers and finally, the skin of your palm met his.

He let out a shuddered breath but quickly shook his head again.

“No! No, f’course not. Barely – barely even looked at her,” He promised, mouth dropping open as your squeezed his length in your hand.

You hummed, leaning up to leave open mouthed kisses across his neck. He smelled so fucking good – a mix of sandalwood, your own perfume and something inherently him. It was intoxicating.

“I believe you baby,” You promised and you felt him physically relax. You smiled against his throat. It was nice to be reminded that even though he could turn you into a mindless mess, you did the same to him. Still, you tsked softly and pulled your face from his shoulder. “But she looked so damn comfortable around you. Touching you,”

You pulled your hand from his jeans and rested them against your own thighs, pulling away all contact from him. He whined softly, pushing his hips into yours but you push your palm back into his chest.

“I don’t care,” He said. “Didn’t matter to me. Only you do, baby. Please let me touch you,”

Maybe if you weren’t in public, you would have prolonged the agony but you knew there was a ticking clock before someone came knocking.

And you just really wanted him to fuck you.

Your hands found his jeans again, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He groaned as the air hit his skin and his forehead settled against yours.

“Prove it to me baby,” You demanded, voice still soft.

Steve didn’t need to be told twice before his own hands were reaching back under your skirt, yanking your panties all the way down until they were wrapped around one ankle. Within seconds, his palms slid to the back of your thighs and lifted you effortlessly.

His cock slid between your soaked pussy and you both moaned at the first feeling of real contact of the night. Steve seemed to share the same sense of working on borrowed time and without words, he wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you up while the other gripped his cock in his hand and lined himself up.

You felt that delicious burn you craved all night the moment he began to push in. No matter how many times he fucked you, it almost always felt like the first time. His hand gripped your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as he pressed his lips to yours.

Steve groaned against your mouth as he bottomed out, and you whined against his when he started his brutal pace. He felt the way you squeezed around his cock and his free hand squeezed your hip hard enough to bruise.

“Were you jealous?” Steve asks suddenly. His mouth was turned up into a smirk now, his hips still thrusting harshly.

“Yeah, I was fucking jealous,” You didn’t hesitate in your response and your forwardness seemed to take him by surprise. Steve reared his head backwards just a bit, careful enough to not lose his pace and let you continue. “Because that girl thought she could have what’s mine,”

Somehow, you find the strength to drop your hips down, meeting each of Steve’s brutal thrusts. He whines aloud at the way you match his speed, his cock twitching inside you.

“Can they?”

The words fall on deaf ears as Steve keeps his gaze locked on the way your pussy stretches to suck him in. His brows are pinched, cheeks flushed and strands of his hair hang over his forehead messily. As sexy as he looks, you’re dissatisfied with his lack of response. Almost meanly, your hand grips onto his jaw, nails digging into his cheeks to regain his attention.

“Can they?” You repeat when his gaze meets yours again.

“N-No!” He says quickly.

You grin and lean down, you hover your mouth over his – not quite a kiss yet. “Good. You’re mine, Steve. Nobody else gets to have you like this.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement and you both know it.

He nods feverishly and you can feel the way his thrusts begin to get sloppy. He’s close, and you’re right behind him. His fingers dig into the bare skin of your thighs as he pushes his cock deeper into you.

“Nobody else. Just you baby, just - just you,” He blubbers and you’re quickly whining into his mouth again. He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, one hand sliding between you two to rub circles into your clit.

Your orgasm is fast approaching – you’re almost across the finish line when you suddenly hear the sound of a key sliding into the lock and the door swings open.

But instead of feeling embarrassed or worried, you feel so fucking smug.

Because standing in the doorway is the girl from the bar, a customer key to the restroom in her hand, and her eyes locked on the way Steve fucks you into the wall.

Heat rushes to her face and a blush to intense, her entire face is red. She looks something like embarrassed, mortified and humbled all in one.

Thankfully, Steve hasn’t noticed – or doesn’t care – her interruption and continues fucking you until you’re both teetering the edge of release.

Your arms wrap tightly around Steve’s back and you pull him close to your chest. As you look into her eyes, you give her one final smirk – one that reads: Good. Look at what you’ll never have.

Just as quickly as she entered, she stumbles backwards and slams the door shut.

You let yourself get lost in the feeling of Steve again.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna – fuck,” Steve curses, teeth sinking into the skin of your throat and spills inside you. He keeps his pace as even as possible with the movement of his thumb over your clit and only seconds later, he pulls you over the edge with him.

“SteveSteveSteveSteve,” You whine. His thumb continues moving over your swollen bud, helping you ride out your orgasm entirely.

Once you reach the point of overstimulation, you gently push his hand away from between your thighs. Steve watches the way your head lolls to the side and despite the fact that you had damn near all the power barely five minutes ago, you’ve effectively turned into jell-o.

With a smirk on his face, he raises his two wet fingers and brings them to your mouth. Instinctively, you part your lips when he taps them and he easily slides them into your mouth. You moan around his fingers, the taste of yourself filling your senses.

He groans quietly, gently thrusting them in and out of your mouth. “That prove it to you, baby?”

With your mouth full from his fingers, you give him a nod.

the city always looked a little unreal from this high up.

all glass and light and blurry yellow taxis, reflections smeared across the windows from inside the penthouse suite. somebody near the kitchen laughed too loud over the music, and somewhere behind you, a camera flashed.

you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, already regretting coming.

“you okay?”

your boyfriend’s hand brushed your lower back for half a second before disappearing again, attention pulled somewhere over your shoulder. some producer. some actor. some person more important than the answer.

there was no reason for him to check in on you anyway.

“yeah,” you said anyway.

he nodded distractedly, arms length away from you. “i’m gonna go say hi to mark. get a drink or something?”

before you could answer, he was already gone. you stared after him for a moment.

“rough start?”

the voice came from your left, amused and warm and entirely too familiar.

your eyes closed briefly before you turned.

joe leaned against the bar like he’d been standing there the whole night waiting for this exact moment. dark jacket, curls messy around his forehead, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass. his gaze moved over you slowly, not inappropriate exactly — just knowing.

somehow it felt worse.

“you’re lurking now?” you asked.

“you walked directly into my line of sight. not my fault.”

“pretty sure that still counts as lurking.”

his mouth twitched. and god, that smile still annoyed you.

“you look nice,” he said after a second, taking a sip of his drink. the compliment landed too naturally. no weirdness or hesitation. like he still had every right to say things like that.

you hated that your stomach reacted anyway. “thank you.”

his eyes flicked past you briefly. “where’s what’s-his-name?”

you snorted softly. “that’s evil.”

“i know his name. i’m choosing not to use it.” he bites the inside of his cheek before taking another sip of his drink.

“very mature.”

“i try.”

you looked around the room again, pretending not to notice how easily the conversation slipped into place. this was the problem with him. no matter how much time passed, talking to joe still felt like stepping into something half-finished. like you’d only paused.

“he went to talk to someone,” you said finally.

joe hummed once, unsurprised. there was a beat. then: “you seem thrilled about it.”

you shot him a look. “don’t start.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

“okay,” he admitted. “of course i was about to. how could i not?”

despite yourself, you laughed quietly, his expression softening at the sound.

that was another problem.

joe always looked at you like your reactions mattered. unlike some other unnamed people. like he was paying attention even when he pretended not to be.

you leaned back against the bar beside him. “you’ve been here long?”

“too long. some guy cornered me twenty minutes ago to explain crypto.”

“tragic.”

“i almost killed him.”

“with a cocktail napkin?”

“with my bare hands.” he says with the straightest face.

you smiled into your drink as the bartender slid it toward you.

“still ordering that?” he asked as he noticed.

“what?”

“that drink. jesus christ.”

“what’s wrong with it?”

“it tastes how your lipstick smells.”

“you’re dramatic.”

“you used to make me try it every single time.”

“because you complained every single time!”

“and yet you never listened.”

you looked at him then. really looked at him. even with that shit-ass grin on your face.

he still has the same stupidly pretty face. same easy posture. same soft eyes that managed to catch things before anyone else did. there was a light stubble along his jaw now, rings on his fingers you didn’t recognize.

different enough to remind you time had passed. familiar enough to make it feel meaningless.

his expression shifted slightly under your stare. “what?” he asked.

“nothing.”

“liar.”

before you can answer with something sassy, someone brushed past you hard enough to knock your shoulder. joe’s hand landed on your waist instantly, enough to steady you. definitely just… automatic.

the touch barely lasted a second before both of you seemed to realize it at the same time. his fingers loosened immediately, but not before heat climbed straight up your throat.

“sorry,” he muttered.

you swallowed. “it’s fine.”

except it wasn’t.

because your body still remembered him too well. because he still touched you like he belonged there. because somewhere across the room, your boyfriend laughed loudly without once looking over to see where you’d gone.

of course joe noticed that. his jaw ticked once. “so,” he said casually, staring into his glass, “you gonna spend the whole night babysitting him, or can i steal you for five minutes later?”

you should’ve said no. that would be the smart and normal answer.

instead, you heard yourself say, “depends.”

joe looked unbearably pleased with that. “dangerous response, y/n.”

“don’t make it weird, joe.”

“sweetheart, it’s already weird.”

you rolled your eyes, but he was right.

the worse part was how easy this all felt. standing beside him with the music humming through the walls and people moving around you in blurred expensive outfits, it almost felt every shitty part of the breakup had happened to entirely different people.

almost.

“there you are.” your boyfriend appeared suddenly at your side, one hand brushing your arm absentmindedly. his eyes landed on joe and lit up in recognition. “hey, man.”

joe smiled immediately. polite and effortless. like hasn’t talked shit about him. it irritates you instantly.

“hey.”

“love your stuff,” your boyfriend said, already half distracted again. “we met once, actually. couple years ago?”

“sounds vaguely threatening when you say it like that.” joe says easily, taking a sip of his drink.

your boyfriend laughed. again, joe always did this. made people feel comfortable within seconds. easy smile, easy voice, like he’d known the person for longer than five minutes.

you remembered falling for it too.

“i’m gonna grab another drink from just over there,” your boyfriend said, squeezing your shoulder. “you want anything?”

“i’m okay.”

“cool. back in a sec.”

he disappeared into the crowd. joe watched him go quietly before repeating under his breath, “back in a sec,” he practically scoffed.

you sigh immediately. “joe.”

“what?”

“don’t.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you literally did.”

“okay, fine.” he leaned against the bar again. “i just don’t understand why he keeps leaving you alone at parties.”

“i’m not gonna combust because my boyfriend walked away for ten minutes.”

“feels longer than ten.”

you looked at him sharply. his expression stayed casual, but you knew him better than that. knew the specific tightness in his jaw, the way he got quieter when something was actually bothering him.

“you don’t have to do this,” you said.

“do what?”

“the weird jealous ex thing.”

he let out a short laugh. not very amused though. “you think i’m jealous of that guy?”

“joe—”

“i think you deserve someone who notices when you disappear for half an hour.” or call you his fucking ball and chain, he wanted to say.

your chest tightened a little at that. because he was right. yet again. and you hated how badly he himself wanted to be right.

“you don’t know our relationship,” you said finally.

his eyes snapped back to yours then. “now, you don’t do that.” he scoffed.

“do what?”

“act like you haven’t spent the last four months calling me every time he disappoints you.”

“why the fuck are you so loud?” you say almost whispering now even though how loud it is around you, stomach dropped.

“why?” he asked quietly. “am i wrong?”

you stared at him. he stared right back.

“that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?” his voice stayed calm, which somehow made it worse. “you call me at two in the morning telling me he doesn’t listen to you. that he doesn't ask questions. that you feel lonely standing next to him.” joe shook his head once, like the thought of him treating you like that was actively hurting him, eyes fixed on yours, “then you show up places together and expect me to pretend i don't see it.”

“i never asked you to do anything.”

“you keep leaning on me like i’m still yours.”

the words hit hard enough that you actually went quiet. it was the real thing underneath under all the jokes.

you crossed your arms tightly. “you could’ve stopped answering.”

his expression changed instantly, hurt flickering there before he covered it. “yeah,” he said softly. “i could’ve.”

but really, how could he? how could he turn down any sort of connection with you?

the music around you two suddenly felt too loud. people brushed past laughing, glasses clinking somewhere nearby, and none of it touched the strange heavy silence sitting between you.

you looked away first. “i need air.”

joe didn’t stop you, which somehow annoyed you too.

—

you pushed through the crowd toward the balcony doors, cool air hitting your skin immediately once you stepped outside. the city stretched endlessly below, glowing gold and white beneath the dark sky.

you pulled out your phone.

no texts.

nothing from your boyfriend.

you waited another then minutes before checking again. he must've been wondering where you are now.

still nothing.

your irritation started climbing fast after that.

another twenty minutes passed. half an hour. and still nothing.

inside, the party only got louder. you spotted your boyfriend exactly once across the room laughing with a group of people you didn’t recognize before he disappeared again.

not even a glance toward you.

not even a fucking text.

“there you are.” a voice says, mimicking your boyfriends from earlier.

you didn’t turn around this time.

joe stepped beside you against the balcony railing, cigarette tucked between his fingers though he hadn’t lit it. “you look mean.”

“i am mad right now. so i’m mean.”

“yeah,” he said softly. “i can tell.”

you huffed out a laugh despite yourself, silence settling in shortly after, but easier this time.

“he leave?”

you checked your phone one more time.

nothing.

“apparently. i mean, i have no idea. for all i know.”

joe’s jaw tightened. “fucking unbelievable.”

“you’ve gotta stop…”

“i’m serious.”

“joe—”

“no.” he huffs out a unamused laugh. “who disappears on their girlfriend at party?”

“it’s not a big deal.”

he's really looking at you now. “you say that every time.” the tenderness in his voice nearly undid you.

you swallowed hard and looked away toward the skyline. “i don’t want to argue or fight tonight.”

“i don’t either.”

another pause.

then joe bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. playful but careful. “come on,” he muttered. “ditch this place.”

you laughed softly. “with you?”

“yeah, with me.”

“that sounds like a horrible idea.”

“probably.”

and it was true. joe didn't really have much going for him. sure, he went out with a couple of people after you guys broke up, but nothing really stuck. he cared too much about you, and still does.

sure, you had your boyfriend too, but he's barely a boyfriend. you have had to lean on joe more than you’d like to admit. sneaky little links with him where you’d end up crying about how your boyfriend doesn't truly love you while he’s just had to watch and do nothing.

if anything, now was the time. he knew that much.

you looked down at your phone again. still nothing.

the ache in your chest sharpened suddenly into anger.

at your boyfriend.

at joe for thinking he could just do this.

at yourself for allowing this to happen.

“fine,” you muttered before you could think too hard about it. “but i’m not going back to your place.”

joe went still beside you. slowly, “oh?”

heat climbed your neck immediately.

shit.

you stared out at the city harder. “i just mean—”

“you inviting me to yours?” he teases, voice gone lower now.

you should take it back. quicker than what's happening now if possible. but instead, “only because i don’t feel like being alone tonight.”

joe stared at you for a long second. then he smiled. “yeah,” he said quietly. “okay.” he swallowed harshly, fidgeting with his rings because otherwise his hands would be doing a whole lotta something else.

—

the drive to your apartment felt strangely familiar.

not because you’d done this before exactly, but because being alone with joe at night had once been the most natural thing in the world.

the city blurred past outside the windows while some old rock song by the doors played quietly through the speakers. joe drove with one hand loose against the steering wheel, rings glinting every time streetlights swept across the car.

you kept catching yourself looking at him.

the side of his jaw.

his hands.

the curve of his mouth when he concentrated.

stupid.

you turned toward the window again.

“you’re being weirdly quiet,” joe said after a while.

“maybe i’m regretting this.”

“a little late for that.”

“i can still throw myself out of the car.”

“please don’t. sally,” which was the name of his old truck. yours was harry before you traded it for some shiny new car. “would never be able to forgive me.” he continued.

you laughed under your breath despite yourself.

he glanced over briefly, smiling a little at the sound.

there it was again.

that awful, easy chemistry.

“you know,” joe said casually, eyes back on the road, “i really thought you were gonna marry me once.”

your head snapped toward him. “what?” you say, your voice weaker than you’d like it to be.

“back when we lived in that shitty apartment with the broken sink.”

“joe—” you say for what feels like the trillionth time that night.

“im serious.” his tone stayed light.

you remembered that apartment instantly.

the mattress on the floor.

his guitar against the wall.

one of your lace bras always draped over the corner of a dresser or lampshade.

cheap takeout containers everywhere.

a pair of both of your socks at the end of the bed every night.

him kissing your forehead while making coffee at two in the morning – you were painting, he was writing most of the time.

it hit harder than expected.

“you also thought you were gonna buy a horse,” you muttered.

joe grinned immediately. “still might.”

“you live in los angeles.”

“horses love los angeles.”

“that is objectively not true.”

“wow,” he said softly, amused. “you used to support my dreams.”

you rolled your eyes, but your chest hurt a little.

the car fell quiet again after that when you finally pulled into your building’s underground garage, neither of you moved right away. joe turned the engine off and even more silence rushed in.

you unbuckled first just to break it. “you coming?”

“thought you’d never ask. thought i was gonna have to get on my hands and knees.”

“gross.” you blush either way.

“you invited me home after emotionally devastating me at a party. mixed signals, y'know?"

“i did not emotionally devastate you.”

joe looked at you flatly.

you smiled despite yourself. “okay, maybe a little.”

—

the elevator ride up felt too small.

you stood shoulder to shoulder beneath harsh yellow lighting while the numbers climbed slowly overhead.

two.

three.

four.

joe leaned back against the wall watching you openly now.

“what?” you asked finally.

“nothing.”

“you’re staring.”

“yeah.”

your stomach flipped annoyingly. “you’re annoying.”

“you say that like it stopped you before.”

you looked away quickly after that.

five.

six.

“you know what your problem is?” joe asked suddenly.

“ouch, i thought i was perfect. but, i’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

“you think if you ignore someone long enough, it disappears.”

“you’re a little too honest right now.” you frowned slightly. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“drank a little too much.” he grimaces just slightly cause he drove here perfectly fine. “you know exactly what’s wrong with your relationship.”

the irritation came back instantly. now he’s drunk and honest? plus, starting an argument after he said he didn't want that.

“and you think you know everything because i vented to you a few times?”

“a few times?” joe laughed softly. “baby, you called me crying from your bathroom three weeks ago.”

your cheeks burned. “you’re so fucking loud. keep your voice down.”

“nobody’s even here. you embarrassed?”

“no, actually, i’m annoyed.”

“at me?”

“at you acting like this.”

the elevator dinged. the doors opened onto your floor.

you stepped out first, already digging through your bag for your keys while joe followed behind more slowly.

“acting like what?” he asked, eyes focused a little too hard on your back profile before focusing again.

you unlocked your apartment harder than necessary. “like i owe you something.”

joe went quiet behind you.

that should’ve warned you.

you pushed the door open and stepped inside, kicking your heels off immediately near the entrance. joe lingered a second before following, eyes moving around the apartment like he was re-learning it.

he’d only been here once before.

back when you first moved in.

before things got messy again.

“nice,” he said quietly.

“don’t change the subject.”

the door clicked shut behind him.

“i’m not saying you owe me anything,” he replied. “i’m saying i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t mean something.”

your heartbeat sped up instantly. you open your mouth to say his mouth in hopes of stopping him from talking but he continues anyway.

“you call me when you’re sad.” his voice stayed calm now. too calm. “you call me when you’re lonely. when you fight with him. when you can’t sleep.” he stepped closer slowly. “then you look at me like i’m insane for thinking maybe some part of you still belongs to me.”

the room suddenly felt too warm. you swallowed hard. “that’s not fair, joe.”

“none of this is fair.”

he was close enough now that you could smell smoke and cologne and something that was just him underneath it all.

familiar enough to ache.

your voice came out quieter. “you don’t get to say things like that.”

joe looked down at you for a long moment. “yeah?” he murmured. “then why’d you bring me here?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. because there wasn’t a good answer.

his eyes dropped briefly to your lips. then back up again. that tiny movement alone nearly ruined you.

“joe.” you said softly. though you weren’t even sure what you meant by it anymore.

a warning?

a plea?

just his name?

all of the above?

his hand brushed your waist carefully, like he was giving you time to stop him.

you didn’t.

and that seemed to break the last bit of restraint he had left.

joe kissed you suddenly and deep enough to steal the breath straight to your lungs. like he’d been holding it in for months.

his hand tightened against your waist immediately, pulling you into him while your fingers grabbed instinctively at the front of his jacket. the kissed turned messy almost instantly – familiar in the most dangerous way, all heat and frustration and want.

the second you kissed him back, joe made this quiet sound against your mouth like relief mixed with frustration. after all, he’d been waiting for this longer than he wanted to admit.

his hand slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath it as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was trying to remember every part of you all over again.

or maybe prove he never forgot.

your back hit the wall near the entryway softly but neither of you acknowledged it.

“fuck,” joe murmured against your lips, almost laughing once after. “this is such a bad idea.”

“you’re the one kissing me.”

“you invited me upstairs.”

“you followed.”

“obviously i followed you.”

despite everything, you smiled against his mouth.

he paused for half a second before kissing you again. like that tiny expression from you was enough to undo him.

his fingers slipped into your hair, careful at first before tightening slightly when you pulled him closer by the front of his shirt. the tension between you felt months old. maybe years.

every unfinished conversation.

every late-night phone call.

every almost-confession.

all of it is sitting here right now.

your breathing turned uneven when he mouth moved briefly to your jaw.

“joe,” you whispered.

“hm?” he hums, distracted.

“this doesn’t fix anything.”

“i know.”

another kiss. slower this time.

“still wanna do it though.”

you let out a quiet laugh that disappeared into a shaky breath when his lips brushed your neck.

there he was.

that dangerous combination of playful and devastating.

his hands settled back at your hips, pulling you flush against him while he kissed just beneath your ear. your fingers curled tighter into his shirt automatically.

it felt too easy to fal back into this.

joe pulled back just enough to look at you, curls falling slightly into his eyes now.

“tell me to stop.”

you stared at him. really stared at him. and his expression wasn’t smug anymore. wasn’t teasing.

just open in a way that made your chest ache.

because underneath all the jealousy and sharp comments and tension, joe had always loved you very honestly. you could see it all over his face.

your hand lifted before you could think better of it, brushing hair back from his forehead gently.

“that’s not stopping me,” he said quietly.

“i know.”

he leaned into your touch for half a second. then his mouth found yours again before either of you could say something too real.

the kiss deepened quickly after that. less hesitant now.

your hands slid beneath his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt underneath while joe’s grip tightened at your waist like he physically couldn’t keep you close enough.

he kissed like he talked when emotions got too big — messy, sincere, a little overwhelming.

you felt him smile briefly against your mouth when you tugged him closer again.

“missed that,” he admitted softly.

your stomach flipped hard. “don’t say things like that.”

“why?”

“because.”

“great argument.”

you rolled your eyes weakly, and joe laughed quietly before kissing you again.

your apartment was dim except for the city light spilling through the windows, painting soft gold across his face every time you looked at him. his rings brushed your skin when his hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt slightly, warm fingertips pressing against your waist.

it’s like he’s questioning. giving you room to stop this. you should. instead you pulled him back in again.

joe exhaled sharply through his nose at that, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “you’re killing me,” he muttered.

“dramatic.”

“you used to like that about me.”

“used to?”

his eyes lifted immediately at that. the tension shifted again. less teasing now. something heavier underneath it.

“careful,” joe murmured softly. “you say shit like that and i start getting hopeful.”

the first thing you noticed about your new town was how quiet it was.

the streets were narrow and mostly empty, the buildings low and tired looking in the particular way small town places got when they had been standing too long and nobody bothered to pretend otherwise. still, it had what you wanted. a little house at the edge of town, old but sturdy, with a porch that sagged just a bit on the left side and a yard small enough to manage on your own. it had been cheap in a way that made you suspicious at first, but the realtor had smiled too hard and said things like “good bones” and “quiet neighborhood” and in the end it was the price tag that sold you.

you hadn't moved here because you were looking for a fresh start in the dramatic sense. you just needed a place that was yours, a place where your daughter could sleep with her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm and not have to hear you worrying over every little sound in the dark. a place where you could make coffee in the morning without thinking about the man who had left you both.

you had wanted cheaper rent, fewer questions, and a life that did not ask more of you than you could give.

so you packed up what mattered, sold what did not, and drove until the landscape looked unfamiliar enough to be called new.

the first few days were a blur of boxes, half-assembled furniture, and your daughter running from room to room as if she were mapping out a kingdom she planned to rule. she adjusted faster than you did. children always did. she found the best spot by the front window, decided the hallway was perfect for games that involved being a fox, and declared the back step “her lookout.” by the end of the week she had already made a friend out of the woman next door, who had introduced herself with a casserole dish and a warm, practical smile.

her name was doris, and she was the sort of neighbour who knew when to offer help and when to let silence do its job. she had silver hair that she pinned up without much fuss and a front porch full of flowerpots that looked like they had all survived several winters out of pure stubbornness.

she was also, you learned with some surprise, a retired babysitter who had apparently looked after half the children in town at one point or another.

“if you ever need to run errands or anything,” she told you the second time you met, balancing your daughter on one hip as if she weighed nothing at all, “you bring her over. i mean it. she’s a sweetheart.”

you had thanked her more times than necessary, because gratitude came easier to you than accepting kindness without flinching.

and because your life had gotten just complicated enough to feel almost normal, that was when gator tillman started noticing you.

not that he had any right to call it noticing. everybody saw everything in a town this small, but there was noticing. and then there was the way he looked at you like you had been dropped into the middle of his day and, for reasons he couldn't explain, made the whole thing feel a little less dull.

you saw him first at the grocery store.

it was one of those fluorescent-lit places that looked a little too bright no matter what time of day it was. you had been standing in front of the cereal aisle with a box of cheap granola tucked under your arm, trying to remember whether your daughter was out of milk or just very committed to pretending she was, when you felt eyes on you.

when you looked up, there he was.

he was leaning against the end of the aisle like he had all the time in the world, sheriff’s department uniform neat enough to suggest he cared about appearances but not neat enough to make him look harmless. tall, broad-shouldered, that sort of face that looked like it had learned early on how to smirk without being asked.

there was something pretty in the wrong way about him, which was annoying because you had no interest in being distracted by a man who clearly knew how to take up space.

he glanced at the box in your hand and then back at your face, the look lingering just long enough to be rude.

“you new round here?” he asked.

the accent had a rough, easy drawl to it, the kind that sounded practiced even when it wasn’t. you gave him a polite smile that did not encourage anything.

“yes.”

“huh.” he pushed off the shelf and took a few steps closer, hands loose at his sides. “pretty girl like you, what’s she doin’ in a place like this?”

you stared at him for a beat, expression flat enough to freeze water.

“buying cereal.”

one corner of his mouth twitched, like he had been hoping for something sharper.

“single?”

that one earned him a look. not a flustered one, not a coy one. just a look that said he hadn't, in fact, earned the right to ask.

“that’s a strange thing to ask a stranger in the cereal aisle.”

“not strange where i’m from.”

“well,” you said, and slipped the granola into your cart, “strange where i'm from.”

he blinked once, then let out a quiet laugh that sounded too pleased with itself. he had the decency to look amused instead of offended.

“fair enough.”

you would've thought that would be the end of it, but it was only the beginning.

he kept appearing in your orbit after that in ways that were almost too convenient to be accidental. sometimes at the hardware store, where you were trying to figure out which kind of screw was used for what and he would appear beside you with all the confidence of a man who had never once admitted he did not know something. sometimes outside the gas station, where he would give you a lazy salute before asking if you’d “settled in yet.” once, at the post office, he held the door open for you and told you your haircut looked nice, which was so transparently him trying to get a reaction that you nearly laughed in his face.

he always looked a little more pleased with himself when you looked unimpressed.

“you always this cold?” he asked one afternoon while you were loading groceries into the back of your car.

you didn’t even turn around. “you always this annoying?”

he snorted. “you got a sharp tongue.”

“and you’re still talking.”

that made him grin in a way that probably worked on somebody else, somewhere, but not on you. not when your days were full of work and unpacking and making sure your daughter ate enough vegetables to count as a reasonable parent. not when every spare thought you had was already claimed by practical things.

still, you noticed things against your will.

that he always looked too carefully at you before stepping too close. that he wore his uniform like it had been chosen to impress people, and perhaps it had.

that there was something in his expression whenever he realised you weren't impressed by him, not even a little, that looked less like irritation and more like challenge.

he asked your name on the second week. then asked what you did before moving here. then asked, with a glance that made it obvious he already thought he knew the answer, whether you had someone waiting for you at home.

“why?” you asked, shutting your car trunk harder than necessary.

“jus' curious.”

“that sounds like a lie.”

he tilted his head, one of those small, self-satisfied gestures he seemed to make when he thought he was winning something. “maybe i’m interested.”

“in what?”

“you.”

you made a sound in your throat that was almost a laugh, almost disbelief. “you barely know me.”

“plenty of time f' that.”

there was no reason for your face to go warm, but it did.

you told yourself it was the weather, the late afternoon heat, or the fact that he was standing far too close with far too much confidence and an expression that said he liked being looked at. you took the grocery bags from the cart and shut the trunk with your hip.

“you should probably find someone else to bother.”

“and miss this?”

you glanced up at him then, really looked at him, and found that the amusement in his face did not hide something else entirely. something hungry, maybe. or simply determined. either way, it was the sort of expression that belonged to a man who was used to getting what he wanted and was still trying to decide whether he wanted you.

you smiled a little, just enough to be polite and not enough to be encouraging.

“good luck with that.”

then you got in your car and left him standing there with his hands on his hips and a look on his face like you had just made his week more interesting than he was prepared for.

you didn't tell him about your daughter.

not because you were hiding her in any shameful sense. never that. she was the best thing in your life, the bright center of it, the reason you kept yourself standing when exhaustion and loneliness tried to work you over in the quiet hours. but she was also yours. your responsibility, your tenderness, your boundary. you had learned the hard way that some men heard 'single mother' and made assumptions before they had even finished blinking.

and then there was the other reason, the one sitting under all the others like stone under soil: you were careful now.

your daughter’s father had left enough damage in his wake that you had stopped calling it heartbreak and started calling it a lesson. he had walked out before she was old enough to ask difficult questions, but not before he had left behind the kind of ache that taught you not to hand your life to men who liked the sound of their own promises.

after that, you had decided that if you ever dated again, it would be with both eyes open and your daughter’s safety in mind. no introductions unless you were sure, no temporary men drifting in and out of her world just because they made your own nights less empty for a while.

gator tillman was not the kind of man you would let near that kind of trust.

not yet.

besides, you had heard enough about the sheriff’s department by then to know better than to trust the uniform too quickly.

the town talked, and small towns always turned gossip into weather. you heard enough in passing to know that the department was not exactly full of role models, and the sheriff himself was apparently the sort of man who had made his own name synonymous with trouble, fear, and rot. people lowered their voices when they mentioned him. even doris, who seemed to speak plainly about nearly everything else, would only click her tongue and say, “that family’s got problems” in a tone that suggested the word problems was doing a great deal of work.

so when gator found you at the diner one morning and casually dropped that he was deputy of the sheriff’s department, you acted as if you didn't know, raised an eyebrow and said, “congratulations” like he had informed you of a particularly useless skill.

he looked offended for exactly half a second before recovering.

“not impressed?”

“should i be?”

that got him again. he seemed to like that you did not treat him like a prize, maybe because he had so clearly expected you to.

still, he kept at it.

not in a grand, romantic way. not in the way men in movies bought flowers or stood in the rain. gator was too proud for that and too clumsy with sincerity to try.

instead he flirted the way he did everything else, sideways, half-mocking with an expression that tried to disguise how earnest he was underneath. he’d make comments about your smile when you least expected it. tell you he liked the way you looked angry, which was ridiculous. offer to carry your groceries. ask if you always looked this tired when you were “tryin to ignore him” which was so transparently a trap you refused to step in it.

and every time you brushed him off, he came back anyway.

not always right away. sometimes he’d go days without crossing your path, and you would almost convince yourself he had finally gotten bored. then you would see him leaning against the counter at the pharmacy or parked across the street when you were coming out of doris’s house and there he’d be again, looking at you like the answer to some question had been hiding just out of reach.

the strange thing was that you didn't entirely mind him.

not in the sense that you wanted him, not at first. you did not trust him enough for that. but he was entertaining in a way that had become, against your better judgment, part of your routine.

he made you feel seen in an irritatingly persistent way. not understood, not really, but seen. and after months of keeping your head down and making sure life held together by force of habit, there was something disarming about being noticed with such blunt intensity.

it would have been easier if he had been smooth. easier if he had been charming in a way that made it simple to dismiss him. but gator was not simple. he was all swagger and half-sincere smiles, all bravado with something restless underneath it, something that looked like it was always trying to prove itself. you could tell, even from the little you’d seen, that there was a boy underneath the deputy act who had learned early on how to turn self-assurance into armor.

that didn't make him safer, it just made him harder to ignore.

the day he finally asked you out properly, it was raining.

not the dramatic kind, not a storm. just a steady gray drizzle that made the street shine and turned the town soft around the edges. you had been standing outside doris’s house, waiting for your daughter.

gator came around the corner in uniform, hair damp from the rain, gaze finding you immediately like he'd been looking for you for far longer than he was willing to admit.

“you keep pretending you don’t like talkin’ to me” he said as he approached.

“i’m not pretending.”

“sure.” he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the water gathered along the dark line of his lashes. “i’m askin anyway.”

you sighed, already tired of whatever game he thought this was. “asking what?”

“take you out.”

you looked at him for a long moment. the rain stitched silver lines through the air between you, and for some reason his confidence seemed almost quieter than usual, like he had made himself say it before he could change his mind.

“no” you said.

he nodded immediately, like he expected it. “figured.”

you folded the bakery bag a little tighter in your arms. “then why ask?”

“cause i wanted to.”

it was such a gator answer that it nearly made you smile, except he was watching your face too closely for that.

you were tired. more tired than you usually let yourself be around other people, and maybe that was why the next words came out before you had time to smooth them over.

“i have a daughter.”

something shifted in his expression so fast you almost missed it.

it was not dramatic. not disgust, not mockery. more like blank confusion, the kind that made his brows draw together as if the idea had to be rearranged in his head before it could fit.

“a daughter” he repeated.

“yes.”

“you got a kid?”

“yes, gator. i do.”

he looked at you like he was trying to solve a problem he hadn't known existed two seconds ago. then his face cleared, but not in the way you expected. not with apology. not with withdrawal. just with the dawning, baffled realisation that you had been a whole person this entire time and he had only bothered to ask about the parts he found convenient.

“oh” he said, very softly.

you had expected a lot of things. questions. awkwardness. maybe a flirty line twisted around the fact to make it easier for him to save face. maybe even disappointment if you were unlucky. but the confusion was strangely sincere, and it threw you more than it should have.

he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away for a second, then back at you.

“single mom” he said, like he was trying the words out.

“yes.”

the rain ticked on the sidewalk. somewhere down the street a car passed, tires hissing over wet pavement. gator’s face had gone oddly unreadable, not in a cold way, but in a stunned one, like his brain had gotten stuck on a sentence it had not prepared for.

“right” he said at last, and you could not tell whether he sounded annoyed, impressed, or just confused in general.

you lifted one shoulder. “that’s why i haven’t been interested.”

he was quiet for a beat, then nodded once, too quickly, and gave you a small, almost stiff smile.

“okay.”

you frowned slightly. “okay?”

“yeah.” he shoved his hands into his pockets. “see ya round.”

and then he stepped back like the conversation had ended cleanly, like he had not just been knocked sideways by the simple fact that you had a child and a life that existed entirely outside his little orbit of self-importance.

you watched him turn and walk away down the wet street, boots splashing through the rain, and told yourself the reaction meant exactly what it looked like.

that he was done, that the daughter part had been the thing to put him off. that whatever half-finished attraction he'd been nursing toward you had finally met a wall it couldn't climb.

you should have felt relieved.

instead, you felt something you had no name for. disappointment, maybe. or the faint sting of being misread yet again. you tucked the feeling away with the rest of them and went back inside to your daughter, who was curled on doris’s couch with her socked feet in the air and her face smeared with jam, laughing at something on the television.

life moved on as it always did.

except gator didn't really leave.

he still showed up in your line of sight. still held doors, still tried to catch your eye, still made comments under his breath when he thought you weren't listening. but after that day, something changed in the shape of it. the flirting remained, but there was a little less swagger around the edges. a little less performance. he didn't ask about your single life quite so casually after that. he looked at you longer when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was reconsidering something he had assumed too quickly.

and you, stubbornly, kept your distance.

you let him be a nuisance. you let him be a familiar face in a strange town. you let his attention settle around you without giving him the satisfaction of thinking it had changed your mind. because it hadn’t. not really.

or that was what you told yourself.

the truth was that every now and then, when you were out with your daughter and saw him across the street, his gaze snagged on her for just a second too long, not in a bad way, but in the way of a man trying to fit a new fact into the picture of you he had been carrying around.

something in that look made your chest go tight, because there was no way to know whether it was interest or pity or merely surprise.

you hated surprise.

you hated the possibility that being a mother had turned you into a different kind of woman in his eyes, one less desirable, less worth the trouble.

so you let gator think what he wanted, let him believe you had shut him down cleanly. let him walk away thinking the answer had been no and not something more complicated and brittle and practical.

and for a little while, that was enough.

until the day you were halfway down the grocery aisle again, reaching for a box of pasta with your daughter’s voice reminding you to buy the fun shaped kind, when you heard a familiar voice behind you say, “you always this hard to catch, or is that just f'me?”

you closed your eyes for half a second.

of course it was him, of course he was back.

you turned slowly, already prepared to be unimpressed.

gator was standing there with one hand resting on the cart beside him, a crooked smile on his mouth, rain jacket damp at the shoulders. and then his gaze flicked, briefly, past you.

past your arm, past the cart and landed on the little hand peeking out from beneath the blanket in the child seat, where your daughter sat with her legs swinging and a packet of crackers clutched in one hand.

gator’s whole face changed, just for a second.

the surprise was immediate, yes, but it was something else too. something softer and much more dangerous.

your daughter looked back at him with open curiosity and no sense at all that this was a moment that mattered.

gator blinked.

then, very carefully, like he was approaching something that might bite him, he said, “well. hi there.”

your daughter smiled around a cracker crumb.

and you, standing there with one hand on the pasta shelf and your entire carefully guarded life suddenly visible, felt your patience and your nerves and something inconveniently warm all collide at once.

gator looked up at you after that, and the expression in his eyes told you, before he even opened his mouth, that whatever he'd thought about you before was gone.

completely gone.

and for the first time since you had moved to town, you had the distinct, unsettling feeling that your quiet little life had just become interesting in ways you weren't prepared for.

-

gator didn't stop being persistent after that day at the grocery store, but he did get quieter about it.

not less interested, exactly. just more careful with it.

it was the kind of careful that probably would've gone unnoticed on anyone else, but with gator it stood out. he was still the same man in the same uniform with the same easy confidence and the same habit of looking at you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your face, only now there was something else threaded through it. hesitation, maybe. not enough to make him back off entirely, but enough to make him think before he spoke.

the truth was that your daughter had gotten into his head.

not in the way he would have admitted out loud, and definitely not in the way he would have put it to anyone else. but it had happened anyway, quietly and all at once, like a door in his mind had opened onto a room he had never once considered walking into.

when he thought about a future, he had always assumed there would be a wife in it someday, because that was the sort of thing roy had drilled into him with the sort of confidence only men like them could manage. a wife. a home. children, eventually. a life that looked respectable from the outside and obedient from the inside.

maybe there would be a son to teach things to. maybe a daughter to spoil in ways he had never been spoiled. he'd never thought too hard about it, because thinking too hard had never done him much good.

but then there was you, and then there was the fact that you already had a child.

that should have made the whole thing simple. that should have made him walk away, or at least lose interest, or at the very least decide you were too much trouble for a few flirtatious exchanges in grocery store aisles and parking lots.

he'd told himself, more than once, that he was only interested because you were pretty and sharp-tongued and impossible to impress. that was how it started, after all. he had seen you, wanted your attention, and gotten irritated when you did not hand it over. that sort of thing was familiar to him. manageable. but now? now there was more to it than that, and he didn't quite know what to do with the fact that the more he learned, the less he wanted to leave.

what threw him most of all was that the daughter part didn't put him off.

it intimidated him, sure. it made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a conversation he had no language for. because it was one thing to think about being a father in some distant, abstract sense. it was another thing entirely to look at a woman you were genuinely interested in and realise she already had someone who mattered more than you could possibly matter to her. someone who came first. someone who didn't care how charming he was or how good he looked in uniform or how many times he'd managed to make her mother laugh.

he'd never been very good at not being the centre of things. and yet, embarrassingly enough, the fact that he was not the centre of your world made him want in more, not less.

he liked the challenge of it. hated that he liked it, but still.

he also liked that you didn't know him.

everybody in town had some version of him in their heads already. deputy. sheriff’s boy. trouble. arrogant. reckless. useful if you needed something done, impossible if you wanted honesty. maybe one or two people would have said handsome with the sort of tone that suggested it was a warning. but none of that was the whole story, and for once, there was something almost intoxicating about getting to be seen before a big rumor had finished introducing him.

with you, he had a chance to be whatever he wanted you to know first.

that thought sat in his chest in a way he didn't quite understand. not noble, not romantic, just strangely important. like the version of himself that existed in other people’s mouths had become irrelevant in the face of the version he could offer you instead.

and for your part, the fact that he hadn't run when you told him about your daughter changed things in a way you didn't entirely trust, but couldn't ignore either.

you had expected awkwardness. maybe a polite retreat. maybe the same sort of half-done interested expression men got when they realised there was baggage attached to dating you and decided baggage was inconvenient. you had prepared yourself for him to disappear into the gap between one conversation and the next, and you had even convinced yourself that would be for the best.

but he hadn't disappeared.

he'd blinked, looked confused, and then kept coming back.

not in a way that made you feel pressured, just persistently enough that you found yourself increasingly curious about him in spite of yourself. it wasn't that you were suddenly ready to bring him home for sunday dinner and call him part of the family. no, that was absurd. but maybe, just maybe, you were willing to let him know you beyond the surface of your own guardedness.

so when he caught you alone one afternoon outside the pharmacy and said, with far too much confidence for a man who had been carefully keeping his distance, “you ever rethink bout letting me take you out somewhere proper?” you surprised yourself by answering, “yes.”

the silence that followed was immediate and complete.

gator just looked at you.

not in a rude way, in a stunned one. like he hadn't expected the word to come out of your mouth and needed a second to make sure he'd heard correctly.

then, because he was still gator and couldn't leave anything sincere alone for too long, he cleared his throat, shifted his weight and said, “yeah?”

you smiled before you could stop yourself. “yes, gator.”

that got another blink out of him, slower this time. and then, in a very visible effort to recover his usual composure, he straightened a little and tucked one hand into his pocket.

“all right,” he said, trying very hard to sound as if this was not the most surprising development of his week. “i can do proper.”

you laughed then, because he looked ridiculous and smug all at once, and the sound of it made his expression soften in a way you hadn't expected. he asked if he could pick you up later, said he knew the best place in town, and you agreed before you could overthink it.

the dinner was better than you had any right to expect.

you felt a small stab of guilt leaving your daughter with doris so you could go on a date, but doris had waved you off with the kind of cheerful determination that suggested she enjoyed being trusted with important secrets. your daughter, meanwhile, had apparently decided doris’s house was a luxury resort, because she'd been thrilled to stay.

gator had actually shown up on time, which was your first surprise of the evening, and he'd looked annoyingly good in a way that made you briefly resent the existence of collared shirts.

he opened the car door for you without making a big deal of it, and when you thanked him, he just gave you that lopsided little look of his like he was pretending the gesture hadn't mattered.

the place he took you to was a small restaurant at the edge of town, the kind with dim lighting and booths that had definitely seen better decades. it wasn't fancy, but it was warm, and the food was better than its peeling wallpaper suggested.

more importantly, he talked to you.

really talked, in a way you hadn't expected.

not just the usual fragments of himself he threw at you when he was trying to flirt. he asked questions and waited for answers. he told you things about town without making them sound like he was showing off and when you asked him what he liked doing when he wasn't in uniform, he actually had to think about it for a moment before shrugging and saying, “not much, lately.”

that had led to a conversation about where you grew up, which had led to one about your daughter’s favourite cartoons, which had led to him admitting, after some prompting, that he had once wanted to be a pilot when he was younger because he liked the idea of leaving things behind and seeing the world from above.

you looked at him for a beat too long after that, because there was something unexpectedly vulnerable in the confession, something too honest to be part of the image he usually tried to sell.

the other people in the restaurant noticed him, of course. he was impossible not to notice. eyes flicked toward him from two tables over, then away again when they realised he'd seen them. you noticed it too, the little shifts in posture, the careful glances. you noticed how he ignored them without even turning his head, he simply sat there with you and let the room do what it wanted.

that, more than anything, was what stayed with you after the night was over.

he didn't make you feel foolish for being cautious. he didn't try to charm you into dropping your guard all at once. he simply made space for the conversation to happen, and by the time he drove you home, you found yourself feeling lighter than you had in months.

after that, there was no sudden declaration, instead, he just kept showing up.

better behaved than before, though not perfect. he still flirted, but the lines changed.

he stopped using words like hot and started using beautiful instead, like it mattered more to him. he told you he liked your laugh. he said your hair looked good when it was pulled back. he complimented the way you handled your daughter with a mixture of patience and firmness that made him look at you like you were quietly impressive in ways he hadn't expected.

and then there were the little things, little things that ended up mattering far more than the grand ones.

he mentioned, one afternoon, that there was a big play area just outside town that he used to go to as a kid. “they got a climbing thing,” he said, pretending to sound casual. “a trampoline. swings. some weird old wooden i fell in once.”

you laughed at that, and then he glanced over at you and added, almost as an afterthought, “she might like it.”

your daughter.

he had remembered that she existed, and not in a vaguely polite way. he had actually thought about what might make her happy.

that stayed with you longer than it should have.

doris, naturally, was not immediately convinced.

she didn't say anything cruel, because doris was not that sort of woman, but she did fix you with a look one evening over the fence and said, “you be careful with that boy, now. sheriff’s family isn't known for being easy to deal with.”

“he’s not his father” you said before you could stop yourself.

doris gave a small hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “just saying.”

you nodded because there was no point arguing with the town’s collective memory. but you weren't especially worried.

gator had already given you the short version of his father, and while he hadn't said anything directly ugly, there had been enough in the way his mouth tightened when he mentioned him to tell you the truth.

stern. controlling. a man who expected obedience and called it love. a man who got what he wanted and didn't much care who he hurt in the process.

that was enough to make the picture clearer.

and over time, the back and forth between you and gator turned into something steadier.

he drove you to work when he could, leaning across the passenger seat with a hand on the wheel and telling you to hurry up like he was doing you a favour, even when he offered. he started showing up with coffee exactly the way you took it, which annoyed you more than it should have because it was thoughtful. he remembered when your daughter had a school event and asked about it later, not in a probing way, just in a way that made it obvious he had been listening.

when she started school properly, he went with you to the first parent-teacher meeting when you realised you were more nervous than you wanted to admit, and he stood beside you in the classroom with his hands in his pockets, looking far more composed than you felt.

the teacher had called him your partner.

you opened your mouth to correct her, then closed it again.

gator, beside you, hadn't corrected her at all.

when she mistook him for your daughter’s father, he only smiled politely and let her get on with it until she had moved on to another topic. later, in the car, you gave him a look and said, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“do what?”

“let her think that.”

he glanced at you, one hand on the steering wheel. “didn’t seem important.”

you stared at him.

he shrugged, but there was a faint red creeping up the back of his neck. “figured i was there to help, not be difficult.”

that had nearly undone you on the spot.

months passed like that.

not rushed, just a slow, steady kind of closeness that crept in through routine until you realised one day that it had been there for a while.

he learned which cereal your daughter liked best. he learned not to make too much noise when he came by after dark. he learned that you liked your tea strong and your mornings quiet and your affection delivered in practical gestures.

in return, you learned that he was not nearly as hard as he looked, and that the parts of him the town called trouble were often just the parts of him that had learned how to survive.

he was still stubborn. still smug. still far too pleased with himself whenever he managed to make you roll your eyes. but he was also gentler than you had expected. gentler with your daughter, especially, once he got used to her. awkward at first, yes. entirely too aware of his own hands and voice and size, as if he was afraid of doing something wrong. but children have a way of making even the most self-important men honest, and your daughter did that to him almost immediately.

by the time the three of you went to the playhouse just outside town together, he'd already figured out how to kneel down to her height without making it seem awkward, how to answer her questions seriously even when they were ridiculous, how to carry a paper cup of juice in one hand while she dragged him by the other toward the trampoline with a grin that suggested she'd decided he belonged to her for the afternoon.

and to your absolute surprise, he let her.

he complained about the trampoline first, just enough to make you laugh. “i’m not doin’ that,” he said, watching the two of you bounce around like you had not a single care in the world. “i look stupid already, don’t need help.”

“you always look stupid” you called back.

your daughter immediately took his side, which seemed to delight him. “he doesn't look stupid.”

gator’s entire face lit up.

“see?” he said, pointing at her. “she gets it.”

and then he climbed onto the trampoline with the both of you.

you hadn't seen him laugh like that before.

it wasn't the sharp little huff he let out when you mocked him, or the smug grin he wore when he thought he had gotten the upper hand. this was something else entirely, something open and helpless and bright. your daughter was bouncing around in front of him, shrieking with joy, and he was making the kind of face men usually reserve for the moment they realise they're in over their heads and having the time of their lives anyway.

it did something strange to your chest.

later that evening, after the three of you had been home and your daughter had worn herself out so thoroughly she had gone down for a nap, gator was sitting down while you cleaned up the kitchen.

the house was quiet in that rare, soft way it got. sunlight leaned through the front windows, gold and tired. the air smelled faintly of soap and sugar and the lingering trace of the day.

you came back into the living room to find him on the couch with his elbows on his knees, looking around like he had started noticing details he had not seen before.

you paused in the doorway. “what are you thinking?”

he looked up slowly. “i like this.”

you leaned against the frame. “like what?”

he glanced toward the hallway, where your daughter was sleeping, then back at you. there was no swagger in him now. no performance. just a quiet sort of certainty that made him look younger and older at the same time.

“us” he said.

you felt the smile come before you could stop it. not a big one. just something small and true and impossible to hide.

gator noticed, because of course he did.

he stood then, crossing the short distance between you with a kind of care you wouldn't have expected from him months ago. he stopped and looked down at you for a moment like he was still deciding whether to say something else, then he lifted a hand to your face and kissed you.

it wasn't your first kiss.

the first one had been an accident, really, in the way certain things only become accidents when you are too busy to think about them. you'd been rushing out of his car one morning because you were late for work, one hand already on the door handle, your mind full of everything except the fact that he was leaning toward you to say something when you turned and, without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his mouth in a distracted goodbye before hurrying off.

you froze for half a second afterward, mortified.

he, on the other hand, had looked so pleased with himself you had wanted to throw your coffee at him.

he had absolutely loved that kiss.

this one was different. this one was slow and deliberate and it made your breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with surprise. his hand rested lightly at your jaw, his thumb barely moving, and when he pulled back, he stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of him still there.

“what was that for?” you asked softly.

his mouth curved, almost shy if you did not know better.

“for bein’ here.”

you laughed under your breath, because of course that was the sort of answer he would give when he was being sincere.

and maybe that was the moment it really started.

not when he first flirted, not when he first asked you out, not even when he found out you had a daughter and stayed anyway. maybe it started here, in the quiet middle of things, where he'd already found his way into your home and your routines and the little safe spaces you had built around your life. where your daughter reached for him without fear, where he walked softly enough through both of your days that one evening you looked up and realised he was no longer just visiting, he was there.

not because he had forced himself in. not because you had been careless. but because he had proved, over and over again, that he could be trusted with the parts of your life that mattered most.

he was nothing like the rumors said, nothing like the shadow his father cast and nothing like the man you had first assumed he would be. he was still flawed, still arrogant, still infuriating in all the usual ways, but he was also gentle where it counted. attentive. patient. quietly devoted in ways he would probably have denied if called out on them directly.

a softie, really.

you probably would never say that to his face but you knew it now, and so did he. at least in the private little corners of your life where the two of you had started to belong to each other without ever quite saying so too soon.

-

The party was loud, well, Briar U’s parties were always annoyingly loud. She didn’t really want to come out, but in a way she felt like she should. She moved through the crowd, the smell of cheap beer lingering in the air as she said hi to a couple of people she recognized. The girls weren't here yet, and without them she almost felt out of place. She made it to the kitchen, her eyes wandering and deciding what to drink.

Logan approached her leaning in close “Hey, you. Thought you were staying home tonight!” Leaning in for a hug, as they talked for a few minutes.

And that was the exact moment he noticed her. 

Across the kitchen Dean stood listening to Beau rave about the hockey game- well he wasn’t really listening to him. His focus eventually narrowed in on the girl with long hair and a bright smile as she talked away to Logan. 

“Who is that?” Dean asked Beau, cutting him off mid-sentence, his words coming out quickly, “The one talking to Logan,” He clarified, keeping his eyes on her. He had never seen her before or maybe he had, but he told himself he was just curious. But the thing about Dean was that he was never curious. He was a playboy, along for the ride, he was never that curious about a girl. 

It eventually became a pattern with late night hook ups that occasionally blurred into her spending the night. Sometimes it was just a quick and sloppy hookup, other times it turned into laughter and late night talking. 

“We should really stop doing this…” She said against his lips. They were in his room this time, on top of him, her chest bare and her skin flushed from the heat of his mouth as he kissed down her neck. Grinding down against him slowly as his erection pressed up into her. 

His large hands slid down her back, palms warm and slightly calloused, tracing her back, before settling on her hips, shivering at the way he touched her. "Hmm, why is that?" he mumbled against her skin, smiling as he kissed along her jaw just under her ear. 

She moaned.. A little too loud. He always did this. He was always distracting her, clouding her judgment until she lost her train of thought.

His fingers dug into her hips, guiding her movement as he shifted, slipping one leg between hers until she opened wider for him. His hand came down, hooking his pointer finger to push her panties to the side. She gasped when he flipped her over onto her back, hooking her legs around his shoulder with one hand wrapping around her ankle to hold her into place. He lined himself up, pushing the tip in making her hips buckle “Didn’t catch that, you were saying we should stop?" His voice cocky with a smirk.

She shook her head no, her mouth falling open as she tried to form a sentence on why this was a bad idea. His thumb dragged to her mouth and pressed past her lips, and she sucked without thinking as she circled her tongue, her eyes on him. "Shit," he whispered, his head falling back for a split second before his eyes found hers again. His thumb slid out of her mouth with a wet pop, and his hand traveled down her stomach, eventually reaching down to press slow circles on her clit. 

“Pretty fucking girl,” He mumbled. 

The bell above the door jingled as she walked into Malone's, the familiar smell of beer, and greasy food. The diner was packed, hockey players filled the booths near the back, closer to the band that was playing tonight. Hannah was already waving over from a table near the jukebox, Allie sliding a menu toward the empty seat before she'd even sat down.

"Took you long enough," Hannah said, stirring her drink with a straw. "We already ordered fries."

"I had to change twice," she admitted, sliding into the booth. "Nothing felt right."

Allie raised her eyebrows but didn't push, and she was grateful for it. Because the truth was, nothing felt right because she knew he'd be here. The team always came to Malone's after practice and she'd spent forty minutes in front of her closet telling herself she wasn't picking an outfit for him.That she wasn't already counting the minutes until she'd see him again. 

The night continued on. They both knew they were in the same room, and that simple knowledge made her heart pound in a way that was almost embarrassing. She could feel the weight of his presence like pressure against her skin, even from three booths away.

"Beer run," she announced, sliding out of the booth before the girls could ask for one too.

She made her way through the diner, weaving between tables, and time seemed to slow down. Dean was walking toward her and their eyes locked. 

He was giving her that smile. The one that made his dimples poke out, that crinkled the corners of his eyes.  And for a moment, nothing else existed. No noise. No crowd. Just him, looking at her like she was the only person in the room.

They passed each other quickly. His shoulder nearly brushed hers. Their hands didn't touch but she felt it everywhere.

She let out a breath and kept walking, her hands trembling slightly as she reached the bar ordering a drink as she watched the band play. She eventually turned her back to the room, facing the bar fully as she took a sip of her beer, hoping it would calm her. 

And then she felt it.

Him.

Like a sixth sense. Like her body knew before her brain could catch up. A shift in the air, a warmth at her side, the faint scent of his cologne. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, trailing up her arms, raising the hairs at the back of her neck.

"YN," he said, looking straight ahead. His voice low and casual, like they were strangers making small talk.

"Dean," she said back, proud that her voice came out steady. She felt a smile creeping across her face—that stupid, giddy, excited smile she couldn't seem to control around him. She bit the inside of her cheek to contain it, but she knew he could see it anyway. He always saw everything.

Neither of them said anything else after that. He rested his arms on the bar beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, and she kept her hands flat against the counter. And then she felt it. Her eyes flicked down for half a second, then back up, staring straight ahead, to try and seem like he didn't have an effect on her. Her breathing slowed and she looked down again at their hands. 

His pinky had shifted. A slow, deliberate movement. It touched hers, barely grazing at first, just a whisper of contact. And then it pressed fully against her, warm and certain. He was looking straight ahead, casual, like he wasn't doing anything at all. Like his pinky wasn't tracing small, intimate circles against her skin, right there in plain sight where anyone could see.

Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

But she didn't pull away, she pressed back. 

“There you are,” She turned at the sound of his voice giving him a small smile, watching him as he pulled up a chair right beside her. She watched him sit down in the chair, manspreading, his long legs stretched out, watching his thighs clench as he shifted his hips up slightly to get more comfortable. 

The boys had thrown a party to celebrate the end of the semester. Exams were done, bags were packed, and everyone was buzzing with restless energy that came before heading home for break. But she'd needed air and a minute to herself. 

Things had shifted the last several weeks. She looked for him everywhere, waiting for his calls, staying close to him at all times, not just privately but publicly. She was becoming dependent on him. He felt it too. He was locked in, it was pathetic really. He watched the way she was kind to everyone she met, he loved watching her laugh, he loved the way she would study on his bed completely lost in an assignment as her brow furrowed in concentration. He loved to watch her. He was infatuated with everything she did and said. She was just special, special to him. 

She lifted her legs up, draping them over his thighs and his hand came down to trace a slow path up and down her leg. He watched her take a long hit of the blunt, slowly exhaling the smoke as she passed it back to him avoiding his eye contact. His fingers brushed hers as he reached for it but stopped abruptly, not taking the blunt just hoping she would look at him. 

“You spending the night?” He asked, still keeping his eyes on her as she continued to watch the fire burn, her shoulders shrugging.

“Maybe.” 

His hand came to a stop on her thigh.

Maybe.

Maybe?

The word hung between them, echoing inside his mind almost taunting him. That word didn't exist in their vocabulary. She always spent the night. It was an unspoken, assumed, part of the rhythm they'd fallen into. She felt him staring at her, felt the weight of his eyes boring into the side of her face, but she couldn't even look at him. If she looked at him, she'd cave. 

"Bullshit," he said, a small laugh escaping him, like he was trying to keep things light. But his smile dropped when she still didn't look at him, instead she bit her lip and stayed silent for a moment.

"I have an early morning," she said quietly.

"You always have early mornings."

She didn't answer him, because really the truth was harder than a lie. She needed to draw the line between them. She could feel herself becoming infatuated with him, craving the sound of his voice, his hands on her body. 

She could see it in her periphery, the way his jaw clenched because he was starting to get frustrated that she was avoiding him.

"Don't feed me some bullshit about early mornings."

She swallowed hard, feeling small wanting to sink into the chair and disappear. She tried to move her legs off his lap, but his hand shot out, gripping her knee gently to keep her legs there. 

“Look at me,” her eyes found him as he watched a tear fall down her face, he sat up straighter, stretching his arm out to wipe it away.

“Listen, I-, I’m not asking you to marry me,” a small, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. 

He continued, “You've been in my bed more nights than you haven't."

He paused for a minute, taking her hands into his, giving her a small smile, slightly shaking his head, “I like that you steal my clothes even though your clothes are in my dresser, I like seeing your makeup and hair products scattered all over the bathroom, I like-” he paused,

His voice faltered, dropping his head for a moment, gathering himself, then looked up at her again. “I like you,”

“I like us,” he added quickly. 

Silence.

She didn't know what to say. Her brain had locked up and all she could hear was the thumping of her heart in her ears. She could feel her eyes watering again, she wanted to tell him she felt the same way but her adrenaline was pumping and she just froze, her throat closed with her lips pressed together.

He wasn’t angry at her lack of response. He wasn’t mocking her or pushing her into saying something she wasn’t ready to say, because he understood that she was scared. 

One of the first times Joe had pulled out his camera to record was on a hike.

Joe loved hikes. Watching the views, having a challenge, and sitting down at a nearby restaurant to finish off.

You were halfway up a hill, both of you ridiculously out of breath. Joe slows down, and you quickly notice when he isn’t next to you anymore.

You watch as he fiddles with the front pocket of his backpack, whipping out the slightly old silver camera that you’re way used to seeing now.

You don’t notice it at first. You’re just taking in the view of nature. Being surrounded by trees, the sky filled with the beautiful baby blue you see in paintings. The way the leaves rustle slightly along with the breeze that cools you down.

It’s only until he speaks you notice his camera pointing at you.

“Say hi.” You can see the way he smiles, like it’s lighting up his whole face. The way his eyes never leave yours, always holding that sparkle that’s reserved just for you.

“Who am I saying hi to?” You walk closer to him, a smile tugs at your lips.

“Our future kids.” His tone soft and gentle.

Your face breaks out into a smile. Your cheeks turning into a soft pink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He says sincerely. He turns the camera enough where you’re both in the frame. His hand snaking around your waist.

“We are currently hiking in the middle of nowhere.” He quickly pans the camera around the view. “And your mother was just freaking out that we got lost and that we were going to have to live in this forest like wild bears–“

“I never said that–!”

“Yes you did!”

You and Joe always had date night on a Thursday.

It was something that just fell into routine when you first started dating.

It was a day where restaurants would be quieter than on weekends. Buildings would be filled but not packed. Not everyone would be celebrating the end of the weekday just yet, but wanted to go out for a small glass of wine.

You were standing in the bathroom of your bedroom, finishing the last touches of your makeup.

Usually, you would go a little more basic and easier than you were doing now. Less heavy on the foundation and eyeshadow. But this week Joe had decided to book a table at a more fancy restaurant than you’re used to.

Normally, you would go to a local restaurant. Somewhere less expensive on the burgers and alcohol.

Right now, Joe was in the bedroom, probably messing around with his hair, as you assumed.

But instead, he was fiddling around with his camera.

He turns it on and starts recording. Sitting on your shared bed, he has a good enough view of you that he didn’t have to move to record you.

“Look at your mom. Isn’t she the most gorgeous woman in the world?” He speaks quietly from behind the camera.

“Baby, I can hear you.” You poke your head from around the corner of the door.

“I’m just telling our kids how you’re the most beautiful woman ever.” He zooms in on your face.

“Hi, kids.” A fond smile finds its way onto your face at the thought of it. Having kids with Joe. Having a future with him that seems so clear in mind.

“We’re about to go on a date. Somewhere fancy this time. Never been, but apparently it’s supposed to be good.” He walks over to you, recording the both of you from the bathroom mirror.

“Well, I sure hope it’s good because it’s expensive.” You lean into Joe instinctively.

“It’ll still be good because you’re there.” He kisses the top of your head.

The breeze was cold and refreshing. The kind you get when you’re on vacation and sitting by the sea.

The grass was long but short enough that it didn’t tickle your calves.

The sun was peaking through the trees, lowering below the horizon to cast a beautiful pink onto you and Joe.

You happily laugh, your forehead resting against Joe’s as he picks you up, spinning you around.

He soon lowers you down, giving you a quick kiss before digging into his jeans pocket. He quickly turns his camera on, pressing the button at the top of the silver device.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” He mutters affectionately. You smile, tilting your head towards the ground in half embarrassment.

“Hey, kids.” He begins, his smile evident in the way he talks. “Your mum and I just got engaged. Show them the ring, sweetheart.”

You oblige and hold up your hand, the diamond reflecting in the beams of sun, making it sparkle. He mumbles a “wow” under his breath, though it’s directed more at you than the ring hugging your finger.

“And the view is gorgeous.” He pans the camera around, but it quickly falls back to you. “More gorgeous with you in it, though.”

“You’re so cheesy.” You giggle out, the blush on your face still lingering. It hasn’t left since he was on one knee.

“You love it.” He teases, turning the camera around to show himself standing next to you. His puppy brown eyes shine into a light hazel in the sunlight. You lean into his side, your arm interlinking with his.

“We’re getting married!” His voice filled with excitement and joy.

The night was long but not long enough.

You really wish it could’ve lasted forever. Getting married to the man you love more than yourself, and then everyone getting wasted afterwards.

You and Joe finally made it back to the hotel. Both of you were too tired to even bother taking off your shoes.

You lay in bed, side by side, and shoulders touching. Your eyes threatened to close the minute your head touched the pillow.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Joe mumbled, his voice cracking due to the singing and shouting you had been doing all night.

“Joe, it’s like three in the morning.” You felt out of breath. Even talking taking too much energy from you.

“Hold on.” His hand wipes over the bedside table to find the camera. He finds it and holds it up to his face, enough so he can see you through it.

“Hi, kids–“ the moment he says that, you groan, but a small smile tugs at your lips. “We just got married.”

“Is this really a good example to set for our future kids?” You open your eyes to look at him.

“Maybe not.” He shrugs. “But we’ve gotta show them how much fun we had.” He flips the camera to reveal his slightly dishevelled self, a lopsided smile gracing his face.

“We got very drunk. So did Uncle Wes and Jake.” He said too casually. Like he’s already sure about it. It made your heart warm. “They’re even worse than us. I think they’re probably sleeping on the dance floor right now.”

“But other than that, we had the best time of our lives. And now I’m married to my best friend.” His voice was soft and gentle. So sincere it made your eyes sting.

He flips the camera to face both of you. You still lie next to each other, heads resting against one another.

“I love you.” You look up at him, your eyes heavy with sleepiness.

“I love you more.”

The monitors beeped, but you quickly got used to it.

The room was finally quiet. No more nurses coming in or out to check on you or the newborn, no visitors, and no crying baby. Just the quiet suckles that the baby made against your breast.

You were both exhausted, living off approximately three hours of sleep between the two of you in thirty eight hours.

Joe sat in a seat next to the bed, watching in awe at the newborn resting comfortably in your embrace.

“She’s so beautiful.” His tone was quiet, scared that the tiniest noise would startle her. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes once again.

To be honest, ever since she was born, there hadn’t been an hour he hadn’t cried.

“I can’t believe we made her.” Your voice carries the tired but gentle tone. “She’s tiny.”

He grabs the hospital bag that’s close by, whipping out the camera.

“You really brought that?” You raise your brows, watching as he turns it on.

“I have to get a video of my baby girl.” His eyes turn into the big puppy eyes you can’t be annoyed at.

“You’re here.” He starts the video. Capturing the soft baby that resting against you. “And you’re so beautiful.” His voice cracks. “You’re everything I could’ve asked for and more.” A tear runs down his cheek.

“I love you, my girls, so much. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” And once he says that, you’re both sobbing while looking at the newborn who had no idea how much they’re loved.

You push open the station door and step out into the damp night air, the storm immediately swallowing you whole. Instinctively wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself.

He spares you the briefest of glances when you step out, closing the door behind you. His eyes catch yours; sharp for half a second before he drops his gaze back to the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight behind the slow curl of smoke.

You cross the narrow space between you and lean against the wall opposite him, back against damp brick. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the awning between you, hitting the pavement in uneven taps. 

Neither of you speak. Steve just takes another drag; choosing to focus on that and not the fact that you followed him out here.

“You know those things kill you, right?” you say eventually, voice so uneven you're not sure you sound like yourself. 

He lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “Think I’m aware.” 

The stick glows orange between his fingers. You just watch his hand. 

Swollen knuckles. Split skin. A faint smear of blood slowly drying near his wrist.

Without really thinking about it, only really to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists, you reach forward and pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.

Steve’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move to stop you.

You take a drag before you can think it through, the smoke burning harsh down your throat. For a while no words pass between you. Just the cigarette.

Until eventually you realise you haven’t stopped staring at his hand.

The way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching at his side. The almost imperceptible wince every now and then that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

“You should probably clean that up.” 

His jaw flexes.

“Yeah?” he says flatly. “You think?” The way he looks at you when he says it—tired, angry, something rawer underneath —makes you swallow harshly.

Steve takes the cigarette back from you, shoulders tenser than you’ve ever seen them. Then, quieter but just as sharp, he adds, “Maybe you should stop giving me reasons to punch things.”

“There it is.” You knew that was coming. The blame. Is it warranted? Probably. Do you want to hear it? No. 

You tilt your head back against the brick, forcing your voice to be lighter than you feel, forcing yourself to say your next words. “That wasn’t my fault.”

His head lifts slowly, eyes finding yours before skirting over you just as slowly. Rain-dark hair plastered messily around your face. Mud streaked across the knees of your jeans from where you hit the ground. The tiny cut near your cheekbone you hadn’t bothered cleaning.

Something sharp flashes across his face so quickly it looks physical. 

He grits his next words out. “You ran in there alone.”

Your jaw tightens instantly. “I had it handled.”

Steve actually laughs out that. Cutting. Slightly mocking. “You did, did you?” 

A flashlight beam disappearing around the corner before he could grab your hand. Your voice crackling through the radio—I’ll be fine, just cover the other side—

Then static.

You flinch. You don’t need reminding.

The floor giving out beneath your feet. Rust and concrete collapsing inward. Your shoulder slamming hard enough into the wall to make your vision spark white.

You force yourself to shrug anyway. “But I got out.”

“Because of me.” Steve steps forward as he says it, the words sharper and louder than everything else he’s said tonight before he visibly catches himself.

His voice lowers again, words scrapped raw. “You got out because I got to you in time.”

His eyes lock onto yours and don’t move. Don’t even blink. And for a second neither do you. Like you're in a trance.

Rain continues to hammer down around you. Neon red flickers across the sharp line of his jaw, catches against the lenses of his glasses, turns his soaked white t-shirt pink for half a heartbeat before fading again.

You look away first.

Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. Steve’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from whatever ugly thing he’s been trying to hold down since you all came back up. 

“You know what I heard?” he asks.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t give you time to. 

“You telling me to shut up, a loud crash—” His voice catches suddenly, wavering around the next part like he physically hates saying it out loud. “You scream.”

His eyes lock back onto yours, he swallows, hard, before continuing. “And then nothing.”

The words hit harder than they should. 

Because, yes, you remember it too.

The static swallowing your voice mid-sentence. The sick drop in your stomach when the tunnel floor gave out beneath you. The impact. Dust choking the air so thick you could barely breathe around it.

And then silence.

Deafening. All-consuming. Terrifying. 

Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every little move he makes. “Do you have any idea what that was like?”

You hate this.

Hate the way he’s looking at you. Hate remembering the panic clawing up your throat beneath all that concrete. Hate remembering how helpless you felt down there. Hate the fact he saw you like that.

So you default to the only thing you know how to do in a moment like this: deflection.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not the fucking point, Henderson.” 

You cross your arms tighter over your chest like a shield; voice raising to match his. “Then what is?”

For a second he just stares at you like he can’t actually believe you’re asking. As if he genuinely cannot comprehend how you don’t get this. And in your rational brain, maybe you do. A little. But understanding something and letting yourself feel it are two very different things.

He just laughs, again. This time it’s softer. Not quite so mocking anymore.

In fact it sounds a little wrecked.

Actually, it sounds completely and utterly wrecked. 

“I found you trapped under concrete,” he says, rough and low, every word a struggle for him to say. “And you were still trying to joke with me.”

Your stomach twists, you feel your hands grow clammy and shake by your side because suddenly you’re back there. 

Steve dropping to his knees beside you so hard the impact echoed through the building. Blood already running over his knuckles from the door he’d punched and kicked through to reach you. His hands shaking while he shoved broken debris away from your leg.

And you, dizzy and hurting and terrified in a way you didn’t want to name, still forcing out:

“Took you long enough, Harrington.”

Steve had looked at you like the joke physically hurt him.

And now, eyes glassy behind rain-speckled lenses, cheeks flushed, his jaw flexes the exact same way. 

“You looked at me like-like it was no big deal—“

You swallow harshly, cutting him off. “It wasn’t—”

“How can you say that?” His voice cracks this time. Barely, but you hear it.

“Jesus Christ, do you think I wanted to not be able to fucking answer Dustin when he’s screaming down the radio that you’re not answering? Cause I didn’t know why you weren’t. Cause you had decided to go off alone. Again.”

Rain rattles violently against the metal awning overhead. Steve looks away suddenly, dragging a hand over his mouth before shaking his head once.

“Do you think I wanted to be the one to tell him that you—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop. “That you…”

He can’t say it.

You realise with a horrible twisting ache that he physically cannot force the words out. Like saying them aloud might make them real. Might drag you right back beneath the rubble where he found you.

The storm presses in around you both, so loud now that it almost feels intrusive. Like the night itself is listening.

Steve stares out into the rain, chest rising hard beneath the damp white t-shirt, cigarette long forgotten. 

You don’t know what to do with this version of him.

Steve annoyed? Easy. Steve sarcastic? Easy. Typical. Steve looking at you like losing you would’ve broken him? That hurts. 

In a way you don't understand. In a way that makes your chest actually ache. 

“He would’ve been okay,” you say quietly, and you almost believe yourself. 

But Steve’s head snaps toward you so fast you instantly regret it. “What?”

You shrug even though the motion feels stiff. Defensive. False. “Dustin. He would’ve been okay.” You nod as you say it; like that will make it true. 

For a second Steve just stares at you. 

Then something furious flashes across his face. 

“No,” he says immediately. “No, he wouldn’t have.”

You open your mouth to say-to say—you don’t know. You don’t know what to say, what to do, where to look. 

“No.” Steve shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “No.”

You look away on instinct—the look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice suddenly all too much. You try to make yourself smaller somehow. Fold inward. Retreat back behind the walls that usually keep people out before he can force his way through them.

But he won't let you. Not anymore. Not after today. 

He’s moving before you can. 

One second there’s space between you. And then the next there isn’t. 

Rain clings to his lashes. His glasses sit crooked from where he shoved a hand through his hair moments earlier. His chest rises hard beneath his soaked t-shirt as he steps into your space like he physically cannot stand this distance anymore.. 

And then before you can even blink his hand is grasping your jaw. Firm. Unwavering. His fingers curl against your skin and drag your face back up until your eyes are on him. Only on him.

No chance to run. No chance to hide from this. From him.

“Harringto—”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. Too thin. Too breathless. Like you’re begging for something you can’t even name. For him to stop. For him not to stop. For him not to make you stand here and let him see you like this.

“No. You’re not listening to me.” His thumb presses sharply against your jaw as frustration bleeds through every word. “You keep saying this shit like people would just get over it. Like losing you wouldn't-wouldn't mean anything.” 

Your pulse stumbles hard against your ribs.

“You think Dustin would’ve been okay?” he says incredulously.

“You think your brother wouldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if he could’ve stopped you from running in there alone? That if he had done even the slightest thing differently that you would still be here. Going over and over and over it in his head wondering where he fucked up?”

“You keep acting like you’re expendable,” he says, voice cracking around the last word. “As if it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t come back.”

You try to pull away instinctively, discomfort clawing up your throat too fast, but Steve’s grip tightens slightly before immediately softening again when he realises it.

Not letting you go. Not letting you disappear. 

“And me?” It’s not only his voice that has broken but his expression, as he struggles to speak. “You think I would’ve been fucking okay?”

He’s staring at you like he needs you to understand this. Like it matters more than his pride. More than winning any argument. More than whatever this thing between you has become.

It's almost like he’s trying to show you something in his words, in his face, in the desperation in his voice. Something he’s been trying to show you for a long time now and you just keep refusing to see. 

If he can just make you see it—really see it—maybe he can stop you from slipping through his fingers next time.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Because the worst part is—

Some part of you thinks you do see it.

That maybe you always have. 

And that is infinitely more terrifying than pretending you don’t.

“Why?” you croak out before coughing lightly and trying again. “Why?”

The question seems to knock the air out of him for a second. His brows pull together hard as he almost spits out “What?”

“Why would you care?” You mean for it to sound sharp. Defensive. Detached. 

Instead it comes out small. Confused. 

Steve, for all his frustration and anger, just stares at you. 

It’s still raining heavily, wind now pushing cold mist beneath the awning, but all you can feel is the warmth of his body standing so close to yours.

Then he laughs once under his breath. But it's devoid of any humour.  

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping the hand not cupping your jaw down his face and through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”

Immediately your defenses slam back into place. “Know what?” you say quickly, trying for sarcasm mixed with anger and missing completely. “All I do is annoy you.”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not—”

“We fight constantly,” you cut in, words tumbling out faster now because if you stop talking you might actually have to hear what he’s trying to say—what he’s been trying to say for years now. “I drag you into insane bullshit, I nearly got myself killed tonight, I got you injured, I make your life harder basically every time I—”

Suddenly you’re cut off.

Not by more words.

But by a forceful pressure.

Specifically, Steve's mouth on yours.

He crashes into you. Moving like he's been holding this in for years—like if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll drown in the weight of it. Like he cannot stand hearing one more terrible thing leave your mouth.

It's not soft. Not careful.

It’s desperate and angry and messy, his lips pressing hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your jaw to keep you there.

You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, slanting his mouth over yours again, teeth scraping, breaths mingling sharp with the almost addictive combination of nicotine and rain. 

You stumble back a step, shoulders hitting the wall, but he doesn’t let you retreat. He uses his body instead of his words to cage you in, one hand still gripping your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head. His glasses dig into your cheekbone, the frames cold where they press against your skin, but you don’t pull away. You are not sure you could. 

You finally snap out of the shock of it, and in that moment all you want is him closer than humanly possible. Your hands fist in the damp cotton of his shirt, dragging him closer with a desperation that surprises even you. . 

Steve lets out a ragged moan against your mouth, the sound muffled by the sharp press of teeth and lips—half frustration, half surrender—before he mutters a broken, "Fuck," against your skin. 

It’s all hands and teeth and the dizzying press of bodies. 

His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the scrape of his stubble.

You gasp at the feeling, and he fully takes the opportunity given to him to deepen the kiss, tongue hot and insistent, like he’s trying to rewrite every argument, every sharp word, every moment you’ve spent at each other’s throats. 

All in this one kiss. 

“You think I don’t care?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. “Jesus Christ.”

Another kiss.

Another sharp inhale.

His lips drag against yours slower this time, but no less desperate.

“I punched through a fucking door for you,” he says hoarsely, words breaking apart between kisses. “When I heard you scream—” His voice catches roughly. “When I saw you trapped down there alone I-I couldn't breathe.” 

Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable.

“Not till I knew you were okay.” His hands are still shaking even as they hold onto you.

Steve kisses you again before you can speak, like he already knows you’ll try to argue your way out of this too. 

He’s not wrong. 

“No,” he mutters against your lips, thumb trembling where it rests beneath your jaw. “No, you don’t get to do that anymore.”

Steve touches you like he can press the truth directly into your skin; then you might finally believe him. “You matter to me,” he breathes against your mouth.

And then, quieter. Rougher. “So fucking much.”

Another kiss, slower now, but somehow just as devastating.

“More than you’ll ever know,” he says hoarsely against your lips. “More than you ever could.”

Your throat tightens dangerously. And for the first time all night, maybe ever, you don’t call him Harrington. 

.“Steve…” 

The name leaves you like something fragile, like it physically hurts you to let him hear it. 

Hearing his name said by you, like that—soft, fractured, stripped bare—destroys whatever last shred of restraint he’d been clinging to. 

Steve’s breath stutters against your lips, his grip tightening in your hair reflexively. The sound of his name in your voice—not Harrington, not king Steve, not something thrown at him in anger or challenge–does something violent to his chest. 

He doesn’t just kiss you this time—he devours you. 

He drags you impossibly closer, his teeth catching your lower lip hard, his tongue sweeping in long before you can recover. There’s absolutely nothing gentle about it—this is Steve memorising your mouth like it's proof you’re real. 

That he didn't lose you before he ever got the chance to have you. 

“Been trying not to do this for so long,” he admits roughly against your mouth

Surprisingly, that brings a smile to your face—a real one, small and disbelieving but there—and you feel the tension in your chest loosen just enough to breathe. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or the way Steve’s hands are trembling where they’re tangled in your hair, but suddenly you can’t help it. 

You tilt your head back to break the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “You’re telling me Steve Harrington, King Steve, has been pining after Henderson’s big sister? All this time?”

Steve freezes. 

For a second, he just stares at you, rain dripping from his lashes, mouth slightly parted like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or kiss you again. Then his grip tightens in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he grits out, but there’s no anger left in it—just exasperation, fondness, something raw and aching beneath the words.

The grin tugging at your mouth only widens. “You need to work on your moves.”

Steve blinks at you, mouth not even an inch away from yours.. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “That’s a little bit embarrassing, don’t ya think? And not for days, or weeks—years.” 

Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“You made me your enemy when really you just wanted to have me.”

Steve goes absolutely, completely, still.

For one glorious second Steve Harrington actually looks completely and utterly, beautifully speechless.

The wind changes direction causing the rain to hit the both of you. Rainwater slides down the side of his face as he stares at you, jaw flexing hard—actively trying not to react to that sentence the way he wants to.

You can practically feel the moment his patience snaps—his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, and his gaze narrows. “You,” he grits out, thumb tapping your chin, voice rough, “are pushing your luck.” 

You grin up at him, tilting your head to make his grip shift. “Am I?” 

His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up further. “Yeah. You are.” 

There’s a beat of silence—then you hum, deliberately slow, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up. “I don’t think I am.” 

Steve exhales sharply against your lips, the heat of his breath mingling with the chill of the rain still dripping down his face. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled in your hair, grip tightening just enough to make it hurt. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, voice rough—half protest, half plea.

You meet his gaze, eyes innocent—unaffected—rainwater catching on your lashes. “Then stop.”  

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. 

His thumb drags slowly along your jawline, pressing just shy of painful when it catches on the curve of your chin. Then it traces your jawline, slow and deliberate, before his fingers drop lower. Curling into the damp fabric of your shirt, then dragging downward until they catch on the waistband of your jeans. 

His gaze locks onto yours, challenge burning behind rain-speckled lenses. "You wouldn't care?" he murmurs, voice rougher than the storm overhead. 

You tilt your head, feigning indifference even as your pulse kicks violently against your ribs. "Mm?" 

He flicks the button open, fingers hovering over the zip. "So if I just—" 

His gaze is locked onto yours, daring you to stop this. Daring you to stop him. 

The zipper rasps open under his touch, cold air biting at exposed skin as his hand slides in. His fingers trace the dip of your hipbone, rough and warm against the bite of the wind. 

"You wouldn’t care if I went back inside?" he murmurs, voice scraping low.

Your breath hitches. You should push him away. Should say something sharp, something defensive but all you can manage is a shaky exhale as his fingers dip lower, skimming the edge of your underwear. 

Steve watches you with a focus that borders on predatory. His fingers pause, testing, waiting for you to bolt or shove him back. When you don’t, his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but something darker. Something hungrier. 

"Guess that answers that," he mutters, and then his hand is sliding fully into your pants, palm hot against your stomach.

Steve’s fingers slide beneath your underwear with a precision that shouldn’t be possible given how badly his hands were shaking moments ago. His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet—impossibly so—despite the cold, despite the argument, despite everything.

His breath hitches against your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you.

You gasp, sharp and involuntary, your hands scrambling for purchase against his rain-damp jacket as your legs threaten to give out entirely. 

Steve doesn’t give you the chance to collapse.

His free hand slides around your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hauling you up against him like you weigh nothing. Your thigh instinctively hooks around his waist as he pins you against the brick wall.

All the while he doesn’t stop, his fingers working you with a rhythm that borders on punishing, his palm grinding against your clit with every upward stroke. 

You bite down on a moan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, nails raking down the front of his jacket, his neck—really anywhere you can reach. . 

The angle is awkward: the wall digging into you, his glasses still digging into your cheekbone, but none of it matters. Not when his thumb circles once—hard—and your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking against his hand. 

“Fuck—Steve—” The name tears out of you, ragged and broken, as his fingers curl just right, pressing deep.

Your gaze catches briefly on the split skin across his knuckles where his hand grips your hip. “Careful,” you breathe instinctively. “Your hand—”

Steve lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh against your throat, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the concern physically hurts him. “Don’t care,” he mutters. 

Before sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck hard; claiming the space between your pulse and your collarbone. Then his tongue follows, slow and hot, soothing the sting in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle again. 

All the while, his fingers don’t stop moving inside you; dragging a choked, alien noise from your lips.

“Still think I don’t care?” he mutters against your skin. His thumb circles your clit again, deliberate, relentless, and you choke on absolutely nothing. 

You don’t get a chance to answer—not that you could even form words right now—because Steve’s mouth is back on yours. Fingers working you faster, rougher, until your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps against his mouth.

He continues, this time his breath fans your ear, “Still think I hate you?” he repeats. 

You whine–it’s high, desperate and pathetic—in the back of your throat. His palm grinds against your clit; everything is too much and not enough all at once. 

“Honey—” Steve’s voice cracks around the word, rough with something that isn’t just frustration anymore. “I could never hate you.” His fingers curl inside you, pressing deep enough to punch out another pathetic whine. 

“You annoy the absolute shit out of me,” he admits hoarsely. “You drive me insane. You never listen to me, you throw yourself into danger without a single thought about yourself, and every time you do I just wanna grab you and shake some sense into you.”

His thumb strokes your cheek almost unconsciously as he says it. The softest he has ever touched you–by far. 

“But hate you?” Steve lets out a breathless laugh, the idea utterly ridiculous to him. “Jesus Christ.” He cuts himself off with a ragged exhale, forehead dropping against yours as his thumb circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. 

“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think properly.”

Your stomach flips violently.

“You argue with me about everything.”

“I do not—”

“You’re literally about to,” he says immediately, kissing the corner of your mouth when you glare at him.

It pulls the smallest unwilling laugh from you but you still can’t help but roll your eyes.

Steve’s expression softens at the sound instantly. And then more seriously, even more sincerely:

“I know what kind of mood you’re in by how hard you slam a door. I know when you’re lying by the scrunch of your nose.” His jaw tightens slightly.

“I knew you were in trouble tonight before anyone else even realised something was wrong.”

Your chest aches.

Steve swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to make you understand something impossible. “You’re not forgettable,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than they should.

His thumb brushes your cheek almost absently, tenderness bleeding through every movement now.

“You walk into a room and people look for you when you leave it.” His voice roughens slightly. “You’re loud and difficult and stubborn as hell and somehow you still make everything feel…” He breaks off with a frustrated breathless laugh, shaking his head once. “Fuck.”

Your pulse stumbles beneath his hand.

Steve presses his forehead against yours again before finishing quietly:

“You’re everything.”

Your breath catches to the point where you think you might stop breathing. 

He closes his eyes briefly as if he didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But when he looks at you again, he doesn’t take it back. He doubles down. 

“And I need- I need you to believe that.”

“I tried not to—” He cuts himself off with another rough laugh. “I really fucking tried not to do this.”

“But then you smile at me,” he says softly, almost accusingly. “Or you say my name and suddenly I’m done for.”

You stare at him speechless.

Steve brushes his nose against yours gently before kissing you again, nowhere near as frantic this time but somehow all the more intimate for it.

“So no,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t hate you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I think-” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his fingers slowing, “I think-I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”

You whine—high-pitched and completely broken—as Steve’s fingers thrust just right, pressing deep, and suddenly the world fractures.

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, nails biting into the damp fabric of his jacket as pleasure crashes over you in waves so sharp you actually can’t breathe.

And Steve? Steve doesn’t let you ride it out in peace. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks. His tongue licks into your mouth just as his thumb circles your oversensitive clit, dragging a sob from you that he swallows greedily. 

"That's it," Steve murmurs against your temple, lips brushing damp skin as your hands scramble clumsily over his shoulders. "Good girl." 

The praise sends yet another shudder through you, legs still trembling from the aftershocks. You're barely lucid, fingers twisting in his soaked shirt as you press impossibly closer with a whine—high and needy, the sound muffled against his collarbone where your mouth rests. 

"Steve—" Your voice cracks around his name, raw from earlier shouts now reduced to breathless pleading. "Please—" 

"What, baby?" His fingers stroke gently through slick heat, coaxing another weak jerk of your hips. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your flushed cheeks when he leans down. "What do you need?" 

You can't answer—not coherently at least—just rut against his hand with a broken noise, oversensitive but desperate for more after he just gave you the best orgasm of your life.

His chuckle is dark, warm against your ear as his free hand slides up to your jaw, cradling it. “Gonna need you to say it baby.” 

The words shouldn’t wreck you the way they do. They absolutely shouldn’t send heat coiling low in your stomach all over again—but they do.

They absolutely do, and Steve absolutely knows it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken behind his glasses, in the way his thumb presses just under your chin, tilting your face up slowly. 

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallow hard, your throat working around nothing, because god, this is torture. 

The way his fingers are still inside you, curled just enough to tease but not enough to give you what you need. The way his breath fans over your lips, warm and uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together. The way his glasses are fogged beyond repair, rainwater clinging to his lashes, his hair a mess from where you’ve dragged your hands through it god knows how many times. 

You hate the way you sound—whining, desperate, voice cracking around his name like some lovesick idiot—but god, you don’t care. Not now. Maybe later. 

"Steve," you murmur again, hands fisting desperately in the soaked fabric of his shirt, vying to drag him closer even though there’s not an ounce of space left between you.

He hums, considering, like he’s weighing whether to give in—and for one stupid, hopeful second, you think he will. But then he pulls his fingers out of you with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively— chasing the loss, the sudden emptiness—only for his free hand to press flat against your stomach, holding you firmly against the wall. 

He lifts his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them in a slow, obscene lick that elicits a moan from your throat before you can stop it. 

You could kill him. You will kill him. Later. After.

His gaze locks onto yours, dark and unreadable behind rain-speckled lenses, as he cleans every last trace of you off his fingers with agonising precision. 

Your face burns, your thighs twitch, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be embarrassed—should really shove him away or snap something sarcastic—but all you manage is a weak, "Fuck."

Annoyingly causing Steve’s mouth to lift into a smug little smile.

“Want you,” you whisper helplessly, forehead knocking lightly against his shoulder. “Idiot.”

"That’s not very nice, now is it, baby?" Steve murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

You huff, fucking hell–what more does he want for you? 

His thumb presses into the delicate skin beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. ”Calling me an idiot," he continues, voice dropping lower, "after I just let you come?" 

His other hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests over your hammering heartbeat. "You’re such a brat," he mutters against your lips, breath uneven. "Always have been."

Steve exhales sharply before he relents. His hands dropping to his belt in rough, jerky movements. The buckle clinks too loud, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of his jeans before he finally shoves them down just far enough to free himself. 

He doesn’t give you what you want, though, not quite yet. Instead, he presses the hot, heavy length of himself against your thigh, rocking forward just enough to make you gasp at the contact, the friction maddeningly light.

"Say it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours as his fingers tighten on your hip—not guiding, not forcing, just there, holding you in place while his cock twitches against your skin. "Say you believe me."

You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, hips jerking involuntarily against nothing, desperate for more. For him. 

Steve doesn’t let you. His forehead knocks clumsily against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts between kisses that are more teeth than anything else..

"Say you’ll think twice next time," he growls, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your pulse point. His hips roll forward again, the head of his cock catching against your clit for one devastating second before he pulls back, leaving you gasping. "Say it."

You whine, nails scraping down the skin of his neck as you try to pull him closer, but Steve resists, his grip ironclad. 

His laugh is dark, uneven, his lips curling against your throat while you buck against him fruitlessly. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Not until you—fuck—"

His words cut off abruptly when your teeth sink into his shoulder, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he wrenches himself back with a muttered curse.

His grip tightens in your hair, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. "You think this is a joke?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.

"You think I don’t fucking mean it when I say I can’t lose you?" 

You arch toward him instinctively, but Steve doesn’t budge. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression.

"Tell me you believe me," he whispers, voice rough with something that isn’t just want anymore. "Tell me you know how much I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers flexing against your hip like he’s physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence. 

But it’s the look in his eyes that finally undoes you. 

Not the way his hands shake where they grip your hips, not the ragged edge of his voice when he says your name—no, it’s the raw, unfiltered fear behind those rain-speckled glasses. . 

Steve Harrington, who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care about anything, looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters. 

And something inside you finally breaks.

Your hands move before you can stop them.

You grab his face hard enough to push his crooked glasses further up his nose, fingers cold and shaking against rain-damp skin as you drag him down toward you.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking badly enough that Steve immediately stills. “Hey.”

Your forehead presses against his.

And for the first time tonight, you stop trying to pull away from what he’s giving you.

You let yourself feel it.

The fear. The relief. Him.

Your eyes burn suddenly, embarrassingly, and you let out one sharp, frustrated breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.

“I’m here,” you whisper brokenly, trying to convince the both of you.

Steve makes a wrecked sound at that. His hands tighten on your hips almost painfully. “Yeah,” he breathes instantly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re here.”

Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.

And suddenly, the words are there before you can stop them. 

“I do.” 

The confession slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, but Steve goes utterly still. 

His breath catches audibly, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s been shocked. For one terrifying second, you think he might pull away—might bolt like a spooked animal—but then his forehead drops against yours with a shuddering exhale. 

“Say it again,” he rasps, voice cracking. His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing rainwater. “Please.”

“I do,” you whisper again, voice cracking. His breath stutters against your temple, his fingers trembling where they grip your thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

Then he moves.

There’s no finesse to it, just raw emotion. 

Just Steve’s hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he presses into you with a ragged groan that gets lost in the rain. The stretch burns briefly before giving way to a fullness that steals your breath. 

The sound punched from your throat is half-sob, half-laugh, the words spilling again without thought: “I do.” 

Steve’s hips jerk uncontrollably at that, his breath hitching like the confession is a physical blow, and then he’s moving in earnest. No rhythm, no ounce of control, just raw, shuddering need.  

Every snap of his hips drives the words from you again, fractured and breathless: “I do—Steve—I do—” His name cracks on a moan as he angles deeper, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His teeth finding your pulse point, biting down just shy of pain as his pace turns punishing, the wet slap of skin lost beneath the storm’s roar.  

You’re babbling now, nonsensical; repeating it like a mantra between gasps, each thrust wringing the words out like he’s starving for them. 

Steve’s grip tightens, his other hand splaying over your ribs like he’s counting each ragged inhale, each stuttered “I do” that spills from your lips. 

The world fractures as pleasure crashes over you in waves so violent they steal your breath. 

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping around Steve’s hips, nails biting into his shoulders as you shatter with a sob he swallows greedily.

Steve follows with a groan so broken it barely sounds human, his forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk erratically, his fingers tightening in your hair.  

For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the ragged sound of your breathing, the rain still hammering against the awning above you, Steve’s pulse thundering beneath your lips where they rest against his throat.

Then reality rushes back in all too quickly—the cold brick against your back, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, Steve’s glasses digging into your cheekbone where they’ve been knocked askew. 

He doesn’t pull away. 

Neither do you. 

Instead, his hands slide up your back, slow and unsteady, smoothing over the rumpled fabric of your jacket. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. Whispered so quiet you know he doesn't mean for you to hear it.  

One hand rises to card through your tangled hair, fingers gentle where they work through the knots. “You’re okay.” 

The words are less a statement than a plea, repeated like a prayer as his breathing gradually slows. 

When you tilt your head back to look at him, his glasses are fogged beyond recognition, rainwater and sweat streaking down his flushed cheeks. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. 

Your fingers rise to push his glasses up his nose, clumsy with exhaustion, and Steve catches your wrist before you can.

His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips, then lower—to the mark blooming on your collarbone, the rumpled state of your clothes. Something dark flickers in his eyes before he exhales sharply, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.

“‘M okay,” you murmur softly, fingers brushing back his rain-damp hair where it’s plastered to his forehead. 

Steve exhales sharply—half laugh, half sob—his breath warm against your lips as his hands slide up to cradle your face. His thumbs trace the hollows beneath your eyes with a reverence that makes your chest ache. 

“You’re not,” he counters, voice cracking, glasses still crooked, but you can still see the raw fear lingering in his gaze.

His fingers tighten fractionally, like he’s physically willing you to understand. “You were under a building, you idiot.” The words crack on the last syllable, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breathing stutters. 

You can feel him shaking—fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against the wall, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips when you touch his throat. It’s unnerving. Steve Harrington doesn’t tremble. Steve Harrington doesn’t falter. 

But he is now. 

Under your fingertips. 

His glasses slip further down his nose when he tilts his head to press a kiss to your temple—clumsy, unpracticed, achingly tender. “Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Your chest aches at the honesty of it. 

Steve Harrington—loud, stubborn, impossible Steve Harrington—standing here shaking in your arms because of you.

Your sworn enemy. The bane of your existence. The boy who could rile you up with nothing more than the arch of an eyebrow and one stupid smug look.

And yet here he is, holding you like losing you would’ve destroyed him.

Slowly, carefully, you reach up and straighten his glasses for him. It’s the smallest thing. Basic decency, really.

But it hits him anyway.

You see it happen in real time—the way his breath catches softly, the way his eyes lose some of that frantic edge as they search your face. As if he can’t quite believe you’re touching him so gently. 

Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, softer now than you think you’ve ever seen it.

“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.

This time when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate.

No teeth. No frantic grasping. No fear.

Just warmth.

His hands cradle your face carefully, thumbs brushing your cheeks while your fingers curl into the damp collar of his jacket. The kiss is slow enough that you can actually feel it this time—every soft press of his lips, every shaky exhale against your mouth, every lingering second of him choosing you.

Like coming home after being lost for a very long time.

And for once—

you don’t fight it.

You let yourself be held.

P.S. I do not recommend engaging in this type of behaviour after having a building collapse on you. Please seek medical attention first. Lots of love, the chef ♡

You leaned back into his chest, smiling. “You were such a good host. But I could tell you were distracted.”

“Can you blame me?” He turned you in his arms, hazel eyes warm and sparkling as he looked at you. “You looked incredible in that dress. Every time you laughed or moved across the room, I kept thinking… she’s mine. I get to take her home.”

He kissed you slowly, savoring every second. His hands cupped your face with such gentleness that your heart fluttered. Joe had always been affectionate, but tonight felt different, deeper, like every touch carried extra meaning.

“Come on, baby,” he murmured, taking your hand. He led you down the hallway to his bedroom, never letting go. Once inside, he dimmed the lamp to a soft amber glow and pulled you close again.

“Are you tired?” he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We don’t have to do anything. I’d be just as happy holding you.”

“I want you,” you whispered, sliding your hands under his shirt. “All of you.”

Joe’s smile was bright and boyish. He helped you out of your dress with reverent hands, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered, your shoulders, the curve of your neck, down your chest, across your stomach. When you were left in just your panties, he dropped to his knees, looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“God, I’m so lucky,” he breathed.

He slid your panties down your legs and kissed along your thighs before guiding you onto the bed. Joe took his time undressing too, letting you watch as he pulled off his shirt, revealing his toned chest and the light trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. When he finally joined you on the bed, he covered your body with his, skin to skin, and kissed you for what felt like forever.

His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers gently exploring. “You’re already so wet,” he murmured against your lips, smiling. Two long fingers eased inside you slowly while his thumb circled your clit with perfect, loving pressure. He watched your face the entire time, whispering praises between kisses.

“You’re so beautiful when you feel good… that’s it, baby. Let me take care of you.”

He kissed his way down your body, lavishing attention on your breasts before settling between your legs. Joe ate you out like he had all the time in the world, long, slow licks, gentle suction on your clit, and soft, loving kisses. He held your hand the whole time, fingers intertwined, as he brought you over the edge. Your first orgasm was slow and deep, rolling through you like warm honey. He stayed with you through every wave, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

When you tugged him back up, you kissed him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. You pushed his jeans and boxers down together, freeing his hard cock. It rested thick and heavy against your thigh as you stroked him slowly. Joe’s breath hitched, forehead dropping to yours.

“I need to feel you,” you whispered.

He reached for a condom, but you stopped his hand. “I want all of you tonight. Just us.”

Joe’s eyes softened with lust and emotion. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds before pushing in, slow, careful, and deep. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, buried completely, breathing shakily against your neck.

“You feel like home,” he whispered. “So warm… so perfect.”

He made love to you in long, rolling thrusts, eyes locked on yours. One hand held yours beside your head, the other cradled the back of your neck. He kissed you constantly, your lips, your jaw, your eyelids, whispering how much he loved being inside you, how no one else had ever made him feel this way.

Your second orgasm built gradually. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and came with a soft cry of his name. Joe followed right after, spilling deep inside you with gentle, stuttering thrusts and a low, loving groan.

He stayed inside you as he rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of his chest. For a long while you just lay there, skin sticky, hearts slowing together while he stroked your hair and back.

“I could stay like this forever,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But the night was far from over.

After some water and soft laughter, you started kissing again. Heat built slower this time. You straddled him, sinking down onto his cock inch by inch while he watched you with hooded, adoring eyes. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as you rode him—deep, sensual rolls that had both of you moaning. He sat up to hold you close, chest to chest, kissing your neck and whispering praises.

“You’re incredible… look at you taking me so well. I love you like this.”

He flipped you gently onto your side, spooning behind you. Lifting your leg, he slid back inside and fucked you with slow, deep strokes while rubbing your clit. The position felt impossibly intimate, his breath on your neck, his arm wrapped around you, holding you like he’d never let go.

You came together again, whispering each other’s names.

Still not satisfied, Joe pulled you into the shower. Warm water cascaded over both of you as he washed your body with gentle hands and soapy kisses. The shower quickly turned heated again. He pressed you against the cool tiles, lifted one of your legs, and slid into you under the spray. This round was a little faster, more desperate, but still full of sweet words and tender eye contact. You came hard with his mouth on your neck, and he followed, holding you steady as your legs shook.

Back in bed, clean and wrapped in fresh sheets, Joe pulled you into his arms once more. This final time was the slowest and most intimate. Face to face, legs tangled, barely any space between you. He moved in shallow, loving thrusts while kissing you lazily, swallowing every moan and whimper.

“I don’t ever want this night to end,” he confessed softly. “Being with you like this… it’s everything.”

When you both came for the last time, it was quiet and overwhelming, clinging to each other, breathing the same air, hearts pounding in sync.

Afterward, Joe cleaned you up again with a warm cloth, then tucked you against his chest under the covers. He played with your hair, tracing lazy circles on your back as you both came down.

“You make me so happy,” he murmured sleepily. “I hope you know that.”

You nuzzled closer, kissing his collarbone. “I do. And I feel the same.”

He smiled, pressing one last soft kiss to your lips before sleep started to pull him under. “Stay tomorrow? I’ll make pancakes… we can stay in bed as long as you want.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

Wrapped safely in Joe’s warm arms, surrounded by his scent and the steady beat of his heart, you drifted off feeling completely cherished, satisfied, and loved.

You walk farther into the room, dumping everything onto the dresser with loud plastic clacks. “It’s my full routine. Hair mask, exfoliating, shaving, skin care. The whole thing.”  

“A hair mask,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

“You put a mask on your hair.”

“Well, it’s basically just deep conditioner.”

“But y’call it a mask.”

“Yes, Gator.”   

He squints harder, visibly trying to work through the logic of that.

Honestly, you can’t even blame him. 

You’ve seen your boyfriend's shower routine. 

Well, calling it a routine is generous. 

One sad, dented bottle of cheap 3-in-1 shoved in the corner of the tub with the label peeling halfway off. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash—it probably doubles as dish soap and engine degreaser too. You once asked him what face cleanser he used and he looked at you like you’d started speaking French.

You walk over to the bed with a sigh, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.

“C’mere. I’ll show you.”

“I know how showers work.” 

“Do you, though?”

“Real funny.”

Still, he lets you tug him up. Peels off the mattress with a groan, warm and sleepy, hair sticking up everywhere from laying around all evening. His shirt rides up when he stretches, exposing a strip of skin and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his sweats.

He follows you toward the bathroom, scratching absently at his stomach while he grumbles under his breath. 

“You women use too much shit.”

“Yeah, and you use dish soap to wash your whole body.”

“It cleans me, don’t it?”

“Mm, debatable.” 

He snorts, stepping behind you as you twist the shower handle. Water blasts against the tile, steam already beginning to curl through the air. The bathroom warms quickly, mirrors fogging at the edges while you line up bottles along the shelf with practiced precision.  

Gator leans against the sink watching you.

The second your shirt hits the floor, he goes dead silent. 

You feel it before you even turn around—that heavy, heat-soaked stare settling low on your back and dragging slowly downward.

You glance up toward the fogging mirror and catch him watching openly, head tipped back while his eyes track the slow slide of your shorts down your thighs.

Teeth catching on his bottom lip, pupils gone dark.

There’s nothing subtle about the look on his face.

By the time your shorts pool around your ankles, he’s already pushing lazily off the sink.

You barely get half a breath in before his palm cracks sharply against your ass.

The sound echoes off the tile.

You jolt with a gasp, shooting him an unimpressed look over your shoulder while he just stands there grinning crookedly at you.

“Gator.”

“What?” he smirks, all fake innocence, though his voice has already dropped rough around the edges. His hand lingers where he smacked you, fingers spreading possessively over the curve of your hip. “You standin’ there lookin’ like that... ain’t my fault.”

You turn away before he can catch you smiling.

By the time you step into the shower, the room is thick with steam. Warm water pours over your shoulders the second you step under the spray, heavy enough to make you sigh. Heat slides down your spine, loosening every tight muscle in your body.

A second later, the shower curtain jerks open.

Then:

“Oh—jesus CHRIST—!” 

You burst out laughing as Gator physically recoils the second the water hits him, one hand slapping against the tile wall to keep from slipping on his bare ass.

“Why the fuck is it so hot?”

“It’s not that hot!”

“My skin’s peelin’ off!” 

“It’s just warm.”

“Goddamn, it’s like Satan’s asshole in here.”  

You laugh harder, grabbing his wrist before he can escape.

“C’mere.” 

“No, wait—hang on, hang—babe—”

You yank him fully under the spray.

Hot water drenches him instantly.

His hair flattens against his forehead, dark strands dripping into his eyes. He squints through it with a look of genuine betrayal while the spray beats against his shoulders.

“Shit—” He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth when the water hits the back of his neck. “Y’tryna boil me alive?”

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” His hands land on your waist like he needs support through this deeply traumatic experience. “I’m literally cookin’ in here.”

The heat has already flushed his skin pink across his chest and up into his cheeks. Tiny beads of water cling to his lashes every time he blinks, steam blurring the usual sharpness of him—the hard set of his brows, the tension around his mouth.

He looks so soft like this.

Prettier, somehow.

Especially with those flushed, perpetually pouty lips.

You can’t help but smile.

“You’re such a baby,” you coo softly, reaching up to smooth his soaked hair back. “C’mere, you big baby.”

He grumbles something vaguely offensive under his breath, even while leaning into your touch.

Your palms slide over warm, wet skin, fingertips tracing through the damp hair over his sternum before your arms curl loosely around his neck. Water streams between your bodies in hot sheets, slicking your skin together every time he shifts closer.

And he is close now.

Chest pressed against yours, big hands spread over your waist. He’s radiating heat under your palms, muscles slowly relaxing despite all his complaining.  

You cup his face in both hands, rubbing your thumbs affectionately over his flushed cheeks.

He sniffs once, still pretending to pout, though his eyes have already started drooping heavier from the heat. A bead of water slides down the bridge of his nose before disappearing against his mouth.

God, he’s gorgeous like this.

Dripping wet, hair hanging in his face, lips pink from the heat and pulled into that stubborn little pout he gets whenever he wants attention but refuses to ask for it directly. 

You kiss him before he can start complaining again.

And, for all his dramatic huffing and bitching, a quick press to his baby-pink lips is all it takes.

The second your mouth touches his, he melts.

A low sound rumbles deep in his chest as his arm snakes tighter around your waist, hauling you flush against him beneath the spray. The kiss starts lazy, warm and lingering, and he sighs into it like he’s been waiting for it since the second he stepped under the water.

“Mm,” he mumbles, mouth curling against yours, “So this ‘everything shower’ thing…”

You already know what he’s about to say.

“…that include me bendin’ you over in five minutes or...?”

You laugh into his mouth.

“Gator.”

“What? You said everything.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“False advertisin’, then.” 

He steals another kiss before you can answer, smiling into it this time, all smug and pleased with himself. His hands spread possessively over the curve of your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.

When you shove lightly at his chest, he barely moves.

“Focus,” you tell him. 

“I am focused.”

“On the shower.”

“I can multitask.”

“No, you cannot.” 

He grins against your temple, pressing one lingering kiss there before finally loosening his grip enough to let you move around him.

Barely.

Even then, his hand stays planted firmly on your hip while you start reaching for products. 

And despite all his whining about how hot the water is—despite the way he keeps distracting you every thirty seconds by kissing your shoulder, squeezing your ass, groping your tits, dragging his hands over your stomach whenever you lean forward— 

He’s fascinated.

You can see it all over his face, clear as anything.  

His eyes follow every little thing you do. The loofah hanging from the hook. The jars lined neatly along the shelf. The soft clicks of lids opening and the thick, sweet scents blooming through the steam one by one: vanilla, cocoa butter, orange blossom, lavender.

“So what’s all this shit for?” he asks eventually.

“Language.” 

He snorts and picks up one of your body oils carefully, turning it over in his massive hand while water drips from his wrist.

“Why’s this bottle so fuckin' tiny?”

“’Cause it’s expensive.”

“How expensive?”

You hesitate.

His eyes narrow immediately. “How expensive.”

“…Thirty dollars.”

“For that tiny-ass bottle?”

“It’s good oil!”

He looks genuinely horrified.

“Holy shit. You could buy, like… a car part with that.”

“Yeah, because those are definitely comparable purchases.”

He rolls his eyes, turning his attention on the scrub jar in your hand.

He squints at the label through the water dripping into his eyes.

“Sugar scrub?”

“Yeah.”

“The hell’s that mean?”

You grin instantly. “Hold still.”

His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. “Why.”

“You ask too many questions.”

Before he can move away, you scoop a handful into your palm. 

It’s your favorite scrub too—the ridiculously overpriced strawberry pound cake one that smells good enough to eat, warm brown sugar and whipped vanilla frosting.

You rub it over his forearm without warning. 

He flinches immediately. “Ow, what the fuck—"

"Relax."

Sugar crystals drag slowly across his skin while your hands work over the hard muscle of his arm. The scrub softens beneath the heat, turning slick and grainy between your fingers.

His brows pinch together while he watches you.  

“…What’s it even doin’?”

“Gets rid of dead skin.”

“I don’t got dead skin.”

“Everybody has dead skin.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure, babe.”  

He eyes the scrub suspiciously while you keep going. "Is this gonna make my arm all... glittery, or whatever?"

“...No.”

“You hesitated.” 

“No, I didn’t!" you insist, laughing. “I do have a glitter shower jelly though.” 

“A what.”

“A shower jelly.”

“The fuck is a shower jelly?”

The grin spreading across your face makes him immediately point at you.

“No.”

“Too late!”

You twist around beneath the spray, reaching behind him toward the crowded shower shelf. Your fingers close around the little plastic pot wedged between your body wash and conditioner. It jiggles in your hand when you pick it up—golden and translucent, packed with tiny flecks of glitter that catch under the warm bathroom light. 

You plop it directly into his palm.

The jelly slips against his skin, wobbling in his hand like a living thing, and his entire face twists in genuine alarm.

“What the fuc—why’s it doin’ that?”  

You dissolve into laughter, doubling over against him while he stares down at the jiggling soap with genuine distrust, holding it out at arm’s length like it might suddenly grow teeth. 

“This ain’t right,” he mutters, poking it cautiously with his thumb.

“It’s just soap!” 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes while you hide your face in his shoulder, laughter shaking out of you in muffled bursts against his warm skin. His chest hitches once beneath you, reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.

When you finally manage to pull back and look at him, his expression has changed completely.

Water slides slowly down his face in shimmering trails, gathering at his jaw before dripping down to his chest.   

He’s not looking at the shower jelly anymore.

He’s looking at you. 

Hazel eyes much softer than you’re used to, focused in a way that makes your laughter taper off.    

It still manages to catch you off guard, even after all this time.  

Because Gator’s never been good at saying things straight out. He jokes, he deflects, he fills silence with anger and attitude—whatever comes easiest.

But sometimes, when he looks at you like this, it feels like he doesn’t need to say anything at all. 

You’re still peering up at him when he blinks, huffing as he tosses the shower jelly toward the shelf without even looking where it lands. 

“Thing’s fuckin’ haunted.”

Then his hands settle on your waist.

Big, warm palms slide around your hips without hesitation, dragging you forward until there’s no space left between you.

You squeak when you lose your footing against the slick tile.

“Gator—!” you gasp, grabbing his shoulders to steady yourself, laughter spilling out of you again even as your pulse jumps.

“What?” he says, mouth curling into that lazy, knowing grin.

“I almost slipped,” you breathe, trying to find balance against his chest.

“Nah.” His smile widens. “Got you.”

Then his nose nudges along your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Why’s all this shit smell like food, huh?” 

You huff a laugh, squirming when his lips skim the damp skin just below your ear.

“Jelly,” he mutters between kisses. “Sugar scrub. Vanilla frosting. Coconut whatever… what’s next? Rotisserie chicken lotion?”

That gets another laugh out of you, helpless and bright, the sound buried as you press closer into his shoulder. Your arms slide up around his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, though you can tell he’s smiling too. You hear it in the lazy drawl of his words, feel it in the way his chest vibrates beneath your cheek. “Like I’m showerin’ inside a damn bakery.” 

You love moments like this.

Doing nothing else but being close with one another, swaying under the steady press of warm water, cocooned in steam while the rest of the world falls away.

His hands move absentmindedly over your back, gliding up and down your skin in a comforting rhythm.

Then, naturally, his grip slides lower on your hips.

You feel the shift in him before you even see it, his grin turning cocky in a way that always spells trouble.

“So…” he murmurs, voice dropping low in his chest. “Can we fuck now?”

You snort, pushing lightly at his shoulders so you can look at him properly.

His expression is completely shameless, nothing but open, unapologetic confidence.

You wouldn’t expect anything less from your boyfriend.  

“No,” you say flatly.

His expression sours. “No?”

“We still have to exfoliate.”

Gator rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t injure himself.

“You’re killin’ me.”

But he doesn’t let go. 

And honestly, the longer this goes on, the less he even pretends he wants out of the shower.

Especially once your hands slide higher over his shoulders.

The second your thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, his whole body jerks beneath your hands. 

“Jesus…” he mutters under his breath.

“Too hard?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Just... keep goin’.”

That alone makes you smile again.

Because two weeks ago this man would’ve rather thrown himself into traffic than let something pink and strawberry-scented anywhere near him. 

Now he’s standing beneath scalding water while you rub sugar scrub into his shoulders, massaging the tension out of him like a spoiled housecat.

You take your time with him, working your thumbs into the tendons there. 

God, he’s tight everywhere.  

The muscles across his shoulders feel hard as stone beneath your palms, thick bands of tension packed so tightly they barely move under your touch. Every time your thumbs drag across another knot, his breathing catches slightly.

Your smile fades little by little.

“Baby,” you murmur quietly, “when’s the last time you relaxed your shoulders?”

“Uh, dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugs, though even that movement looks stiff. 

“Never really think about it.”  

Your fingers drag slowly down the back of his neck again, pressing into another rigid knot there.

“Gator,” you say softly, brows pulling together, “you’re hard as a brick back here.”

He snorts quietly at that. 

You roll your eyes, but the innuendo doesn’t land quite the same now. 

Because once you really start paying attention—really feeling him beneath your hands—you realize how tense he actually is.

Every inch of him feels wound tight.

His shoulders sit high even while he’s supposedly relaxed, thick muscles rigid beneath your palms no matter how much steam fills the shower or how hot the water runs over him. 

Like he’s always bracing for something. 

The realization tightens something in your chest in return. 

And maybe he notices the shift in you, because after that, he goes unusually quiet.

No more smartass comments. He just stands there under the spray while you finish working the scrub over him.

The pink sugar crystals melt gradually beneath the water, dissolving against warm skin while your fingers work over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

Gator watches your hands more than anything else.

You notice it every time you glance up.

His eyes tracking the slow circles of your palms, the drag of your nails lightly scratching through the damp hair on his chest. The way you smooth water over his shoulders afterward. 

You catch yourself wondering, briefly, if this is something he’s ever really experienced before outside of sex—outside of anything physical and fleeting. Being touched without it carrying an expectation, without it needing to lead anywhere else or turn into something more.

His shoulders begin to drop first. Then his jaw loosens. Then the permanent little line between his brows eases until he stops looking so guarded all the time.

"Kinda feels nice, I guess,” he admits after a while, voice quieter than usual.

You smile to yourself.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.” 

When you reach for the shampoo, he tips his head forward without being asked.

You work the product through his hair slowly, fingers sliding into damp strands as the scent of citrus and jasmine fills the steam around you. It lingers warm and clean, cutting through the heavy sweetness left from everything else.

Then your nails scrape lightly across his scalp.

And the sound he makes is... well.

Your gaze lifts slowly.

Gator’s standing completely still beneath the spray, eyes shut tight, brows pinched together while a slow breath slips through his parted lips. 

“Gates, was that...?”

His eyes snap open. 

“No.”

The denial comes way too fast.

You stare at him for exactly one second before laughter slips out of you.

“Oh my god, it was!”

“It was not.”

“Yes, it was!”

“No, it wasn’t. Shut up.”

You bite back another laugh at how seriously he suddenly sounds about it.

His cheeks are already flushed pink from the heat, but now the color creeps higher—up the tips of his ears too.

Interesting. 

Purple-tinted shampoo runs in slow trails down his temples as he glares at you through wet lashes, mouth twitching while water streams down the sharp slope of his nose.

“You’re annoyin’,” he murmurs. “I’m leavin’.”

“No, you’re not.”

To prove your point, you drag your nails lightly against his scalp again.

A gruff noise slips out of him before he can stop it this time, low and helpless, pulled up from somewhere deep in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut and his hands tighten briefly at your waist.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

He makes no move to leave.

If anything, his grip on your waist tightens when you start rinsing the shampoo from his hair, angling his head toward you so you don’t have to reach so far.  

You’ve known Gator long enough to understand how big this actually is.

Because for all his flirting and constant touching, genuine softness doesn’t always come naturally to him.

Not receiving it, anyway.

He’s good at grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap while you’re trying to cook dinner. Good at kissing your neck in the kitchen while murmuring filthy things against your skin just to hear you laugh.

He knows how to want, how to take up space. 

But this? 

Standing still while somebody takes care of him?

That’s different.

And for the first time since he stepped into the bathroom, he looks completely calm.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him be this still for so long.

Usually there’s always something twitching in him somewhere—a bouncing knee, fingers tapping against his thigh, shoulder bunched up to his neck and his jaw locked tight like he’s perpetually gearing up for a fight. 

But right now, he just looks tired.

Like he doesn’t feel the need to bury it, for once. Safe enough to let the exhaustion sit in him without pushing it away.

So you keep touching him gently. Combing your fingers through his hair while water pours through the strands in dark rivulets, nails scraping softly over the base of his skull until he shivers.

By the time you finally finish rinsing him off, Gator looks completely wrung out.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink from standing under the heat too long, damp hair sticking up in uneven directions, his eyes gone heavy-lidded in that sleepy way they get late at night. 

You step out first, wrapping a towel around yourself while he stands there dripping on the bathmat, rubbing absently at his own forearm.

His brows furrow thoughtfully.

“Huh.”

You glance over while tightening your towel. “What?”

He rubs his arm again slowly, fingertips sweeping over the skin where you used the scrub earlier.

“…Feels different.”

The smile that breaks across your face is immediate.

“Right?!”

You sound so aggressively excited about it that he snorts quietly, shaking his head.

Still, he keeps touching his arm. 

Testing the skin with obvious confusion, thumb brushing over the softness there.

“Huh,” he says again, quieter this time. 

Then, because he physically cannot allow himself to sound too impressed for longer than thirty seconds, he shrugs and reaches for a towel.

“S’fine, I guess.”

Which, translated from Gator-speak, is basically a standing ovation.

You grin to yourself while he drags the towel roughly over his hair—

Then immediately shakes his head like a dog, spraying droplets all over the floor.

“Oh my—Gator!”

...

Afterward, you settle onto the bathroom counter in one of his oversized shirts, rubbing lotion into your legs while the room stays thick with leftover warmth.

Everything smells sweet, vanilla and strawberry sugar lingering heavy in the humid air. 

Gator sprawls across the closed toilet seat nearby in a fresh pair of sweatpants, elbows planted on his knees while he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.

You try not to stare too much at how pretty he looks like this too, softened and comfortable, relaxed enough to practically fall asleep upright. 

You hold up a bottle.

“This one’s toner.”

“Uh huh.”

“This one’s moisturizer.”

He gives you a flat look.

“Yeah,” he drawls slowly. “I know what moisturizer is, babe.”

You ignore him.

“And this one’s hyaluronic acid.” 

“You put acid on your face?”

“It’s not that kind of acid.”

His skeptical hmph makes you laugh quietly while you pat serum into your cheeks.

And even though he’d rather chew glass than admit it out loud, something about all of this clearly gets under his skin in a way he doesn’t entirely hate.

It's starts small at first.

Lingering in the bathroom doorway while you do your nighttime routine, pretending he’s only there because he’s “waitin’ for you to finish the hell up already.”

He picks up random bottles in the meantime, squinting suspiciously at labels.

“What’s body butter supposed to be?”

“It’s moisturizer.”

“So lotion.”

“Thicker lotion.”

“That’s stupid.”

Three days later you catch him using it. 

Only because, apparently, “my hands are dry as shit.”

Then he uses it again the next night.

And the night after that. 

After that, it stops being occasional. 

You start catching him using your products without even asking first.

Rubbing lotion into his hands while standing in the kitchen. Swiping your expensive lip balm across his mouth while pretending not to notice you watching him.

And honestly, you think part of it stops being about the products pretty quickly.

You think he likes the familiarity of it. The closeness.

Smelling your body wash on his skin. Coconut lotion rubbed into his knuckles and vanilla sweetness clinging faintly to the collar of his shirts.

Little pieces of you following him around. 

It becomes most obvious after rough days.

The kind where he comes home exhausted down to the bone, shoulders slumped, smelling like sweat and engine oil.   

Sometimes he barely makes it through the front door before he drops, collapsing face-first into your chest with a groan. His forehead presses into your shoulder while his arms wrap loosely around your waist.

And when you run your fingers through his hair and murmur, “Everything shower?” he’ll let out a long exhale against your neck before mumbling a tired little, “Yeah,” into your shirt. 

Some nights he’s too drained for anything else. 

He just stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed while you wash his hair slowly, his hands resting heavy on your waist more for grounding than anything possessive.

Other nights, though, he’s more awake. 

More opinionated.

“Wait,” he says one evening, catching your wrist before you grab a scrub jar. “Not that one.”

You blink over your shoulder. “What, this one?”

“Nah.” He points lazily toward the shelf. “The other one.”

“The cotton candy scrub?”

“…Yeah.” 

You can’t help it—you grin a little, slow and knowing. 

“What? It smells better than that strawberry cake shit.”

Soon enough you’re rubbing cotton candy and shea butter into his skin, pink suds sliding down his tattooed bicep while he stands there acting like this is all one giant inconvenience he’s tolerating for your sake. 

And in return, he starts taking care of you too.

Not always gracefully, and definitely not innocently.

His hands wander plenty, soap-slick palms gliding over your hips, sudsing up your tits and ass under the excuse of “helping.”  

Sometimes it’s worse when he’s half asleep. Distracted kisses pressed against your shoulder while you’re mid-sentence, mouthing lazily along your neck as he absentmindedly drags the loofah across your stomach.

You’ll be talking about your day and suddenly realize he stopped listening five minutes ago because he got distracted kissing your collarbone.

But underneath all the flirting and grabbing and constant horny commentary, something softer grows there too.  

Comfort in the repetition of it.

In knowing that no matter how exhausting the week gets, eventually there’s this: warm steam, your skin pressed up against his, the familiar clutter of bottles lined along the shelf and your voice explaining what each one does while he pretends not to care—even though he remembers every single one.

It becomes yours. 

This quiet little thing that belongs only to the two of you.  

Most nights, things do escalate eventually. Slow kisses wrapped up in steam-heavy air, wet skin sliding together while his mouth finds your throat and your fingers tangle in his hair.  

But sometimes he’s honestly too tired for any of that.

Sometimes it ends exactly here. 

With dryer-warmed towels and sleepy silence afterward, the bedroom dark and cool against freshly showered skin while Gator stretches across the bed with a groan, head dropping heavily into your lap.

You scratch lightly against his scalp, carding your fingers through his damp hair while he drifts in and out of sleep.   

His arms slide around your waist eventually, a little clumsy with exhaustion before settling properly. He pulls you closer until his face presses into your stomach, breath warm through your shirt. 

“Mmfh…” he mumbles, words blurred heavily by sleep. “You’re the… the best thing that ever happen’ to me, y’know that?”

You know there’s a good chance he won’t fully remember saying it tomorrow.  

Not because he doesn’t mean it; just because honesty comes easier when he’s too exhausted to keep it buried. 

You smile, fingers never stopping their slow rhythm through his hair.

“I love you too,” you murmur back, just as gentle. 

And you think, as he drifts into sleep in your lap, that he looks most like himself when he stops trying to be anything at all.

after the plane ride一one too-long layover and a delayed flight to boot一you’re all too happy to let gator handle checking you into the hotel while you sit in the lobby, massaging your temples with your fingertips. you lower your hands to look at them一the wedding band is a new addition, and you sort of lose yourself in admiring it until you see gator’s boots in your periphery, and then you look up at him.

“room’s ready,” he says. “told’em some sob story ‘bout the plane debacle ‘nd they upgraded us to a suite.”

you smirk. “that was nice of them.”

“told ‘em it was your birthday and our honeymoon.”

“honeymoon probably would’ve sufficed.” you stand up and follow gator to the elevators, taking the room key he proffers you as he handles the bags.

“couldn’t be too sure,” he says, holding the elevator door to let you step on first, and then following you in with the luggage.

“so, are you ready for some sightseeing?” you ask.

“no,” he says. “we ain’t leavin’ this hotel room fer a week.” he glances at the display above the elevator doors, slowly approaching your floor: 5.

“yes we are,” you say. “i have a whole itinerary of things to do.”

“finally got ya all t’myself, without worryin’ about anyone bustin’ in,” he says. “‘f you think i’m lettin’ y’outta my sight for a minute yer crazy. only sightseein’ i’m doin’ is your tits ‘nd ass.”

you roll your eyes. “god, honeymoons really are all about the romance, aren’t they?”

“you know it, kid,” gator says, and leans down to kiss you gently, in contrast to what he’d just implied.

the elevator dings and he leads you down the quiet corridor to your room. you tap the key against the reader and open the door for him, stepping in and holding it as he pulls your bags in behind him. it’s a beautiful room一a bedroom that’s distinct from the living area, and a spacious bathroom with a nice, big bathtub and separate shower, with doors in from the foyer and the bedroom.

“is this costing us any extra?” you ask, and he just snickers, closing up the door behind you.

“you don’t worry yer pretty little head about that,” he says, leaving the bags where they are and hugging you from behind, pressing his lips against the side of your head. “all you gotta worry about for the next 6 days and 7 nights is right here.” he presses his hips against your ass, and even though he’s not hard, you still feel the thick line of his cock.

“oh yeah?” you ask, and he spins you in his arms, a smirk already playing at his lips.

“yeah,” he says, and kisses you. it’s searing, hot right away, his lips on yours and his hands sliding down to slip into your jeans pockets, groping you.

“ok, but一” you pull away, breaking the kiss, though not trying to leave the secure circle of his arms. “i feel disgusting from the plane. i need to take a shower.”

he groans, tipping his head back over his shoulders, but lets you go. “fine. but you better come outta that bathroom in just a towel. no point in gettin’ dressed.”

“deal,” you reply, giving him a peck on the lips before moving away. as you do, he grabs your left wrist with his left hand, then slides his palm down to hold your hand with his, and you know why he did it一your rings glance together for a brief moment as your hands touch, and your eyes meet, and then you’re smiling to yourself as you head into the bathroom.

thirty minutes later一you’re on vacation, you can luxuriate一you appear with wet hair and a towel wrapped loosely around yourself, bare feet padding quietly on the tile and then the carpet as you look for gator.

he’s not in the living area, the pillows on the couch undisturbed and the tv remote exactly where it was left on the coffee table, so you approach the bedroom door, which was wide open and is now partly closed. you also notice that your bags have been moved from the entryway, and when you push open the bedroom door, you see them open and half unpacked on the bed. gator’s still missing.

you step in further and look around the room, and notice the curtains at the windows blowing in just a little from the breeze, and you cross over to them.

gator’s there, sitting on a little cast iron chair and vaping, and apparently your suite has a balcony.

“hey,” you say, leaning against the sliding glass door, which he’s left open.

he turns around, takes in the sight of you in just a towel like he asked, and smirks. “there’s a balcony.”

“i see that.”

his smirk grows. “go figure.”

“did you do this on purpose?” you ask.

he shrugs one shoulder. “maybe.”

“we’re pretty high up,” you say.

“ain’t that high up.”

you lick your lips. “you wanna risk public indecency on day one?”

gator stands up, pressing close to you and tossing his vape onto the bed behind you, before looking straight down at you, his eyes locked onto yours, leaning closer. “we’re gonna risk public indecency every damn day, mama.” his lips meet yours and this time, it’s less intense, but one arm still wraps around your waist, pressing into your lower back through the plush towel.

“why am i the only one who’s indecent then?” you ask, lips against his, and gator pauses, then snickers.

“a’right,” he concedes. “y’got me.” you take a step back into the room as gator follows you, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off, then untucking his undershirt from his jeans. you watch as he undoes his belt, leaving it in the loops as he slips the button and lowers his fly, shoving them down. he steps out of them as he reaches behind himself, pulling off the undershirt with one hand, leaving himself in his boxer briefs, the black fabric clinging to his thighs, his bulge visible. he looks at you expectantly and you just unwrap the towel from around yourself, letting it fall to the bedroom carpet, and gator’s eyes drift over your form.

“god, fuckin’ look at you,” he says, and you hum quietly.

“everyone’s about to,” you whisper, and gator groans a little as he cups himself through his underwear, half adjusting himself and half rubbing at his length.

you gesture at his underwear. “your turn.”

tongue peeking at the corner of his lips, gator hooks his thumbs into the elastic and pushes them down over his thighs too, stepping out of them as well, the two of you naked as the day you were born as you pass him, letting one hand trail through the patch of hair adorning his chest, and out onto the balcony.

it’s a little chilly out there, especially with your wet hair, and you feel your nipples perk up, the goosebumps take over your skin, but then gator’s behind you, a warm, solid presence, his soft cock already starting to chub up as he holds you back against him.

“gonna give ‘em a show,” you say, and he huffs a laugh.

“they got no idea,” he says, hands sliding over your hips down to your thighs, squeezing them before moving one to cover your mound, the other up to cup one of your tits. “neither d’you.”

“what do you一” you start to ask, but before you finish the question he’s got you pushed up against the railing, hands coming to brace yourself last minute as he kneels down behind you, hands moving to your ass cheeks to hold you open as he trails his tongue over your pussy lips.

“gator一” you gasp, but he doesn’t relent, and instead just pulls your hips back a little, making you bend further at the waist as he wastes no time in trailing his thumb through your folds, wetting his finger. you whine a little as he moves it away, the loss of contact disappointing一but then it’s back on you a moment later, rubbing at your asshole with your own arousal. “jesus christ,” you sigh.

“you wanna give ‘em a show?” gator mumbles against your snatch. “i’m givin' ‘em a show.”

he closes his mouth over your slit and sucks, tongue prodding at you before he pushes it inside, fucking you with the wet muscle as you whine and push yourself back onto his face. the pad of his thumb is rough against your asshole even with the little bit of slick he’d gathered from your pussy, and you tell him so.

“wetter,” you mumble, arms still braced on the railing of the balcony but ducking your head down so he can hear you more clearly. “get it一get me wet, babe, please.”

he doesn’t respond for a moment, still fucking into you with his tongue, drawing it out before pushing it right back in, your cunt already pulsing at the feeling of it, at the anticipation, at the idea that if the people walking by on the street down below glanced up, they could see what you were doing一

“oh, what’re ya thinkin’ about?” gator asks, finally pulling away. “got real fuckin’ tight, mama. was it me?” he rises up on his knees to spit on your asshole, rubbing it into you with his thumb, and that feels better. “or was it somethin’ else?”

you stutter out a sigh. “there’s people down there,” you tell him.

“oh yeah?” he asks. “they watchin’?”

“n-no,” you answer.

“mm,” he replies, splaying his hands out on your ass cheeks again, pulling you open even further. “too bad.”

you have nothing to say to that anyway, but all of your thoughts melt away into pleasure as gator moves his mouth back onto you, but not your pussy一he drags the flat of his tongue over your asshole while two fingers curl into your cunt, and you’re leaning against the balcony railing just trying to stay upright now, because your knees are buckling as gator rims you, leaving his fingers deep inside of you, still, just pressing down against your front wall trying to find your g-spot.

you spread your legs a little further and gator leans into you even more, letting the tip of his tongue press against your hole as he tries to press inside of you too一and this time, as his tongue enters you, you feel your body give a kick as his fingers finally find what he was searching for.

“oh, yeah, ok,” he mutters against your ass, then delves right back in, licking at you from the inside, his lips pressed tight to you, as he massages your g-spot inside, fingers pressing close to it.

“gator,” you say, loud, a warning, though of what you’re not sure. you’re still up against the railing, and at the sound of his name you see one of the passersby on the street below glance around for the source.

your gut kicks.

“they heard me,” you whisper to your husband, and gator hums, before pulling away, sucking at your rim as he does.

“who did?” he asks, letting his thumb circle your puckered ring.

“someone down一there,” you reply, breathy and uneven.

gator doesn’t reply一he only snickers, and then his mouth is back on you, tongue inside your ass as he fucks it shallowly.

“baby,” you whine, flexing your hips back against him, and he stars to fuck your pussy with his fingers now, properly, firm and not too quick, but not too slow, just the way you like. “fuck.”

that time, it’s loud, but there’s no one on the street below, so it’s wasted.

you’re dripping down gator’s palm, coating his hand with your arousal, as he fingers you and as you curl your arms around the railing, holding onto it as he ruins you from behind. he eats your ass, taking it in turn to curl his tongue into you before pulling it out and licking long, fat stripes over the slight gape, the way you’re open and ready for him, before letting his tongue move back inside, lingering in you.

he pulls away entirely, letting his fingers slide out of your pussy, and you close your eyes and rest your forehead against the balcony rail as he speaks.

“god, taste so fuckin’ good back there, mama,” he drawls, and you clench up at what he’s saying and what he’s saying. “never get enough’a ya.” you whimper as he traces his lips over your pussy. “fuckin’ delectable.”

you whine at his words and then again, louder, as he sucks your folds into his mouth, tongue sliding through your center to lap up every bit of arousal he’d coaxed out of you. he moans, the sound muffled as he eats your pussy this time, tongue sliding into your slit as he presses his hands to your ass cheeks一but instead of holding you open, he squeezes them into his face, effectively burying himself in you, and you take a shuddering gasp as he cradles your clit with his tongue, undulating against it as you shiver in the cool breeze, and then again when you notice someone glance up. you’re not sure if they see you一not sure if they really even looked up to the fifth floor一but you thrill a little and gator can tell.

“see somethin’ y’like, mama?” gator asks as he pulls away and surveys you, the way you’re looking down at the street.

you turn to look at him over your shoulder, and nod. “someone looked up.”

gator grins. “yeah?”

you nod, legs quivering, and then you watch in gleeful anticipation as gator rolls back onto the balls of his feet and stands up behind you, fully erect now, his cock jutting out from his front as he leans over you to let his front rest on your back.

“wanna hear ya sing fer me, mama, a’right?” he asks, licking at the shell of your ear, kissing the lobe before leaning further into you, curling himself around you and taking your mouth in a searing kiss that has you parting your lips for him, letting him tongue fuck your face as you whine into his mouth, the kiss filthy and sloppy, messy, spit coating your lips and his as he kisses you.

“gator,” you mumble as he pulls away, one hand rubbing at your lower back, his lips on the back of your shoulder. you feel him move his arm between your bodies, taking hold of his cock as he presses the tip against your asshole just for a moment.

you startle, turning to look at him with half-lidded eyes, because you’re not prepped and there’s no way in hell you’re letting him leave to go find the lube in your jumbled luggage.

he lets his cock just barely rub against you. “just givin’ ya somethin’ ta think about fer later,” gator says.

“on the balcony?”

“you know it,” gator quips, and you don’t have time to react other than to smirk at him before he changes the angle at which he’s holding himself and presses the head into your wet slit. you open easily for him, taking him in, but he doesn’t fully move into you. no一he teases you instead. he pops the head in… and then pops it right back out, leaving you gaping just a little after him.

“gator,” you say, stern, and he just caresses your lower back again.

“easy, mama,” he says, and lets the head move inside of you again, watching your slit flutter around him in the broad daylight. “we got all the time ‘n the world.”

“please,” you say, trying a different tactic, but it doesn’t work.

he just nudges his hips backward, the head of his cock leaving you again, and this time, you just hang your head, resting it against your arm on the balcony railing, as he enters you for a third time.

“like this ‘just the tip’ shit,” he says, making you moan as he pulls out yet again, then moves back in. “makes ya sound all desperate.”

“and why do you think that is?” you ask, but your voice cracks and he snickers behind you. you hear him hum softly to himself, and then a quiet, wet smack that you know is the sound of him pulling his finger out of his mouth.

“can’t imagine,” he answers you, and then you feel, at the same moment, his cock enter you fully in one movement, while he eases his finger, coated with saliva, into your spit-slick asshole.

“f-fuck,” you say, not expecting it, and that time, a couple on the street below both hear you, both turn to look up, and both spot you. your cheeks flush as they stare for a moment, taking in exactly what they’re seeing, and then they turn and rush away. “they saw us.” even as you say it, the man looks back as they hurry down the sidewalk. you feel heat rush through you because of it.

“oh, fuck yeah,” gator says, moving his free hand to your hip as he slides his finger out and back in, and then he’s moving his hips against yours properly, fucking into you as your walls seem to suck him back in every time一like now that you have his cock in you, your body does not want to let it go. he’s snapping his hips into yours and it’s audible一maybe not to the street below, but you can hear it, and it just turns you on even more than being caught did.

“what’d i say, huh?” gator says, leaning over you. “wanna hear ya. ev’ryone does.” he licks at your neck, and you loose a moan. “that’s what i’m talkin’ about.”

“gator,” you moan his name even louder, pushing your hips back against him, your asshole clenching tight around his finger, your pussy spasming on his cock as he fucks you, raw and rough. your elbows are pressing up against the balcony rail, tits on display and you cup them, playing with your nipples, which only draws another loud gasp from you.

“fuck yeah, love hearin’ ya,” gator says, and finally pulls his finger out of you so he can grip your hips tight with both hands, holding you in place as he slams his cock into you, skin slapping skin, your arousal coating your thighs, his front, cock thick and hot as he pounds against you.

“so good,” you groan, fingers pinching your nipples, rolling them as your body is jostled up against the rail and then pulled back by gator onto his cock一he’s so fucking hard and heavy inside you, his balls slamming into you with each thrust. “gonna fuckin’一fill me up?”

gator makes a noise akin to a chuckle, but it tapers off at the end to become a high-pitched little whimper. he recovers quickly enough to speak.

“you fuckin’ know it, mama, gonna have ya drippin’ me out after.”

“will you watch?” you ask, the words leaving your lips before you really even know what you’re saying.

“will i一what?” gator repeats, both of you fucked out, neither really fully there, so cloudy with lust and arousal and the feeling of chasing your high.

“watch,” you repeat, and gator’s rhythm falters for a few thrusts in a row, uneven jabs that still have you light-headed. “watch it come out of me.”

you feel his hair tickle the nape of your neck as he presses his forehead against your upper back, needing to take a moment to compose himself.

“yeah,” he says, switching his thrusts up a little, fucking you in longer, deeper strokes. “gonna fill ya up ‘nd then sit ya right一right up above me on the bed, yeah? let it fall right outta ya inta my mouth.”

“oh一fuck, ok. oh, god,” you say, imagining it一imagining standing on your knees above gator, letting his spunk leak out of your cunt and onto his waiting tongue.

“c’mon, mama,” gator says, wrapping an arm around your middle and holding you up against him一you’re still leaning on the railing, but now on your tiptoes, the only things really supporting you the railing and gator, his arm tight around you and his cock inside you. “lemme hear ya.”

“gator一” you sob, loud enough that you know he can hear you, your hotel neighbors can hear you, people below can hear you. you glance down一sure enough, there’s another couple of people staring up at you, and you push back against gator as best you can, just the thought of extra eyes on you making you squeeze down on his cock.

he crowds right back into you, pushing you a little more upright, so that he can hook his chin over your shoulder and look down at the people below, one now pointing up at you on the balcony.

“got an audience,” gator mumbles, and with no warning he snaps his hips into you. you cry out, and the people on the ground seem to realize that you’ve spotted them spotting you一they fumble against each other, rushing away. “aw, too bad.”

“they were watching,” you say absently, because you’re practically gushing around him now, you can tell, right on the brink of your orgasm.

“oh, i saw,” gator says, right in your ear. you feel yourself tense up, your legs tightening, as his teeth catch your earlobe and tug at it just a little. “whatcha think they thought, huh?”

“i一i think一” you start to answer, but gator moves his right hand from your hip to your thigh, his fingers searching your slick folds for your clit, the pads moving over it quickly, circling it, bringing you even closer.

“yeah?” he says, burying his cock in you to the hilt, feeling you fluttering around him as his cock jumps a little at the tight, wet heat of you.

“think they were jealous,” you supply, and he grinds his front against your ass, his chest on your back, nipples poking you and hair tickling you, all of it just arousing you even more. your cunt is soaking his cock, you can tell; you’re so goddamn wet it’s all on your legs.

“oh yeah? of you?” he asks, pulling out just enough that when he fucks back into you, you really feel it. “or me?”

“god, i don’t一know, both of us, both,” you stammer out.

“oh, ya think so?” gator asks, his cock sitting in you now, thick, constant, throbbing. he’s moving his fingers over you slowly, keeping you on the edge. “think they wanted a chance t’fuck this tight little gash’a yers? wanted t’know how it feels when all they could do’s look?”

“yeah, yes. probably, gator,” you mumble.

“too bad ‘sall mine now,” he says, moving his left hand from your hip now, curling it around your left hand on the railing, fingers lacing with yours, his wedding band flush beside yours. “this pussy’s all mine, ‘nd this cock’s all yours, right mama?”

“uh huh,” you say, leaning your head back onto his shoulder as he assaults your neck with his teeth and tongue, laving it with licks and kisses, cock sheathed inside you, so deep you can feel him even when he’s not moving, pressing against you from everywhere.

“want it? want it deep?”

“yeah,” you breathe, and gator sucks at your neck as he moves his fingers faster over your clit, rubbing it with intent now, with purpose, wanting to feel you wring his cock until he fills you up. he doesn’t move his hips again, just lets the pressure and tension of your walls build up around him as you reach your end, coming around his cock, and the feeling of it is what pulls him over the edge with you, his sticky, hot come releasing into you. it’s almost overwhelming, the way it spreads inside of you, his cock twitching with each shot of come he gives you.

your orgasm lasts for what feels like forever一you’re pretty sure that by the time you come down, your knuckles white around the railing, gator’s fingers still laced with yours, he’s been ready to pull out for several seconds already.

he doesn’t, though, just keeps his mouth at your throat, keeping you stuffed full of his cock and come.

“bed?” you ask, and he moves his hand through your slick folds, making you shiver at the extra stimulation, before he moves it up to your stomach, pressing against you like he can feel himself there.

“in a minute, mama,” he mutters, his chin still on your shoulder. “tryna take in the sights.”

You’re smart enough not to question why he’s suddenly so interested in gap’s summer collection. You can assume why, as his mood is gloomier than ever due to having a silly fight with max again.

It’s not something to get worried about though, he’s a pretty sappy romantic kid and you’re sure he’ll get her back in no time.

The door opening sounds through the basement, steps following down the stairs as Steve comes into view.

He throws the bag of popcorn to the two boys by the armchair, ignoring Mike’s complaints as they land right on his face.

“A diet coke for the lady.” He hands the can to you smoothly, though your gaze stays focused on the movie.

“Mhm.” It’s enough of a thank you to him, knowing you too well to disturb your focused moment.

Fishing out the bag of peanuts from his pocket, he throws himself rather loudly to the spot on the couch beside you, smiling at your annoyed tap on his leg for him to be quiet.

Without saying a word, he opens the packet on his hands, picking out peanuts one by one and cracking the shells open before handing them to you.

“Aren’t you gonna eat some too?” You say after a moment of realizing they’re appearing on your hand way too fast for you to be sharing.

“No, i’m good.” He affirms, so gentle it makes you momentarily glance at him.

Except seems to have the same idea as you, eyes focused on your face as if he’d been staring for at least a little while. It makes you grow all hot, though you blame it on the july weather.

Shaking out a confused nod, you turn back to the tv. Refusing to ask why he’s doing this. You really don’t want to know the answer.

It’s not that Steve’s not a nice guy, he’s always been kind to you for all you know. But then again you never really interacted with him back in school.

He’s just been extra nice for the last couple of months, and you would love it. You would. Except to you he pretty much seems to be obsessing over getting someone to date. And you don’t want to be one of them, not when he’s doing it all to get over someone.

Besides, Nancy is a really nice girl and the last thing you want is to get yourself into some kind of rivalry with her. That’s not you.

While you’re distracted you don’t notice Lucas approaching Dustin, whispering something to him while pointing at the magazine from before.

“Will you two let us watch the movie? Jeese.” Steve grumps, throwing you a ‘are they serious?’ look, although you know he doesn’t really care.

“Yeah so, about that- we gotta go!” Dustin suddenly jumps up from the couch, excited in a rather suspicious way.

“What?” You frown.

“We’re so sorry but i just found like the perfect gift for Max and it’s on sale! I need to go get it before someone gets their grabby hands on it.” Lucas points to the golden necklace on the catalogue.

It is pretty, you can’t deny that.

“Ok well, you two don’t take long cause the sun’s setting soon.” It’s a bit weird to be sounding like one of their moms, but you’ve gotten used to it.

“Us four, actually.” Dustin cuts in, pointing to Mike and Will you look like they are just as confused as you.

“That must be some heavy necklace for you to need four of you to carry it.” Steve answers amusedly, as if he knows exactly what the boy is doing.

Damn them and their way of communicating. Sometimes you really believe they were separated in birth, even with the age difference.

“Dude, you seriously are so out of touch. We need an extra opinion in case there’s no necklaces left.” It’s some stupid excuse, but you’re too tired and hot to retaliate.

“Just don’t take long. Your parents will all kill us if they knew we let you out till late.” You give in easily, finding yourself to be way more accepting than Steve.

“Be back before 8 or i’ll come get you!” Steve exclaims as the teenagers start running up the stairs.

“Yes, mom!” Dustin yells sarcastically.

Steve huffs beside you, not moving even a bit even with the extra space on the couch now.

“Could’ve at least called me Dad. Mom.” He scoffs the end of the phrase out.

“Oh no, you’re definitely mom.” You giggle, more bubbling out of your chest at his faux offensed face.

“Am not!” He squeaks.

“You sure are very motherly towards them. Sound exactly like my Mrs. Wheeler scolding at them.” You poke his bicep jokingly.

He rolls his eyes, though a little smile is at the corner of his mouth. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t for the next few seconds and you don’t wait to turn back to the tv.

“Does that mean you’re like the dad?” You freeze at his silly question.

Because he doesn’t mean for it to be silly and you don’t even have to process it to know it. He sure as hell doesn’t mean it in a ‘friendly divorced parents’ way.

“What?” You blurt, scraping your nails against the can on your hands anxiously.

He notices your demeanor, almost frowning but pulling the happy mask before his eyebrows get to pinch together.

“Like- cause i’m mom and all.” He laughs awkwardly. “We’re like their parents at the point with how much we babysit.”

“Right. Of course.” You smile tightly.

Your heart soars at the way he seems upset due to your dry tone. It almost makes you want to tell him that it’s okay, that you don’t mind it, that you wish you were actually a couple.

“I mean- i did feel like a dad with you bringing me a drink while i watch tv. You’d make a pretty good housewife.” Your eyes gleam when your comment lightens his smile.

“Look at us breaking stereotypes.” Steve muses, pretty teeth impossible not to look at when he smiles just for you.

You can only smile too, head leaning slightly back against the couch as your body feels suddenly aware that he’s close to you. Enough that your legs touch and your shoulders brush with every slight movement.

“I would make a nice housewife.” He affirms to himself, voice filled with ego.

“Yeah, don’t let it get to your pretty head.” You mock.

“You think i’m pretty?” He whispers, almost like a secret.

The air you’re about to let out catches on your throat, chest heavy in the worst best way. He’s so gorgeous - the most.

And you really want to feel it naturally, what he’s trying to give you. But you can’t. Because there’s always that little voice at the back of your head, like a string that makes you trip every time you try to go through the door that leads to him.

So you pull back, turning from his searching eyes and desperately trying to find something to say to make this less awkward.

“Oh look, Leia and Han are about to kiss for the first time.” Great. That so makes it better.

“Yeah.” Steve croaks after a moment.

It makes you want to dig into the couch, hide yourself inside the cushions until everything is okay. It makes it worse that he feels more hurt than angry at the rejection.

“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom real quick.” He gets up, almost skipping steps as he goes up the stairs.

There’s a bathroom in the basement.

“Steve-“

“I’ll be right back.”

You dig your nails into the palms of your hands, feeling like a jerk and definitely lonely and weirdly not because of the empty basement. It’s for the best.

You’re tiring, he’d get tired. You’d tire him, is what you tell yourself to make it seem like a good decision.

He only comes back to tell you he’s picking the kids up, not quite looking you in the eye but acting like normal all over again. Almost as if he still wants to be overly nice to you. Still opens the car door for you. Still puts on your favorite radio station.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

“I just really have a feeling that he likes someone.” Robin rambles while organizing the mountain of tapes on their correct shelves.

“Steve?” You ask, shuddering a bit at the thought.

“Yeah, i mean- he hasn’t told me about any recent date. But then again i might have just made him think i don’t care about those.” She looks slightly apologetic as she says.

“I’m sure he doesn’t think that.” You reassure, rubbing her arm comfortably as you come closer to help sort.

Robin hums, putting on the expression she has when she’s trying to remember something.

“He did tell me about this girl. I didn’t think much of it at first but now that i’m thinking, he hasn’t mentioned anyone after that.” You try to process her words, trying to hide the way your stomach drops.

“And like he didn’t wanna reveal her identity. But he said it was someone he’s know for a long time, that he thought he finally found his person.” She goes on before adding, “‘said she’s different from other girls.” She scrunches her nose at the phrase.

“Oh yuck.” You laugh with her, forgetting the problem in question for a moment.

“So original of him, right?” Robin bumps her hip with yours.

“Please tell him to never confess to her by saying that.” You smile through it.

Then it hits you. Someone he’s known for a long time. He thinks she’s the one. Nancy.

“Actually, i was thinking you could talk to him.” She puts out, raising her eyebrows in question.

“Me?” You’re more confused than ever. Why would you need to speak to him? He can like whoever he wants to like. None of your business.

“As much as i want to find out who it is, i don’t think i’ll get it out of him. He acts all weird whenever i talk about it. And you’re his best friend, too. Maybe you could help him out.” She explains, though it seems like she’s holding back.

You’re Steve’s best friend. Did he say that? You hope he did.

It’s not a good idea that he might still be in love with Nancy. She’s got a boyfriend and they’re happy together.

“I guess that makes sense.” You agree, “Nancy would probably be upset if he tried something right now.”

“What?” Robin practically gasps.

“He seems like he wants to make a move, doesn’t he?”

“No, no, no- that’s not-“ Her eyes widen as she speaks, but the bell makes a loud noise as the store’s door opens, interrupting her mid sentence.

Steve smiles widely at you both, “I’m back!” As if you can’t see him right there.

It makes you smile a bit more, more so when he looks right at you. “You’re here. Hi.” He sounds rather excited about it.

“Yeah, Robin said i should keep you company since you’re covering for her.” You tell him.

“That’s nice of you, thank you.” He says.

“‘Course, it’s nothing.” You wave him off, sticking your hand into your pocket as you forget what to do with your hands.

“Okayyy…” Robin drags the word, leaving some kind of suggestion in the air. “That’s my cue to head out for a date with my lovely lady.” She bows dramatically.

“Yeah, okay. Brag.” Steve teases, though you see it in his smile that he loves that she’s happy.

“Bye, Rob. Have so much fun.” You receive a happy thumbs up before she’s out the door.

You smile to yourself, sorting through the tapes as you feel Steve come to stand beside you and let out a big breath before getting to work. Dramatic.

“Had fun with Buckley?” He asks, glancing at you with his soft deer eyes.

“I sure did. She’s much less boring than you.” You tease.

He brings his hand to his chest, “Oh wow, you wound me.” While giving you his best pout and it make it even harder for you to keep the friendly act going. “You totally love my company.”

“You’re okay.” You give in, refusing to look him in the eye as you know it’d crack your smile in one second. He notices.

“Did you have lunch?” He blurts randomly, as if remembering something.

“Uh- not yet, no.” You look at him amusedly.

“I brought you that sandwich you like, the one with the pretty wrapping. Cause, you know, i went there for lunch and i thought it would be nice.” He confesses nervously.

“Thanks, Steve.” You give in the urge to squeeze his bicep, your usual and mutual understanding thank you.

You let the comfortable silence fill the store, empty of customers due to it being lunch time.

Thoughts gear through your head, trying to put whatever you’re about to say in the right words so they don’t come out in a way that makes you look like a jerk.

Why couldn’t Robing be the one to speak to him? God, you feel like a mom having the conversation with her kid for the first time.

“So, there’s something i kinda need to talk to you about.” You start, words uneasy.

Steve nods slowly, as if processing. “‘Kay.” He urges you to go on.

“Robin tells me you like someone.” And fuck, you probably weren’t supposed to tell him she said that. Some good start you just picked for yourself.

“She does?” His expression seems to flicker with panic for a moment, before he practically shakes out of it and changes it into a confused one.

“Yeah, and i know it’s really none of my business but as your friend-“

“Best friend.” He corrects naturally.

“As your best friend,” The words feel nice to say, coming out too easy for the conversation you’re trying to have. “i feel like i have this duty to tell you when i think you’re gonna make a stupid decision. You know?”

Now he looks actually confused, eyebrows pinched together and thoughtless look. “Sure?”

“This to say that i understand you’re still on her,” It feels impossible to let her name out. “But i don’t think it’s a good idea to do something about it, quite unfair if i can be honest with you.”

“Wait, what?” He practically squeaks, dropping the tapes back in the cart. You try to understand why he’s avoiding it, but there’s no reason that comes to mind.

“Nancy.” You decide to be direct.

“Nancy? I’m not following, sweetheart.” The pet name rolls out his tongue easily and it leaves you in absolute despair.

“You’re thinking on making a move, are you not?” You try to have him catch up.

“No! I don’t know why Robin told you that, i really don’t. But i’m not doing anything with Nancy, there’s nothing with Nancy. Seriously.” He seems truthful enough as he speaks and you hate yourself for not fully believing him.

“But you like someone?”

He hesitates, “I do.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry for assuming, Robin didn’t actually say it was Nancy.” You give him a guilty quirk of the lips.

“That’s okay.” He reassures, sweet as always.

Steve shuffles on his feet, opening his mouth a few times as if he’s about to say something a but never seeming to muster the courage. You give him time.

“This girl-“ He cuts himself off, words coming out in a harsh breath, “she’s amazing. The most amazing girl i’ve ever met. And even though i have known her for a good while, i’ve looked at her with different eyes for the last few months.”

Your breath catches, you start to understand his words. Hate and love is what you have for them, no in between.

“She’s a breath of fresh air, although i do seem to be out of breath whenever she’s around. She’s the best with the kids, probably more caring than me. Has really good taste in music and movies - i wouldn’t have gotten this job if she didn’t make me decorate the name to every Star Wars movie.” He laughs but it seems more like relieved sigh.

You feel stuck to the ground, eyes wide and motionless. You don’t encourage him to go on, but he takes your silence.

“And most of all she makes me not care about what others think. Makes me wanna be a good person and nothing else.” He finishes, carefully leaning closer without stepping towards you.

You didn’t think this would happen like this, thrown right on your face like some splash of freezing water that leaves you freezing on the spot.

He’s lovely, his words are everything you’ve ever wanted to hear. But you’re filled with dread, because you know what’s about to come and you’re going to reject it.

“What do you say?”

It’s complicated, you’re not sure why you want to say no. You don’t fully believe him for one. It’s not fair to make him have someone who has doubts by his side.

“No.” You state, simply.

“What?” He asks, straightening up immediately and drily gulping.

You laugh, but it’s really more cause you don’t know what to say. “There’s no way you actually think we’d work.”

“Why not?” He sounds defensive, “I do think that, i think about it everyday.” His voice is more hurt than anything now.

“Steve, this is crazy. We’re best friends. No way.” You shake your head.

“Did you just hear all that i said? I don’t wanna be your best friend - at least not just that.” He exasperates, searching for your eyes when you refuse to look at him.

“Now, this was the kind of stupid decisions i was talking about a moment ago.” You scoff.

You’re trying to play it cool, but it’s like he sees right through it. He reaches for your hand, loosely enough that you can let go of it if you want.

“It’s not a stupid decision. If anything, it’s the best decision in think i’ve made in a while.” His thumb brushes your knuckles.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, eyes feeling with tears at the confrontation.

He frowns, “Tell me you don’t like me.”

“What?”

“Tell me you don’t like me back and i’ll leave you alone.” He asserts, focused on making it work.

“Steve, that’s not the point.” You say desperately, “I’m not your usual, you’re interested by this idea of me because we’re close and you want someone.”

“Wow, that’s what you think of me?” He looks truly offended now.

You purse your lips, feeling unfair for acting like this. “No, i’m sorry.”

“But we’re so different, truly different. And i don’t think there’s anything you can do right now to change my mind.” You want to reach out and pull him into a hug, but it really wouldn’t be a good idea right now.

“Sweetheart-“

You’re saved by the door opening, two clients coming in. Steve looks the most disappointed. But not angry, and that’s always a relief.

“I’m just- gonna get onto that sandwich while you take care of that.” You look apologetically at him, smiling at him to try amend the situation.

“Yeah- sure.” He rubs his temple for a second before turning away from you.

You’re certainly a jerk after that. But it’s only a few days later when he starts acting normal again, sweet as usual towards you and keeping you close as his best friend.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

A weird shiver runs across your back as you enter the abandoned house, even more when the big group turns into just you and Steve. The idea of the group being separated turns your stomach.

The flashlight on your hand doesn’t feel enough to light your path through the somber hallways, headache tingling on your temples as you try to find anything useful.

It’s not that things have been weird with Steve, which they have, but they’ve been weird with everyone. You lack the energy to try and even have a conversation with anyone. If you were to be honest, you’re not even sure why you’re here because your mind is all but up to having ideas that will actually help find Vecna.

It started a few weeks ago. The ultimate feeling of emptiness, like everything and everyone is moving and you’re stuck on the same spot. All the things happening in Hawkins don’t help your case either. Eddie being accused of being a murderer, sweet Chrissy’s death, Max almost being sentenced to that end too.

You don’t feel like you have a major thing ruining your life and making you miserable, but you feel sad even without it. And that leaves you to wallow in self pity and to think you aren’t anything but selfish. There are people who are in real danger around you and all you can think about is your unreasonable sadness.

The conversation at Radio family was a few months ago, not that you feel the need to track it. You thought you could pull yourself together after it, told yourself all you needed was time to get over it.

But all you can think about when he’s kind to you, when he brings you food, when his hand brushes your arm while he’s standing next to you — is that he actually mistakes it for real feelings for you. And the worst of it all is that you find yourself enjoying it, the idea of him loving you. Selfishly you wish he’s still confused, hoping he sometimes thinks about you at night like you think about him.

You feel his stare burn into the back of your skull as you walk slightly ahead of him, avoiding to walk beside him and having to make small talk.

The old wood board floor cracks under your shoes, filling the awkward silence that creates a barrier between the both of you. You stop in front of some type of wardrobe with glass door, pointing inside with your flashlight to get a look at what’s inside.

Steve keeps his distance, seemingly looking at the rest of the furniture in the room. “Someone sure liked bugs.” His face is scrunched when you turn to see, light pointed at a few glass jars with dead bugs inside it.

Your stomach turns at the sight, displeased but acknowledging hum ripping through your throat.

A small smile forms on his lips, “Scared?” He wiggles one of the jars, though the way he keeps it away from his body tells you he’s terrified.

In another occasion you think you would’ve made fun of him, teasing him relentlessly for being scared of dead bugs inside a jar.

“No, just gross.” You settle for answering, shrugging your shoulders without much emotion.

“Right.” He sighs, setting the jar down slowly before brushing his hands against his jeans. He stands a bit awkwardly, even more clueless than you about what to look for.

Your head aches all around, pressuring your eyes and temples.

You hear Steve hum to himself, a slight bored look as he seems to do it almost without noticing. He flicks the ruffles on a curtain with his fingers, immediately regretting it as dust spreads in the air and right on his fingers. You find yourself stifling a smile against your palm, realizing now you might have missed his antics a bit too much.

Palming his pocket, Steve pulls out a pack of gum that you know he carries around with him. You watch him awkwardly play with it after fishing one out for himself, taking a step towards you in false confidence after a second.

“Want some?” His arm reaches out to signal for you to take one, not leaving you much option but to accept it. Not that you could get yourself to anyway.

“Sure.” You reach to grab it, cursing when your fingers hit the it with too much force and it tumbles out of his hold.

Both of you bend to pick it up at the same time, but you’re the one who regrets it immediately. You don’t know if it’s because of the way his fingers graze yours or because of the hot liquid that starts running down your nose.

You flinch away immediately, head knocking against his forehead with force and making you stumble back with a pained groan.

“Fuck- i’m sorry!” He exclaims, a groan escaping his lips too as he reaches to touch his forehead with his fingers.

The hit makes your headache even stronger, eyes closed in attempt to make it go away. Although you’ve know for a while that it won’t. That’s also been going on for a few weeks, paired with nightmares that leave you sweaty and terrified to ever sleep again. It feels impossible to ever have a good dream again, not when your living life feels like a nightmare itself.

“Are you okay?” Steve’s panicked voice reaches your ears over the high stinging noise of your own head, eyes trying to get a good look at your face that you’ve turned away from him.

“‘M fine.” You try to dismiss, lifting a hand that helps nothing with keeping him away.

“Hey, don’t do that.” You know he means pulling away, grabbing you by the arm and gently pulling you to face him when you don’t necessarily go against it. “You’re bleeding.”

You’re reminded by why exactly you stood up so fast, and as if on cue the blood running from your nose touches your lips. He looks alarmed at the sight, eyes wide with worry and hands around your biceps with the most featherlight touch — you almost think you might be imagining him touching you.

“Here-“ Steve moves without thinking, stretching the fabric of his shirt sleeve so it covers his whole hand and bringing it to your nose.

His shirt will probably be stained forever, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it the least, cleaning the area around your nose like it’s his second nature to be attentive. He taps your skin with care, covered thumb brushing your lips to wipe the blood and lingering for a second too long.

Your hand rests on his arm as if it’s a natural instinct, watching the way his throat bobs when he accidentally pulls your lips open with a rather clumsy wipe and you grip his shirt lightly. “Sorry…” He mumbles, not needing to speak at a proper tone when standing so close, “for that and for hurting you.”

“Hurting me?” You throw him a confused look.

“Dunno if you remember but i hit you so hard your nose started bleeding just a second ago.” He tries to tease, smile tugging at his lips.

“I hit you.” You reason, huffing at the way he’s so sweet about it. Ready to take the blame when it’s not supposed to be his. “And-“ It was already bleeding before i hit you, is what you wish but step back from saying.

You don’t want him to think this is just like other people, the ones who get headaches and nosebleeds and visions and then get cursed and bones snapped to death. You can’t possibly be going through that — can’t believe you’re going through that.

“And it’s fine, anyway.” You settle for saying, brushing the possibilities off.

Steve hums, brows pulled into a frown that tells you he doesn’t necessarily believe you. But he doesn’t pressure you and you feel guilty for making him feel like he can’t do it just a little, like a best friend would out of worry. You’re quite sure all the pushing away and closing yourself off from him have taken a tool on making him think he can’t ask you about things.

You become too aware of how close he’s standing to you and how he takes in your features with soft eyes like he hasn’t been able to take a look at you in ages. Subconsciously, you tug his arm away and look at your feet.

He’s hit with how intimate the moment might have looked, arm dropping to his side as his mouth moves exasperatedly trying to find the right words. “I wasn’t trying anything, i swear.”

You know he wasn’t, Steve would never. Not after you told him not to, that’s not who he is. You just couldn’t handle it.

The gears in your head move as you try to keep yourself together, “Let’s just keep looking, Steve. Please.” You practically begging, eyes looking at his face for once.

“Of course.” He relents easily.

You’re taking steps away from his as soon as the words leave his mouth, flashlight on again as you suddenly find the celling so interesting. A simple excuse to have you look up and stop the tears from fully forming and falling down your face. Because why would you even cry?

The background noise of Steve’s presence suddenly disappears, you’re too embarrassed to look back and make sure he’s there.

The same shiver from earlier leads its way up your spine and forms a cold sweat. A clock ticks from the corner of the room, making your turn towards it with a gasp. That wasn’t there before.

And Steve, who was there just a moment ago, isn’t anymore. A panicked whimper pulls through your mouth, heart beating so hard against your ribcage you think it might crack a rib.

Cracking bones. You can already see it. Your own body getting the future it’s destined to have.

A hand finds your shoulder with a shake, pulling you out of what you can’t call a daze — because it feels more like a living nightmare. Steve calls your name, snapping his fingers in front of your eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You breathe in with force, ignoring the sweat that’s starting to drip down your back. “Yeah, i’m good.”

It gets harder to lie by the minute. You pretend to observe the empty corner of wall that just had a clock stuck in it.

He sighs from his spot behind you, “You can speak to me. You know that, right? Because i’m your friend, i want to be your friend.” He tries, as if he’s been holding back from speaking the whole time, “And i worry, so much it hurts. I’m sorry that i acted so impulsively before — but i’m not sorry for feeling it.” Not sorry for loving you.

“I know i can.” You nod, “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to make it weird, there’s just so much going on.” But you leave out everything else.

Steve waits for you to say something else, but it doesn’t come. You do your best at throwing him a warm smile, “This place just creeps me out, that’s all.”

He agrees, “That’s putting it lightly.”

You bounce slightly on your feet, not sure on what to say. It’s turned into this when you’re around him, awkward conversations and things left unsaid.

“C’mon, we should get some ice for your nose. I’m sure they’ve done enough searching for today.” He motions for the door with his head.

“Yep.” You walk ahead, once again ahead of him. It would make it harder to have his arm around your shoulder like it once was normal.

The imminent future makes it impossible to think of it as enjoyable. Him loving you means getting left without you, because your headache is stronger than ever, your nosebleeds are more intense and you think you’ve just had what all the victims had before they died — a vision.

Steve watches you refuse to walk beside him, finger coming to touch the spot on his shirt that’s stained with your blood.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

It happens fast, too fast. One moment you’re with your friends, setting up a trap with Robin while Steve and Dustin bicker on the back about something you’re too tired to pick up on. The next, just as you reach down to pick up a tool, everything feels darker.

They all look at you wrong. Even Dustin, who’s ever so sweet to you, has his eyes set on you with an uncharacteristic angry expression.

At first you believe it, as if your mind has been telling you to wait for the moment they all call you out for your bullshit. Warning you that they have every reason to turn against you.

When Steve speaks you think your heart might beat out of your chest, harsh words slicing you like a knife against your back. Yet his voice doesn’t seem his, a rough undertone and malice that isn’t Steve’s — not even when he’s mad.

You feel stupid once you realize what’s happening, recognizing the cloudy sky that erupts with red thunder that Max has told you about. So you run ignoring the calls from your friends, because you know they aren’t real.

The day that you’ve known was coming is finally here, the dread on your stomach turning into the drop of it at the knowledge of what’s going to happen next. And the worst part is that it’s only now that you feel guilty for not telling anyone. About the headaches, about the nosebleed, about the nightmares.

A droplet of sweat makes it’s way down your forehead as you move as fast as your feet allow you to, thinking about how confused everyone probably is. Because how could they have known?

You hate the choice you made of not allowing yourself to process it. You wish you would’ve told your friends how much they matter to you, how it’s not their fault that you feel miserable. You think about telling Steve that you were just so scared of exactly the situation what you’ve come to be in that you couldn’t allow yourself to love him at your fullest.

It’s not like you know why you didn’t tell them. Was it because you were scared? Or was it really just knowledge of what you were designed to go through?

The anxiety building in your chest makes it harder to breathe, slowing you down in the process.

You feel helpless and alone, trapped in a part of your mind with your worst nightmares. A vine wraps around your ankle and yanks you with force to the ground, elbows erupting with pain as soon as you hit it.

But it doesn’t compare to what you feel once you spot him, the creature that you’ve all been looking for a long time but that you wish was nowhere in sight now.

You claw at the death grip of the vines around your ankles, clumsily making an effort to regain your blood circulation as a sob escapes your mouth. Tears fall down your eyes and across your cheeks at the sight of them not budging.

He calls your name, to which you shake your head with a shaky breath and try your hardest to ignore. Even when you feel yourself slide through the ground as the vines pull you towards him.

You can’t run from what’s been planned for you. It sounds through your head like a reminder, leaving a ringing on your ears.

The last thing you want to do now is give up, not without getting to tell everyone everything you want to say. You refuse to leave like this.

And it’s like some force seems to hear you, a familiar melody sweeping through somewhere around you. It’s your favorite song, the one you’ve heard countless times on your walkman and that you take the liberty to turn up the sound of the radio when in Steve’s car.

It brings a warm feeling in contrast to the cold that surrounds you.

Distracted, the grip on your leg loosens. With a swift movement, you slide the vines off of you and scramble to your feet. This time it feels freeing when you run, towards the sound and the image of your friends.

They’re right there, so close. You can see them looking up at your floating figure, voices panicked as they call for you.

So you fight against your sore ankles until they reach their limit and you’re falling again, but this time you have arms around you as you reach the ground.

You’re breathing heavily when you come back to reality, frantically looking around to make sure you made it. Steve has his arms secured around you as he situates you between his legs with his chest pressed to your back, his voice cracking once he says your name.

“You’re okay— i’ve got you. It’s okay, baby. I promise.” His mouth is close to your ear as he speaks, reassuring you over his own worries. “I’m right here, not letting you go anywhere.”

A sob bubbles out of your throat and you grip onto the arms around you, probably a bit too tight — to which he doesn’t complain. Your chest heaves with struggle to breathe, tears clouding your vision as they fall down your face.

You feel him press a hand to your chest, “Can you take deep breaths for me?” The touch grounds you as you nod in agreement. “Come on. There you go, honey.”

His heart beats at an erratic pace against your back, you can tell he’s trying his hardest to be calm for you. “Steve.” Your voice is hoarse, fingers shakily grabbing his that are still pressed to your chest.

“Yes, ‘m right here.” His voice breaks mid sentence, tone desperate.

“I’m sorry.” You manage to say, breathing starting to feel like an easier task.

“No don’t say that,” You can picture him shaking his head even without seeing him. “Look at me.” Steve turns you in his arms, never letting go of you.

“This is not your fault, okay?” He’s cupping your face with gentle hands, eyes red and teary as his lips turn into the saddest pout you’ve seen. It almost gets you to smile.

He brushes your tears away, “Does anything hurt? Tell me, baby.” Eyes inspect at your face.

You shake your head with a sniff, wincing slightly as the cold wind hits your arms. “No.”

“Here.” He’s quick to take off his jacket, draping it around your shoulder and helping the sleeves into your arms. “All good.” His smile is forced but a good way of lightening the mood.

Not satisfied yet, Steve pulls you into his arms once again for a proper hug now. He ignores then way your knee pushes into his thigh a bit too hard, pressing you as close as possible with his nose buried in your hair. You slump your weight onto him, hands sprawled on his back as you press an impulsive but small kiss to his neck.

He sighs, “Oh my god.” The whisper comes out before he can stop it, more to himself than anything else as he finally relaxes. As if still in disbelief of the whole situation that just hit him like a truck.

You stay in his arms for a moment longer, only letting go when Robin and Dustin come back from filling the others in through the walkie.

“Thank god you’re okay.” Robin smiles with worry all over her face, pulling you into a bear hug that Dustin joins into. She drapes an arm over your shoulders as you walk to the car, sharing the worry of leaving you alone.

Steve stops you before you get on the backseat, hand to your bicep protectively. “Stay at my house?” You don’t have it in you to deny.

“We’re going too.” Dustin quips as if it’s a given.

For once, Steve doesn’t answer with a remark.

He helps you in even when you protest, pulling your seatbelt on. For the whole ride there your head rests on Robin’s shoulder, sharing occasional glances with Steve as he looks at you through the rear view mirror.

Once you arrive at his house, it’s not long before the others show up. They elaborate plans, ones that you feel too exhausted to pay attention to but try your hardest to. You notice the way they keep a close eye on you, not letting you be alone in any occasion.

And as they settle on his living room, Steve grants you some privacy as he pulls you into his bedroom. The offer of a shower is something you can’t deny, fresh clothes that belong to him awaiting for you after.

You leave the bathroom with your hair still wet, dripping on his shirt on your torso. He’s right there, laying out blankets on the floor beside the bed.

“Hey, do you feel better?” He’s worried and looking at you with wide eyes.

You shrug, “Shower felt good.”

Steve nods, as if he wants to say something but doesn’t. “I hope it’s okay that i sleep here— i don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone.” He shifts awkwardly as he speaks.

“It’s okay.” You smile, slightly endeared.

It’s not that you think you’re going to get much sleep. But being alone right now is the last thing you want. You’re not even sure if you’re out of the woods yet.

Settling inside the covers of his bed, you hear him sit on the floor against the bed over the blankets. You don’t think he intends to sleep at all.

You try to sleep, you really do. But the fact that he’s right there after months of not allowing yourself to be close to him is killing you. So you move without thinking, finding yourself taking a seat beside him without saying a word.