We’ll Be Alright

You shot him a look through the mirror. “Says the man who only needs to brush his hair for it to look perfect.” He grinned, unable to argue.

When the iron finally reached your desired temperature, you quickly picked it up without looking.

“Don’t rush.” Steve warned.

“I’m not—” you reached for a loose strand without paying attention, your fingers slipped.

Hiss. “Ow—!” The curling iron clattered against the counter as you jerked your hand back, a sharp, searing pain shot through your fingertips.

Steve was already moving before you’d even finished gasping. “Hey, hey,” he caught your wrist carefully, his previous amused expression immediately falling.

“Let me see.” He urged you.

“I’m okay,” you shook your head, even though your brows were pinched together.

“You literally just burned yourself, you’re not okay.” He gently turned your hand over, a bright red line stretched across two fingers where the barrel had kissed your skin.

His face looked pained. “Ooh,” he sounded, before looking at you with soft brown eyes. “Come here.” He instructed, while still holding your wrist, he guided you toward the sink, and turned on the cold water.

“Just cool.” He muttered to himself while adjusting the temperature, slipping your hand beneath the stream.

You sucked in a breath as the water stung at first before the burn slowly began to ease. His thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of your hand. “You scared me.” Steve admitted.

“I burned my fingers, not my whole arm.” You pointed out.

“I still watched it happen, it was terrifying.” Steve said, voice quieter now. You glanced over, his brows were knitted together, jaw tight and eyes never leaving your fingers.

“You always take care of me.” He murmured. “So when you get hurt…” he shook his head. “I hate it.”

You smiled despite yourself. “You know what I hate? The lecture I’m about to get.”

He looked at you as if you reminded him. “Oh, absolutely. You were rushing.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was being efficient,” you shrugged.

“Not an excuse—you’re lucky it was only your fingers, you seriously could’ve hurt yourself.” Steve sighed dramatically, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the anxiety you gave your boyfriend.

After several minutes under the tap, he shut the water and inspected your fingers again. “Hmm, doesn’t look too bad. Hold on, you’re missing something.”

Before you could ask, Steve searched through all the drawers, and held a tiny bottle of burn gel in his hand triumphantly. “Aha!” He yelled, and you giggled at his happiness.

He squeezed a little onto his fingertips, then spread the cool gel over the reddened skin as if you were made of glass, softly blowing over your fingers afterwards.

But he wasn’t done, you watched as he picked up a bandaid, you weren’t sure how it would help, but if it put his heart at ease you were willing to amuse him. Steve wrapped it around your wound, then lifted your hand to his lips and pressed the lightest kiss on top.

“Still hurts?” He whispered.

“A little.” You responded, but the sharp ache had faded by now.

Without another word, he reached for the curling iron and stood behind you as he lifted a piece of your hair. “Steve, what if you burn yourself too?” You asked, unable to hide your smile at his effort.

The question sounds perfectly normal.

To anybody else, at least. To you, it sounds suspicious.

You glance up.

Joe is leaning casually against the counter, coffee cup in one hand, expression carefully neutral. Unfortunately, you've known him far too long for that expression to work on you anymore. The concern is there anyway, tucked around the edges. Hidden beneath the casual tone. Present despite his best efforts.

The effort is failing.

"I'm fine."

Joe studies you for a moment. Not long enough to attract attention. Just long enough.

"You sure?"

The concern slips through slightly on the second question, and you immediately regret making eye contact.

"Joe."

"Right."

The response arrives automatically, but neither of you sounds particularly convinced.

The conversation ends there.

At least outwardly.

Joe lets it drop because there's not much else he can do while surrounded by cast members, crew and approximately fifty people who definitely aren't supposed to know you're together. He takes a sip of his coffee. You take a sip of yours. Somebody calls for rehearsals. The morning continues exactly as planned.

But as Joe walks away, he glances back once over his shoulder.

Just once.

And the look on his face makes it painfully clear that neither of you believes a word you've just said.

By lunchtime the pain has doubled.

By mid-afternoon it has tripled.

The problem is that you're still convinced it's cramps.

In hindsight, this is probably the point where a sensible person would start asking questions. A sensible person would notice that the painkillers aren't really doing anything anymore. A sensible person would acknowledge the fact that they're becoming steadily more miserable as the day progresses and perhaps consider speaking to somebody about it.

Unfortunately, you are not currently operating as a sensible person.

You're operating as an actress halfway through a filming day who has already committed to the idea that she's fine, and once you've committed to being fine, changing your mind starts to feel weirdly embarrassing. Every hour that passes without you saying anything somehow becomes another reason not to say anything. If you'd admitted something was wrong first thing this morning, that would have been reasonable. By lunchtime it feels inconvenient. By mid-afternoon it feels dramatic. By three o'clock you've somehow convinced yourself that acknowledging the problem would be more ridiculous than simply continuing to suffer through it.

So you keep going.

Mostly because that's what people do when something hurts gradually. If the pain had arrived all at once - if you'd woken up unable to stand or suddenly doubled over in agony - you probably would've paid attention immediately. Instead, it creeps up on you slowly enough that every worsening symptom feels explainable. A little more discomfort. A little more nausea. A little more fatigue. Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth stopping production over. At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

The fact that you're repeating it so often should probably be your first clue. Joe, meanwhile, remains entirely unconvinced. Not openly, and certainly not in a way that would attract attention, but every opportunity he gets, he checks in.

A bottle of water appears beside you between takes. A granola bar materialises in your lap while the crew adjusts lighting. At one point you discover somebody has left your favourite electrolyte drink next to your chair, and you don't even need to look up to know who was responsible.

Every time you catch him looking at you, there's the same expression lingering somewhere beneath the surface. Concern, carefully disguised beneath casual conversation and forced normality, the sort that's trying very hard not to become panic. Joe has spent the entire day pretending not to worry in front of other people, and he's getting progressively worse at it.

"You need anything?"

The question arrives during a lighting reset.

You don't even look up from your script.

"No."

"You sure?"

You sigh, immediately regretting the movement when a sharp ache twists unpleasantly through your abdomen.

"Joseph."

"Okay."

The response is automatic.

So is the look he gives you afterwards.

Neither of you believes a word you've just said.

The difference is that Joe knows better than to push when there are fifty people standing around and half of them are carrying cameras. He lets the conversation die. Takes a sip of his coffee. Looks away first. To anybody watching, the exchange is completely ordinary.

Unfortunately, Gaten has spent most of the day watching.

You don't realise this at first.

Mostly because you're too busy trying to survive the afternoon.

Gaten, meanwhile, has apparently appointed himself head of a private investigation. At some point during the last several hours he has abandoned whatever he was originally supposed to be doing and redirected all available energy towards observing the increasingly suspicious behaviour of his two co-stars.

By three o'clock he has stopped being subtle entirely.

"You look terrible."

You blink.

"Thanks, Gaten."

"No, seriously."

"Love you too."

"I'm not joking."

The concern in his voice catches you slightly off guard.

Unfortunately, so does the pain.

You shift slightly in your chair and immediately regret it when a sharp bolt shoots through your stomach hard enough to make your vision blur for a second. Just a second. Long enough.

Your expression slips.

Only briefly.

But long enough.

Long enough for Gaten to notice. Long enough for Joe to notice.

The concern flashes across his face so quickly that most people probably miss it. To anybody else it looks perfectly normal. Mild concern between colleagues. Nothing unusual. The sort of reaction anybody might have if a friend looked unwell.

To somebody paying attention, however, it's another story entirely.

And Gaten has been paying attention all day.

His gaze shifts from you to Joe, then back to you again. He studies the two of you for a moment, expression growing steadily more suspicious with every passing second. You watch the exact moment something clicks into place behind his eyes and immediately dislike it.

"Oh."

You sit up slightly.

"Oh what?"

"Nothing."

The grin that follows says otherwise.

Gaten leans back in his chair looking far too pleased with himself, like somebody who's just solved a puzzle nobody else realised existed. You have absolutely no idea what he's worked out, but judging by the way Joe suddenly finds the opposite wall fascinating, he apparently does.

Which somehow feels significantly worse.

The final scene of the day should be easy.

At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

A few lines. A bit of movement. One last setup. Then you're done. Home. A sofa, a hot water bottle, painkillers and several uninterrupted hours of feeling sorry for yourself. It's a comforting thought, and by this point in the afternoon you've become slightly obsessed with it. Every time the pain worsens, every time another wave of nausea rolls unpleasantly through your stomach, you remind yourself that you're nearly finished.

Just one more scene.

Then home.

The problem is that somewhere over the last hour you've stopped feeling merely uncomfortable and started feeling genuinely unwell.

Not in a way that immediately triggers alarm bells. Just enough that everything feels slightly wrong. The set seems hotter than it did this morning. The studio lights feel brighter, glaring against the back of your eyes whenever you look directly towards them. The constant noise of crew members talking, equipment moving, and directors discussing shots feels louder too, every sound arriving a fraction sharper than it should. You tell yourself you're tired. You tell yourself you've forgotten to eat enough. You tell yourself a lot of things, none of which feel particularly convincing anymore.

When somebody asks if you're ready, you nod automatically. The movement immediately makes you regret existing.

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through your stomach, stronger than the ones before it. You close your eyes briefly and focus on breathing through it, waiting for the sensation to pass. When you open them again, Joe is looking at you from the opposite side of the set. Not obviously. Not enough for anybody else to notice. Just enough.

The concern has been there all day. Persistent and unavoidable.

You give him the smallest nod imaginable, a silent attempt at reassurance. The look he gives you in return makes it painfully clear he doesn't buy it for a second.

Unfortunately, the director chooses that exact moment to call action.

The cameras start rolling.

Instinct takes over.

You hit your mark, deliver your first line and begin moving across the set exactly as you've done during rehearsal. For the first couple of steps everything feels normal enough. Then the room seems to shift very slightly sideways.

At first you assume you've stood up too quickly.

The explanation feels reasonable. Familiar. The sort of dizziness that usually disappears after a second or two.

Except this one doesn't.

Instead it lingers.

The lights overhead suddenly feel impossibly bright. The air feels too thick. The nausea returns harder than before, twisting unpleasantly through your stomach, and before you've fully processed that sensation something else arrives behind it.

Pain.

Real pain.

Not the dull ache that's been bothering you all day. Not the discomfort you've spent hours explaining away. Something sharp. Something vicious. The sensation tears through your abdomen so suddenly that every coherent thought inside your head simply vanishes. For one awful second you genuinely forget how to breathe.

The line you're supposed to be saying disappears completely.

The set disappears.

Everything narrows down to the overwhelming certainty that something is very, very wrong.

Voices become distant. Somebody says something you can't quite make out. The edges of your vision blur. The floor beneath your feet feels strangely unstable, as though the entire room has shifted half an inch in the wrong direction. You try to keep moving. Try to force yourself through it. Try to reach the end of the scene.

Your body refuses.

And that, more than the pain itself, is what finally frightens you.

Because for the first time all day you stop thinking about cramps and dehydration and tiredness and start confronting the possibility that this isn't something you can push through. Something is genuinely wrong. The realisation arrives only moments before your knees buckle beneath you.

The room tilts.

The floor rushes upwards.

And the last thing you hear before everything disappears is somebody shouting your name.

Not your character's name.

Yours.

Joe.

The sound cuts through the noise of the set with enough panic behind it to turn heads instantly.

Then darkness rushes in and swallows everything else.

Chaos follows.

Later, everybody tells the story slightly differently.

Some people remember the crew running forward. Others swear production called for medics first. Robin's actress maintains to this day that somebody screamed, although nobody can agree on who. The director insists he immediately stopped filming. A camera operator claims everything froze for several seconds before anybody moved. Years later, whenever the story comes up in interviews or behind-the-scenes conversations, people still disagree about the details.

Nobody remembers exactly what happened first. Everybody remembers Joe.

They remember how somehow he reached you before anyone else - before the crew, before the medic, before half the cast had even fully processed what was happening. It's the thing people talk about afterwards: the speed of it, the way he moved before anybody else did.

Your face is already in his hands. Your name is already leaving his mouth. Not your character's name. Yours. The distinction matters.

It matters because nobody has ever heard Joe sound like that before. Not on set. Not during interviews. Not during twelve-hour filming days. Not ever.

There is genuine panic in his voice, the sort that appears when somebody forgets themselves completely. One second he's calling your name, the next he's calling you sweetheart, honey, baby, every endearment he normally saves for private moments slipping out without him even realising. The words arrive automatically, pulled from somewhere deeper than conscious thought, because fear has a way of stripping people down to whatever matters most.

And right now the only thing that matters is you.

Joe isn't thinking about publicity. He isn't thinking about keeping the relationship secret. He isn't thinking about cast gossip or magazine headlines or the fact that there are several dozen people watching this unfold in real time. He's thinking about the frightening stillness of your body on the floor and the awful possibility that something might actually be wrong.

The rest of the set seems to realise what's happening in stages.

Crew members stop moving. Conversations die mid-sentence. Several people exchange looks. Somewhere in the background a production assistant is still trying to find a medic, but even that feels strangely distant compared to what's happening in the centre of the room. Because Joe is holding your face like he's terrified you'll disappear if he lets go, and everybody can see it.

The realisation spreads slowly.

Then all at once.

Across the room, Gaten watches the entire thing unfold with an expression that can only be described as vindicated. For one brief, glorious moment he looks less concerned about the medical emergency and more excited that his private investigation has apparently been successful.

His eyes widen.

His mouth falls open.

And then, with the timing of somebody who has just watched the final piece of a puzzle slot perfectly into place, he whispers:

"Oh my God."

Nobody answers him.

Mostly because everybody is too busy staring at Joe.

And Joe is too busy staring at you.

Nothing else exists for him anymore. Not the cameras. Not the crew. Not the fact that half the people in the room have just accidentally learned a very significant secret. None of it matters compared to the fact that you aren't opening your eyes.

So he keeps talking.

Keeps calling your name.

Keeps brushing your hair away from your face with hands that aren't quite steady.

And for the first time since the two of you started dating, Joe forgets to hide how much he loves you.

The entire set sees it happen.

The hospital diagnosis arrives a little while later.

By that point the initial panic has mostly burned itself out. The ambulance ride is over. The frantic rush of activity has settled into something quieter. Forms have been filled in. Questions have been answered. Various medical professionals have appeared, disappeared and reappeared again. Time has started doing that strange hospital thing where it simultaneously crawls and vanishes altogether.

Joe sits through all of it beside you.

He barely remembers most of it afterwards.

What he remembers are fragments.

The uncomfortable plastic chair beside your bed. The antiseptic smell hanging in the air. The way your hand felt cold when he held it. The sight of doctors speaking in calm, measured voices while his heart attempted to launch itself directly through his ribcage.

Eventually somebody gives the diagnosis.

Appendicitis.

Not cramps. Not dehydration. Not exhaustion.

Appendicitis.

The word lands heavily inside the room.

A doctor begins explaining what happens next. Something about inflammation. Something about infection. Something about surgery. Joe listens carefully. Or at least he tries to.

The problem is that every explanation seems to contain another sentence that makes his stomach drop.

"It was a good thing she came in when she did."

"If this had continued much longer-"

"We like to catch these before complications develop."

"She's very fortunate."

Fortunate. Lucky. Good timing. Caught early.

The words appear over and over again, wrapped in professional reassurance and calm medical language, but somehow they all seem to mean exactly the same thing.

This could have been worse.

Joe hates hearing it.

Not because the doctors are wrong.

Because they're right.

For most of the afternoon he'd convinced himself he was overreacting. Every time he'd asked if you were okay and you'd insisted you were fine, he'd forced himself to believe it. Every time he'd noticed you looking slightly paler, slightly more tired, slightly less like yourself, he'd reminded himself that you knew your own body better than anybody else did.

Now he's sitting in a hospital room listening to medical professionals explain how serious the situation could have become if you'd waited much longer.

The thought makes him feel vaguely sick.

Across the room, somebody is still talking.

Joe nods automatically whenever he's supposed to. Asks questions when necessary. Listens carefully. Appears calm.

Years of interviews and public appearances have made him very good at looking calm.

Inside, however, he feels like he's standing at the edge of a cliff looking down.

Because now that the immediate crisis is over, his brain has apparently decided to replay the day from the beginning.

You arriving on set looking uncomfortable. Brushing him off when he asked if you were okay. The way you kept pressing a hand against your stomach when you thought nobody was looking. The increasingly forced smiles. The moment your expression slipped in front of Gaten. The second before you collapsed.

The sound of your body hitting the floor.

That one keeps coming back.

Over and over again.

The doctor says something else, and Joe realises he's missed half of it.

"Sorry?"

The explanation is repeated.

This time he catches enough to understand that everything should be okay. Surgery. Recovery. Rest. A few unpleasant weeks. Nothing life-threatening now that they've caught it.

Now.

The word sticks.

Now.

Not earlier. Not this morning.

Now.

Joe rubs a hand across his face and lets out a slow breath.

The doctor mistakes it for relief.

Maybe it is relief. Partly.

Mostly it's the delayed realisation of how terrified he's been.

Because all afternoon he'd watched you insist you were fine.

And all afternoon he'd let himself hope you were right.

Now he's discovering just how wrong both of you were.

For the first time since arriving at the hospital, Joe has to look away for a moment.

Just a moment. Long enough to collect himself.

Long enough to push down the horrible image of what might have happened if you'd decided to wait until tomorrow.

When he looks back again, the doctor is still talking, still explaining recovery timelines and post-operative care and all the practical details that come after a diagnosis.

Joe listens. Nods. Asks sensible questions. Acts exactly the way he's supposed to.

But underneath all of it, one thought continues looping relentlessly through his head.

Thank God.

Thank God.

Thank God she came in when she did.

When you wake up properly afterwards, the room is dim.

For a few disorientating seconds you have absolutely no idea where you are.

Everything feels heavy. Your limbs. Your eyelids. Your thoughts. The world seems wrapped in a strange fog that makes it difficult to separate dreams from reality. Somewhere nearby a machine beeps steadily. The air smells faintly antiseptic. Your stomach aches in a way that feels entirely different from before, dull and sore rather than sharp, while your throat feels unpleasantly dry every time you swallow.

Slowly, painfully, the memories begin returning. The set. The pain. Falling. Hospital. Surgery. One after another, they slot back into place until the reality of what happened settles heavily over you.

Oh.

Right.

The realisation settles heavily over you just as your eyes finally focus properly on the room around you.

And then they land on Joe.

Of course he's there.

The sight of him is so unsurprising that it almost makes you laugh.

Joe is sitting in the chair beside your bed with one arm folded across his chest and the other draped awkwardly over the armrest, looking exactly like somebody who hasn't willingly left this room for several hours. His hair is a complete mess. His eyes are shadowed with exhaustion. He's still wearing the same hoodie he had on when you arrived at the hospital, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms as though he'd rolled them up at some point and forgotten to put them back down again.

Honestly, he looks terrible.

For a moment neither of you says anything. You're still waking up properly, your thoughts moving through syrup while the remnants of anaesthetic and exhaustion cling stubbornly to the edges of your mind. Joe, meanwhile, seems completely frozen. Then relief crashes across his face so suddenly it almost hurts to look at, the tension finally leaving his shoulders as though somebody has cut a wire holding him upright.

For the first time since you've opened your eyes, he looks like somebody who's breathing normally.

"Hey."

Your voice comes out rough and scratchy from disuse.

Joe is moving before you've even finished speaking. One hand reaches automatically for the cup of water beside the bed. The other steadies the straw while you take a cautious sip. Only once he's satisfied that you've successfully consumed water without immediately dying does he relax slightly.

"Hey."

The response sounds deceptively normal.

You know him too well for that. Beneath the casual greeting is something fragile. Something exhausted.

You manage a small smile. "You look terrible."

For a second Joe simply stares at you.

Then he laughs. The sound is brief. Soft and suspiciously emotional.

"Yeah, well."

The understatement is so ridiculous that you almost laugh yourself. Almost. The movement reminds your abdomen that you've recently had surgery. You immediately reconsider.

Joe notices the wince - of course he does - and his expression changes instantly.

"You okay?"

The concern arrives so fast it's almost comical.

"I'm fine."

The words leave your mouth automatically.

Joe raises an eyebrow. The look is so familiar that it feels oddly comforting.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

You glance down.

Joe's hand is still wrapped around yours. At some point during the last several hours he'd apparently taken hold of it and never let go.

For a moment neither of you comments on that. Neither of you needs to. His grip tightens slightly. Only slightly. Just enough that you notice. Just enough that it feels suspiciously like he's checking you're really there. The thought settles somewhere warm inside your chest.

The moment is unfortunately ruined by the door opening. Both of you glance up just in time to see Gaten walk into the room, immediately spot the fact that Joe is still holding your hand and light up like a child who's just discovered Christmas has arrived several months early.

"Oh."

The grin spreads slowly across his face.

"Oh, this is incredible."

You close your eyes immediately.

"No."

"How long?"

"Gaten."

"Seriously."

"No."

"You literally exposed yourselves in front of half the crew."

Joe drops his head backwards against the chair and stares up at the ceiling. You briefly consider pulling your blanket over your face and never speaking again. Gaten, meanwhile, looks impossibly pleased with himself. The medical emergency has apparently done absolutely nothing to diminish his excitement about being right.

"I knew it."

"You did not."

"I absolutely did."

"You had no proof."

"I had vibes."

Joe lets out a tired groan.

"I can't believe your evidence was vibes."

"My evidence was excellent."

"Your evidence was insane."

"My evidence was correct."

Unfortunately, that last part is difficult to argue with.

Gaten folds his arms triumphantly. You hate how pleased he looks. Joe hates how pleased he looks. Gaten, judging by the enormous grin currently occupying most of his face, loves exactly how pleased he looks.

"I knew something was up," he continues. "The constant checking on each other. The weird eye contact. The suspicious water bottle deliveries."

"Suspicious water bottle deliveries?" Joe repeats.

"You left her three drinks in one afternoon."

"She wasn't feeling well."

"Exactly."

Joe opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. Because annoyingly, there isn't really a defence for that.

Gaten points triumphantly. "See?"

"You are the worst."

"Thank you."

And somehow, despite everything, despite the surgery and the exhaustion and the lingering ache in your abdomen, despite the fact that half the cast apparently now knows your secret, the room feels lighter than it has all day.

Mostly because you're awake. Mostly because you're okay. And mostly because Joe is sitting beside your bed looking exhausted, relieved and hopelessly in love all at the same time.

Even if Gaten is never going to let either of you forget it.

He does eventually leave.

Unfortunately, not before promising to tell the story at every possible opportunity for the rest of your lives.

The threat hangs in the air long after he's gone, accompanied by the distinct feeling that he is being entirely serious. You have absolutely no doubt that every birthday, every cast reunion and every vaguely relevant conversation for the next forty years will somehow circle back to the time he correctly identified a secret relationship and watched the two of you accidentally expose yourselves in front of half the Stranger Things production team.

The moment the door closes behind him, however, the room feels different.

Quieter.

Not physically quieter. Hospitals are never really quiet. Somewhere down the corridor a trolley rattles past. A machine beeps steadily in another room. Voices drift faintly through walls and half-open doors. But the frantic energy that has been carrying both of you through the last several hours finally begins to settle. The jokes are gone. The interruptions are gone. What's left behind feels smaller somehow. More intimate. More honest.

Joe settles back into the chair beside your bed, and for a while neither of you says anything.

The adrenaline has burned itself out now.

The panic has nowhere left to hide.

For the first time since you collapsed, neither of you is reacting to an emergency. There are no doctors asking questions, no nurses checking observations, no cast members demanding answers. There's just the two of you sitting in the dim light of a hospital room, exhausted enough that pretending feels like more effort than it's worth.

Eventually you glance across at him.

Joe is already looking at you.

The sight doesn't surprise you nearly as much as it probably should.

His expression softens almost immediately when your eyes meet, though something about it still seems tired around the edges. Not physically tired. Something deeper than that. The sort of exhaustion that settles in after fear, when your body finally realises it's safe enough to stop running on adrenaline.

"What?"

The question comes out quietly.

Joe shakes his head.

For a moment you think he's going to leave it there.

Then:

"You should've told me."

The words are so soft you almost miss them.

There is no anger in them. No accusation. No frustration. Just exhaustion and something else underneath it that takes you a second to recognise.

Hurt.

You look down at your joined hands.

"I thought it was cramps."

"I know."

"I genuinely thought it was cramps."

"I know."

The conversation feels strangely familiar, as though you've both already had it a hundred times in your heads while waiting for surgery to finish. Neither of you is really arguing. You're simply standing on opposite sides of the same terrible day, trying to make sense of it.

Silence settles between you again.

Joe rubs a hand slowly across his face before letting it rest against the back of his neck. When he finally speaks again, his voice sounds rougher than before.

"You hit the floor."

The words land harder than they should. Not because they're dramatic. Because they're simple. Because they're true.

Something twists painfully inside your chest. Not guilt. Not exactly.

Understanding, because suddenly you hear it. The thing he's been trying not to say all evening. The thing he's spent hours pushing down beneath practical questions and hospital updates and polite conversations with doctors.

Fear. Real fear. You can hear it now threaded through every word. The fear he hadn't allowed himself to feel while everything was happening. The fear that's finally catching up now that you're safe enough for him to stop being useful.

Joe lets out a slow breath and leans forward until his forehead rests carefully against yours. The movement is gentle and instinctive, and for a moment neither of you moves. The room around you seems to fade slightly at the edges.

"Next time something feels wrong," he says quietly, his eyes still closed, "you tell me."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Small, embarrassed, a little guilty.

"Baby."

The endearment arrives automatically and you feel his mouth twitch against a smile.

"Sorry."

This time Joe opens his eyes. His hand shifts slightly in yours, his thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles in a movement so familiar it almost makes your chest ache.

"Don't apologise."

The words are immediate. Certain. As though he's spent hours thinking about them.

"Just stay alive."

The tears arrive embarrassingly fast after that. You don't even have time to be annoyed about it. One second you're fine, and the next your vision is blurring.

Joe immediately leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another. Then a third, softer than the first two. The sort of kisses that don't really mean anything specific beyond you're here. The sort of kisses people give when they've spent the day imagining what it would feel like if you weren't.

Neither of you mentions the tears. Neither of you needs to.

Hours later, when visiting time technically ends, a nurse has to come into the room and explain - twice - that Joe cannot actually live there. He argues his case with surprising sincerity. The nurse remains unmoved.

Eventually he leaves. Reluctantly. After extracting approximately seven promises that you'll call if you need anything, text if you wake up, press the nurse call button if you feel unwell and generally continue existing until morning.

Even then, he spends the next twelve hours calling every opportunity he gets. Just checking in. Just making sure you're awake. Just making sure you're comfortable. Just making sure you're still there.

And every single time you answer, the relief in his voice sounds exactly the same.

dividers: saradika-graphics

to be honest, you’d come close to doing it yourself multiple times. you’d watched and favorited enough tiktok tutorials to feel like it was simple enough. but once you stood in the bathroom in front the mirror, that confidence left you.

your boyfriend, on the other hand, gave himself haircuts on the regular. and while sometimes, he did chop his bangs a little too short, he was pretty decent at it. his confidence made up for any mistakes made. not only does joe cut his own hair, but he has also designated himself as the barber in his friend group.

so it shouldn’t have surprised you when joe was sat next to you on the couch, chin resting on your shoulder, watching as you watched yet another tutorial had offered up his services.

“why don’t you just let me do it?”

you crane your neck to look at him, a bewildered look on your face.

“yeah right.” you snort, shaking your head as you turn back to your phone.

“babe, i’m serious. i can do it. i cut my hair all the time. and wes and javi and jake.” joe says with a pout.

“yeah, and all four of you have the same exact haircut. you only know one haircut and i’d rather not look like an oasis reject.” you tease.

“you’re so dramatic. just let me do it. look, i’ve been watching tutorials too. just let me do a little bit and if you hate it or i mess up, i will pay for you to have your hair done.”

you stare at joe for a long while. and maybe it was his pleading puppy dog eyes or the fact that you really did trust him, but ten minutes later you’re sat in the bathroom with a towel draped over your shoulders.

you watched as joe set out his scissors and your hairbrush then dug around in his drawer for a comb.

it was cute, the way he was taking this extremely seriously.

“okay so the easiest way is to do the two ponytails and cut from there. let’s see…” joe mumbles, mostly to himself. he brushes through your hair then begins parting your hair meticulously, even going as far as to find the apex of your head with the comb. a very important detail, according to him.

your eyes follow his every move in the mirror as he over directs your hair to the front of your head, tying it into two ponytails.

“this seems like a horrible idea,” you mumble and joe smirks.

“i’ll only do a little, don’t worry.” he replies, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

joe gets to work cutting off a few inches of each section. he’s locked in, his glasses are sitting low on his nose as he carefully examines each cut before he makes it.

soon enough, he’s setting the scissors down and taking the hair ties out your hair. your hair falls around your face and joe begins to straighten it out.

“that was alarmingly quick.”

“shh.” joe hushes you, picking the scissors back up. “i’m not done.”

you huff, closing your eyes tightly as he begins to take sections and make more cuts.

“now you’re just cutting willy nilly.” you gripe, biting your lip nervously.

“i’m perfecting it. let me cook.”

after a few more minutes, joe steps back, sets down his scissors, and dramatically dusts off his hands.

“not to toot my own horn, but i think i did a pretty damn good job.”

you stand from you chair and brush of some of the hair littering your shirt before looking in the mirror.

“joe!” you gasp, hands immediately flying to your hair. your fingers rake through the strands and the freshly done layers.

“i know, i know. call me picasso.” he says smugly.

it looked perfect. in fact, it looked just like how you’d imagine it would look after getting it done at a salon. and you got it done for free in your bathroom by your boyfriend.

“i’m actually so impressed, babe. you did so good.”

“see, you should’ve never doubted me.” joe says from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. he takes in your appearance, your new hair that suited you so well, your bright smile that suited you even better.

“you look beautiful.” he says as he rests his chin on your shoulder. you meet his eyes in the mirror and smile softly as you lean back into him.

“thanks to you. my new personal hairdresser. congrats you are now my elite employee.”

He wanders over and leans in for a kiss.

He doesn't get very far. Your palm lands squarely against his face and stops him dead.

Joe blinks. "What?"

You stare at him. "Absolutely not."

His eyebrows shoot upwards. "What?"

"You smell like a pub smoking area."

His eyebrows lift. "I had one cigarette."

"Exactly."

The confusion on his face is so genuine that for a moment you almost laugh. It's as though the two of you have witnessed completely different events. As though he genuinely cannot understand how smoking a cigarette could possibly have resulted in smelling like a cigarette.

The thing about Joe is that once something becomes a joke, it remains a joke forever. Most people experience a funny interaction, laugh about it, and move on with their lives. Joe treats humour like a long-term commitment.

Which means that over the next few weeks the same scene repeats itself over and over again.

Joe smokes a cigarette. Joe forgets. Joe sees you. Joe attempts to kiss you. Joe gets rejected.

Every single time. Without fail.

The truly baffling part is that he never seems to remember it's going to happen. He'll wander into the kitchen while you're making tea, lean down automatically, and look genuinely shocked when you grab his shoulders and physically hold him at arm's length.

"No."

"What now?"

"What do you mean, what now?"

"I brushed my teeth."

"You had a cigarette ten minutes ago."

Joe looks deeply betrayed by this information. As though somebody else must have smoked it. As though the cigarette happened to him.

"You remembered."

"Joe."

"Right."

"Joe."

"Okay."

You release him.

Joe immediately tries again.

"JOE."

After that comes the loophole phase.

You should have known there would be a loophole phase.

Joe is many wonderful things. Joe is patient, kind, affectionate, funny and occasionally alarmingly intelligent, but he is also a man who becomes absurdly committed to solving problems in the strangest manner.

The first attempt is chewing gum.

This works for approximately three days before he becomes convinced he's cracked the code. He appears beside you one afternoon with the confidence of somebody returning from a successful scientific expedition and immediately expects access to physical affection.

You take one sniff.

"No."

"What?"

"I can smell mint and cigarette."

Joe frowns.

"That's impossible."

"It smells like a cigarette attended a dental appointment."

The look of personal offence that follows carries him through the rest of the evening.

The second attempt involves breath mints. The third involves mouthwash. The fourth somehow involves both simultaneously. The fifth appears to require enough mint products to preserve a corpse.

None of them work. Or at least none of them work well enough for Joe's liking.

Because the problem is no longer the kisses. The problem is that Joe has accidentally turned the entire thing into a challenge.

One evening you find him standing in front of the bathroom mirror staring at the back of a mouthwash bottle with remarkable concentration.

"What are you doing?"

Without looking up, he says, "Research."

You immediately start laughing.

He looks offended. Again.

"You don't understand."

"Oh, I understand perfectly."

"No, you don't."

"I absolutely do."

"You haven't been denied access to your girlfriend for like two consecutive weeks."

The fact he says this with complete sincerity only makes it worse.

You laugh so hard you nearly have to sit down.

The Fisherman's Friends arrive on a Tuesday.

You remember the day specifically because Joe walks into the flat carrying a packet of them with the expression of somebody who has personally cured a disease. The confidence alone is concerning.

You narrow your eyes immediately. "What have you got there?"

His smile widens. "A solution."

You hold out your hand. Joe drops the packet into your palm.

You stare at it. Then stare at him. Then stare at it again.

"Joe."

"What?"

"These are Fisherman's Friends."

"Exactly."

"These smell stronger than cigarettes."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

"It says mint."

"It smells like industrial cleaning products."

Joe snatches the packet back.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about."

"You haven't even tried one."

"I'm not trying one."

"You should."

"I absolutely should not."

Unfortunately, the Fisherman's Friends work.

Enough that Joe begins carrying them everywhere.

Everywhere.

Jacket pockets. Kitchen drawers. Car glovebox. Bedside table.

You once discover an emergency packet inside a guitar case. Another somehow appears in the washing machine. At one point you're reasonably certain there are more Fisherman's Friends in the flat than actual food.

Eventually the entire relationship develops its own bureaucratic process. Smoking a cigarette is no longer simply smoking a cigarette. It requires administration. Documentation. Verification. Approval.

You begin demanding inspections.

Joe begins submitting appeals.

"One Fisherman's Friend."

"Two."

"One and a half."

"Joe."

"Fine."

The negotiations continue.

By the third week, Joe has become genuinely ridiculous.

You're curled up on the sofa reading when the front door opens and he steps inside. The second he sees you, he stops. Reaches into his pocket. Produces a Fisherman's Friend. Unwraps it. Puts it into his mouth.

Then folds his arms. Waiting.

You lower your book.

Joe remains motionless.

"What are you doing?"

His eyes narrow. "What am I doing?"

"Yes."

"I'm following the rules."

You laugh.

Joe does not.

"You made the rules."

"You've turned it into a government process."

"You made it a government process."

"You carry emergency breath sweets."

"You made me carry emergency breath sweets."

The fact that he sounds genuinely aggrieved somehow makes it even funnier.

Eventually he walks over and stops directly in front of you, arms still folded, clearly expecting a formal review.

He sighs. "You done?"

"Maybe."

His eyes narrow further. "Can I get a kiss now?"

You pretend to think about it.

Joe looks horrified.

You lean forward, slowly, deliberately.

Then pause.

Joe groans immediately.

You ignore him.

Tilt your head.

And sniff.

Once. Then again. For scientific accuracy.

Joe looks personally victimised by the entire process.

You hum thoughtfully.

"Interesting."

"Don't."

"Very interesting."

"Oh my God."

You perform one final sniff inspection before grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him towards you.

Joe kisses you instantly, like he's been waiting all day. One hand settles against your waist while the other slides into your hair, and he makes that familiar soft sound that always seems to appear whenever he's particularly pleased about something.

When you finally pull away, he's smiling. That stupid soft smile. The one that always looks a little surprised. Like he's never quite gotten used to being loved.

"There," you say, patting his chest. "Congratulations."

Joe laughs, dropping his forehead lightly against yours.

"You're impossible."

"You're the one carrying enough Fisherman's Friends to supply a small pharmacy."

"You know what?"

"What?"

"It was worth it."

The answer arrives immediately. No hesitation. No thought. Just certainty.

And that, more than anything else, makes your chest ache a little.

Because every time you create some ridiculous new rule, Joe treats it like the most important thing in the world. Not because he agrees with it. Not because he necessarily understands it. Simply because it matters to you.

And for Joe, that has always been reason enough.

A moment later he leans forward for another kiss.

You stop him immediately.

His face falls.

"What now?"

You wrinkle your nose.

"Honestly? I can still smell the Fisherman's Friend."

Joe stares at you.

You burst out laughing.

And somewhere between the look on his face and the way he immediately reaches for you anyway, you realise neither of you is ever going to let this joke die.

dividers: saradika-graphics

You take a sip of your own drink and continue talking to Robin.

The second time is slightly stranger.

"Can you hold my sunglasses?"

You blink. "They're on your head."

"I know."

"Then why am I holding them?"

Steve removes them anyway and places them into your hand.

"I'll be right back."

Then he leaves. Robin watches him go. Then looks at the sunglasses. Then looks at you.

"Huh."

You frown. "What?"

"Nothing."

The third time, Robin starts paying attention. The fourth time, she starts keeping count. By the fifth, she's actively losing patience, because apparently Steve has developed an entirely new hobby.

Giving you things.

You don't notice it immediately because each individual occurrence seems perfectly reasonable on its own. Hold my drink. Can you grab this? Can you keep these safe for me? Entirely innocent. Entirely explainable. Until approximately an hour into the party when Steve has somehow managed to hand you one drink, a second drink, his keys, his sunglasses, a packet of crisps, two bottle caps, a hoodie, and, for reasons nobody can adequately explain, a folded napkin.

The napkin is where Robin breaks.

"Okay."

You look up to find Robin is staring. Not at you. At Steve, who is currently returning from the drinks table. Again.

"What?"

Robin points. "What was the napkin for?"

Steve blinks. "The napkin?"

"Yes, Steve. The napkin."

His eyes flick briefly towards you, then away. "I needed somewhere to put it."

Robin stares. You stare. Steve stares. The silence stretches.

"Steve."

"What?"

"You handed it to her."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it. Closes it.

Robin's smile is downright evil.

The thing about Steve Harrington is that physical touch has always been his first language. Not because he's particularly aware of it. Quite the opposite, actually. Steve doesn't notice half the things he does. The hand on somebody's shoulder. The way he leans closer when people are talking. The absent-minded touches. The habit of bumping knees beneath tables. The way affection seems to leak out of him through physical contact whether he intends it to or not.

Which means he doesn't notice the pattern.

At least not consciously.

He doesn't notice that every time he hands you something, his fingers brush yours. Or that his eyes always linger for half a second afterwards. Or that he seems weirdly pleased every single time it happens.

He just knows he likes it.

Likes being near you. Likes talking to you. Likes finding you in crowded rooms. Likes hearing you laugh. Likes the way your entire face changes when you're trying not to smile.

The object itself is almost irrelevant.

The point is you.

Robin knows this. Robin knows this almost immediately. The rest of the party is beginning to suspect it too.

By ten o'clock, Steve has become genuinely ridiculous.

You are standing near the garden fence talking to Nancy when he appears beside you seemingly from nowhere.

"Hold this."

A cup appears in your hand. You stare down at it, then up at Steve.

"Why?"

"I need both hands."

"For what?"

Steve pauses. Looks around. Realises he has no answer.

"I'll think of something."

Then he walks away.

Nancy lowers her drink. "Is he okay?"

You laugh. "I think so."

Nancy watches Steve disappear into the crowd. "He does realise he likes you, right?"

Your laugh dies instantly. "What?"

Nancy blinks. "Oh."

You stare. Nancy stares.

Across the garden, Steve is attempting to open a bag of crisps, completely oblivious.

"Oh my God."

Nancy winces. "You didn't know?"

Suddenly everything becomes very difficult.

Because once somebody points it out, you can't stop noticing it.

The way Steve always seems to appear wherever you are. The way he seeks you out in crowded rooms. The way he remembers tiny things. The way he smiles differently at you than he does at anybody else. The fact that he's handed you approximately fourteen objects over the course of one evening despite having no practical reason to do so.

You find yourself watching him.

Which turns out to be a mistake.

Because Steve is unfairly easy to look at during summer. Shirtless and in swim trunks by the pool. His hair is a mess. The warm evening air has left a faint flush across his cheeks. And every few minutes he glances towards you to check where you are. Not obviously. Just enough. Like somebody making sure they haven't lost sight of something important.

Something in your chest does an unpleasant little somersault.

The final straw arrives close to midnight.

The party is beginning to thin out. People are leaving. The music has softened. The air smells faintly of grass and warm pavement. You are helping tidy up when Steve appears beside you, carrying absolutely nothing.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then, "Hold this for me?"

You immediately start laughing.

Steve looks startled. "What?"

"Steve."

"What?"

"You're not holding anything."

His mouth opens. Then closes again.

You watch realisation hit him in real time. Slowly. Painfully. Like watching somebody step on a rake.

"Oh."

Across the garden, Robin physically doubles over. Nancy has abandoned all attempts at subtlety. Even Eddie is laughing.

"Oh my God," Steve mutters.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God."

The tips of his ears turn red.

You smile.

The poor man looks genuinely horrified.

Which would be more convincing if he wasn't smiling too.

For a moment neither of you says anything. The garden continues humming quietly around you. Somebody carries empty bottles towards the recycling. Music drifts softly from the speaker. Somewhere near the house, Robin is still laughing.

Then Steve rubs a hand across the back of his neck. "Okay."

You raise an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"I might have been handing you things."

"Might have been?"

"Fine. I was."

The smile widens despite yourself.

Steve points accusingly. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm absolutely making fun of you."

"That's fair."

The honesty of it catches you off guard. For a second, Steve just looks at you. No drinks. No sunglasses. No excuses. Just Steve.

And suddenly the evening feels much quieter than it did a minute ago. Much smaller. Much more dangerous.

"You know," you say carefully, "you could've just held my hand."

Steve blinks.

The entire garden seems to stop.

Robin makes a noise somewhere in the distance.

Then, slowly, Steve smiles. A real smile. The sort that begins somewhere deep inside him before spreading outwards.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Steve takes a step closer. Close enough now that neither of you needs an excuse. Close enough that there is no longer any need for drinks or sunglasses or bottle caps or napkins.

His hand brushes yours.

Deliberately this time.

Not an accident. Not a trick. Not a reason.

Just because he wants to.

The smile that appears afterwards is so stupidly happy that it makes your chest ache.

Across the garden, Robin throws both hands into the air.

"FINALLY."

She's got a point.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Joe groans. The sound is so dramatic that you finally glance up from your book. His curls have completely surrendered to the humidity. They are sticking out in approximately six different directions, falling into his eyes every few seconds. Normally you love his hair. Right now it looks like he's been electrocuted.

The worst part is that he's somehow still attractive.

Hot, sweaty, and very, very attractive.

Unfortunately, Joe appears to be suffering from a similar problem.

Specifically, you.

More specifically, the shorts.

They aren't special. They're old. Faded. Tiny, admittedly, but only because everything else feels unbearable. The weather has reduced your wardrobe to whatever involves the least amount of fabric possible. Any reasonable person would understand this.

Joe understands it perfectly.

That is the problem.

You notice him noticing around lunchtime. Not because he's subtle. Because he's terrible at being subtle. You walk into the kitchen looking for ice and immediately find him leaning against the counter staring at you with the concentration of a man trying to solve a particularly difficult equation.

"Joe."

His eyes snap back to your face. "What?"

"You were staring."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

His gaze flickers downward for approximately half a second before returning. The man has the audacity to smile.

"You make a compelling argument."

You throw a tea towel at him.

He catches it.

Still smiling.

The traitor.

The thing about long-term relationships is that attraction becomes part of the furniture. People always talk about the beginning. The butterflies. The first kiss. The excitement. Nobody talks about what happens afterwards. Nobody talks about waking up one random Tuesday and discovering you're still just as distracted by the person you've been living alongside for years.

Nobody talks about standing in a kitchen discussing absolutely nothing important while suddenly becoming aware of how much you love somebody's laugh. Or the shape of their hands. Or the fact they've stolen your favourite glass again. The attraction doesn't disappear. It settles. Deepens. Becomes woven through everything else.

Which means that by the fifth day of the heatwave, both of you are becoming increasingly aware of each other.

Not intentionally.

You'd love for it to be intentional.

At least then somebody could be blamed.

Instead, it's just happening.

A glance lasting slightly too long. A hand resting somewhere for a moment longer than necessary. The increasingly dangerous realisation that Joe keeps looking at you like that.

The first near-disaster occurs in the kitchen.

You are attempting to make iced coffee. Joe is supposed to be helping. Instead, he's leaning against the counter watching you.

"You're staring again."

"I'm looking."

"That's the same thing."

"No, staring is rude."

You narrow your eyes. "And this isn't?"

Joe considers. "Maybe a little."

You laugh despite yourself.

Which turns out to be a mistake.

Because the moment you laugh, Joe smiles.

And the moment Joe smiles, something goes catastrophically wrong with your ability to think.

The kitchen suddenly feels much smaller. The air feels heavier. Joe takes one step closer. Then another. The grin fades slightly.

You know that look.

You have known that look for years.

"Joe."

"What?"

"It's ninety degrees."

"I know."

"We're both sweating."

"I know."

"The fan is literally pointed at us."

"I know."

You stare at him.

Joe stares back.

Neither of you moves.

Then, "Come here."

You immediately start laughing. "Absolutely not."

The laugh only makes things worse.

Joe drops his head back dramatically. "You're killing me."

"Joe, it's too hot."

"It doesn't feel that hot."

"That is the most obvious lie you've ever told."

He gestures vaguely at the room.

The room, unfortunately, is proving your point. Somewhere behind you the ice in your drink cracks loudly. The fan continues making noises that suggest it may not survive the summer.

"You know what your problem is?" you ask.

"What?"

"Delusion."

"I think you'll find it's devotion."

You nearly choke on your coffee.

The problem is that Joe keeps forgetting.

Every cold shower seems to reset him. For approximately fifteen glorious minutes afterwards, he becomes a functional human being again. Rational. Reasonable. Capable of holding conversations without staring.

Then the temperature creeps back up.

Then you walk past.

Then suddenly he's back to square one.

By evening, this has become a recurring issue. Joe emerges from the bathroom with damp curls and renewed optimism. Water still glistens along the back of his neck. He looks cooler. More relaxed. Like somebody who has finally remembered what comfort feels like.

You take one look at him.

He takes one look at you.

Ten minutes later he's attempting to convince you that the heat isn't actually that bad.

"Joe."

"What?"

"It is literally that bad."

"Maybe we're being dramatic."

You laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink.

The man looks genuinely hopeful.

As though optimism alone might lower the temperature.

Later, you're both lying on opposite sides of the bed beneath the struggling fan. The fan is losing its battle spectacularly. The room is still too warm. The sheets are unbearable. The air feels thick enough to chew.

Joe rolls onto his side.

You immediately know that expression. "No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

His grin widens. "You know me so well."

"Unfortunately."

Joe inches closer.

You push him away with one hand against his shoulder.

Not because you want him further away.

Because you're trying to preserve what remains of your sanity.

"It's too hot."

"You're breaking my heart."

"It's too hot."

"You're so mean to me."

"It's too hot."

Joe flops dramatically onto his back. The mattress bounces. You laugh.

He points accusingly at you. "This is your fault."

"My fault?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Joe gestures vaguely.

At you.

At the room.

At existence.

His argument appears to end there.

The funniest part is that neither of you is actually frustrated with each other.

You're frustrated with the weather.

With the temperature.

With the fact that the entire apartment feels permanently five degrees warmer than should be legally permitted.

Because every time Joe reaches for your hand, you take it. Every time he drapes an arm around your shoulders, you lean closer. Every time he kisses your forehead while passing through the kitchen, your heart still does that stupid little thing it has always done.

The heatwave hasn't changed any of that.

It's simply made everything slightly ridiculous.

Which is why, sometime after midnight, you find yourselves sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor sharing melting ice cream straight from the tub. Neither of you can sleep. Neither of you can cool down. Neither of you can stop smiling.

Joe nudges your foot with his.

You nudge him back.

The exchange continues for several minutes.

Eventually he reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face. The gesture is completely ordinary.

The look that follows isn't.

For a moment neither of you says anything.

Then Joe sighs a long, suffering sigh. "Oh my God."

You immediately start laughing. "What?"

"This heatwave is ruining my life."

His expression is so genuine that you nearly choke on your ice cream.

"You'll survive."

"Will I?"

"Yes."

Joe studies you for a second.

Then smiles.

Slowly.

Fondly.

Hopelessly.

"Probably."

And somehow, despite the temperature, despite the lack of sleep, despite the fact you're both slowly being cooked alive by the hottest summer in recorded history, you find yourself smiling too.

Because the heatwave will end eventually. The weather will break. The nights will cool. Life will go back to normal.

For now, though, there is something strangely lovely about this. The iced coffees. The open windows. The ridiculous shorts. The endless teasing. The simple fact that even when neither of you can sleep, you'd still rather be awake together.

Joe reaches across the floor and takes your hand.

Warm.

Familiar.

Home.

The fan rattles uselessly in the corner.

Joe squeezes your hand once.

For now, that seems like the more effective solution.

He leaned closed, “sweetheart?” He asked in a soft tone.

You couldn’t open your mouth to respond, the pain that was radiating downwards made your muscles spasm and stole the breath right from your lungs, leaving you curled tighter into yourself as you waited for the worst of it to pass. A sharp sting suddenly shot through your lower stomach, drawing a small gasp to slip past your lips as a single tear rolled down your cheek.

Steve immediately noticed, abandoning his past hesitation to scoop you up into his arms. He hated seeing you hurt—especially when he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Oh baby, I know. What hurts?” He had one hand around your waist, rubbing slow circles over your back as he offered a cocoon for you to hide in.

You buried your face into his chest, inhaling his pheromones deeply and letting out a small sound—the only thing close to words you could speak.

“Everything, huh?” He said gently, keeping that syrupy tone to his voice that made your sensitive self want to cry.

You nodded against his chest, “mhm.”

“How about we get you somewhere you can properly rest, I bet that cushion isn’t so comfy on your back. That way I can bring you all the things you need.” Steve offered, though you didn’t feel like moving, wanting to stay right where you were.

You never end up having to move anyway. The moment Steve sees the tiniest wince you make trying to sit up, he was already shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

Before you could protest, he slid an arm beneath your knees while the other held you protectively towards him, getting up to make the journey to your shared bedroom. He carried you like you weighed nothing, like taking care of you was instinct to him.

Steve lowered you onto the mattress with impossible care, nothing rough or hurried about his movements. He reached behind your head to fluff the pillows, whispering low, “you know you don’t have to suffer in silence?”

His shoulders visibly relaxed at your much more comfortable state. “I’ll be right back.”

Before you could ask where he was going, begging him to stay, he disappeared. A few moments later he returned—carrying everything you’d been secretly wishing for.

He carefully lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to slide the heating pad against your lower stomach, right where the ache had been burning the most. Steve chuckled at your immediate sigh of relief, his expression softening.

Then he set the bundle of snacks beside the bed within easy reach, already opening the wrapped chocolate bar to break off a small piece.

You blinked at him when he raised it to your mouth. “You don’t have to feed me.”

Steve rolled his eyes, keeping the piece hovered patiently in front of your mouth. “I want to.”

You accepted it without further delay, the smile that appeared on his face was entirely too pleased. “Good girl.” He spoke. You ignored the way your face had turned warm.

When the mug of steaming tea had cooled enough, he lifted it to your mouth with a hand cupping the underside. “Slowly.” He instructed, watching as you took a few sips.

The warmth of it spread through your chest, similar to the warmth you felt whenever you were reminded of Steve’s love. Steve set the mug back down before turning towards you once again, waiting for whatever else you wished for.

“Anything else you need?” He seemed almost excited as he asked the question, ready on his hands and feet to accommodate you.

You took a second to look at him, knowing immediately the last thing you didn’t just want—but needed.

“Only you.” Barely above a whisper, yet Steve heard every word.

His heart melted in his chest, letting out a found scoff. “I can do that.” He settled on, climbing into the bed beside you.

He moved slow enough in order to not jostle you or make things worse. His arm draped loosely around your shoulders while his fingers slipped into your hair, combing through the strands of your scalp repeatedly.

The steady motion gradually pulled the tension from your body, until your focus remained on the low breathing of Steve behind you. Your eyes grew heavier at the quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere, Steve lowered his mouth to press a lingering kiss just above your eyebrow.

“Get some sleep, baby. I love you.” He hummed softly, but you had already knocked out.

"Jesus Christ."

You glance over.

"What?"

"Are you dead?"

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

"No."

Joe turns your hand over between both of his, frowning at your fingers like they've personally offended him.

"Baby, you're freezing."

"I'm always freezing."

"I know," he says. "That's the concerning part."

You shrug.

Because it isn't concerning.

It's normal.

You've spent so long feeling cold that the absence of it would probably feel stranger.

Joe looks unconvinced.

Over the next few weeks, he starts noticing all the other things you've stopped noticing too.

The second sign is the stairs.

Not because anything dramatic happens. In fact, Joe doesn't realise at first why something feels different.

He only notices tiny things.

The way you pause halfway up more often than you used to. The way you reach the top slightly breathless despite insisting you're fine. The way your hand lingers against the bannister for a second before continuing down the hallway.

Most people probably wouldn't notice.

Joe does. Because Joe notices everything.

One afternoon he finds you standing at the top of the stairs staring vaguely into space.

Not upset or distracted. Just tired.

A kind of tiredness that seems to reach all the way down into your bones.

"Hey."

You blink.

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

Joe waits.

You stare back.

Eventually you sigh.

"...I forgot why I came upstairs."

His face softens immediately.

"Oh."

You laugh weakly.

"Yeah."

The thing about brain fog is that it's difficult to explain to people who haven't experienced it.

Everybody forgets things sometimes.

Everybody loses their train of thought.

But this feels different.

Like trying to think through wet cement.

Like your thoughts are still there, but somebody's wrapped them all in cotton wool.

The brain fog frustrates you more than anything else.

The exhaustion is awful, obviously. The dizziness is annoying. Being cold all the time feels ridiculous and inconvenient in equal measure.

But the brain fog feels personal somehow.

Like your own mind has quietly stopped cooperating with you.

You'll lose words halfway through perfectly ordinary conversations. Walk into rooms and immediately forget why. Start telling a story only for the thread of it to vanish entirely halfway through the sentence.

One evening you're talking to Joe about something completely inconsequential when you stop dead.

The word disappears.

Gone.

Nothing.

You can practically feel the frustration building before you even realise it's happening.

Joe notices immediately.

"The word'll come back."

You stare at him miserably.

"It won't."

"It will."

"It won't."

Joe waits patiently while you glare at the wall.

Five seconds later, "...microwave."

You blink.

Joe bursts out laughing.

"So close."

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

"It wasn't even remotely close."

"It kinda was."

"It absolutely wasn't."

Joe leans over to kiss the top of your head.

"It was in spirit."

The infusion appointments are somehow worse.

Not because they're painful or scary.

Because they're exhausting. Because you're tired of needing them.

Tired of arranging your life around blood tests and appointments and results and follow-ups. Tired of sitting in waiting rooms reading the same outdated magazines while somebody tells you, once again, that your iron levels have dropped.

Tired of your body constantly requiring maintenance just to function.

You don't usually talk about that part.

Joe figures it out anyway.

The first time he drives you to an infusion, you insist repeatedly that he doesn't need to come.

The second time, he doesn't even ask.

By the third, he already knows your order from the café downstairs.

"One cuppa tea, m'lady," he says dramatically, handing it over.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Milk, one sugar."

"You remembered."

Joe looks offended.

"Of course I remembered."

Something warm twists quietly in your chest.

The worst day happens in October.

Nobody ends up in hospital. Nothing goes catastrophically wrong. You don't faint. You don't receive bad news.

You've simply spent weeks pretending you're fine.

Pushing through.

Taking the stairs when the lift would've been easier. Accepting plans you were already too tired for. Smiling through conversations while your brain struggled to keep pace. Telling people you were "just tired" because explaining the truth felt like too much effort.

By the time you finally get home, you're running on fumes.

You barely make it through the front door before your shoulders start aching. Your legs feel heavy. Your head feels thick with exhaustion.

You sit down on the edge of the bed intending to take your shoes off.

Instead, you burst into tears.

Not graceful tears. Not quiet tears.

The sort that arrive so suddenly they catch you completely off guard.

Because you're exhausted.

Because you're frustrated.

Because your body feels like it belongs to somebody else.

Because you're tired of being tired.

And because no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to rest enough to fix it.

Joe finds you ten minutes later exactly where you left yourself.

Still wearing your coat. Still clutching your handbag.

Still crying.

He takes one look at you and immediately understands that this isn't about whatever happened today.

It's about every day.

Every day before this one. Every day after it.

Without saying a word, he sits beside you and opens his arms.

You fold into them immediately.

"You know what the worst part is?" you mumble eventually.

Joe rubs slow circles across your back.

"What?"

You laugh weakly against his shoulder.

"I don't even feel ill."

Joe looks down at you.

Because he understands exactly what you mean.

You don't have a cast. You don't have stitches. You don't look sick.

Most days nobody would know anything was wrong at all.

Which somehow makes it lonelier.

"It's invisible."

"Yeah."

Joe nods slowly.

Then presses a kiss into your hair.

"I see it."

The words hit harder than you expect.

Because he does.

He sees the extra blankets piled onto the sofa.

The forgotten words. The cancelled plans. The trembling hands.

The days where climbing the stairs feels like climbing a mountain.

The way exhaustion settles into your bones and refuses to leave.

He sees all of it.

And somehow he never makes you feel guilty for any of it.

A few weeks after your next infusion, Joe catches your hand automatically while you're crossing a road.

Then pauses.

You immediately recognise the expression on his face.

"What?"

Joe grins.

"Your hands are warm."

You blink.

Then look down.

For the first time in months, they are.

Not freezing. Not aching. Just warm.

Joe looks absurdly pleased with himself, like he's personally responsible for the achievement.

You laugh.

Joe squeezes your hand.

And for the first time in a long time, things feel a little lighter.

Not because the anaemia has disappeared.

Not because anything is fixed.

But because carrying it doesn't feel quite so heavy when somebody else insists on helping.

To say you were excited to have some downtime with Joe was an understatement. He'd been on tour, you'd been working, and sometimes the stars didn't line up, causing you to be apart for months when you weren't able to go see him on tour.

He'd flown in a couple of days ago and you'd been attached to the hip, mostly in bed because... Needs. But you missed everything about him when he wasn't around.

The way your potted plant Velma always seemed to glow when he was around and the light of dawn settled over your apartment. He laughed when you came home with her and introduced him, always finding it so endearing when you named random objects because you get attached to things easily. He found that out on your second date when you picked him up in your car, Winnifred. An old, baby blue Ford pick up truck that had seen better days, which you kept despite it drinking your weight in gas every other week. After a clear examination at the garage, Lilly was deemed a dying breed but you kept her cause "she has character". Joe just shook his head at that but secretly loved it, since it was an obvious reflection on how you looked at things and situations. Or when he fixed Dorothy (the old washing machine your mom let you have cause she wanted a new one), after one of her tantrums when she spilled water all over the floor because Joe forgot to empty his pockets and one of his keys wreaked havoc on her insides.

You loved everything about him and your life with him, so when he was finally back in your orbit you planned on fully absorbing the warmth he brought to your day to day.

As you began your 4 hour drive to the Herkimer mines, life couldn't feel more perfect. Legs propped up on the dasboard, shorts riding up in the process which Joe used to his advantage to rest his hand your thigh. You were sipping some iced coffee as you fed Joe some of his cream cheese bagel while he kept his eyes on the road. That man did things to you when he drove. It didn't happen that often because public transport was your best friend in New York, but when it did you were fully enjoying the view. One hand on the steering wheel, tapping quietly to the beat of the music, head laid back against the headrest while he looked at the outstretched road ahead. Occasionally sneaking a peak at you when you were fully engrossed in your book or knitting project that you brought to keep yourself occupied when the conversation died down and all that was left was comfortable silence.

He loved the way you loved the ordinary, often finding you on the couch with a new knitting pattern you needed for one of your more ambitious attempts working you were working on, or fully into a word seeker with your favourite podcast playing in the background, waiting for him to get home so you could start dinner together. He was scared his lifestyle would scare you off, or possibly even change you, but surprisingly, you brought a simplicity to his life that he didn't know he missed until he found you. You didn't like shiny, brand new things. They were nice sometimes depending on the situation, but you preferred the imperfect. You liked the flaws in objects, stories, even humans. It made them real, and kept you grounded to your belief that perfection is artificial. It could be beautiful, but it wasn't the reality of life and everything that connected humans.

Although he supported your choice to keep Velma as if she were your only adopted child, he didn't think she'd survive the drive over, let alone back to New York so he suggested to rent a car for a couple of days in case you guys wanted to prolong your trip and see some other sights.

Even though you stopped for another coffee about halfway through the drive, you still got to your destination faster than expected since you planned to visit the mines on a regular tuesday since you figured there'd be less people around.

As Joe pulls up, he turns his head towards you and grins. You're so engrossed in your new book that you haven't even realized he's parked the car. "Babe," he says softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Hmm?" You ask, still not looking up. He slightly shakes his head and smiles before leaning forward and kissing your cheek. Of course, you look up at that. "Oh, we're here already?" He nods and moves towards your lips, giving you a soft peck and a ridiculously enamored smile.

You put your arms around his neck and rest your forehead against his. "I'm excited," you say with a big smile and he just laughs. "I know you are."

You decide to go to the shop first, since your guided tour doesn't start until later. As you roam through the cute shop Joe joins you after having a smoke outside, complaining about it already being too warm for human existence. The elderly lady at the till smiles at you while you slowly make your way through all the different clusters when your eyes catch the tiniest crystal, set into a silver ring.

You bend down and pick up the jewelry from the small wooden table it was stalled out on. You haven't seen a ring quite like it before, which makes you instantly interested in the piece. The beautiful, clear Herkimer diamond sits in the middle of the silver band. As you look at it from every angle, you feel Joe coming up behind you. "Whatcha got there?" You look up and hold it up to him. He doesn't take it from you, but instead inspects it closer, the familiar squint present on his face because he just refused to wear his glasses that morning. "It's pretty." He says, nodding towards it. "Does it fit?" "I don't know, I haven't tried it."

He looks at you questioningly. "Well why won't you?" "I didn't really plan on buying anything today," you shrug, although your eyes can't seem to leave the ring in your hand. He rolls his eyes, of course... You were always very particular with jewelry, wanting to make sure you really like a piece before buying it. He watches you inspect it further, as you notice the black specs on the bottom of the crystal. He can just tell it's right up your street. Basically made for you since it fits your style and it's perfectly imperfect.

As he rests his head on your shoulder, he says: "Try it on." You tsk at him, knowing that if it actually fits, it'll be very hard to walk away from. He can see your internal battle and takes the ring from your hand. Taking your other hand in his before softly sliding the ring on your ring finger. You snort quietly and say: "I'm not sure that's where it's supposed to go baby."

He smiles and kisses your bare shoulder. "Are you sure about that?" Jokingly, you elbow his side. "Don't mess with me Keery." He laughs out loud at that, immediately sending an apologetic smile to the elderly lady for disturbing the peace in the small shop. "Well, I can tell it fits like a glove and I'm not even the one wearing it." You give him a pensive look, "Yeah."

He softly pinches your side and presses a kiss to your temple when you say: "I still have the day to think about it, we can always come back after the tour." "But what if someone buys it? It's a one of one." "Babe, there's barely anyone around." He's not convinced, it's obvious in the way he pulls up his eyebrows as he thinks about it. "Alright, speaking of, we better get going to the entrance." You place the ring back on the wooden table and make your way outside towards the entrance of the mine. "We got about ten minutes right? I'm quickly gonna use the bathroom, that bagel is acting up." He says before jogging back towards the building that has the restrooms, the shop and an information desk. "Gross!" You yell jokingly and he laughs. "You still think I'm hot though." You scoff at him and shake your head, turning towards the entrance.

While you wait, of course, Joe is up to no good. He makes his way towards the restrooms but does a 90 degree turn when he sees your back facing him, going straight for the shop instead. The lady grins warmly as she sees him walking back in, alone this time, making a beeline for the wooden table when he sees people moving towards it, not willing to take the risk of it getting snatched right before his eyes. With the ring in hand he makes his way towards the lady. "Can I ask you for a favor?" He asks politely. "Sure hon." She says while putting the details into the system. "If me and my girlfriend end up back here after our tour. Please don't mention this?" He says hopeful, a plan already forming in his mind. She nods and looks down at the ring, catching onto his idea without him even mentioning anything. "Special ring." She says before looking up at him and he smiles, radiating happiness before replying.

Which is why he's standing at the bar with a glass of Coke in one hand when he glances across the room and finds you in animated conversation with a woman at least twenty years older than you, gesturing enthusiastically enough that half your drink is in immediate danger of sloshing onto the floor.

"How bad?" Robin asks, appearing beside him.

Steve watches you pull out your phone.

The woman leans closer.

A second later she starts laughing.

Steve closes his eyes.

"Medium."

Robin follows his gaze. "What is she showing her?"

"I have a horrible feeling I already know."

When you eventually make your way back over, looking deeply pleased with yourself, Steve immediately shifts closer, one hand settling automatically against the small of your back as you slot yourself into the space beside him.

"What were you showing her?"

You blink up at him.

"A picture of you."

Robin nearly inhales her drink.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Of course it was."

You look genuinely confused by his reaction.

"What?"

"Why do you have to show strangers pictures of me?"

"Because you looked nice."

"I was sitting on the sofa."

"You looked really nice."

"As opposed to all the times I look terrible?"

You consider this seriously for a moment.

"I don't think that's happened yet."

Robin makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze and has to physically turn away from both of you.

Steve, meanwhile, is discovering that there are few things more embarrassing than being adored by someone who has completely lost the ability to keep those thoughts to themselves.

And it doesn't stop there.

If anything, it gets worse.

Steve returns from ordering another round and immediately knows something is wrong when he finds Robin doubled over against the dartboard cabinet, laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

The source of her amusement becomes obvious approximately two seconds later.

You're standing with two girls near the pool table, phone in hand once again.

One of them spots Steve approaching and immediately points.

"Oh my God."

The second one turns.

Her eyes widen.

"That's him."

Steve stops walking.

"No."

The first girl laughs. "That is absolutely him."

"Baby."

You look delighted.

"Steve!"

"What have you done?"

"What?"

The sheer innocence in your voice would almost be convincing if Steve hadn't been dating you long enough to recognise exactly what it sounded like when you were pretending not to know the answer.

"What did you tell them?"

You shrug.

"We were talking."

"About?"

You point at him.

"My boyfriend."

The girls immediately dissolve into laughter.

Steve briefly considers walking directly into traffic.

"Honey."

"What?"

"How many photos did you show them?"

The girls exchange a look.

"Fourteen."

"FOURTEEN?"

"In my defence," you say seriously, "they were all different."

Robin lets out a strangled noise.

"Different?"

"Different situations."

Steve stares at you.

You stare back.

Completely sincere.

"Some of them were from summer."

As though that somehow improves matters.

The worst part is that the girls aren't laughing at him.

They're laughing because it's obvious how much you adore him.

They're laughing because they've clearly spent the last ten minutes listening to you enthusiastically describe your boyfriend like he's simultaneously a movie star, a rescue puppy, and the eighth wonder of the world.

One of them grins.

"Honestly, it's kind of sweet."

"Thank you," you say immediately.

"Stop encouraging her."

"No," says the other girl. "For what it's worth, she's very convincing."

Steve drops his head into his hands.

Robin is crying with laughter.

And somehow the entire situation becomes even more mortifying when he realises that neither of the girls seem remotely surprised by the fact he's standing there. They've clearly heard enough stories over the last ten minutes to feel as though they already know him.

Which is arguably worse.

By the time Steve manages to extract you from introducing him to complete strangers, the pub has grown warmer and louder, the evening crowd settling in around them while conversations overlap into a constant low hum.

You eventually migrate outside, escaping the heat and noise in favour of a small patio strung with fairy lights and crowded with battered wooden tables.

You immediately kick your shoes halfway off and tuck your legs beneath yourself.

Steve sits beside you without thinking.

Within seconds you're leaning against him, naturally, as though gravity has finally remembered where you're supposed to be. The familiar weight of you settles against his side. His arm finds your shoulders. Your fingers drift absent-mindedly towards his hand.

Neither of you acknowledge it. It's simply what happens.

"You having fun?" he asks.

You hum.

"Mhm."

"You've definitely had enough to drink."

"Says who?"

"Says the person who's spent the evening running an unsolicited public relations campaign on my behalf."

Your grin appears immediately.

"There it is."

Steve sighs.

"There what is?"

"The thing."

"What thing?"

You poke his cheek.

The absolute audacity of it.

Steve catches your hand before you can do it again.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I really don't."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do."

The smile pulling at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

You make a triumphant noise.

"There."

"There what?"

"That."

"What?"

"That thing."

Steve turns away.

Which only makes you laugh harder.

For a few moments neither of you say anything.

Music drifts through the open door behind you. Somebody drops a glass inside. A burst of laughter follows.

The night air feels pleasantly cool against his skin after the heat of the pub.

When you speak again, your voice is softer.

Honest in the way drunk people sometimes become when every protective instinct and social filter quietly falls away.

"You don't see what everybody else sees."

Steve glances down.

"What does that mean?"

You trace absent-minded circles across the back of his hand.

"It means you think people love you because you're helpful."

Something shifts in Steve's chest.

Small. Uncomfortable. Familiar.

You continue before he can answer.

"You think people love you because you drive them places."

You squeeze his fingers.

"Or because you fix things."

Another squeeze.

"Or because you look after everyone."

Steve looks away.

The thing about being known is that sometimes people stumble directly into places you've spent years carefully avoiding.

You don't seem to notice.

Or maybe you do.

Maybe that's the problem.

"But that's not why."

Steve swallows.

"No?"

You shake your head.

The answer arrives with complete certainty.

"No."

"Then why?"

You look at him as though he's asked the most ridiculous question imaginable.

"Because you're Steve."

That's it.

No grand speech. No dramatic declaration.

Just four simple words delivered with complete confidence.

As though the answer should have been obvious all along.

As though being Steve is reason enough.

As though it always was.

Robin finds you both twenty minutes later.

One look at the two of you sharing a basket of chips and she immediately narrows her eyes.

"Oh no."

Steve sighs.

"What now?"

"Why do you both look emotional?"

"We don't."

"You do."

"We're eating chips."

"You look like somebody confessed their love before boarding a train in a period drama."

Steve points a chip at her.

"This is why nobody tells you things."

Robin steals it.

"You cried, didn't you?"

"I did not."

"You cried a little bit."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely cried a little bit."

Before Steve can defend himself, you suddenly lift your head from his shoulder.

"Robin."

Robin immediately braces herself.

"What?"

You point at Steve.

"He's really pretty."

Robin folds in half.

Steve groans.

"No, seriously."

"We know."

"You don't."

Robin wipes tears from her eyes.

"I promise you, sweetheart, we do."

You shake your head.

The frustration in your expression suggests neither of them are taking this nearly seriously enough.

"Look at him!"

Robin obediently looks.

Then looks at you.

Then back at Steve.

"Yep."

You throw your hands up.

"His hair!"

"His hair."

"His eyes!"

"His eyes."

"The fact he's nice to old people!"

Steve nearly chokes.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It matters."

"It absolutely matters," Robin says.

"Thank you."

"Stop helping."

"No."

Robin's grin is positively evil now.

"You know what the best part is?"

Steve already hates this conversation.

"What?"

Robin points towards you.

"She's not saying any of this because she's drunk."

"Excuse me?"

Robin ignores him.

"She's saying it because she's been thinking it for years and alcohol just removed the quality control department."

The look on your face confirms it instantly.

"Oh."

Steve stares.

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

Robin laughs.

"Oh, buddy."

Steve immediately decides he never wants to speak to either of you again.

By midnight the evening has begun winding down.

The pub is quieter now, conversations fading as people drift home in pairs and groups. Chairs scrape across wooden floors. Glasses clink behind the bar.

The alcohol is wearing off.

Your energy is beginning to fade with it.

Steve notices the change immediately.

The way your words have become slower. The way your eyes linger shut a little longer every time you blink. The way you instinctively seek him out whenever he moves more than a few feet away.

He says his goodbyes. Collects jackets. Finds your missing shoe, somehow.

And eventually guides you towards the car.

Halfway across the car park you mumble something against his shoulder.

"What was that?"

"Hm?"

"What'd you say?"

You squint up at him.

For a moment he thinks you've forgotten.

Then you smile.

Small. Sleepy. Entirely yourself.

"I said thank you."

Steve frowns.

"For what?"

You shrug.

"As a general concept."

A laugh escapes before he can stop it.

"A general concept?"

"Mhm."

"Very specific."

"I know."

When he reaches the car, he opens the passenger door and waits while you climb inside. He makes sure your seatbelt is on, checks you've got your phone, your bag, your jacket.

The routine is so familiar he barely has to think about it anymore.

It's only when he closes the door and walks around to the driver's side that he notices you're watching him through the windscreen.

Still smiling.

The soft kind this time.

Not the reckless grin from earlier.

Something quieter and infinitely more dangerous.

Steve settles into the driver's seat.

"What?"

You continue looking at him.

Nothing but affection in your eyes.

"Nothing."

"Baby."

"I just love you."

The words arrive so casually they almost miss him entirely.

No build-up. No fanfare.

Just a simple statement of fact.

Like commenting on the weather. Like mentioning that it's late. Like saying the sky is blue.

I just love you.

Steve reaches across the centre console and takes your hand.

Your fingers immediately curl around his.

Outside, amber streetlights cast pools of gold across the empty car park. Inside, the heater hums softly to life, filling the silence with something warm and familiar.

You yawn.

Your eyes drift shut.

Your hand remains wrapped around his.

And as Steve starts the engine, he finds himself thinking about every stranger you'd spoken to tonight, every photograph you'd proudly shown off, every conversation he'd been hopelessly embarrassed by.

Because none of them had really been about him being pretty.

Not entirely.

They'd been about something much simpler.

You'd spent the entire evening looking at him the way people look at their favourite place.

Like somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere worth returning to.

And maybe that was what had embarrassed him so much.

Not being admired.

Being seen.

Because loving somebody is easy to understand.

Being known quite that completely is something else entirely.

Steve squeezes your hand once before pulling out of the car park.

You don't even open your eyes.

You just squeeze back.

And somehow, after everything, that feels like the most convincing declaration of love he's heard all night.

"I saw a dog."

"As a defence, that's weak."

"As a defence," you argue, already scratching happily behind the dog's ears, "that dog was wearing a little raincoat."

Joe glances over.

The dog is, unfortunately, wearing a little raincoat.

"...okay, that's fair."

The photos only get worse from there. Or better, depending who you ask.

Every time Joe tries to take an actual portrait, something inevitably happens first. You spot a bird halfway through. You become distracted by a particularly interesting leaf. You start laughing because Joe's taking the whole thing far too seriously and then can't stop long enough for him to actually press the shutter.

At one point he spends nearly three minutes adjusting settings, changing lenses and muttering to himself about lighting, only to finally look up and discover you've somehow made friends with a toddler in a dinosaur t-shirt.

"Where did that kid come from?"

You shrug.

The toddler offers Joe half a biscuit.

Joe takes it.

The photoshoot never really recovers after that.

Eventually he drops onto the grass beside you and accepts defeat while you and your new four-year-old best friend discuss dinosaurs with alarming seriousness.

"You are genuinely impossible."

You grin over the top of your coffee.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Joe stares.

Because you do know.

You've known for weeks.

The entire thing started because Joe mentioned wanting more photographs of you. Not glamorous ones. Not posed ones. Just photos. Evidence. Proof that you exist in his life in all the tiny ways he loves most.

Unfortunately, every time he points a camera at you, your attention immediately wanders somewhere else.

The problem is that he can't even be annoyed about it anymore.

Because every accidental photograph ends up being better than the one he'd originally wanted.

At first he doesn't realise he's doing it.

The shift happens gradually enough that he barely notices.

One day he's trying to photograph you properly. The next he's crouched halfway across a park zooming in because you've just thrown your head back laughing at something your friend said.

You don't even know he's taking the photo.

The same thing happens three days later when you're reading on the sofa with your feet tucked beneath you. Then again while you're cooking dinner. Then again while you're sitting cross-legged on the floor trying to assemble a bookshelf and slowly losing patience with the instructions.

By the end of the month, Joe's camera roll barely resembles what he'd originally intended.

Somewhere along the way, the posed photographs disappear entirely.

Instead there are hundreds of tiny moments.

You're staring thoughtfully out train windows with your chin tucked into your sleeve. You're dancing badly in the kitchen while waiting for pasta to boil. You're carrying far too many shopping bags because you'd rather dislocate a shoulder than make two trips. You're asleep in the passenger seat, one hand still loosely curled around the coffee you'd insisted you weren't tired enough to need.

There are photographs of you holding flowers. Feeding ducks. Stealing chips off his plate while pretending you aren't. Looking at books in shop windows. Sitting on curbsides. Watching storms through glass.

None of them are technically perfect.

Most of them aren't even framed particularly well.

They're just you.

Which, as far as Joe's concerned, is considerably more important.

One day, you discover the album.

Not intentionally.

Joe leaves his camera on the coffee table one afternoon while he goes to answer the door. You aren't snooping, at least not initially. You're just curious.

Then you notice the folder.

And inside it are hundreds of photographs.

Most of which you've never seen before.

Your stomach does something strange.

Because they're all moments you don't remember.

Or rather, moments you didn't realise anybody else remembered.

You sitting on the kitchen counter eating strawberries straight from the carton. You asleep beneath a blanket with a book still open on your chest. You standing outside a record shop staring at an album cover. You laughing so hard your eyes disappear. You watching something out of frame with that thoughtful expression you never know you're making.

You existing.

That's all.

Just existing.

The photographs aren't glamorous. They aren't curated. They aren't trying to make you look beautiful.

Which somehow makes them feel infinitely more intimate.

Joe finds you twenty minutes later sitting on the couch with the camera still in your lap.

His expression changes immediately.

"Oh."

You glance up.

"Oh?"

A suspicious amount of guilt appears on his face.

"You found the folder."

You hold up the camera.

"The folder."

Joe winces like he's been caught doing something embarrassing.

Which is ridiculous.

Because the embarrassing thing, apparently, is loving you.

Again.

"What?" he asks eventually.

You scroll to another photograph. One you've never seen before.

You're sitting on the floor of his apartment, wrapping birthday presents for a mutual friend. Your hair's a mess. You're wearing one of his old t-shirts. You're concentrating so hard on curling ribbon that your tongue's sticking slightly out the corner of your mouth.

You don't remember the photo.

Joe obviously does.

"You took all these?"

His ears immediately go pink.

Which is answer enough.

The thing is, the photographs aren't really about photography.

You realise that almost immediately.

They're observations. Little collected moments. A catalogue of things Joe loves.

The way your nose wrinkles when you're confused. The way you always sit with one leg folded underneath you. The way you reach for his hand automatically in crowded places without ever looking to check he's there. The way you tell stories with your whole body, incapable of speaking without acting half of it out.

The way you abandon cups of tea in random rooms and then spend twenty minutes looking for them afterwards.

The way you never stay still.

Ever.

Not even for a second.

Every photograph is saying exactly the same thing.

Look.

Look at her.

Isn't she wonderful?

The realisation hits so hard it almost hurts.

"What?" Joe asks again, softer this time.

You stare down at another photograph.

This one is blurry.

Technically terrible.

You're halfway through running across a field because somebody's dog escaped its lead and decided you were the most exciting person available. The horizon's crooked. Half your face isn't even in frame.

It's objectively one of the worst photographs in the folder.

Joe has marked it as a favourite.

You laugh through the sudden sting in your eyes.

"This one's awful."

Joe immediately leans over your shoulder.

Then smiles.

"No."

"It is."

"Nope."

"You can barely see me."

"Yeah, but-"

You look at him.

Joe shrugs before reaching over and tapping the image lightly with his finger.

"That's my favourite one."

"Why?"

His expression softens.

The answer comes so easily it almost feels unfair.

"Because that's you."

Your chest aches.

Joe notices immediately.

Of course he does.

He's spent months paying attention.

A few weeks later, Joe tries another photoshoot.

A real one this time.

You stand where he tells you. You smile when he asks. You make a genuine effort.

For almost thirty seconds.

Then a butterfly lands on your sleeve.

Joe watches your attention disappear instantly.

You forget the camera exists. Forget the photoshoot. Forget everything except the tiny creature sitting delicately on your arm.

The smile that spreads across your face isn't posed or performed.

It's simply there.

Joe raises the camera.

Click.

Then again.

Click.

And again.

Click.

You look up eventually.

"What?"

Joe lowers the camera and smiles.

"Nothing, baby."

Because he's finally learned.

The photographs were never about getting you to hold still.

They were always about catching all the beautiful ways you don't.

“I'm the dad and Steve's the mom, right?”

“Obviously,” Robin responded to your playful words. “But no time for joking right now. What I'm trying to say is that I hate being stuck in the middle.”

You wanted to tell her that that wasn’t the case at all— you and Steve weren’t trying to make her choose a side, and you weren’t telling her that she could only be friends with one of you— but you didn’t say any of that because she was pretty much right, she was caught in the middle of your and Steve’s breakup. 

The three of you had been best friends, and it was a trio that was forged through long days of slinging ice cream. And even when you and Steve started dating at the end of that summer, things really didn’t change between the three of you all that much. Robin was happy about your and Steve's relationship because she loved bragging that she had seen it coming from a mile away, and you’d all still hang out constantly and never once did she feel like a third wheel. 

It had all been so perfect. 

Until it wasn’t. And now everything had changed. 

“And I get it,” Robin continued. “I get why you guys are broken up, and I understand the reasoning behind it and all of that. But, is there any way that things could maybe go back to how they used to be before you leave for college?”

“I don’t know,” You admitted honestly. You had no idea if you could actually let things go back to how they were. After being so in love with Steve— there had even genuinely been moments where you considered a “forever” with him— the thought of just becoming his friend again felt a little too weird and a lot too depressing to you. 

Robin sighed but ultimately nodded, and you two went back to watching the movie playing on the TV. 

You felt grateful that she didn’t bring up the promise that you and Steve made to her when you first started dating— how if things somehow didn’t work out between you and him, you’d all still be able to stay close friends. You never once thought that you and Steve would break up, and you especially never thought that you’d end up in a place where all you wanted to do was avoid him, so in the moment, it had felt so easy and like a no-brainer to make that promise to her. It was a promise that you now viewed as naive and so stupidly hopeful. 

However, at the end of the day, it was still a promise, and even though Robin hadn’t brought it up, it was all you could think about for the rest of the night. And it became the reason why you decided to call Steve for the first time in two weeks when you got home that night. 

It went entirely against your plan of quitting him cold turkey— no talking to him, no seeing him, absolutely no contact with him whatsoever. But, you fought the urge you immediately had to hang up the phone after you finished dialing his number and it started ringing. 

“Hello?” 

“We need to do something with Robin,” You said, skipping past any and all greetings and niceties. 

“I’m hanging out with her tomorrow,” Steve responded, and you easily picked up on the confusion in his voice. “And didn’t you two just hang out tonight?”

“No, I mean together. We need to hang out with her together,” You told him as you started mindlessly twirling the phone cord around your index finger. “She hates how different things are now, and I think we should show her that we can be… okay around one another.”

“Okay” seemed like the best, and only, word to use in this context; it wasn’t too much. You definitely felt like you couldn’t say friends or anything else remotely close to that. 

“I'm thinking we do a movie at The Hawk and then dinner at the diner,” You continued. 

“Classic Friday night,” Steve responded.

“Exactly,” You said, nodding even though he couldn’t see you.

It had been a staple among the three of you, and you could only allow yourself to inwardly admit how much you really missed those nights. Going to the movies, spending hours at the diner afterward, dropping Robin off at home before her midnight curfew, and then you and Steve heading to his place, falling into his bed, and talking about anything and everything until the sun came up. Your heart ached harshly in your chest the more you thought about it, and the more you thought about how a night like that would never happen again. 

You cleared your throat and willed away the feeling in your chest. “So, yeah, movie and diner. You in?”

“Of course, anything for Robin,” He told you. “And, I guess, we did kind of promise her that things would stay okay between all of us if we did ever break up.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking about too,” You responded, and the conversation came to a quiet end. All too quickly, an awkwardness that felt impossible to ignore started to linger; the harsh reminder of just how different everything was between you and him. You immediately wanted to push that feeling away. “Um, I should go. I’ll see you Friday, I guess.”

“Okay, yeah. See you Friday.”

You let out a sigh when you placed the phone back on its hook. A wave of nervousness washed over you, but you pretended that everything was fine and that spending time with Steve for the first time since the breakup would be completely fine too. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I know this is a pity hangout, but I'm still having fun.”

You shook your head at Robin’s words. “It’s not a pity hangout.” 

She gave you a look that said that she didn’t believe you in the slightest. “So you two decided to set this up because you wanted to and not because of all that stuff I said a couple nights ago?”

“Yes, exactly,” You said, and then took another sip of your milkshake so that you could break eye contact with her. 

Before she could say anything in response to that, Steve came back from the bathroom and slid back into the booth that you three had been occupying for the last half an hour; you and Robin on one side and him on the other. 

“Okay, it hit me while I was in there. It actually makes so much sense why that guy ended up being the killer,” He said, referring to the movie you all had just watched. “When the first girl was murdered, he got to the scene of the crime way too fast.”

Robin let out a laugh. “You had this groundbreaking epiphany while you were in the bathroom?”

“Yes, I do my best thinking in there sometimes,” Steve responded with a shrug, which only made her laugh harder, and you were unable to bite back your own amused smile. He only playfully rolled his eyes in response. 

“Honestly, the movie kinda sucked,” Robin said when her laughter subsided, and you and Steve hummed in agreement. “Ooh, you know what we need to rewatch again? A Nightmare on Elm Street.”

You groaned. “No. Can we please stay away from horror for a little while? I need to remind my brain that happy things still exist.”

Steve gave you an amused smile. “What’s your suggestion instead? Watching The Muppet Movie for the millionth time?” 

“Joke’s on you because I was actually gonna say The Muppets Take Manhattan,” You said, and then teasingly stuck your tongue out at him because it felt like second nature to do so, and he laughed.  

Somehow, this entire night had felt weirdly okay and actually somewhat easy thus far; like there truly was a way for the three of you to go back to being that “trio” again. You tried not to let yourself think too far ahead, though. This was only one night, and you knew that it wouldn’t be able to change everything for the better. You simply just wanted to live in this really good moment. 

“Wait, that would actually be a good idea for a movie night,” Robin said. “We all watch whatever our favorite movies from childhood were.” 

A conversation started from there, where you all talked about movies you loved when you were kids. You made fun of Steve’s childhood love for the Willy Wonka movie just like he made fun of you with The Muppets, and you both refused to believe Robin when she said that her favorite movie when she was younger was Taxi Driver.

“I had impeccable taste, even as a kid,” She had said, and you rolled your eyes while Steve threw a stray fry at her. 

After spending what was definitely way too long at the diner, the three of you were back in Steve’s car, and he started the quick drive to Robin’s house; she was the closest to the diner, and even you could recognize that it wouldn’t make sense to drop you off first, like when he had picked you up last at the start of the night. However, you had prematurely planned for this; asking Robin yesterday if you could spend the night at her house after the diner, and she, of course, said yes. 

This night with Steve had surprisingly gone okay— pretty much better than just okay— but that didn’t mean that you wanted to be left alone with him, even if it would only be for a ten-minute car ride. You could just imagine how quickly things would fall into awkwardness if you two didn’t have Robin to be the perfect buffer. Without her, you couldn’t even imagine what this night would’ve been like. Without her, this night wouldn’t have existed. 

“Oh, I meant to mention this earlier, but there’s been a slight change of plans,” Robin said when Steve was parked in front of her house, and you started unbuckling your seatbelt to get out too. She turned around to look at you. “You can’t sleep over tonight. My mom is, um, being really weird about… my room. I haven’t cleaned it in forever. It’s a mess. And she doesn’t want me having anyone stay over because of that. So yeah. Sorry.”

“Robin,” You looked at her as if she were insane. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious. You know how my mother is,” She told you and then opened the passenger side door. “Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow. Get her home safe, Harrington. Bye.”

Before you could say anything, she was closing the car door behind her and practically running up her driveway and to her front porch steps, giving you two one final quick wave before heading inside. 

“She’s unbelievable,” You mumbled as you finished unbuckling your seatbelt and then opened the back door.

Steve became entirely confused by your actions. “You’re walking home?”

“No, it just feels too weird being in the back when the front seat is open,” You answered and then moved to the passenger seat. You met Steve’s eyes just for a second and then looked away.

“That could’ve been great practice for when I decide to pivot into my next job as a cab driver,” He said as he started driving, making a left turn at the end of Robin’s street and heading in the direction of your house.

You wanted to laugh at what you knew was a joke, but all you could focus on was how jarring it felt that he wasn’t turning right toward his place, like what would usually happen on these types of Friday nights. 

And it felt weird being in his passenger seat too. It no longer felt right to adjust the seat to how you liked it, or turn up the radio, or jokingly change the station to a country one because hearing the sound of a banjo always made him laugh for some reason. It only felt okay to sit with your hands in your lap and stare out the window at the houses passing by. Somehow, it was being here in his passenger seat, and feeling like a stranger within it, that reminded you of what you and Steve now were to each other.

You took another quick look at him. “Did you actually think I would’ve rather walked home instead of being alone in a car with you?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” 

“I don’t hate you, Steve.” 

“I know, but before tonight, you had made it really clear that we should never talk to each other again,” He responded, making another turn at another stop sign. “The only reason we hung out tonight was because of Robin.”

That was entirely true, but that was the last thing you wanted to talk about in this moment. 

“If anything, you should hate me. I’m the one who’s leaving.”

He immediately shook his head. “It would be really messed up if I were mad at you for going to college.” 

“Well, I mean, you did break up with me because of it,” You responded, which made Steve sigh. 

“Saying it like that makes it sound really fucked up.”

By the end of that hour-long breakup conversation two weeks ago, it had ended up feeling like a mutual thing, but at the end of the day, it was still Steve who had brought it up in the first place. 

“What other way is there to say it?” You weren’t trying to be mean to him in this moment, but you suddenly worried that the bluntness of your words made it come off that way, especially when he didn’t say anything in response to you at first, and a silence took over the car. 

“It was stupid,” Steve said softly, filling the prevailing quiet. “Probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.” 

A part of you wanted to roll your eyes at his words, while the other part of you felt a tiny sliver of hope that inadvertently made your heart race. It was your turn to sigh. “Do you actually mean that?” 

When he broke up with you, he had talked about how long-distance relationships never worked and how they only prolonged the inevitable and always made the couple hate each other. Honestly, everything he was saying sounded like something you would have said; you’d always been the more logical thinker. However, when it came to you and Steve, you always inadvertently led with your heart over your head. 

“Yes, I wish I had never said it, but I just thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Because long-distance relationships never work?” You said, reminding him of what had been his main point when he broke things off. 

“No,” Steve shook his head. “Because you’re going to college and you’re gonna do great things, and I don’t wanna hold you back.”

That was not at all what you expected to hear from him.

It was so honest and vulnerable, and you suddenly saw that last conversation you two had entirely different, and all you could now do was replay the whole thing in your head.  

Barely a minute later, Steve was pulling up in front of your house. However, there was absolutely no way that you were getting out of his car now, not when he just dropped what felt equivalent to a bomb on you. 

“What?” You turned to look at him, finally responding to his previous words. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t— I didn’t want things to get to the point where you started choosing me over really important opportunities,” Steve answered, meeting your eyes. 

For a second, all you could do was blink at him. You wanted to understand his words, and you wanted to fully see his point of view, you really did, but it was too hard to think rationally right then because you just felt so confused. 

“Nothing’s even happened yet. I’m not even there yet,” You told him, trying to keep your voice calm and steady, but it felt damn near impossible. “You were thinking about problems that don’t exist.”

“Once I started thinking about it, I couldn’t not think about it,” He responded. “And then I just wanted to rip off the band-aid, if that makes sense. End it before us being together started ruining things for you.”

You looked away from him then, slumping back in your seat. “You should’ve told me the truth, Steve. Not some bullshit reasons about long-distance relationships failing.”

“It was stupid,” Steve said, repeating the words that pretty much started this conversation in the first place. 

“It was,” You agreed, still staring straight ahead at your dark street. 

“And I’m sorry for lying to you. I wish I had just told you the truth instead of being a scared idiot,” He said, and you could only nod in response at first. 

There was too much running through your mind right then. It was a lot of contradictory thoughts and feelings that only confused you and went against everything that you’d convinced yourself was true over the last two weeks.

The breakup was hard, almost too hard, so you had told yourself that you needed to do the one thing that would be “easy” and force your brain to accept it; your heart was a completely different story, but you figured it would catch up eventually. However, now it was as if your head didn’t know what to do or think or feel, and your heart stupidly wanted to be completely truthful in this moment. 

“We would’ve figured everything out,” You told him after a few beats of silence. “I honestly think we could’ve made anything work. Long distance, random life changes, whatever. And I know that’s probably naive of me to say, but I really did believe in us.” You shook your head at yourself. “Somehow, we completely switched roles. You became the logical one and I became the hopeless romantic.”

“I don’t wanna be the logical one anymore. I tried it out and completely fucked everything up.”

“It’s…” You tried to figure out exactly what you wanted to say. There was so much you could’ve said right then, but your thoughts felt too scattered to form a coherent sentence. “It’s okay.”

The conversation came to its natural stopping point there. You didn’t know what else to say or do in this moment. This talk felt unfinished, but you had no idea how to finish it in a way that would make everything feel like it was wrapped up in a pretty little bow. In a perfect world, you and Steve would easily make up from here, pick up right where things left off, and pretend as if the last two weeks hadn’t happened. But, the world you two lived in wasn’t perfect, so you silently figured that maybe it would make more sense if you simply just left things as they now were. 

You started unbuckling your seatbelt. “It’s late. I’m gonna go.”

“You sure?” Steve asked, and you only nodded instead of saying anything. 

You pushed open the car door. “Night, Steve.”

“Night,” He responded softly and then proceeded to watch you walk away from his car. 

You were heading up your front porch steps, moments away from unlocking your door and heading inside, when Steve made the impulsive decision to unbuckle his seatbelt and run after you. 

“Wait,” His voice slightly startled you, and you turned around. He was racing up your steps to catch up to you, and you were about to ask him what he was doing, but he started speaking before the question could even form on your lips. “I think you’re right. No, scratch that, actually, I know you’re right. I want us to work, and I know we can, I really do. And I know you were speaking in past tense, so maybe you don’t believe in us anymore, but I still do. I’m such an idiot for overthinking everything, and I’m so sorry for not being honest about what I was thinking. If I could go back and do things completely different, I would, one thousand percent. I love you so goddamn much, and I don’t think that will ever change. And I know it’s my fault that we’re in this position in the first place, but I hope I didn’t ruin things so terribly that I can’t fix it. Because I really want to fix this—”

You cut off his rambling with a kiss; your hand found his cheek, and you slotted your lips against his. Steve reciprocated immediately, not wasting a second to kiss you back, even though he was slightly surprised by the action. 

It was the exact thing your heart needed in this moment, and it is what it had been aching and yearning for these past two weeks. 

Leaving things as they were made sense because it was technically easier, but it was far from what you actually wanted, and hearing Steve’s rambling apologies and how much he wanted to fix things only made you want to show him that you agreed completely; you didn’t want to give up on you two either. 

Kissing Steve felt like second nature to you, as if absolutely no time had passed since the last time his lips were on yours. In a way, it felt like coming back home.

When you pulled away, you met Steve’s eyes and gave him a soft smile. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He asked, eyes searching yours with a hopeful look on his face, as if that kiss hadn’t just said it all. 

You nodded at his words, and he didn’t hesitate to pull you in for a hug. His arms tightened around you, and you inwardly sighed in contentment at the feeling. You felt at ease in Steve’s arms, and all you wanted to do was grab his hand and lead him inside your house. Instead, though, you decided to savor this moment because there was no need to rush things; you two had all of the time in the world.

“I hope you know that Robin’s gonna say that this is all her doing,” You said, words slightly muffled because your face was buried in Steve’s neck, but he heard you clearly. 

From the moment Robin left you alone in the car with Steve, you knew exactly what she was trying to do, and you were now grateful for her abrupt plan; even though it had been very risky and could’ve potentially made things worse. 

Steve laughed a little at your words, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sound. “Oh yeah, and she’s never gonna let us forget this. This will definitely become her new favorite story to tell everyone.” 

You laughed too and pulled back so you could look up at him. “Definitely.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.