me and the boys

So when your already balding tire pops in the middle of a country road, half a mile from the nearest military outpost and nearly three miles to the station, the only logical solution is to abandon your car and start walking.

You might not understand the extent of why the military has taken over Hawkins, but you’re not stupid enough to trust their good intentions.

 The sun beats down on your neck as you trudge through overgrown grass, annoyed and muttering and hitching your purse up higher on your shoulder, cursing everything that you can think of for this being your luck.

(After all, you’d only moved to Hawkins to attend the Ivy Tech campus since it was the closest one to your hometown. And now you’re stuck in a god damn lock down.)

It’s ridiculous, honestly. You’d just wanted cheap college credits before moving onto IUPUI or Ball State, knowing full well that you couldn’t afford rent in Bloomington or Lafayette. And now you’re stuck here with the rest of the town, roughing it with everyone else too stupid to not evacuate when you were given the chance. 

Which makes it all the more annoying when an overly familiar maroon sedan pulls up next to you, rolls a window down, and out comes Steve Harrington’s voice: “Is there a reason you’re taking a hike through town?”

As if your day couldn’t get any worse.

“I thought the exercise in the dead of winter would do me some good,” you say, continuing to plant one foot in front of another. The Beamer crawls alongside you. “Perfect weather for it, don’t you think?”

Your name slips from his lips flatly. “Are you serious?”

“Jesus, Steve, are you always this dense?” you snap. “No, clearly not. My car broke down a mile back and I didn’t feel like being harassed by some military goons to get some help.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

You whip around to stare at him. “What?”

The BMW comes to a halt, and he gives you an unimpressed look. “Your car. What’s wrong with it?”

“Tire burst,” you say, “Why do you care?”

Steve frowns but doesn’t answer your question, only saying, “Get in.”

“What?”

“Are you always this dense?” he shoots back. “Get in the car, sweetheart, before we’re both late.”

The endearment does something funny to your chest, though you studiously ignore it, choosing to scowl instead.

It’s been a few weeks since your… entanglement with him in the closet, and since then things have been weird. As in: He’s been calling you sweetheart and honey and baby whenever Robin wasn’t listening. As in: The two of you have made out in the closet several times since. As in: Things have somehow turned more hostile than ever before, yet you’re left with the feeling that you got caught inside the world’s angriest version of foreplay.

(As in: You like the fact you’re caught inside the world’s angriest version of foreplay.)

(Not that you would admit this to anyone, much less Steve.)

“I think I’m fine walking,” you airily say, sticking your nose in the air and turning away. 

“Are you serious?” Steve asks, exasperated. “Seriously, just get in the damn car.”

You sniff imperiously. “Make me.”

You barely make it three steps before you hear the parking brake yanked up and the driver’s side door getting thrown open. Two more steps and one large hand grasps your forearm, spinning you around and forcing you to look at the barely restrained fury in his eyes. 

“Why can you not just listen for once?” he demands. 

“Why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?” you retort. “I can do whatever the hell I want, Steve, and—”

But he has no interest in listening to whatever it is you’re about to say, not when he splays a palm across your back and forcibly turns you around, pushing you towards the idling vehicle with the urgency only a man standing in ten degree weather without a coat could have.

(You pretend the warmth of his hand between all the layers you’re wearing doesn’t make you shiver, and you know he’s pretending not to notice how affected you are by just how easy it is for him to maneuver your body.)

“So fucking stubborn,” he mutters, clearly not caring that you can hear him loud and clear as he yanks open the passenger door. And despite how he’s manhandled you to where he wants you, he’s gentle when he helps you into the seat, his calloused palm holding onto your hand for balance as you get settled. 

Seconds later, he’s sliding back behind the wheel and shifting into second, peeling away.

You sink down into the leather, crossing your arms and looking out the window, refusing to acknowledge the fact that Steve sets the station to your favorite music.

The two of you go all of five minutes, passing nothing but trees and empty fields, before he finally bursts out, “You could at least say ‘thank you.’”

“For what?” you ask. “Kidnapping me off the side of the road?”

“I didn’t—” he starts before snapping his mouth shut with an audible click. “It’s not safe to be wandering around the middle of nowhere. You don’t know the shit that’s out there, and—”

“Steve.” His name comes out sharper than intended. “It’s not like I could drive to the station without a tire. What option did I have?” 

A muscle in his jaw twitches and several tense seconds pass before he reaches into the backseat, blindly reaching for something and dropping it into your lap.

You glance down, baffled to find a walkie talkie.

“What’s this for?”

“Uh, to contact me if there’s an emergency,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

(It’s not.)

“Keep it on channel nine,” he continues. “And, like, I’m serious. Your car breaks down, you’re going to be late to work, there’s some weird guy at your apartment — just radio.”

A few beats of silence pass, Steve’s cheeks reddening as you gawk at him, before you finally burst out, “You know I can take care of myself, right?”

“Jesus fucking — yes! I do know!” He turns away from the road long enough to glare at you. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve never once doubted your ability to do that. My point is — if you need something, just call.”

You bite your tongue, refusing to answer.

“Do you understand?” he asks.

You cross your arms petulantly, staring out the window.

But Steve’s always been one to push your buttons, and in the next moment, the car comes to a screeching halt, your chin is in his hand, and he turns your face until you’re looking him dead in the eye.

Your breath hitches.

His gaze drops down to your lips, obviously and clearly, before sliding back up to meet your eyes. “I said…” he begins quietly, threateningly, and you feel dizzy with arousal. “Do you understand?”

“Fuck you,” you say, less steady than you’d like.

His eyes narrow and his thumb presses a little harder into your chin. “Sweetheart,” he says. “I asked you a question.”

His thumb slips up your chin, pushing its way past your lips until he’s pressing down on your tongue, forcing your mouth open. Drool pools as he tilts your head up and down, making you nod in agreement, and he releases you with a smile.

“Good,” he says, wiping his hand on his sweater. You swallow heavily. “Glad we could come to an agreement.”

The thing about working with Steve—

Well, there are several things about working at the station with Steve. 

He has abysmal taste in music, despite the fact that Robin has — from what you’ve heard — been trying to get him to listen to something other than The J. Geils Band and whatever is on the Top 40 list. When he drinks coffee, it’s always with a splash of milk and two sugars, and the one time you made him a cup, he grimaced with every sip because you added too much milk but didn’t correct you. 

And, no matter what, he insists on you playing at least one Kate Bush song every night.

(You don’t ask.)

(He doesn’t elaborate.)

It happens after the synth in Running Up That Hill fades out, right as you’re sliding the Madonna record you want to play next into the other turntable.

The lights flicker. 

Steve sucks in a breath as you slip the headphones from your ears, looking up at the bulb overhead that continues to go in and out. You barely get a chance to turn in your seat before he’s next to you, his fingers digging painfully into your shoulder.

There’s a hiss.

The next thing you know, the bulb goes out with a loud crack, the hum of electricity cuts out, and the two of you are shrouded in darkness.

“What the hell?” you ask.

You try to stand, but Steve keeps you in place, hissing, “Quiet.”

The entire station goes dead silent, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Anxiety crawls up your spine as your heart beats loudly in your ears. Steve’s hold on your shoulder loosens marginally, enough for you to reach up and tangle your fingers with his, squeezing tightly for something. 

(For comfort or relief, you’re not sure.)

He squeezes back once before pulling away. You want to protest — you open your mouth, ready to yell at him to come back — but he only shifts over far enough to grab a flashlight off of the nearby shelf, flicking it on and illuminating the room around you once more.

He glances towards you, concern written all over his face when he asks, “You alright?”

“Yeah, just…” You frown, trying and failing to keep apprehension from building a home in your chest. “I wasn’t expecting that. Did a fuse blow or something?”

“I don’t know,” he says. There’s something conflicted on his face when he turns between you and the door to the booth, like there’s a decision he needs to make but he’s not sure what the correct choice is. Whatever that choice is though, he ends up saying, “Come with me.”

You nod and, without a second thought, reach for him once more.

His hand is warm and sure in your own as he tugs you along with him, entirely at odds with how tense his shoulders are as the two of you make your way through the station. He’s silent, too, in a way that you’ve never once associated with him; His footsteps are inaudible against the tile floor and his breathing is practically nonexistent. Your nerves are practically fraying at the seams, and you do your best to imitate his motions but he clearly has much more practice with going unnoticed than you do.

(Though going unnoticed by what—)

(You’re not quite sure.)

It’s only once he’s made three entire rounds of the station that he relaxes, pulling you to a stop in the middle of a sitting area.

“Well, that was pointless,” you say with a huff. “Seriously, Steve, what the hell are you doing? Just go find the power box and see if a fuse blew or something, and then we can—”

The phone in the office rings, and Steve jumps. Jumps. He physically pushes you behind him, the light flashing across the room. You stare at the back of his head, entirely unimpressed before shoving past him, ignoring his hurried, “Wait, wait! Jesus Christ, could you just listen—”

You snatch up the phone, saying, “This is WSQK the Squawk. How can I help you!”

“Oh!” comes Robin’s voice. “Hey, sorry, I thought Steve would pick up. You two alright? The power went down all over Hawkins, but I couldn’t tell if the outage would’ve reached you guys all the way out there.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine,” you say with a backwards glance towards Steve who, by all accounts, looks ready to throttle you. You give him a sweet smile. He glowers. “Any idea on when the power will be back on?”

“Ugh, I wish,” Robin sighs. “I’m at Nance’s house right now and Mr. Wheeler’s rattling off some conspiracy theory about the military being behind it. I think he’s just mad that his nightly news got cut off. Oh — I gotta run, Mrs. Wheeler is calling us all upstairs. Give Steve my love!”

“Will do,” you wryly say. “Bye, Robin.”

Barely three seconds pass after you place the phone back on the base before Steve crosses the threshold, dropping the flashlight on the desk and gripping your face between his two palms as he backs you into the desk. There’s a dangerous lilt to his voice when he demands, “Would it kill you to listen for once in your fucking life?”

“Hm,” you say, a thrill shooting straight to your core.”To you? Probably.”

He searches your face, barely restrained rage tugging at the edges of his frame, and in the next moment, his lips crash into yours. He’s demanding as he presses you further into the wood veneer, bruising when his hands slip down to hold you by the nape of your neck, holding you still and steady to be used for his every want and desire. You gasp, thrilled, and he wastes no time pressing his tongue in, hedonistic in his desire to be in control, his need to consume you whole.

Not that you make it easy for him.

You thrash against his hold, clawing your nails down his arms, biting down on his bottom lip just hard enough to hear him moan.

But the two of you know that it’s all for show — all for your pride.

You don’t want him to stop. Not when he’s this worked up.

(You have a feeling, an instinct in the back of your head, that tells you he’d know the second you did want him to stop, even if you never spoke it, and that he’d back away immediately.)

(Somehow, this only turns you on more.)

And all at once, he pulls away, his chest heaving as he asks, “Are you going to listen now?” 

“To you?” you spit back. “Never.”

In the dim light, he’s glowing. Hair messed up, cheeks flushed, sweater crooked. All masculine bravado and pride. The look of a man who is far too used to not being listened to, and one who has decided that this is where he draws the line.

This is his breaking point, his point of no return, his final stand.

His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with molten desire as he smirks. His hands drop down, and his calloused fingers are rough against the soft skin of your waist as he dips under the hem of your shirt.

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, inching closer and closer to your center, right above the zipper of your jeans.

You tilt your chin up, pressing your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Yeah,” he says with a little laugh, tone dripping with condescension. “That’s what I thought, sweetheart.”

One second you’re upright, and in the next, you’re spread along the surface of the desk, bereft of your jeans and shoes. You prop yourself up on your elbows just as he drops to his knees, spreading your legs open and pressing a kiss into the fatty flesh of your thigh.

He wastes no time in peeling your panties down, shaking his head when he finds just how wet you are. “Is this all for me, baby? Really?”

“No,” you tell him smartly, despite the evidence otherwise. “It’s for some other schmuck.”

Steve’s entirely unamused when he says, “Oh, I’m sure.”

He presses a trail of kisses up to your core, and with the voracity of a starved man, dives into your cunt with reckless abandon.

He licks a long line up the seam of your pussy, and you can feel his grin as he sucks your clit into his mouth. Pleasure shoots through your body, and you’re aware in a vague, distant way that all of the weeks since you sucked him off in the closet — a moment that you’ve repeatedly replayed in your head, when it’s late at night with your hand sliding under the hem of your pajama pants — have been leading up to this. 

Here, this moment, with his head bracketed by your thighs. All of the escalating arguments and name calling and Robin begging off having to interact with either of you, the stolen moments in the closet with his fingers gripping your skin so hard it left bruises, his teeth nipping at your neck. The tension building and building and building until you finally pushed him enough for it to boil over.

And, god, does it feel good to have him flick his tongue against your clit, to have two thick fingers slip inside your dripping pussy and curl against that spongey spot you have such a hard time reaching yourself.

Your hips jerk up, but he’s quick to pin you back down, pulling back just enough to snap, “Don’t move.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, to push him even more, but his teeth scrape against your clit and the only thing you can do is fall back against the desk as he continues to work at you, the pleasure building and growing and pressing at every corner of your mind until—

Until it stops completely.

You look down just as Steve pulls away with a shit eating grin, his chin glistening with evidence of your arousal, and he asks, “What’s wrong, baby? Did you need something?”

Everything positive thought you’d had about him is replaced with indignant rage. “You’re such an asshole, Steve.”

“Oh, am I?” he asks. “I guess you don’t want to come then, huh?”

You freeze. “Wait, what?”

But he doesn’t answer, only slips his fingers back inside, tortuously slow as he curls them up. Lazy and controlled, his brown eyes gleaming with unbridled lust in the flashlight. 

A moan escapes you.

He keeps the pace, grinning when your hips twitch up, searching for more: More stimulation, more pleasure, more anything.

But he refuses to give it to you.

Steve utterly delights in keeping you on the edge, keeping you wanting. He applies just enough pressure to have you squirming, but pulls away when you get too close. He continues the slow drag in and out of your pussy, bullying another finger inside until you’re shuddering and clenching down on his hands. He nips at your thighs, leaving marks all along your skin with a stern, “So you remember who fucked you this well tomorrow.”

You attempt to aim a kick at his arm, but he simply grasps your ankle and tugs you ever closer to his mouth, pressing a kiss into your mound.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asks, twisting his fingers until you whimper. “You told me to return the favor when you were having a bad day. Or were you lying when you said that?”

You bite down on your lip, refusing to answer. 

And then, suddenly, he pulls his hands away, leaving you painfully empty before he slaps your cunt — light enough for it to not hurt, but hard enough for it to send a jolt through your body. You whimper, and he grins, eyes gleaming as he asks, "What happened to you being such a whiny bitch, huh?"

"Fuck you," you snap, winding your fingers through his hair and yanking until he's back to where you ache the most. “You’re the world’s biggest dick, Steve. So fucking rude, all the time. Always mouthing off, always trying to get under my skin. Why can’t you use your mouth for something more useful?”

He grins into your pussy, dipping his tongue inside your core and licking a stripe up to your clit, flicking the tip over the nerve until you’re squealing, holding your thighs open and forcing you to take it.

He brings you to the edge one more time, pulling back just as your orgasm is about to crash into you, and laughing when you lurch forward, trying and failing to pull him back towards you.

“Why?” you sob. “Why won’t you—?”

“Beg.”

His voice comes out so serious, so cold, that everything inside of you pauses.

“What?”

“Beg me to let you come,” he says, like this isn’t the most insane thing someone has ever told you during sex. “Since you can’t remember how to mind your manners and say ‘thank you,’ I think it’s only fair that I teach you some, right?”

“What the hell is your problem, Steve?” you demand.

But he ignores you, bringing the pad of his thumb back up to your clit, drawing harsh circles around it until he’s forced to pin your hips down, keeping you exactly where he wants you as the pleasure builds back up once more, teetering on the edge of something more, building and building and taking and— 

“Please.”

His thumb freezes.

There’s an indecipherable look in his eyes when he glances back up towards you, and you can’t even imagine what he sees. You can feel sweat beading along your temples, and your hair is uncomfortably plastered to your neck. You feel utterly wrecked and sensitive and at your utter limit, but you know it’s only going to get worse.

(Your pussy clenches at the thought.)

“Please what?” Steve asks, more gentle than he’d been just moments before as he slips two thick fingers back inside of you, stroking along your walls until he finds the spot that has you whimpering. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Emotion wells up in your eyes as you reach down, your hand outstretched towards him, needing something to ground you.

He meets you halfway, intertwining your fingers together and squeezing.

“You can do it,” he says softly, encouraging. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come,” you whine. “Please, Steve, please, I just — I’m sorry for being mean, just please let me come.”

Steve gives you a smile, one that teeters between affectionate and condescending, and he places a kiss on your mound. He shifts upwards just as tears spill down your face, pressing kisses along your chin and tracing a path up until he’s captured your mouth with his own. His forehead meets yours as he asks, “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

You gasp his name as he curls his fingers inside of you with a renewed vigor, hitting the sweet spot that has you seeing stars as his thumb slips back up, drawing tight circles around your clit until you’re openly sobbing, tightening your hold on his hand as he brings you closer and closer to your orgasm.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your cheek, gathering your tears on his tongue. “What do you want?”

“Don’t—” you gasp, arching into his hold. “Don’t — Steve, please—”

“Let go,” he says. “Let go for me, honey.”

Your orgasm doesn’t wash over you as much as it crashes into you. Your entire body shakes as you sob, grabbing at any part of him that you can reach — his shirt, his arms, his face — as waves of pleasure work through your system, only drawn out by the fact that he keeps working at your core until you’re pushing at his hand, panting, “Too much, too much—”

Slowly, he pulls his fingers away, and in the next moment, they’re nudging at your lips as he says, “Open up.”

You peek up at him through your lashes and catch the slight curl to his lips, the smirk threatening to appear, and as you open your mouth, it does. 

“There we go,” he says, condescension dripping from his tone. 

A shock of pleasure works its way through you as he feeds his fingers into your mouth, making you shudder as your tongue dips over his fingers. You taste yourself on him and moan quietly, even as he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, you close your lips around them, sucking as he withdraws them.

“Quick learner,” he comments, and you narrow your eyes at him as he pushes himself up and away from you.

You drop back down to the table, chest heaving. The sound of Steve shuffling a few feet away barely registers as you catch your breath, running your hands down your face. Honestly, Steve barely registers on your radar, not until you feel him sliding flimsy cotton up your ankles. 

“What are you—?” you begin to ask, hitching yourself up onto your elbows, but you answer your own question as he pulls your panties up your legs, tugging them into place. “Steve, honestly, you don’t have to do this. I’m a big girl, I can put myself back together.”

But he only rolls his eyes and starts the process again with your jeans.

You’re honestly speechless as he rights your clothes, smoothing your hair from your face as he helps you stand on unsteady feet. His hand is warm against your back as he guides you from the office, his voice quiet as he says, “Car’s unlocked. Go wait while I lock up, alright?”

“I can help,” you argue.

The only response you get is him nudging you towards the door, his keys pressed into the palm of your hand.

The last thing you’re expecting when Steve joins you in the car, already turned on and warmed up, is for him to unceremoniously drop a bottle of water in your lap.

He busies himself with buckling in and tuning the radio — still on your favorite station, just a little bit staticky from distance — as you pick up the water, asking, “Um, what’s this for?”

He gives you a flat look. “To drink?”

You barely restrain the urge to respond with something catty — a no shit, Sherlock sitting on the tip of your tongue — but his kindness gives you pause. Instead, you simply unscrew the bottle and take a sip as he peels from the parking lot, the brick facade of the station fading into the distance.

He keeps his eyes trained on the road as he turns on the radio, still on your favorite station from earlier, and the question slips from your lips before you can stop it.

“Why are you suddenly acting like you care?”

His jaw tightens for just a moment. 

“I’ve always cared,” he softly says. “You just haven’t noticed.”

His eyes slide over to you briefly. Meaningfully.

(They look like they’re glowing in the moonlight, and you don’t know how to process this.)

You turn away first.

His words settle across your chest, winding their way around your ribs until your heart begins to beat an erratic tune. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. The car creeps closer to the edge of town, streetlights illuminating the old streets, and for the first time since your disastrous meeting with Steve, you let your guard lower.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask. “That I haven’t noticed?”

“Because you haven’t,” he replies. He says it so calmly, so non-accusatory, as though it were a facet of life he’d just learned to accept. It doesn’t sit well with you. “I’ve cared since we met, believe it or not.”

You whip around to gawk at him. “What the hell are you talking about? You’ve been an asshole since we met, Steve!”

“Only because you started it!” he shoots back. 

“Excuse me?” Your jaw drops. “I absolutely did not start this. I’m only like this because you were rude first!”

He turns to you, startled, and in the next moment pulls over onto the side of the road, yanking up the parking brake and facing you properly. “What are you talking about?”

“Our first shift together!” you say. “You were mad at, like, my entire existence! You asked Robin if you guys actually needed to hire me!”

“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow. “That’s not at all what happened. I walked into the station and you were, like, superhostile straight off the bat! And all I did was suggest playing Bruce Springsteen!”

Indignation burns brightly in your veins.

“That was our second shift together,” you correct. “But the day before that, I walked in, introduced myself, and you were just a dick for no reason? And you don’t even remember this? What the hell, Steve!”

“I—” His face twists with confusion. “No, hold on — the day before — I’d been up all night trying to find Henderson and I was running on fumes. Not that that excuses anything, but, like, that’s why I don’t remember. I hadn’t slept in over a day whenever we first met. And… I guess — everything with Dustin, and the mess that all of that has been — I guess it felt like you were doing the same thing to me that he’s been doing. Pushing me away for no reason, being an asshole. Again, not that that excuses my behavior, but…”

All of your anger comes to a crashing halt.

You don’t exactly know Dustin Henderson. You’ve met the kid, and the interactions you’ve had with him haven’t exactly given you the greatest impression of him, but Robin had assured you that Dustin was simply going through a hard time and to not take it personally. 

(But you’ve seen the way he talks to Steve. You’ve heard the tone used whenever Steve calls on those walkies to ask for help on the equipment. You’ve watched the strain in Steve’s posture when Dustin storms out of the station.)

(Even if you don’t know the full story, the undeniable truth is that you know enough.)

Slowly, conscious of the way his gaze is focused entirely on you, you reach out, sliding your hand up his calloused palm until your fingers are entangled with his. 

“What…” You lick your lips, throat suddenly dry. “Everything with Dustin. What’s going on with that?”

He lets out an aggrieved sigh, but you can tell that it’s not directed at you. It’s simply the culmination of months upon months of stress receiving the smallest of outlets. 

“It’s… complicated,” he says. “There was — well, there was the quakes. You were here for that, yeah?”

You nod.

“Like, pretty much everyone lost someone or something. It was awful. Obviously,” he continues. “But there was a moment — before — where I told Dustin and his friend to not play heroes, and the friend didn’t listen. He… he didn’t make it. He died in the quake, and Dustin… he’s just been pissed. And, like, I get it. Trust me, I do. It’s a lot for anyone to handle, and Henderson was only fourteen at the time. But he’s been shoving me away ever since, which is the long and short of it, I guess.”

You shake your head, amused. “Why does that make it sound like you knew about the quakes before they happened?”

The laugh Steve lets out sounds strained, but before you can question him further, a warm hand cups the side of your face, dragging you over the center console. 

You go willingly.

His lips are soft against yours, hesitant in a way they hadn’t been earlier. But the moment is different now; Charged, still, but not in the way it had been back in the station.

(You would be a fool to ignore whatever is happening between the two of you.)

And when he draws back, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers still holding onto your face as though he’d fall apart without touching you, you whisper, “What was that for?”

“I...” His eyes flit across your face. “An apology, I suppose.”

You sigh, pressing just the smallest bit closer. “It’s not okay, but I understand,” you say. “It’s not like I’ve been nice to you, either. Besides...” You lean forward, pressing a kiss along his jaw. “I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed the past few weeks.”

His lips curl up into a shy smile. “Yeah?”

You shrug, your heart beating erratically against your rib cage. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

It’s with a pained look that he pulls away, his hand skimming down the length of your arm before settling back in his seat entirely, shifting into second and starting the drive once more.

Streetlights flit by quietly, barren cornfields give way to houses and subdivisions, and as he turns onto your street, his voice breaks the silence.

“I was wondering,” he begins softly. “Since it looks like the power’s still out over here — you could, if you want, come back to my place.”

You raise your eyebrows, amused.

“Not for anything, like, untoward,” he quickly clarifies, shooting you a glare when you laugh. (Seriously, who says ‘untoward’ still?) “But it’s cold, and I don’t know how the insulation is in your apartment, but worst case we have a generator at my place and my parents evacuated before lock down so it’ll just be us, and—”

“Steve,” you interject. He falls silent immediately. “You don’t need to beg. Sure, I’ll go. Besides, my apartment is freezing even with functioning electricity.”

Amusement dances in his eyes. “Well, if it’s so cold…”

“Then you’re really just doing me a favor,” you finish.

A grin threatens to split his face and he nods once, decisive, before shifting gears.

Your apartment building passes by without a glance backwards.

By the time he pulls into a long driveway of a big, unfamiliar house, you’re half asleep. Eyelids drooping, face pressed into the cool window, but the lights in the house are on which means there’s proper heating, and that’s enough to have you slipping from the car.

Steve meets you halfway up the path, his hand settling on your back as he unlocks the front door and guides you in. 

“The kitchen is that way,” he says, pointing down a hall past the foyer. “Feel free to eat any of the food.”

“Thanks,” you say. “But I’m not really hungry.”

He accepts this easily, and with a gentle press of his fingers, he nudges you towards the stairs.

His bedroom feels like a window into a version of Steve that you’ve heard of but never quite seen. An amalgamation of sentiments — pictures of his friends and parents and others you don’t recognize, trophies from his high school days, scribbled notes from Robin strewn across his desk — and the messiness of a boy who clearly doesn’t spend as much time at home as he should, clothes strewn across the floor.

Steve, however, is unphased by all of this. He kicks his dirty laundry into a pile as he makes his way over to the dresser, shuffling through it until he yanks out a big, worn shirt and hands it over, saying, “This should fit. The bathroom is right outside the door, extra toothbrushes are in the cabinet. Use whatever you want.”

You nod and venture from the room without another word. Your clothes fall to the floor and you leave them in a pile to be grabbed in the morning, slipping on the soft t-shirt that falls to mid thigh. A toothbrush is located and you grimace at the taste of Steve’s toothpaste, then amuse yourself by using a tad too much of his overly fancy face wash and moisturizer.

(You know for a fact that you certainly can’t afford this stuff. Might as well use it while you can.)

And when you make your way back to the bedroom — back to Steve — he’s already dressed in his own pajamas, under the blankets, and adjusting a laughably large wall of pillows in the dead center of his bed.

You lean against the doorframe, amused when you ask, “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t — you know, I wasn’t going to… I didn’t want to… assume,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh my god.” You shake your head, making your way over to the opposite side of the bed, sliding in under the thick comforter, and immediately getting to work on destroying the pillow wall. “You do know that you had your mouth on my pussy, like, less than two hours ago, right? I think we’ll survive sharing a bed.”

“I was trying to be polite!” he cries indignantly.

But you only shift closer, tucking yourself under his arm and throwing your leg over his knee. “Harrington,” you begin affectionately. “You haven’t been polite for as long as we’ve known each other. Don’t bother starting now.”

He lets out a sound close to amused and shyly, he leans down, planting a kiss on your temple.

You bury your face into his sleep shirt, hiding your smile.

Steve flicks the light off and settles deeper into bed, dragging you closer until his limbs are entirely entangled with yours.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs. 

Everything odd about him is on a fringe; every so often, he speaks with a hint of formality, too formal for modern times. He’s got a certain Victorian flair to his wardrobe, but it’s only noticeable if you stare long enough (and lord knows you love to stare at him). He wears a strange pendant around his neck every day, one usually tucked underneath his shirt, but slips out from time to time; just enough to catch a glimpse. You’re pretty certain he actually lives in the Victorian style funeral home— the second and third floors are off limits to the public. The hours he works are closer to sundown, which you didn’t mind, it’s not like you were a morning person to begin with. Oh, and he’s cold to the touch. 

Always. Fucking. Cold.

You’re certain you’ve worked with corpses warmer than this man.

There’s something strange about Steve Harrington, and you’re dying to figure out what exactly that strange something is.

“Do you mind if I observe?”

Startled, you jolt and yelp, nearly dropping the brush and restoration palette from your grip. You turn around, wide-eyed while your annoyance fizzles into defeated laughter.

“Jesus, Mr. Harrington, stop doing that!” 

“Eugh,” he groans, upper lip curling in disgust, “I promise, you do not need to call me that.” He follows it up with an apologetic, warm smile, with his hands held up. “And apologies. I never realized how quiet I must walk until meeting you. Thought you’d be used to it a month in.”

“I’m gonna get you a pair of tap-dance shoes to wear around here.” Spinning back around, you attend to the decedent laid out on the table; you lean down, continuing your meticulous work on the restoration of their features. Every so often, you glance over at a photo the family offered as reference. 

“Oh, a new uniform?”

“Yep. Only for you, though.”

“Sounds like workplace discrimination.”

The longer you spent time around one another, the gentle banter became more comfortable to ease into; it just felt natural by now. You faintly smirk, focusing on the task at hand.

“Your restorative art skills always impress me.” Heat washes over your face with the compliment. He wanders around the embalming table, stopping across from you to study the details you recreated. “I find it cliche to say ‘they look like they’re sleeping’, but she truly appears at peace.”

“I always hated hearing that.” You huff out a laugh, checking the photograph again. “Even as a kid, I knew people were lying to make themselves feel better.”

“From that perspective, it’s understandable.”

“Absolutely, but it made me want to learn the process and do a better job. So… shoutout to the mortician that botched my grandpa’s restoration for inspiring me to go to mortuary school, I guess.” While you half-heartedly chuckle and shrug, Steve fixates on you, frowning.

“How old were you?”

“7-ish, I think.” You blend the thick, oily makeup onto the woman’s face, feigning a little bit of color on her empty shell. “Took a few failed college attempts to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and I think I was scared to commit to mortuary science. But… better late than never.”

Zeroed in on your work, you miss the way Steve watches you fondly, before circling the table back to you. When you pull your tools back, he gives the lightest, most gentle squeeze to your shoulder. “Not many people can find their footing after falling several times. You should be proud of yourself.”

As heat creeps along your skin once more, he leaves as silently as he arrived.

The touches are driving you mad.

Tiny, fleeting touches; hands brushing lightly against one another, little squeezes on your shoulder with encouraging words— they all send excitement coursing through your veins.

And they’re all from someone who should not be close to you like that. It’s unprofessional, and would have your skin crawling with disgust if it were anyone else. Yet a month and a half in, you’re realizing you like them, they’re comforting.

There’s also a mild thrill that comes with forbidden actions, even if they’re as mundane as one body briefly brushing against another.

Everything about this is unprofessional. Your morals and standards are dissolving before your eyes, making exceptions for some guy. Some handsome, charming, literally cold-to-the-touch guy, who’s also your boss. What did Steve have that was so special to drop aside your boundaries?

You’re nearing the halfway mark of the summer, and have learned quite a lot from Steve assisting him during embalming.

He’s strange, though— that’s nothing new— there are some … quirks… and workplace practices you’re thrown off by. Rather than drain a decedent’s blood into the drain, as protocol, he has the embalming pump directed into a peculiar tub, hermetically sealed off anywhere away from the connected drain hose.

“It’s easier to… dispose of this way. Won’t clog the old drainage system in the building.” He’d eventually explain, and surely enough, you never questioned it; after all, you’re only the assistant to his career experience. “And safer to dispose somewhere else that’s… appropriate.”

You never asked where that somewhere else was, but damn, if it wasn’t a burning question in your mind ever since he mentioned it…

“Today’s a slow one,” Steve says, not sparing you a glance as he’s rummaging through paperwork on the desk. “No one to embalm, and no services today, so don’t feel obligated to stay.”

You frown with a small huff; you just got here, and with each shift, you find yourself longing for more time with Steve. Attraction aside, you appreciate how patient he is while teaching techniques you’d never get in your classes. You’re able to focus with him, unlike under some of your professors.

That huff is just loud enough to catch Steve’s attention. Lifting his head, his smile grows when his eyes lock with yours, amused. “What? I figured you could use a break.”

Put on the spot, your face heats up as you shift uncomfortably in place. Steve’s expression settles into something calm, one with understanding as he takes in your energy.

“N- no, I appreciate it, but I…”

He sighs out your name and stands up straight, rounding the desk to narrow the gap between you. “I’m sorry, I should’ve called before you got here. You’re more than welcome to stay, I just don’t want to give you pointless busy work. Your time is worth more than that, angel.”

Your breath catches in your throat over the endearing term, casually pinned onto the end of his words. There has to be a foot between you and Steve, but this is the closest you’ve stood face to face with one another. 

It should feel weird, feel wrong, that he called you angel; any other employer parading this behavior would have you completely uncomfortable at best. There’s no tone that sets off discomfort or ill intentions— at least, you hope. It’s not like he’s tried anything strange, aside from those fleeting, feather-light touches, but those don’t bother you either. You can’t pinpoint why.

His comment on your time’s worth only adds to your trust in him; not most employers would value someone else’s time.

“It’s o- okay,” you shake your head, tearing your stare away from his lips. “I can leave.”

Something flashes in Steve’s eyes, but you can’t decipher what. You’d like to believe it’s disappointment, not ready to part ways for the evening this quickly, but you’re probably only seeing what you’d like to see.

“It’s not part of your credit requirements, but there’s a decedent I have to cremate. If you’d like to stay, I’d love teaching you the process.”

Most folks would not feel welcomed by an offer like that, and would turn it down with ease. You, though, always eager to learn the ins and outs of this field, nod immediately. 

Doesn’t hurt you’ll spend more time with Steve, either, of course.

Half way through monitoring the cremation’s progress, while fixated on the retort, you blurt out a thought that’s been brewing since the decedent was placed inside.

“Is it wrong to embalm others but not want that for yourself?”

Steve turns to you, brow quirking slightly, intrigued by the question. “Hm… personally, I don’t think so. We all have our preferences, and they should be respected and carried out before we’re laid to rest.”

You fidget on the cold, steel stool, finally meeting his gaze. “‘Cause I like helping people… I like being able to give closure to others, make the farewells a little more… peaceful, I guess.” You shrug, glancing back down at the notebook in your lap, scribbled with on-the-fly points and tips for cremation. “But I wouldn’t want that for myself.”

“And what would you want?”

You roll your eyes before speaking, “Something more than a box in the ground. I wish natural burials were more common… I think being laid to rest under a beautiful tree just feels… right. Or with some of my favorite flowers planted nearby. Giving myself back to the world that gave me so much… feels more human than being dolled up to rest in a cold, lonely casket forever.”

Silence lingers, and you worry you’ve rambled too much, especially noticing the way Steve’s stare is glued to you.

“I- okay, please don’t fire me for saying that. I don’t judge anyone who wants that, or any kind of burial, I just mean for me, y’know?” You cringe at yourself, waving your hand. “Forget I said all of that.”

“I’d never fire you for having your own beliefs,” Steve shakes his head. “Certainly not for ones as beautifully thought out as that. We don’t get to decide where we’re born, but we have the choice to decide where to be laid to rest. Of course not everyone would want the exact same thing. Shame the more gentle option isn’t legal here.”

Relief washes through you, shoulders resting away from tension. It eases you into asking, “So… if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Harrington—“

Steve makes a gagging noise, tongue out with dramatics. “Don’t call me that.”

“Right, sorry,” you laugh, slipping into a new shared comfort. “Well… what would you pick?”

Brows jumping up, his eyes grow wide. “Me?” You nod as he sighs with a shrug, running his hand through his hair. “I, uh… haven’t really given it much thought.”

The mood in the room shifts, and you take the hint. “Yeah. No, yeah, I get it. S’kinda hard to think about sometimes… dying I mean.”

Oh my god, I need to shut up. What sense does that make? We’re both morticians!

Slumping in his seat, he rests his head back against the wall as his eyes close. “You’re not wrong. It’s vastly different compared to thinking about it for those we care for here.”

A breath of relief passes your lips; okay, maybe you’re making more sense than you give yourself credit for.

“Yeah, separating work from reality, and all that…” Trailing off, you remember the third layer of this discussion, still unspoken. “It’s scary to think about for those you love.”

There’s no verbal response, only Steve left staring at you right as he opens his eyes… maybe dumbfounded? Bothered? Christ, you wish it wasn’t so hard to read him sometimes. The man is strange and mysterious— both, at times, infuriating.

A shrill ring breaks the trance, causing you to drop your notebook and Steve to jump up, alarmed. He rescues your notebook and pen from the ground, handing it over with a nervous laugh. “I- I’ll go get that.”

He rushes into the prep room, answering the phone in a hushed, frantic whisper, unable to make out what he’s saying. You peek through the narrow window of the swinging doors, watching Steve run a hand through his hair again, tugging a little out of what seems like frustration. He holds the phone up with his other hand, shaking his head before slamming the handset down onto the hook.

It’s pure curiosity and concern, keeping you fixated on him while he’s distressed; even from a distance, it’s easy to tell how unsettled the phone call has made him. He rubs his eyes, shoulders sinking with what you assume is a sigh. 

Whatever’s attempting to drag him down doesn’t last long as he fights it off, sighing one more time before turning for the door. His eyes lock with yours, halting his pace, but only for a moment. You turn away, embarrassed you were caught being nosy.

Steve pushes the door open, forcing a smile down at you, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You dare to ask, “Is everything… okay?”

One brief, flat laugh slips out as he shakes his head, “Ask me again tomorrow.” 

Sliding back into his chair, he drags it closer to you, his knee knocking into yours, contact earning a shiver up your spine. 

“Mind if I check your notes?”

He’s trying to distract himself from whatever has him upset, you just know it; now he’s easy to read, only because you witnessed his mood shift. Over what, though, you can’t say, nor is it your place to ask.

Instead, you indulge in the request, handing over your notebook to him with a nod, moving on politely for Steve’s sake.

“Hey, kid. Got a minute?”

You glance up from your work— preparing the decedent in the casket for the viewing later this evening— to see Eddie stroll in. 

Eddie is Steve’s best friend, and hearse driver. He’s usually the one on call for tasks like picking up those who passed, and driving the decedent to their final resting place.

The family requested the decedent— a mother— be buried with a handmade quilt, one of sentimental value, made of the shirts that once belonged to her late husband. The quilt was comfort in time of grief, only to be cut short before she herself followed after him into a life somewhere beyond here.

It’s always intriguing to hear every family’s beliefs and their versions of the afterlife. Heaven. Paradise. Maybe reincarnation. Maybe nothing. Who knows where we end up when our time arrives?

You just hope this woman and her husband are somewhere at peace, happy, free of suffering, wherever that may be.

“Hel-looooooo?” Eddie waves his hand in front of your face. Goddammit, spacing out again. “You doin’ alright?”

Snapping yourself out of the haze, you force a nod. “Ye- yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, long day. What’s up?”

“You gonna be okay for tonight’s viewing?”

“Why, you gonna do it if I say no?” You chuckle.

“Oh, fuck no. You know me, I’m just in charge of the pickups and hearse cruising.” He snickers, shaking his head. “Stevie boy’s on his own if you have to leave.” Then he glances over his shoulder to the door, dropping his voice to a softer tone. “Is he around?”

“No,” you answer, multitasking to not lose track of time, tucking the quilt in neatly to the walls of the casket. “Why?”

“He’s uh… look. Don’t tell him I told you this,” Eddie drops his voice even lower. “I don’t wanna tell his personal shit to others, it’s not my place, but he’s not doing too hot. You mind just… I know you’re busy, and focus on your work first, but just lemme know if something feels… off.”

As if Steve himself doesn’t seem off as a person to begin with. Same with Eddie, but not so much. He doesn’t seem stuck in formalities the way Steve can be sometimes.

“Okay… off how?”

Eddie sighs, rubbing his hand down his face. “He’s really having a hard time with a—“

“Oh, Eddie!” Steve’s voice cuts in, causing the two of you to freeze. “I was looking for you.”

Speak of the devil.

Well, maybe not ‘devil’— oh, whatever, brain. Shut up.

Eddie’s face deflates with his back still turned to Steve. He whispers, “Please, just keep me updated, alright?” Then he spins around, strolling back down the aisle between chairs for the guests. “Stevie! Hey, man. What’s up?”

Steve makes eye contact with you, giving a ghost of a smile, one that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He turns to Eddie, arm around his shoulder to lead him out. “Maybe we should talk out here, give some space so she can focus.”

You’re grateful he’s been accommodating to your needs when it comes to your line of focus; it seems like a chore to most employers to consider.

Except, you’re left concerned about him. Even as the two men left the room, your focus seems to have departed with them.

It’s going to be a long evening.

Just before the first viewing you’re assisting begins, you gather the courage to ask a burning question, one that’s been on your mind since you began this job. You hope, too, it’s a gateway to figure out what’s got Steve so “off” as Eddie put it, but you’re not even sure what signs you should be looking for. 

As you wait by the front doors for the family to arrive, you glance over at Steve, watching you curiously.

“Mr. Ha—“ You catch yourself, watching as a smile curls along his lips. “Steve?”

“Yes?”

Running your hands over your blazer, you attempt to flatten a faint wrinkle, one that’ll bother you the rest of the night, now that you’ve notice it. “Could I ask a personal question?”

His brow quirks, turning toward you. “Of course.” He notices the way you continue to fidget with your blazer, reaching out to gently stop your hands. “You’re nervous?”

Shivering under his touch, you find yourself drawn to lean into it, but resist.

“A little,” You admit, but he gives a look, obviously seeing right through you and your jittery nerves. “Okay, a lot.”

“What for?”

“Well, ‘cause I—“ Your forehead creases and you frown. “Hang on, you didn’t answer my question.”

“We’ll get back to that, your comfort is more important, angel.” Your stomach flutters from the way he calls you angel. “What has you so bothered?”

It takes so much effort to pull yourself back into the moment after he addresses you with an endearing term. “I’m just… I don’t know, I keep second guessing myself. What if my work isn’t good enough? What if I upset the family?” You feel so foolish for getting so worked up, but you can’t stave the self-doubt off any longer. “Do I have time to adjust anything?” You glance back into the viewing room, scanning over the decedent’s appearance for flaws. “Can we—“

Steve’s hands rest on your shoulders, stealing your attention from your spiraling thoughts, breath hitching in your throat.

“If I didn’t believe in you, or your hard work, I would’ve done the restoration, and you wouldn’t be assisting tonight.” He locks his stare with yours, eyes kind, gentle, matching his faint smile. He notices the way you tense under his touch, hands retreating from your figure. “Sorry, that’s— I don’t mean to be creepy, or anything—“

“You’re not creepy, Steve.” You reassure him, despite frowning. “You mean well, I know you do. Might be a bit… inappropriate, though.” You look away, knowing in any workplace, it is, but here, you just feel like you’re helping others with a friend. “I- I mean, I truly don’t mind, but if someone else sees—“

“You’re absolutely right, my apologies for crossing that line.” He gives an apologetic smile, but it’s fleeting, backing away a few steps as he clasps his hands in front of him. “We work together so well, I tend to forget we’re only coworkers.”

“We can be friends, too, you know.” You glance out the front doors, afraid to attempt eye contact again. “I kinda already consider you my friend… if that’s not pushing boundaries, of course.”

Steve gives a kind smile, softly snorting. Something you’ve noticed in the time you’ve worked together: he never fully grins, even when laughing. It’s almost like he restrains himself from displaying any brief joy, and you can’t figure out why.

“Of course that’s not pushing boundaries. Not for me, at least.” He glances out to the parking lot, eyeing the first few cars that roll in. There’s still another five minutes or so before the viewing begins, so he doesn’t cut the conversation short. “But I’d like you to make that choice on your own. I never want you to feel pressured into anything. Whatever the decision, I will respect it.”

“Then yeah, we’re friends.” You feel a layer of tension peel away, comfort setting in. “Since we’re friends, do you mind me asking why you became a mortician?”

Steve inhales deeply through his nose, caught off guard by your query before exhaling roughly. “There’s… a loaded answer to that question.” He hesitates, clearing his throat. “I don’t mind sharing, but this isn’t the best time or place.”

“Right, shit, I’m sorry—“

He sways forward, like he’s about to step closer, but reels back as he remembers— right, workplace boundaries.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, angel.” His gaze is soft and sincere, shooting a reassuring smile. “Let’s talk after the viewing.”

The guests are now long gone, and you and Steve have just finished rearranging the viewing room for the morning’s funeral. You’ve tried staying aware for any signs Steve might’ve shown in his mood or demeanor that something’s not right, but nothing’s changed, not that you picked up on.

Steve barely locks the viewing room’s door before your restless energy finally comes to a head; you’re right on his heels, startling him for once as he turns around.

“Christ!” He yelps as he bumps into you, but quickly narrows his eyes while you giggle away.

“Nope, just me.” In a childlike manner, you stick your tongue out teasingly. “How’s it feel to be spooked for once?”

“You’re a petty little thing, aren’t you?” Resting his hands on his hips, he gives you a once-over; you scoff, trying to ignore the warmth blooming under your skin. 

You cross your arms, snorting, “Would you rather some boring, strait-laced assistant instead?”

Okay, where the hell did that boldness come from?

Steve steps closer, toe to toe with you as he smirks. “Cheeky, too. Will I have the pleasure of seeing a whole new side of you now that we’re friends?”

“Depends,” Shrugging, you walk off, but throw a glance over your shoulder. “Will you trust me as a friend with your answer now?”

That’s how the two of you end up in his roomy office, with Steve, legs thrown across a luxurious love-seat, while you’re cozy and sprawled out on an antique recamier. It’s dim from a few low lights, but the moonlight pouring in through the parted drapes offers a comforting illumination. Your blazer is slumped over a cushion, and he had unbuttoned the first few buttons of his dress shirt.

Somehow, just hanging out like this, it feels normal. Casual. Familiar. 

“I can’t believe you have a fainting couch,” you murmur, sinking into the soft, velvet pillows. “You ever wonder how many people in corsets this thing has caught back in its prime?”

Steve snorts, shaking his head, “That’s a myth, you know. They weren’t even called that in the Victorian era.”

“I didn’t ask for a history lesson—“

“You clearly needed one.”

Jaw falling slack, he laughs harder, but shields his grin with the back of his hand.

“Why do you do that?” Puzzled, he furrows his brow. “Cover your mouth when you laugh, I mean. You do that a lot.”

Ruminating, he cautiously answers, “Because I don’t… I’m— it’s a self conscious thing, I think.”

Your lips curl downward, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me to ask.”

“I’ll, um… delve into that some other time.” He clears his throat, “But I have another question of yours to answer first.” He stares up at the ceiling, arms resting up behind his head. “You want to know why I entered this line of work, yes?”

“Mhm, it’s fascinating to me what everyone’s deciding factor is.” You hug a pillow of your own; this feels like a sleepover, the part filled with exchanging scandalous gossip and whispered secrets. Though, you know his answer will be far from something so trivial.

You don’t expect a drawn out sigh from Steve, but it crowds the room regardless. 

“I used to watch over a group of kids in my old neighborhood, kind of unintentionally, after some… mishaps. My parents had a large home, but they were rarely around, and some of the kids needed a safe place to go that weren’t their own homes. They became something akin to… siblings to me, and over time I discovered I truly loved caring for other people.

“They led me to some friends closer to my age over time— that’s actually how I met Eddie,” He chuckles as he mentions his friend and business partner. “Things felt so… complete. A patchwork family of misfits, but it was my family. It didn’t matter that my parents were absent, not when I was surrounded by others who cared, and that I cared so, so much for.”

You can already tell he was serious when he said it was a loaded question, especially with how his voice cracks from time to time.

“I…” He shudders, running his hands over his face. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about the details yet. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it just kills me having to say it aloud.”

You sit up, shaking your head, “No, please don’t feel like you need to tell me. I shouldn’t— I’m so sorry, Steve.”

“What did I tell you earlier? There’s nothing to apologize for, and I mean that.” His words are firm but the tone is soft, reassuring. “I lost almost all of them… it’s an awful type of dread to live with, feeling helpless when you’re unable to help others, keep them alive. It took a lot of time, and grief, but I accepted the reality. If I couldn’t help others stay alive, I could at least care for them in death, give them a proper sendoff. It felt like I had a purpose again, and— ah, damn.”

Grabbing tissues off his desk, you rush across the room to him. “Here—“ Streaks of red lined his palms sporadically where streams of tears should be. “Steve, oh my god, are— are you okay?”

He yanks a fistful of tissues into his hand, shoving them against his eyes. 

“It’s- I’m fine, I swear. I have this— it’s this… medical thing,” Steve stammers as he bunches tissues to his eyes with one hand, waving the other while trying to explain quickly. “It’s alright, nothing to fret—“

“Should I call an ambulance?” You don’t allow him to finish, panic rising while you answer yourself, “I’m calling an am—“

“Don’t, I’m fine.”

“Steve…” Cautiously, you settle on the loveseat next to him, observing him for any sign of distress. He only continues to blot his eyes, leaving crimson splotches behind on the tissues. “That can’t be healthy to… that’s…”

“Those children I used to take care of would say “friends don’t lie”,” Steve sniffles into the fabric, sighing with the weight of grief. You watch as blood soaks into the paper, and how unbothered he is by it. “I still stand by that. You and I are friends now,” he dares to turn his head, glancing toward you with worn, weary eyes. “I’d never lie to you.”

“But you’re not telling me something important,” you add with persistence. “You may be a bit older than me, but I’m not that naive.”

Voice dropping barely above a whisper, he counters, “Withholding the truth isn’t always lying. I’ll tell you, in time.” He crumples up the tissue in his fist, clearing his throat, eyes falling back to the floor. “It’s not something that’s easy to talk about.”

Something in the back of your mind tells you to run; the blood tears and mystery of his past alone are enough to set off the alarm bells. You should leave. You should quit. Something is wrong here.

Yet your gut feeling urges you to stay, to patiently wait for Steve to eventually open up, trust you completely. You’re friends now, and whatever is going on is clearly causing him great pain.

The alarms silence, the voice screaming at you to run quiets down— you’ve felt safe with Steve since the very first day you walked in here, and now that you’re friends, it’s only fair to return that safety back to him. Whatever is wrong isn’t with Steve, but something of his past, weighing so heavily on his heart all this time later.

What’s really wrong here is the unspeakable heartache Steve’s been enduring for so long.

“Well…” boldly, your hand blankets over his fist; you constrain your reaction his cold skin, shivering through you. Steve’s head snaps up, taken aback by your touch. Even through the red tears welling up in his eyes, they’re soft, honest; any panic left withers away when the hurt in his gaze is stronger. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen.”