El⋆˚꩜｡

“Mhm.”

The answer comes too quickly.

Joe watches you for another second while you screw the cap back onto the bottle slightly too hard.

“What’s your sugar at?”

You hesitate.

Which tells him enough already.

“Honey.”

“Eighteen.”

Joe’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Okay.”

“It’s fine.”

But your voice has that clipped little edge it always gets when you’re trying not to panic.

Joe knows the difference now between a normal bad mood and the very specific irritability that comes with high blood sugars. You move differently when you’re high. Slower somehow. Like your body’s dragging behind you.

He sets his book down quietly.

“When did you last correct?”

“Like… forty minutes ago.”

Joe nods once. Calm. Steady. Never dramatic.

“Alright. Let’s give it a little longer.”

You nod too quickly.

Then immediately refill your water bottle again.

Two hours later, you’re sitting on the bathroom floor trying not to cry.

Twenty-three point eight.

You stare at the number on your monitor like maybe it’ll suddenly change if you hate it hard enough.

Joe crouches beside you carefully. “Hey.”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong.”

Your voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word.

Because you did everything right. That’s the worst part. You counted dinner properly. You corrected twice. Changed your infusion site when you started suspecting it might’ve failed. Drank enough water to feel sick already.

Still high.

Still climbing.

Joe reaches over carefully and brushes sweaty hair back from your forehead.

“You checked ketones?”

You nod weakly toward the testing strips sitting beside the sink. “Little bit raised.”

Joe’s jaw tightens slightly.

Not enough that most people would notice.

You notice.

“I’m okay,” you say immediately.

Joe doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he reaches for your hand where it’s curled limply against your knee and presses his thumb slowly across your knuckles.

“You feel sick?”

You shrug.

Then immediately regret it when nausea twists violently through your stomach.

“Oh.”

Joe sees your face change instantly.

“Oh, baby.”

You bend forward suddenly, forearm braced against the toilet seat while your stomach rolls unpleasantly. Joe’s hand lands immediately between your shoulder blades, warm and steady.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs softly. “Breathe.”

“I hate this,” you whisper miserably.

Joe doesn’t try to contradict you.

Because sometimes diabetes is horrible.

Instead, he just keeps rubbing slow circles across your back while the bathroom light hums quietly overhead.

“You think I messed something up?” you ask eventually, voice small.

Joe’s expression changes immediately.

“No.”

“But what if-”

“Honey.” His hand stills briefly against your spine until you look at him properly. “Bodies are weird sometimes. Diabetes is weird sometimes. This is not you failing.”

Your eyes sting instantly.

You look away before the emotion can fully hit.

Joe notices anyway.

Of course he does.

“I think we should go get you checked out,” he says gently after another few minutes.

Your stomach drops immediately. “Joe-”

“You’ve done corrections, changed the site, drank water, checked ketones, and you still feel awful.” His voice stays soft. Careful. “I’d rather overreact than risk you getting properly sick.”

You hate that he’s right.

You hate hospitals. Hate the fluorescent lighting and the waiting and the feeling of becoming fragile in public.

“I don’t wanna go.”

Joe’s face softens painfully. “I know.”

And that’s the thing about Joe. He never talks to you like you’re being unreasonable. Never dismisses the fear first just because practicality matters more.

He reaches up carefully and smooths his thumb beneath your eye.

“We’ll just get you checked out, okay? Then maybe they’ll tell us we’re both dramatic and send us home.”

Despite everything, you laugh weakly.

Joe smiles slightly. “There she is.”

The hospital waiting room smells faintly like disinfectant and burnt coffee.

Your head hurts. Your mouth feels disgusting - dry in that horrible, thick way high blood sugars always seem to cause. Every muscle in your body feels vaguely wrong.

Joe sits beside you in the stiff plastic chair with one knee pressed against yours the entire time. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t let go of your hand in nearly an hour.

“You tired?” he murmurs quietly.

You nod against his shoulder.

Joe glances down at the monitor still clutched weakly in your hand. “Coming down a little.”

“Mm.”

Twenty-one now.

Still awful.

But moving.

A nurse eventually calls your name and Joe stands up immediately beside you.

The doctor ends up confirming what you already suspected. Bad infusion site. Mild ketones. Dehydration. Nothing catastrophic. Just one of those nights where diabetes decides to be cruel for no reason.

You nearly cry from relief anyway when they say you can go home.

Outside, the air’s cold and damp against your skin while Joe guides you carefully toward the car.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You laugh weakly. “I feel like death.”

Joe opens the passenger door for you immediately.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But a medically supervised death now.”

You snort tiredly despite yourself.

The drive home happens mostly in silence. Streetlights slide gold across Joe’s face while one hand stays loose on the steering wheel and the other keeps reaching over absentmindedly to squeeze your knee at red lights.

By the time you get home, your blood sugar’s finally dropped below fifteen.

You’ve never been so happy to see a number in your life.

Joe gets you into bed with ridiculous gentleness, like you’re something fragile he’s scared of bruising accidentally.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble while he plugs your phone charger in beside the bed.

Joe looks up immediately. “For what?”

“For ruining the night.”

That lands badly.

You see it happen instantly in his face.

“Honey,” Joe says carefully, “you having a medical emergency is not an inconvenience to me.”

You stare down at the blankets instead.

Joe sits beside you then, mattress dipping warmly beneath his weight.

“You know what I was thinking the whole drive home?”

“What?”

“That I wished I could make you feel better faster.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

Because he means it. Not in a dramatic way. Just honestly.

Joe reaches over and gently pulls the blanket higher around you.

“I hate seeing you feel scared,” he murmurs quietly.

That almost breaks something open in your chest.

“You were scared too,” you say softly.

Joe looks down for a second before answering.

“Yeah.”

The honesty of it makes your eyes sting.

Joe notices immediately.

Then, very softly, “C’mere.”

You lean into him without thinking. Joe wraps both arms around you carefully while you press your face into the warm curve of his neck. His hoodie smells faintly like rain and hospital soap and home.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your hair.

Joe glances up immediately. “I’m not terrified.”

“You look like you’re diffusing a bomb.”

“In my defence,” he says seriously, “there are a lot of instructions.”

You snort softly despite yourself.

The thing is, Joe didn’t start helping because you asked him to.

He just noticed eventually.

Noticed how long you procrastinated site changes. How you’d wander around the flat pretending to do other tasks first. How you always got weirdly quiet beforehand no matter how many times you’d done it before.

Joe notices everything eventually.

“You okay?” he asks softly now, eyes flicking up toward you again.

You shrug one shoulder weakly. “Yeah.”

That immediately tells him you’re lying.

Joe rests his hand gently against your knee.

“Honey.”

“I know it’s stupid.”

“Hey.” His eyebrows pull together slightly. “Don’t do that.”

You look away toward the sink instead.

“It’s just annoying,” you admit quietly. “I’m a grown adult and I still have to psych myself up for it every time.”

Joe’s expression softens instantly.

“You have a medical device getting attached to your body,” he says carefully. “I think you’re allowed to be a little weird about it.”

Something in your chest aches slightly at that.

Because he says it so simply.

No judgment. No confusion. No making you feel overdramatic.

Just understanding.

Joe reaches for the alcohol wipe again before gently cleaning the skin on your arm. His hands are warm and ridiculously careful, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin afterwards like he’s apologising in advance.

“Ready?” he asks.

You grimace immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Joe laughs quietly.

Then, softer, “You wanna hold my hand?”

Your eyes flick back toward him.

“You need both hands.”

“I’ll make it work.”

The sincerity of it almost kills you slightly.

You end up gripping onto his shoulder instead while Joe positions the applicator carefully against your arm.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Deep breath.”

You bury your face dramatically against his hair.

Joe laughs softly against your shoulder before pressing the button.

Click.

You tense automatically.

Then blink.

“Oh.”

Joe’s already looking up at you worriedly. “You okay?”

“That was actually fine.”

His whole face brightens immediately like he personally achieved something.

“Told you.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

You laugh softly while Joe carefully smooths the adhesive down around the edges with his thumb. His hands are warm against your skin, ridiculously gentle in a way that makes something ache quietly in your chest.

The thing about Joe is that he never treats your diabetes like a burden.

Not once.

Even when it interrupts plans. Even when it wakes him up at stupid hours of the morning. Even when he’s kneeling on the bathroom floor at midnight helping attach medical devices to your body because you got too in your own head to do it yourself.

“You good?” he asks again softly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Joe studies your face for another second anyway.

Then, quieter, “Proud of you.”

Your eyebrows pull together immediately. “For changing my dexcom?”

“For doing all this constantly.”

And there it is.

That stupid ache again.

Because diabetes feels so normal to you most of the time that you forget how relentless it probably looks from the outside. The counting and calculating and alarms and injections and site changes and constant background awareness your brain never really gets a break from.

Joe notices all of it.

Not in a pitying way.

Just… attentively.

You lean forward automatically, arms sliding around his shoulders while he’s still kneeling in front of you.

“You’re very lovely sometimes,” you mumble into his hair.

Joe laughs softly against your shoulder. “Sometimes?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

Later that night, Joe kisses absentmindedly around the edges of the new dexcom while you’re lying in bed together.

Not the sensor itself obviously.

Just nearby.

Warm soft kisses against your skin while his hand slides lazily beneath your shirt.

“You’re very strange,” you mumble sleepily.

Joe hums against your shoulder. “You love me.”

He’s completely right.

The low hits two weeks later while you’re halfway through watching a film.

At first it’s subtle enough you barely register it.

The slight hollowness in your chest. Your hands feeling vaguely disconnected from the rest of you. The weird cold sweat beginning at the back of your neck.

Then your CGM alarm cuts through the sitting room.

Joe pauses the film immediately.

“You low?”

“Mhm.”

You already sound slightly out of it.

Joe’s expression softens instantly. “Okay, honey. Stay there.”

“I can get it.”

“I know.”

Still, he disappears into the kitchen anyway.

You try sitting up properly while he’s gone, but the shaking’s worse than you expected tonight. Annoyingly bad. By the time Joe comes back carrying orange juice and your favourite cereal bar, your hands are trembling hard enough you can barely pull the blanket properly around yourself.

Joe notices immediately.

“Oh, baby.”

“I’m okay,” you insist automatically.

Joe sits beside you on the sofa without arguing, one hand settling carefully against your knee.

“I know you are.”

Which somehow makes embarrassment bloom even harder beneath your ribs.

Because he’s being so gentle about it.

You hate lows like this. Hate how helpless they make you feel. Hate the weird disconnect between your brain and your body while simple tasks suddenly feel frustratingly difficult.

Joe unscrews the orange juice calmly before holding it out toward you.

You reach for it.

And nearly drop it immediately.

“Oh my god,” you mutter miserably.

Joe catches the bottle before it spills everywhere.

The shame hits fast and irrational and ugly.

“I hate this,” you whisper.

Joe goes still beside you.

Then, very quietly, “Hey.”

You look away toward the television instead.

Joe shifts closer immediately, his thigh pressing warm against yours beneath the blanket.

“Look at me a sec.”

Reluctantly, you do.

Joe’s expression is painfully soft.

“Honey,” he says gently, “you’re having a low. Your hands are shaky. That’s not embarrassing.”

You shrug helplessly anyway.

“It feels embarrassing.”

Joe’s face twists slightly at that.

Without another word, he lifts the bottle again and tilts it carefully toward your mouth instead.

The whole thing should probably feel humiliating.

Instead, somehow, it just feels tender.

Joe’s hand stays steady beneath the bottle while you drink, thumb rubbing absentminded circles against your knee the whole time like he’s trying to soothe you without making a big deal out of it.

“There you go,” he murmurs softly after a few mouthfuls. “Good girl.”

The praise hits embarrassingly hard in your current state.

Joe notices immediately, because of course he does.

A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“You alright there?”

“Shut up.”

Joe laughs quietly.

Then unwraps the cereal bar for you too before breaking little pieces off absentmindedly while you lean heavily against his shoulder.

You feel ridiculous.

And exhausted.

And weirdly emotional in the way lows always seem to make everything feel bigger.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble eventually.

Joe looks genuinely confused. “For what?”

“For being difficult.”

That lands badly.

You see it immediately in his face.

“Honey,” Joe says carefully, “you needing help for ten minutes does not make you difficult.”

You stare down at the blanket in your lap instead.

Joe’s hand slides gently beneath your chin then, turning your face back toward him.

“I mean it.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

Because he does mean it.

Every word.

Joe brushes his thumb softly beneath one of your eyes before leaning down to press a kiss against your forehead.

“You spend every day taking care of yourself,” he murmurs quietly. “Let me take care of you sometimes too.”

Well.

That almost fucking does you in emotionally.

You laugh weakly despite the sting suddenly building behind your eyes.

“Careful,” you mumble. “You’re getting dangerously sweet.”

Joe grins slightly before nudging the cereal bar back toward you.

“Eat the rest of that before I start charging for bedside service.”

You snort softly and lean harder into his side while he reaches for the remote again with his free hand.

The film starts playing quietly in the background.

Neither of you really watches it.

Joe just keeps absentmindedly brushing his fingers through your hair while your blood sugar slowly crawls back upward and your body starts feeling like yours again.

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde !

· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

Maybe you’d never get rid of the funny habit of looking to both sides before crossing the street, but it was more important that no one noticed what you were about to do next. You carefully moved its face with the tip of your boot, trying to get rid of the long hairs around the greenish face to get a better look at its face, at her face. You even dared to crouch in front of it.

She didn’t look like anyone you knew, she didn’t look like anything, really. There were little, putrid holes around her cheekbones, purple shades where a mouth should’ve been, and colourful spores blooming around her eyes. It was sad, and frightening and somehow still beautiful. Undead or not, humans were still beautiful.

Including you, you thought, always trying to convince yourself that you weren’t a bad person because you couldn’t give this body a proper burial. The world was full of destruction and yet your body still seemed to crave for creation, because despite the fact you were eating once a day, maybe twice if you were lucky, it still managed to miraculously bleed once a month.

And it was so infuriating. You had resorted to sacrifice one of your three shirts to sow handmade pads that felt more like diapers on your underwear. It was beyond the point of humiliation at this point, and you never cried, you never had the time to. So, you just kept going until you’d find the next gas station or pharmacy or supermarket.

As alert as anyone was in a situation like these, you were pretty calm most times, specially while wandering around supermarkets’ isles. Something that the people writing movies and books about the apocalypse didn’t take into consideration was how boring the end of the world could be. Because the ending was constantly delayed, and nothing really happened. On top of that, there were no ways to pass the time that couldn’t potentially put you in danger. It seemed like those days where you couldn’t leave the house without a pair of headphones had been a lifetime ago, now you wouldn’t risk spending one second completely unaware of your surroundings.

So, all that boredom turned into longing sighs, moments of reflection where you read the labels of expired cereal boxes if you found any. You’d spend twenty minutes wondering if you could afford some stomach ache if that meant you’d get to taste frosted flakes again. It was even harder with your period because the cravings would sometimes blend with your changes of mood, and that’s how you could end up shooting a zombie three times knowing very well that the first bullet had already finished it.

Sometimes it was too overwhelming, so you’d end up doing what you were doing now, heading towards the isle with the dusty sign that once read Candy. Your mouth watered as soon as you found a few chocolate bars and a bag of gummy bears abandoned on a shelf. They had expired, yeah, but just a couple of weeks ago, you could still eat them. Your enthusiasm intensified by the sight of a pack of mini-Oreos, and for a second it felt as if none of this absurd shit was happening, you even caught yourself jumping out of pure happiness.

Carried away by the excitement, you kneeled in front of the shelf and fit as much as you could inside your backpack, plus a bag of chips. You knew you had to be careful and ration the food, you thought as you put the bag around your shoulders and walked towards the toiletries isle. Maybe you could even sleep here tonight and check the other isles tomorrow, though canned food was impossible to find, and everything else was most likely uneatable.

You didn’t have the time to think about any of that, though. Because in front of you, after months of wearing scraps of fabric, there were pads.

‘Holy shit.’ You heard yourself say out loud. You had almost forgotten the sound of your own voice, the sound of your own laugh, you realised as soon as you held the pack on your hands with a smile. There were only two, the last two. And they were yours.

‘Drop them.’ You heard a voice say behind you, followed by a clicking sound that you knew too well.

You weren’t surprised by the fact someone was pointing a gun at you, you were surprised by the fact they were trying to steal pads from you. Slowly, you turned back to look at the asshole straight in the face, finding no other than a guy about your age with a disturbing shadow darkening his brown eyes.

‘Drop them or I’ll shoot you.’ He said calmly.

‘Why?’ You said softly. ‘You don’t need them.’

‘Drop. The Pads.’ He took a step towards you, the cold metal of the gun’s muzzle brushing your forehead as he threatened you.

You looked up at him feeling the uttermost curiosity. This guy wasn’t an undead, but he was definitely not alive by the way he felt so entitled to do this, by how sad the circles under his eyes looked. Something inside you told you that if you were fast enough you could manage to immobilize his wrist, but it kind of seemed stupid. Even when you could feel the blood falling from your insides, staining your pathetic hand-sown pads, your underwear and your pants. It all felt so stupid.

So, you gave them to him.

Still with his gun in his hand, he managed to open the pack with his teeth in a swift movement and throw a single pad at you. The plastic thing fell next to your boots, but your eyes didn’t leave his to look down at it, you just held his gaze, wondering how anyone could be so pathetically miserable to withhold resources like this.

He gave you a small nod before walking backwards with the pads still in his hands, getting lost in the next isle. All you could do was take a deep breath and shake your head silently, picking up the pad that now you’d have to choose between saving for an emergency or using as soon as possible. A couple of years ago you would’ve thrown a tantrum and cried your eyes out, but you didn’t really care that much at this point. What had shocked you was how rude it had been of him to point a gun at you just like that.

So, what could you do to feel better? You took out a candy bar and started eating it in slow, meditated bites while enjoying the sinful taste of creamy chocolate on your tongue. Walking distractedly through the supermarket, you made it to an area where self-help books lay abandoned next to audiobooks and music CDs. You smiled softly at the sight of Radiohead, Nirvana, and the Hannah Montana album, the irony of it all made you release a snorty laugh that was only eclipsed by the sound of sneakers against the floor.

You lifted your gaze to find the same brown-eyed stranger making his way towards the exit. He was looking at you, with his hands now full of bags of chips and a couple of cereal boxes. Maybe he was waiting for you to take advantage of his vulnerability to grab your gun and ask him to give you the pads.

But you didn’t. He hesitated when you looked down to the CDs again, the amusement you’d felt before replaced by a prideful semblance. But you could see the coward walking out from the corner of your eye, and you couldn’t help but clench your jaw at the memory of his pointing gun.

You decided to save the pad for the next month, as it was impossible to know if you’d ever be lucky enough to find that much candy again. A pad gave you something to hold on to, something to find relief in the next time you got your period.

That night you wandered around the supermarket and found shelter in the staff rooms. They were stuffy and full of dust but somehow you felt safe, and to be able to sleep on a couch was a luxury these days.

In the darkness, you bit your thumb nail wondering about the stockrooms. If you had managed to find goods in the shelves, you were almost certain there must have been some remaining stock that hadn’t been looted somewhere in this building. The problem was that you had no place to go and hide it, you had no one that could help you either, because you were utterly alone in this world.

Yet sometimes it seemed that loneliness was the cure against human brutality. Take that guy who had pointed his gun at you for the pads, those had to be for someone he knew. Someone he loved. You don’t just try to kill someone else for nothing. He must’ve been taking those to his girlfriend, his sister or his mother. Maybe to someone that wasn’t any of those things, but he cared deeply for. And it was destroying him from the inside, by the way he seemed so miserably in need. Everyone was in need these days, but he? He seemed terrified.

After a few hours of sleep, you woke up before the sunset and decided to find the stock rooms just to check if you could find pads in there. Otherwise, you’d have to find somewhere with water where you could wash yours or find new fabric to make more. Water wasn’t such a bad idea, but it usually came from a river or a lake. Chewing on some expired peppermint gum, you longed for the days where you could take the day off school with the excuse of period cramps, have two showers to feel clean, and spend the day reading whatever book you’d find.

It took you about half an hour to find the door that led to a giant underground warehouse, the hairs of your arms turning into goosebumps just by knowing that anything or anyone could find you here and kill you easily. You took a deep breath then, deciding to find what you needed quickly so you could leave as soon as possible, walking through the empty isles quickly but silently. You finally found the isle where they should’ve been, stickers that read Diapers, Deodorant, Toothpaste stuck on the empty shelves where none of the products were.

There was, however, something on top of the sticker that read Sanitary Towels. A single pad, left on top of the empty shelf. And then on top of it rested one single bullet that you took immediately, inspecting it while the heat rushed to your face in anger and embarrassment. He had had the same idea.

You looked around instantly, almost hoping to see him, scared he might have been observing you from some hiding place. But you were alone, he had come here at some point during the night, taken the rest of the stuff and left you this.

Why?

Reluctantly, you took the pad and put it inside your backpack, before taking a quick look around to find any canned foods and leave this hellish place. The cold, unused bullet was hidden inside the pocket of your jeans, reminded you of that strange encounter every time it brushed your thigh.

A month passed in which you made sure to come up with new ideas for the next time you’d got your period, given the fact that every time you stopped in supermarkets or pharmacies there didn’t seem to be any packs of pads in sight. You tried to make a few experiments by redesigning baby diapers with a needle and thread, but one night you were washing your clothes in the river, and you slipped in the dark. The fall wasn’t terrible, but you needed stitches on your knee, and that was the end of the experiments.

Now, it seemed like this town was desertic. Not a lot of zombies, but the occasional annoying one that you’d manage to kill without needing to waste any bullets. Sometimes if you were camping in the forest, you’d use your slingshot from a tree, those were particularly successful with the kids. And there seem to be so many of them here, it was too hard not to give in to compassion and look at their little faces that had once been human.

The last one you had killed wore a dress that could’ve fit you when you were ten, her long pigtails reflecting the first rays of daylight. Innocence was a weird thing, you thought. Even in this state, with her greenish infected skin, and her purple eyelids, it was as if she were only sleeping. It didn’t terrify you, but it was impossible not to feel disturbed whenever you had to face the reality: that the true core of humanity was an incomprehensible thing that had somehow surpassed the human race itself.

In those instances, you sometimes took the little annoying bullet out of your pocket and rolled it between you thumb and index finger, until your hand became a fist with it inside, searching for the courage to resume your journey and walk away from the body.

A week later you were relaying on the washable pads, and the couple of real ones the disturbed stranger had so kindly given you. If you were smart and lucky enough not to bleed too much, you’d be able to just be fine. If.

The first couple of days with your period you always spent them hiding somewhere safe. If you were free of cramps you’d manage to walk as much as you could and stay in the forest. But if you were in pain, you allowed yourself to hide in one of those forgotten places that nobody cared about anymore: the town’s library.

During the last couple of months you had spent in Hawkins, you had avoided the town centre, unsure about the number of infected bodies you could potentially find. But if anything, the town was full of ghosts, the pavement on the roads cracked in unusual ways, as if something else, something worse than the undead had happened here, but that couldn’t be possible. Nothing could be worse than this.

Cramps started stabbing you by midday. You had planned to leave early but the symptoms made you sleep in, and you woke up jumping at the feeling of something on your face. A loud gasp left your mouth, hearing your heartbeat in your ears and waiting for your death until you realised it had only been a butterfly who landed on your cheek briefly. It made you cry a little bit as you stomped towards the town centre’s direction. You had learned to fear softness, this new world had taken that from you too.

It was one of those days, you guessed as you walked under the summer sun, where nothing could lift your spirits. Where putting the effort to survive seemed pointless when you knew that eventually, the day of your death would still come. How many times had you looked at the zombies and wished to be one of them? And yet you were here: alive and painfully aware that this world you hated so much never seemed to end.

Hawkin’s town centre consisted of a few shops, the abandoned High School, the library and a gas station. By the time you got to the library your body temperature was high, if it was for the hormones or the anger, you didn’t know. But all you could do was throw your backpack on the floor and sit down to rub your eyes until you saw stars. You stood there for a few minutes, your eyes dry and the anger still burning like fire on your chest. Who cared about books? Who cared about anything? You couldn’t do this anymore, maybe next time a zombie tried to attack you, you’d give in.

You would’ve stayed sitting there for hours if it wasn’t for the uncomfortable wetness of blood that you felt coming out of your body. You had worn the first pad all night and you were almost sure it was already useless, so you forced yourself to stand up despite the pain, to lift your bag despite your apathy, and find the nearest toilet despite your mood.

The sign that read Toilets was easy to find on the other side of the lobby. The library had been looted at some point, and you had to walk through broken desks and destroyed chairs, but the books were still intact on the shelves. You were too lost in your own thoughts, too angry to even imagine that your life was about to change in a matter of seconds. Nothing could prepare you for what you were about to find.

He was standing in the middle of the toilet in front of the stalls. The same gun he had pointed at your face kissing his chin, his eyes focused on the mirror in front of him. Both of you jumped as soon as you saw each other, his brown pupils full of shame and somehow disbelief at the sight of you. Maybe for the first and only time in your life, you felt like a ghost. By the look in his face, that must’ve been the only reason why you were here.

You were about to open your mouth and say something when he lifted the weapon at you, or that’s what you thought in the millisecond that it took him to press the trigger and kill the zombie that stood right behind you, the thud of the infected body falling behind making you jump for the second time.

‘I—’

‘Give me the bullet.’ He said shortening the distance between your bodies, his disturbed gaze falling on you. You weren’t able to push aside the sound of his shaky voice that tried to be firm.

‘What bullet?’ You murmured, feeling a knot growing inside your throat. There was something about him and his pointy cheekbones and his purple under eyes that intimidated you now. A month ago, he seemed exhausted, now he seemed like he barely existed in this reality.

‘What bullet.’ He repeated, angry. ‘The bullet I left you.’

You knew exactly what he was talking about, but you still shook your head.

‘At the warehouse?’ He grew more anxious at your cluelessness. ‘Under the supermarket?’

‘You ran out?’ You asked, frowning. Somehow the fact he was unarmed now filled you with a sense of confidence. Your own gun was safely hidden in the back pocket of your jeans, covered by your backpack.

‘I only brought one.’ He let out a desperate sigh as he pulled the sweaty brown locks on his forehead. ‘I only brought one.’

You took a silent breath, taking a careful step back. But he was quicker at reading your intentions, and before you could do anything, he was kneeling on the floor and hugging your leg like a child.

‘You need to kill me.’ He said between sobs. Tears and snot on his red face as he his grip turned tighter, and you grew scared. ‘I just saved your life; you have to repay me.’

‘No.’ you said firmly. ‘Get the fuck off me, Jesus.’

You shook your leg a couple of times until his sobs were too strong to keep holding onto you. The disturbed stranger sat down on the floor, elbows on his knees as he cried a little louder.

‘I saved you!’ He accused you between tears.

‘Yeah, you also tried to kill me, asshole.’ You said in the same tone, but your anger was only met with more desperate sobs. He was unconsolable and there was no trace of pity in you, just some second-hand embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry.’ He whispered between sobs, covering his face with his fingers. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’

You took a deep breath, avoiding your reflection in the mirror as you crossed your arms over your chest. Hadn’t you been wishing to be infected just minutes ago? Hadn’t you, so many times before, contemplated the possibility of ending it all?

‘I need to change my pad.’ You said awkwardly, walking into one of the empty stalls.

The tense silence was filled with the stranger’s deep breaths outside, and the subtle noises of the plastic wrapper as you exchanged one pad for the other. You still kept the habit of wrapping the used thing on the discarded plastic paper and then throwing it inside the trash.

‘Right.’ You said when you left the stall. He was still sitting on the floor, hands in his eyes, like a little kid. Rubbing them just how you had done as soon as you walked into the library. You wondered if you had looked as small as he did now.

You pondered about what to do, unsure about sitting next to him. Unsure about how to help him. You hadn’t comforted another human being in years, and there was no place for empathy in a world like this. It surprised you to discover how dead you were inside. How easy was it to feel compassion for the undead and how difficult it was to feel it for the ones alive.

‘Where’s the rest of your people?’ You asked softly, your fingers followed the pattern of the counter’s tiles to avoid looking at him.

He swallowed hard, uncovering his face to shake his head. Puffy eyes were now replacing the madness that had taken over his brown pupils before, and he looked very soft and very defeated.

‘You’re not alone.’ You said it as a fact. He looked up back at you, which made you cross your arms over your chest. ‘At least you weren’t a month ago.’

‘How do you…?’ Realisation fell on his face, the desperation before now seemed to be replaced by something else. ‘The pads.’

‘Yeah.’ You said irritated. ‘The pads.’

‘Re you on your period?’ He stood up suddenly, looking at you as if he was seeing you for the first time.

‘Excuse me?’ You said perplexed.

‘We got pads.’ He said enthusiastically, brushing his hair with his fingers. ‘You’d have to share with the girls but you— you could help. You could stay with us in exchange for shelter a-and supplies.’

You scoffed, but it didn’t last long because now, behind those brown eyes full of fear, there was a plea.

‘Why would I help you?’ The seriousness of your tone surprised you too. It hadn’t occurred to you since then than at some point you might had lost all that was left of your humanity too.

It would’ve never, under any circumstance, occurred to you to go inside the High School. Maybe that was exactly what everyone else would think as soon as they passed through the town like you were. It was too big to be fully protected, too exposed to be safe, and too obvious of a shelter for anyone to take it over. Still, they had survived so far.

Steve, as you had learned was his name, had a total of seven kids under his care, of which four were boys and three girls. Most of the kids were between thirteen and fourteen, the youngest and most fragile one was an eleven-year-old girl called Erica.

Erica had only gotten her first period a month ago. Steve didn’t address that her heavily painful periods were the reason why he had almost killed you that day inside the supermarket. He was familiar with the difficulties of menstruation because of Max and Jane, but Erica was different. Her pain was worse, her bleeding unusually abundant, so much that it had alarmed all of them when it had first happened. And it was happening again.

You didn’t think it through. You would never think twice before helping a kid, but maybe it had been a mistake to reach for your limited and carefully controlled stock of medicines, hearing the gasps of the kids behind you at the sight of painkillers. She was dizzy and sweaty when you delicately but decisively lifted her head so she’d swallow a couple.

You never resorted to painkillers unless it was absolutely necessary, giving her a couple was already too much. Your own period pains had never been considered as something that required you to take pills, only using them on instances you’d get the kind of ache or injury that could keep you from defending yourself. But this was different.

Steve observed how you tenderly put the sweaty hairs that stuck to her skin out of her face, your eyes not leaving her as you searched for something else inside your backpack.

‘Has she eaten something?’ You lifted your eyes to look back at him.

He nodded softly, his eyes lingering on the purple plastic of the chocolate bar that you were holding. He didn’t know you had been saving it for a month just to eat it when your cravings hit you, leaving it under her pillow so the kids wouldn’t steal it from her.

‘We’ve been reducing our portions so she can eat more.’

You frowned then, fighting the urge to scoff at his words. Tentatively, you looked behind your shoulder at the curious eyes of the teens, who were intrigued by your presence. You weren’t sure if they respected you or feared you.

‘Can I speak to you in private?’ You asked Steve.

He hesitated, unsure of you. Maybe scared of you, before he nodded and walked out of the classroom filled with mattresses, where you assumed they all slept together.

Before you could leave to follow Steve, one of the young boys held you by the wrist. You almost jumped to defend yourself when you noticed his glossy eyes looking back at you.

‘Thank you for helping my sister.’ He said sincerely. It made you smile, even just slightly. You couldn’t remember the last time you had smiled, maybe it had been while inspecting one of the fallen zombies in an attempt not to give in to madness.

‘She’s gonna be fine.’ You assured him, squeezing his hand before letting it go.

Steve led you to another classroom not too far from the bedroom. He made sure to close the door behind him and stay close to the threshold, maybe to keep you in, maybe to keep an eye on the kids.

‘How often do you leave to get supplies?’ You asked him as soon as you were alone.

‘It depends.’ He shrugged, shaking his head. ‘Hawkin’s dead. There’s nothing left here anymore but I can’t risk their lives by leaving the school. Specially not with Erica like this. I try to go out as much as I can the first week of the month, after she’s fully recovered.’

You nodded softly, hiding your hands inside your pockets and fighting the urge of bite your lip thoughtfully. He was looking at you expectantly.

‘And you always go out alone?’

‘Yeah.’ He said as if it was obvious. ‘Of course. I can’t… I can’t put them at risk like that.’

‘You’re telling me these kids have no survival skills?’ You asked perplexed.

‘They do!’ He rushed to say, the frown on his face assured you he was offended. ‘It’s just not safe out there.’

‘And it is here? You’re literally in the epicentre of chaos.’ You said. ‘And that stuff about reducing portions… You need to feed these kids properly, there was so much food back in the warehouse!’

‘I don’t have anyone that could’ve helped me with that!’ He argued.

‘One of them could have if you taught them how!’

‘Why are you judging me here!’ He said defensively. ‘I’m everything they have.’

‘And you were about to kill yourself and leave them to die!’ You said. ‘You might as well shoot them too. We’re not even talking about negligence here; we’re talking about cruelty.’

He looked back at you with hurt and anger in his eyes, the glossy pupils unable to hold your own. The broken man you had seen in the toilet was coming back to life right in front of you.

‘You’ve no idea…’ He said with a broken voice.

‘No, I don’t.’ You said firmly. ‘But that doesn’t matter. You don’t get to kill yourself when you’ve got people to protect and provide for.’

Steve turned his back to you to dry his face, you assumed. Something about his weakness made you feel something beyond anger or embarrassment, a sense of discomfort that told you maybe you were being insensitive.

‘I’ll stay.’ You clenched your jaw as soon as you said it. He turned back to look at you again, eyes glossy but hopeful. This wasn’t in your plans at all. You could end up dead, but if you left them alone, you were almost sure none of them would make it. ‘I don’t trust you with these kids.’

Desperation left his face for a second as an unfamiliar arrogance took over. Steve crossed his arms over his chest and scoffed at your words.

‘And do you think I trust you?’

‘If you know what’s convenient for them, you better start to.’

Steve and you quarrelled a lot, but if there was something you two agreed on was the well-being and safety of the kids. You just had different opinions about it, and at first you knew you had to earn their trust. You started by sharing your supplies with them, something that anyone else would’ve regarded as dangerous and absurd. But what your experience told you was that the kids needed to be healthy in order to learn how to fend for themselves.

Steve was considerably skinnier than them, but they still were malnourished and scruffy. You started by making schedules for showering just to find out they had been full of lice for months but were too concerned about Steve to tell him. Then when you tried to organize all the food in the cafeteria by making an inventory you found out about the dead vegetable patch at the back of the school. When you sat down to have a look at the medical and ammunition supplies he had saved, you realised that besides the gun he carried around, he only had other two weapons stored in a secret location inside the school that he refused to disclose to you.

‘Are you being serious right now?’ You asked, looking from the board where you had been writing down your notes.

‘The kids know where they are.’ He simply shrugged, hands on his hips as he looked at you from the other side of the classroom. ‘You don’t need to know.’

‘And tell me, in the case of an emergency, do any of them know how to fire those guns?’ You said, feeling the curious eyes of the teenagers on you. You tried to respect the fondness they felt for Steve, but at times you were so angry at him for his negligence that you couldn’t swallow your words. ‘Besides, I can’t believe how long you’ve been ‘protecting’ them with only one gun on you.’

‘Well, it’s worked!’ The tone of his voice made you clench your jaw instantly. He hated that, and you knew it by the way the anger in his eyes turned into fire. ‘I’ve taken full responsibility for the guns, and no one’s gotten hurt!’

‘Do you have to wait ‘til someone gets hurt to finally realise you’re failing?’ You knew you had to be careful with your words, you had barely earned the kids’ trust and they all were sitting quietly against the wall witnessing your argument. ‘Every single one of these kids should know by now how to fire a gun, how to stitch a wound, how to search for supplies. How to survive. And you’re taking that from them.’

You stormed out of the classroom and towards the empty hallway before you lost control and said something that you could regret later. Maybe you were taking it too personal at this point. This was the reason why you were never able to do the post-apocalyptic communal utopia. This was the reason why found family would never happen to you, you thought as you walked into the nurse office, which had become your bedroom the few days you’d been here.

You didn’t know how to do civilised confrontation, and solitude had always brought you as much peace as anyone could get in a world like this. You needed space to think.

You checked your gun before putting it inside your back pocket as you always did, tightened the ties of your boots and left the slingshot on top of the patient’s bed where you slept. If Steve wished to stay here and act like the kids weren’t suffering the consequences of his incompetence that was fine, but you had to do something.

Maybe you were away for a couple of hours, maybe a little more. At first you left with the intention of going for a walk to calm yourself down, but then you decided that was a waste of time. It took you a long while to make it to the supermarket where you had first met Steve, but you finally made it, mumbling nonsense to yourself as you complained about his stupid attitude.

There was something about him that didn’t allow you to feel compassion towards him, you thought as you filled your backpack with cans of beans and peas. Well, maybe it was the fact that he almost tried to kill you once, but hadn’t he also saved your life?

He was just too stubborn, that was it. You walked around the isles with the gun in your hand, carried away by your annoyance towards him, when you caught the sight of a bottle of vinegar stuck under an empty freezer. You ran towards it and pulled it from its place, smiling at it as if it was gold. This could help with the lice problem, so you made it your mission to take as many bottles as you could find. And then you lost track of time, thinking about them. The kids. Their childhoods stolen; their adulthoods uncertain.

Of course Steve couldn’t do it on his own.

You started walking back a bit too late, but the sun wouldn’t start setting until an hour or so. You hurried despite the fact your bag was fuller than normal, your gun still on your hand in case you found a zombie or someone who might try to kill you. That second option was always what you feared more than anything else, because zombies killed to survive, but you knew very well that humans killed for sport.

It started to get darker by the time you were back at the school. You knew the exits remained closed, and you could’ve simply knocked on one of the windows from the classrooms where you knew everyone hung out most times. But a distrusting part of you decided you wanted to check if there were any unguarded areas of the school that Steve might have not considered when protecting it. And the worst part of you wanted to prove yourself right.

You knew the windows had half broken crystal bottles stuck to the swills that would wound any intruders and at the same time alarm anyone of a trespassing, so that wasn’t an option. The answer came to you at the dead vegetable patch, which you had always entered through the cafeteria’s door and not from the little rusty grilled fence that walled the garden.

Yet what you weren’t expecting was that as soon as you touched the door’s cold surface to push it, an abrasive, unbearable feeling burned your fingers so painfully that you couldn’t help but scream. You held your wrist with your healthy hand in the air while trying to understand where the sudden burn came from, fearing that you might pass out, but your brain was too overwhelmed to know how to act.

‘Shit. Fuck. Motherfucker!’ You swore while you rubbed your shaky, burning fingers against the thick leather of your boot. You felt yourself taking a deep panicky breath, not even noticing the tears that ran down your cheeks at the burning pain.

Steve found you panting like a wounded animal, desperately rubbing your hand against the damp dirt on the ground.

‘Hey. Hey!’ He snapped at you as his fingers wrapped around your wrist. The next thing you saw through your teary eyes was Dustin clumsily place a bucket of water on the floor where Steve submerged your hand immediately.

The water overflowed, making your jeans and the ground around you wet, but you started to feel relieved as the burning died down a little until it became bearable. You looked back at Steve embarrassed, feeling the tears still running through your cheeks while he shook his head.

‘What were you thinkin’?’ He said under his breath as he still held your wrist underwater. It was a reprimand, but a gentle one. He was visibly pissed but not as much as you thought he would in different circumstances.

‘I-I didn’t know…’ Your voice was shaky, and you hated it. You didn't even remember when was the last time you had cried. You looked from him to Dustin, who stood with his arms crossed behind Steve, unsure of how to help. ‘What the fuck was that?’

‘I soak that whole fence with acid once a day.’

‘Acid!’ You said. ‘Where the fuck do you get acid!’

Steve studied your face for a second. It was innocent in a way, you hadn’t been this close since the day you met when he threatened to kill you. But this time he just shook his head briefly before letting out a silly laugh.

‘You really thought you were going to find some possible entrance I had forgotten, didn’t you?’ He raised an eyebrow at you.

All you could do was roll your eyes and swallow your pride.

‘You came back!’ Screamed Erica as soon as you walked into the bedrooms. You were surprised by her short frame hugging your hips, unsure about how to react to the sudden affection. Eventually you managed to rub her back softly with your good hand, surprised at the little smile that lifted her lips and her closed eyes as she hugged you tighter.

‘Of course I came back.’ You said softly.

‘What happened to your hand?’ Erica asked once she took a step back, frowning at the way you held it against your chest carefully.

‘I burned myself with the garden’s fence.’

Jane gasped loudly while the rest of the kids frowned painfully.

You lowered your eyes while you tried to get rid of your backpack. Dustin instantly moved to help you with it. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ouch.’ Said Will.

‘Yeah, ouch.’ Walked in Steve with some dressing that you recognised from your supplies. He still seemed amused at the fact that you had burned yourself. You followed him to sit on one of the desks that sometimes you used as a table, inspecting your fingers.

‘This is going to take a while to heal.’ You sighed.

Steve didn’t say anything, he simply smiled silently, for once choosing not to argue with you or make it worse. His careful fingers took your hands delicately, brown eyes focused on the raw skin of your index and middle fingers of your non-dominant hand.

‘I found some vinegar for the, uh… pest problem.’ You said to him. He listened attentively, wrapping the first finger, the feeling of the dressing against the burnt skin making you visibly uncomfortable. ‘I’ve also been thinking we should find new mattresses. Do you know if there might be houses out there still in good condition?’

He kept working for a short while, not giving you an answer or looking at you until he finally shrugged.

‘I don’t know, to be honest. I haven’t been in town since this all started.’

You took a few seconds to process his words. Your eyes stayed on your second injured finger when he started dressing it.

‘You haven’t been to your home since?’ You whispered curiously.

‘Nope.’ He shook his head, eyes still focused on your hand. And you knew better than to ask any more questions, so you only nodded.

‘Tomorrow I’m teaching the girls how to make a trap for bunnies.’ You changed the subject.

He finally looked at you through the brown strands of hair that fell on his forehead, a snorty laugh leaving his mouth as he finished dressing your wound.

‘Good luck with that.’ He said sarcastically.

You jumped from the desk, completely ignoring him as you reached for your backpack.

‘There we go.’ You said, taking out the few bags of gummy bears that you were able to find that morning. The collective gasp all the kids let out made you laugh out loud. ‘You’re gonna have to share.’

Mike and Lucas quickly opened one of the bags as Dustin and Will rushed to take some of the candy.

‘Enjoy for now because from tomorrow on you’re all starting to eat better.’ You said, still looking for something inside your bag with the good hand. Jane and Erica’s eyes lit up at the sight of the colourful glass bottles you took out.

‘Is that nail polish!?’ Jane said, taking it from your hands.

‘They’re expired, but they might still work.’ You said with a small smile. ‘I’ll teach you how to use them tomorrow, okay?’

Steve didn’t say anything as the girls enthusiastically talked about your surprise, but he did grab a couple of gummy bears from one of the bags as he got lost in his thoughts.

He kept the same plain face the whole evening, when you all sat around the table to eat an almost warm dinner for the first time. After the sugar rush died down and the kids’ eyelids started to fall, Steve took the girls to wash their teeth while the boys cleaned up. They insisted you didn’t lift a finger because of your injury, and you excused yourself to change your dirty clothes back in your room.

When you walked back into the hallway, you were surprised to find Steve walking in your direction to get the boys. The eye contact was brief enough that he stopped when he saw you open your mouth to say something.

‘Thank you.’ You said lifting your dressed hand in the air. ‘I really fucked up.’

‘S nothing.’ He shrugged before walking past you in the cafeteria’s direction.

You felt somehow embarrassed as you looked behind you. The way his shirts sometimes looked baggy on his body made you heart drop at times. At moments you were sure that under that young guy with non-existing sleep patterns and a terrible diet there was a handsome man. But you pushed the thought aside as you walked inside the bedrooms, where the girls already lay in bed.

The room was dark except from one lamp that barely illuminated the already deeply asleep face of Jane and the other two girls that still lay awake.

Max was the quietest of all the kids. That first week you had spent with them you had occasionally caught her looking at you with a piercing look. You got the feeling she didn’t trust you, and somehow that attitude reminded you of your own teenage self.

‘I brought you this.’ You whispered, kneeling next to her mattress and placing the slingshot on top of it. She curiously inspected it under the dusty light, the shadow of half a smile on her mouth.

‘Is it yours?’ She whispered.

‘Yeah, but I want you to have it.’ You confessed. ‘I want you to be able to defend yourself if something happens. I’ll show you how to use it tomorrow.’

She nodded softly before hiding the weapon under her pillow.

‘Thank you.’ She whispered, this time the smile on her face was there. It was for you. You just didn’t know what to do with it.

‘You’re welcome. Now, sleep.’ You said in the same tone before standing up.

You turned on your heels to find Erica’s eyes on you, so you couldn’t help but crouch next to her mattress too to check on her.

‘Are you comfortable?’ You murmured softly.

‘How long are you staying?’ She asked instead. The question caught you off guard, making you lift your eyebrows subtly.

‘I’m not sure yet.’ You shrugged, a feeling of insecurity falling heavy on your chest as you tuck her in, even if she didn’t need it. ‘Maybe until you get well and don’t need my help anymore.’

‘I think you should stay forever.’ She yawned, her words and the way her heavy eyelids fought sleep made you smile.

‘I’m not sure Steve would like that very much.’ You admitted softly with a smile, yet still inside it kind of stung to know it was true. They were already a family; you didn’t belong in any place where families existed.

‘Do you think Steve is failing us?’ Jane’s voice made your heart skip a bit. You turned to your side to find the brown-haired girl looking at you through her sleepy eyes.

‘No.’ You admitted, taking a deep breath as you looked from Erica to her, knowing that they’d never sleep until you answered all their questions. ‘He wants the best for you guys because he’s known you forever and he loves you. I want the best for you guys because I think all children should be protected. Sometimes we don’t agree, that’s all.’

‘You don’t love us?’ Erica asked, her eyebrows lifted in a soft frown as you tried to come up with an answer, but you weren’t sure about what you would’ve replied because Jane was trying to catch your attention again:

‘Are you gonna leave us?’

‘I—’

‘Please don’t leave.’ Interrupted Erica, holding your hand that still rested at the edge of her mattress. ‘We need you.’

‘Yeah!’ Jane agreed, sitting up as if she hadn’t been fast asleep minutes ago. ‘Things haven’t been the same since Eddie died. Steve can’t do it on his own.’

‘Who’s—’

‘Jane!’ Max hushed her over your voice.

You stood up then, feeling suddenly uncomfortable at the way the girls seemed so attached to you after just a few days. The back of your neck felt suddenly sweaty and your hands cold.

Max’s voice calling your name made your turn on your heels again.

‘Please don’t get mad at us.’ She said sincerely. So used to her serious semblance, you realised this was the first time you had noticed any trace of insecurity in her. ‘We like you. It’s just been really hard.’

You looked around the three faces that observed you expectantly, reminding yourself you were the adult here, and probably the only woman who they had probably looked up to since the apocalypse started.

‘I like you all too.’ You assured them with a smile. ‘But it’s time for bed.’

And then you turned off the lamp before leaving the room.

The next morning you woke up before dawn and went straight outside to place traps in the forest. If Steve was right and the town was dead apart from the zombies, there was a possibility that you could manage to feed these kids proper food that wasn’t expired cereals or canned peas.

You were trying to be wary about your own intentions, but living at the school did make things much easier. You could now take showers, store food and sleep a bit better than you ever had since the apocalypse started. You had ideas, and you weren’t sure if Steve would agree with you, but you found yourself constantly exploring a world of possibilities in which you could improve the lives of those kids… If he let you.

When you came back, seven pairs of curious eyes looked at you from the breakfast table as you placed the heavy comic books you’d gotten from the library in front of them. By midday you had managed to soak their hair in vinegar while they read quietly, or as quietly as it could get, in one of the classrooms.

Steve carefully observed all your movements from afar and you were aware of it. Sometimes you’d be talking to Dustin and Will about books and films you used to like while you sew period pads despite your injured hand, and he wouldn’t even hide his defensive stare as you stitched the fabrics together.

Ever since you had arrived you realised that besides feeding the kids and tending to their hygiene, Steve didn’t do much throughout the day. He never went out to get supplies, but you assumed this was because he didn’t trust you to leave you alone with the kids. He only went to the vegetable patch to protect the fence with the damn acid wearing the thickest gloves you’d seen in your life. You didn’t get why he wouldn’t just lock the cafeteria’s door and be done with it. He never stepped anywhere in the school where the kids weren’t hanging out, not the gym or the empty pool. None of the dusty offices upstairs. Where the kids where, he had to be. And though he could’ve argued it was because of his distrust for your presence, after a while you realised that he just couldn’t stand being alone.  

‘You need to exercise.’ You said casually that same day while he was washing some of the kid’s clothes on the kitchen sink.

They were all trying to weave traps for the bunnies just liked you had taught them an hour ago, too concentrated to focus on the argument that was about to start on the other side of the cafeteria.

‘Sure.’ He said sarcastically, brown eyes focused on his red knuckles rubbing the fabric of a shirt.

‘I mean it, Steve.’ You pressed, getting closer to him so the kids wouldn’t listen. ‘And so do they. If you lose the school, you all won’t last a day out there in this physical condition.’

‘Wow.’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m being serious.’ You spoke. ‘This place is so big, and you should be taking advantage of that. I’m sure there must be somewhere aside from that pathetic radioactive garden where you could grow vegetables and breed animals.’

He took a deep breath then, the frown adorning his face showing you how offended your choice of words had made him feel. He finally shook his head, and you had to fight hard not to release a frustrated sigh at his willingness to give up so easily.

Then you did something unexpected. Your impulsiveness was always assertive and that was what the hated the most about it. Especially when your good hand had stopped the movements of his knuckles under the cold water, so he’d paid attention to you.

‘How do you expect them to survive?’ Your serious eyes studied his as your hand still rested on his.

It fell on him then, the realisation that your resourcefulness intimidated him. That your insistence on staying alive felt like an obstacle to him, because why did you even want to be alive in a world like this? But most importantly, if he was still surrounded by those kids he loved so much, if still had the chance to see them grow up, if he still had the opportunity to be useful, then why didn’t he?

‘The best way to protect someone is to teach them how to protect themselves.’ You said then. His eyes stayed on you as you lifted your eyebrows slightly, your walls of indifference towards him falling for a second to hurt him with the outmost sincerity. ‘Steve, you don’t ever leave this place. You don’t move, you barely eat. You walk around here looking like a zombie every day and that terrifies them. They know you’re weak.’

The way his eyes turned soft at your words made you take a deep breath. You were unable to hold his gaze as you took your hand away from his and dried it with a cloth. For a second it was as it you had something else to say, but you abandoned the thought quickly.

‘I’m gonna check the traps.’ You said. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

That night the kids ate until their bellies were full. It was nice to see that despite the fact you had to cook the bunnies back in the forest with a minimal number of spices and no salt at all, they were having a real meal. You wouldn’t admit to yourself that your eyes stayed on Steve the whole time too, and he didn’t notice as he told Dustin not to speak with his mouth full or asked Jane to stop talking or her food would get cold. A part of you felt uncomfortable that you were trying to check if he liked it, if he was eating all of it.

He only noticed when you stood up to get seconds, when you took his plate without even asking, and then refilled it with a substantial portion of food. That’s when he saw you. And then it was worse than before, because now you were aware of his eyes not leaving you, when you left the plate in front of him without a word and sat back down on your place on the other side of the table.

He ate it all.

‘How was your tea?’ You asked Erica after dinner.

You were now used to the routine of Steve walking the kids to brush their teeth while you prepared everything for the next day. Every night before bed you gave Erica a tea made from spices and roots that you hoped could help with her future period cramps, and she had grown fond of the ritual of chatting with you while she drank it.

‘It was very nice.’ She said mocking an English accent. You let out a snorty laugh as you both walked out of the cafeteria, when she entwined her hand with yours.

Sometimes you were unable to react on the instances where the kids were affectionate. Jane asking to braid your hair, Will asking if you’d teach him how to change the dressing on your hand. You found yourself rejecting their favours whenever you could, not wanting them to cross any lines. But sometimes it was hard.

The lines often blurred, like now just when you squeezed Erica’s hand as you turned the lights off and walked back to the bedrooms.

Steve was waiting for her with his arms crossed outside the toilets. You looked down at the way he arched his brow at your entwined hands and a part of you felt embarrassed. Worse than that. Unworthy. But you didn’t allow yourself to think about it when Erica called your name, echoing through the empty hallway.

‘Yes?’ You looked at her.

‘Jane and Max asked me to ask you if you wanted to sleep with us tonight?’

‘Uhm…’ You started feeling the back of your neck sweating a little bit at her proposal. You could handle this; you could reject her kindly. You just didn’t like the fact that Steve’s eyes were on you the whole time. ‘That sounds fun, but I really like my own space, you know? I sleep better that way.’

‘Oh.’ She simply said, the disappointment on her face breaking your heart a little bit.

‘Come on, kid.’ Steve said with a soft smile, nodding on the toilet’s direction.

She did as he said, as she always did with you as well, getting lost behind the toilet’s door to brush her teeth. He stayed in his place though, arms crossed over his chest; and his eyes, brown and as disturbed as the day you met him, fixed on you.

‘You know, it would really help the kids if you didn’t entertain their attachments so much.’ He said.

You swallowed hard, placing your good hand on your back pocket and nodding softly. You leaving this place wasn’t really something you had discussed, but it always seemed implied between him and you.

‘I just wanna help.’ You shrugged.

‘I know.’ He nodded. ‘So stick to helping, okay? Don’t make things more difficult for me.’

You bit the sarcastic smile on your face in an attempt not to clench your jaw and start a new argument. Steve saw you open your mouth to say something, but you bit your tongue and turned on your heels to walk back to your room.

It wasn’t really clear for you why you needed to prove Steve that you actually cared. Even if you weren’t willing to admit that out loud. In your room, you picked the plans you had been clumsily designing for the school and a new vegetable patch where they could actually grow food before winter started. You also picked the notes on the exercise routines you had come up with for the kids after reading a bunch of wellbeing books from the library.

He’ll see, you thought as you walked back towards the bedrooms, holding the papers towards your chest with your good hand. Too fixed on your aim, you softly pushed the boy’s bedrooms to find them all fast asleep: Dustin sprayed on a mattress with Lucas, and Will facing the wall while Mike slept with his mouth open, but there was no sign of him.

‘Steve?’ You whispered in the dark, almost fearing something, but you weren’t sure what.

It wasn’t until you opened the girls’ room that you realised. He was sleeping deeply over the bedsheets of Erica’s mattress, sitting against the wall with his hand under his jaw while the little girl faced the wall away from him. It was very endearing. His mouth half open, the hair falling over his forehead. And it stung. He was able to do what you’d never be able to: stay.  

The weeks passed and you kept trying. You’d wake up before sunrise and set the traps the kids had woven the day before; you’d browse for books on herbs and roots in the library. You’d gathered what you could in the forest before exploring the area to get more supplies, if you found any. It was hard to do it all by yourself, but deep down you feared Steve’s rejection. He would never come with you or leave you alone with the kids. So, you did what you could.

‘Erica’s getting her period this week.’ He mentioned casually that morning. You had been washing some peppermint on the sink when he came back from protecting the fence.

‘I know.’ You said, observing him as he took his gloves off. ‘Don’t put those things anywhere near the food.’

‘Relax.’ He said under his breath before shaking his head.

A few seconds of tension passed between you as he put the gloves inside the box where he always stored the stuff he used to protect the fence. Sometimes you’d seen him placing a little bit of whatever chemicals he mixed on the windows outside too. This peculiar practice was the one thing you never asked him about, you hated that small space of dirt outside, and didn’t see the point behind keeping it. But Steve was stubborn, and he was attached to his little habits.  

‘She’ll be fine.’ You said in relation to Erica. ‘Exercise can prevent bad cramps. Don’t let her skip today’s workout.’

He moved in the kitchen behind you, it annoyed you silently as he reached for a cloth to clean his hands with. You couldn’t help but let out a sigh.

‘What’s up with you?’ He asked throwing the cloth away.

You closed the tap and shook your hands, before licking your lips.

‘Nothing’s up with me.’ You simply said.

He scoffed.

‘You’re dying to roll your eyes at me.’ His accusation made you lift your gaze. ‘What is it? You’re ready to leave us?’

His question left you speechless before you narrowed your eyes. You couldn’t help but shake your head in confusion as you looked back at him with disbelief.

‘What? No.’ You said, drying your hands on your jeans. You shut your eyes for a second, deciding that you weren’t having that argument now. ‘Steve, we need to get supplies. You and me. There’s not enough of anything. We’re running out on first aid equipment; we should be trying to get seeds that we can plant. If we found salt, we could preserve meat for winter on the empty refrigerators. And we don’t have enough bullets. There’s never enough bullets.’

He looked back at you, observing you for a few seconds as he rested his back against the sink.

‘We’re not leaving the kids alone unless it’s strictly necessary.’ He said after a while.

‘Are you being serious right now?’ Now he was the one rolling his eyes at you. He took his hands to his eyes as you spoke. ‘Steve, how are they ever going to be strong enough to get their own supplies if we keep feeding them bunnies, canned beans and expired cereal?’

‘Why would they get their own supplies?’ He asked you as if you were stupid.

‘Why wouldn’t they?’ You scoffed at him. ‘Steve, they’re growing up. One day they’ll be adults, and they’ll have the right to decide if they want to stay with your or not.’

‘You’re delusional.’ He said with a sarcastic smile. He shook his head and licked his lips as he walked out of the kitchen, shaking his head.

You were more than offended by his attitude, feeling the heat rush to your face as you followed him into the cafeteria.

‘I’m realistic.’  Your voice coming from behind caught him off guard. He could see the irritation in your eyes as soon as he faced you, slowly losing his patience as you kept speaking. ‘What if something happens to you? Or… W-What if something happens to me?’

You could feel yourself shaking as Steve’s eyes turned dark at your words. He didn’t notice as he stepped in front of you, though. He didn’t, because he was too busy trying not to lose his goddamn mind. But you made it too hard, with all that anger overflowing from your eyes.

‘What if something happens to you.’ He repeated cruelly, as if your question was a bad joke. The dark circles under his eyes, the anger in his brown pupils. He looked so much like the desperate soul you had found in the library’s toilets a month ago.  ‘You’re gonna leave. Nothing’s gonna change if something happens to you.’

Your eyes studied him in silence despite his cruel words, a smile of pity on your face as you looked back at him with your arms crossed over your body. As if you had all the answers in the world, as if you knew that he needed you. He hated knowing that they all needed you.

‘That’s the difference between us.’ He said despite the knot that was forming in his throat. ‘See, I don’t have to worry about the kids leaving, because leaving is not something we do—'

‘What if you lose your shit again, huh?’ You said feeling your heart beating hard against your chest. You wished for once to take all the anger you’d felt in your life and throw it at him. ‘What if next time I find you with a fucking gun under your chin, I don’t stop you?’

He swallowed hard at your words, feeling his knuckles shake on either side of him, the sound of his blood running fast in his ears.

‘Nothing’s gonna happen to me.’ He assured you. ‘You can leave whenever the fuck you want to.’

You were about to open your mouth to say something, but the sound of the cafeteria’s door opening made you look back to your side. Lucas was looking from your face to Steve’s, unsure about what to say.

‘Are you okay?’ You asked softly. Steve’s eyes stayed on you as you turned your body towards the child in concern. He could still feel the tension on his shoulder blades, and jaw. But you had seemed to already forgotten the wounding words that had left your mouth seconds ago.

‘Yeah…’ Lucas said tentatively before looking back at Steve. ‘We’re just waiting for you at the gym.’

‘Right.’ He said clearing his throat before walking towards the kid. ‘Let’s go.’

Lucas briefly looked back at you as Steve put a comforting hand on his shoulder and walked out with him. You gave him a sweet smile before walking back to the kitchen.

‘Are you two, okay?’ The boy asked in the hallway.

Steve tried to fight hard the sigh he wished to release, nodding softly.

‘Women are just stubborn.’ He rolled his eyes, trying to brush it all off. But the knot on his throat was still there, painful and impossible to ignore.

‘My dad used to say that.’ Lucas smiled to himself. His eyes got lost on the hallway in front of him as he thought. ‘Sometimes…’

Steve squeezed his shoulder softly, looking down at the boy to let him know he was listening.

‘Yes?’

‘Sometimes you two remind me of them.’ He murmured.

Steve stayed silent for a few seconds. They had reached the gym’s door, and Lucas looked down to his shoes in embarrassment. He knew you two didn’t get along, but it felt like the right thing to say.

‘You miss them a lot?’ Steve asked, placing his hands on top of his knees to get to Lucas’s level.

The boy nodded sadly, feeling the tears reaching his eyes when Steve embraced him in a hug. Steve swallowed hard when the boy put his arms around him too.

‘They were always fighting at the end.’ Lucas said taking a step back, cleaning his face with the back of his hand.

‘Hey.’ Steve said squeezing his shoulder once again. The boy looked at him with his teary eyes, waiting for his comforting words. ‘But you always felt safe, right? Even when they were fighting.’

Lucas nodded.

‘See?’ Steve smiled at him. And it was then that he realised how fast time had passed. He was an adult now. Here, in the middle of the school where he never got the chance to graduate. ‘It’s the same here. With me and her. You’re safe.’

Weeks later, Steve left the gym feeling the drops of sweat falling down his chest. As much as he hated to agree with you, exercise and food did change everything. He found himself less moody, and with more energy throughout the day, while the kids seemed less lazy and tended to fight sleep much less at bedtime. That’s why he couldn’t help but frown when he found Max standing outside your bedroom that night.

‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ He asked, putting his hands on either side of his hips.

The ginger girl jumped as soon as she heard his voice, turning back towards him with a guilty face.

‘I, uhm…’ She hesitated. ‘I just wanted to say goodnight.’

He fought the need to roll his eyes as he exhaled loudly.

Max held a gasp when Steve opened the door of the nurse’s office. The lights were still on behind it, which is why he found it so strange to find the room completely empty.

‘She’s still not back.’ She whispered under her breath.

Steve’s eyes lingered on the neatly arranged room, his heart skipping a beat at the way this place smelled so much like you. He hadn’t even noticed there was a you smell that seemed to linger on everything you touched until now.

Max looked up at him while he pushed the door absently, almost as if he was looking for you. She observed the way his eyes lingered on the books next to the bed: from biology to botany, a book of vegetarian recipes, one on nutrition. At least three different ones on maternity. He had to look away, finding a few papers spread on the desk under the dim light of the lamp, maps of Hawkins. Plans of the school where you had drawn over your own ideas to modify the space.

‘Steve?’ Max called softly.

He looked up at her, suddenly remembering why he was here.

‘Go to bed.’ He simply said.

‘But we can’t sleep.’ She said nervously, picking the skin around her nails.

‘Okay.’ He said putting the papers aside. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Is she back?’ Asked Jane when Max walked into the room. She looked down at her bedsheets as soon as Steve walked in right behind the ginger girl. His mouth fell open at the sight of the seven kids sitting inside the girl’s bedrooms, all very awake and very embarrassed to have been caught by him.

‘Good one, Max.’ said Mike rolling his eyes.

‘None of you pussies wanted to do anything!’ She complained.

‘Hey!’ Said Steve lifting one finger at her. ‘Don’t speak like that.’  He was tired, sweaty and hungry and now he had to deal with them. ‘Why are you all awake!’

‘It’s been three hours.’ Said little Erica from her mattress where she sat next to her brother.

‘Of what?’ He asked confused.

‘Since she left!’ Said Will.

‘Oh, Steve, you need to go find her!’ Said Jane hugging her pillow.

‘Hold on.’ He said. ‘Are you telling me this is why you all can’t sleep?’

The kids exchanged an embarrassed look between them as a heavy silence fell in the room. Steve couldn’t help but sigh loudly, even when you were absent you still got on his nerves.

‘Listen, she wants to teach you all some self-defence tomorrow.’ He explained plainly. ‘She went to find some first-aid supplies in case anyone got wounded. She knows what she’s doing, she knew what she was getting into when she left right after sunset, and most importantly, she’s gonna get as pissed as I am right now if she comes back and you’re all awake.’

‘How can you be so insensitive!’ Complained Jane.

‘Yeah!’ Agreed Will. ‘She could be dead!’

‘Or worse!’ Said Mike. ‘What if she’s been bitten!’

‘Don’t say that!’ Screamed Erica with tears in her eyes.

They all started screaming at each other and at Steve at the same time. A mess of childish noises that he couldn’t control or calm down as he tried to speak above their voices.

‘What’s going on here?’ Your voice quieted it all down as your face appeared on the threshold of the room. Jane jumped on your arms, and you stumbled subtly, the angry frown on your face depicting exactly what Steve had predicted. ‘Why aren’t you asleep!’

‘We thought you were lost!’ Said Lucas.

‘We thought you died!’ Said Dustin.

‘We thought you’d been bitten!’ Said Erica.

You looked back at Steve, useless as ever, standing shirtless in the middle of the room looking at your dirty face.

‘Nonsense.’ You said looking away and disentangling Jane from your arms. ‘Everybody in bed. Now.’

In less than three minutes the boys were back in their rooms and the girls lay quietly under their bedsheets. Steve observed you close the door of the room as he rested against the hallway’s wall, frowning slightly at the way your eyes seemed to hide from his.

‘You look like shit.’ He said, because he was too full of pride to ask if you were okay.

‘Thanks.’ You said walking down the hallway towards the showers, his steps following you right behind. ‘I got my period in the middle of my walk, and I decided I was already too far away to come back here.’

‘Hmm.’ He simply said, turning the lights of the showers room on. He was now able to see it, you had dirt on your cheeks, leaves on your hair and a giant patch of blood on your jeans that looked as if you were bleeding out. ‘Holy fuck, are you wounded?’

‘You wish.’ You said sarcastically, sitting in one of the benches to get rid of your heavy boots. Despite the fact you were trying to be funny, he didn’t even smile. ‘I had to kill two zombies and one asshole that thought he was going to steal rubbing alcohol from me.’

‘You killed someone?’

You looked back at him from the bench. Under these cold lights you could see that his cheeks were now fuller, no longer pointy and hostile, you could even see some muscle in his arms and chest. It was strange to compare this adult body to the innocence in his eyes, a bit shocked at what you had just confessed.

‘You should be more impressed about the fact I managed to find two bottles of rubbing alcohol.’

He didn’t say anything else as he got rid of his shoes as well, a few minutes of exhausting silence as he thought about what you just had said, and you sat on the bench in silence.

‘Mind if we shower at the same time?’ He said.

‘S fine.’ You said, sitting up to remove your shirt. He stayed there, a few steps behind you with his clothes still on and feeling the heat rush to his cheeks at the sight of the back of your overly worn cream bra. You didn’t even look at him as you got rid of your stained pants, the underwear beneath sticky and totally soaked by your blood.

‘At least warn me next time.’ He said under his breath.

He heard you let out a snorty laugh as you opened the door of the shower to turn it on.

‘Can’t stand a bit of blood?’ You joked locking the door behind you. Yet Steve’s eyes couldn’t help but get lost in the distorted shadow of your body behind the door, his heart skipping a beat when you hung your bra over the door.

‘S not the blood.’ He said over the sound of the water running while taking his own pants off. ‘You just don’t seem to have one bit of decorum inside you.’

‘I grew up surrounded by lots of people.’ You said.

His eyes still lingered on the possibility of what was behind the door. The only visible thing were your feet and the floor of the shower being stained by the red water that fell down the drain. And for the first time since you had moved here, he wished he could help you. He wondered if you were in pain.

‘How many siblings you had?’ He asked once he was inside his own shower next to yours, the cold water that fell on his body relieving him from the tension you had triggered on him so easily.

‘None.’ You said under the water. ‘I was at foster care.’

The silence behind the wall between you should’ve alarmed you, but it didn’t. You were used to him ignoring you. And you were so exhausted, your uterus aching in pulsing spasms, your spine hurting from all the weight you had carried back here.

You would’ve never imagined that while you turned the shower off and stepped outside to grab your towel, he stood speechless under the water, his forehead resting on the cold tile on the wall as he shut his eyes hard, not knowing what to say.

He couldn’t unsee it after that, but it had been so obvious from the first moment, when he left the supermarket, and you were browsing through the CDs as if out there the world wasn’t ending. He wondered now, in the moments when he saw you reject yet another attempt from the kids to get close to you, how many times had the world ended for you before.

You hadn’t even made the connection, a bit creeped out by the way sometimes you’d lift your eyes and he’d be looking at you already from the other side of the room. That information simply slipped easily from your tongue because you were tired, but Steve saw the truth everywhere now.

Maybe it was the way he observed this destroyed world through the lenses of an only child who always wanted a family, and how knowing that even if you possibly wanted the same thing as a child, you had managed to grow out of it. He was never able to, remembering a time when he had girlfriends at this same school, how he’d make out with them in these same hallways that now seemed so terrifying at night, the way they’d push his shoulders softly while he searched for a kiss, calling him clingy and needy.

The only person who had fixed that was Eddie, and now he was gone. But the longing was still here, beating hard against his chest in the moments where he searched for a band-aid for Max or put extra peas on Dustin’s plate, because he knew how much he liked them. He loved those little moments where he felt important, when Erica asked him if he’d learn how to bride her type of hair, when Will asked who was his first kiss. And still your words haunted him, because what if they decided to leave one day?

Even after two years living through the apocalypse, he couldn’t even sleep by himself without having nightmares, that’s why he always ended up sleeping uncomfortably, sitting against the wall of the one of the kid’s bedrooms while they slept on the mattresses. You talked a lot about practical survival skills, but he knew he lacked something that was much more important than knowing how to stitch a wound or hunt a deer. He’d never survive out there by himself because he simply wouldn’t want to.

And now you were here, making him aware of his own selfishness. Teaching the kids how to make a slingshot and how to use it. Giving them little jobs. Teaching Will how to clean and stitch a wound, or sorting out herbs with Lucas, who was learning to identify them without your help. Dustin and Mike enjoyed weaving traps, and helping with the cooking after you brought the animals at the end of the day. Max and Erica were impressively good with the gunshots, and Jane always knew exactly what supplies were needed. She made sure to assist you with the inventories daily. You were teaching them how to live in community, how to be self-sufficient, and still. He felt you were teaching how to leave, which was eventually what you’d do once you were done raising them.

What you hadn’t told him was that you hoped eventually the kids could be skilled enough to be able to get supplies in groups. That would change everything for them. You hadn’t shared the plans of what you thought the school could become if he only accepted that every second that you weren’t planning for survival was wasted. You had almost said something the few times you found his eyes already on you, but then an embarrassing sense of guilt fell on you, not knowing why you were doing this for them, and him.

You still slept in the nurse’s office and went out whenever you wanted to get supplies while he stayed with the kids. You didn’t belong here, no matter how many months passed or how many things you’d teach them. But deep down you knew you couldn’t imagine yourself anywhere else.

Time started passing quickly. The kids were stronger and more active, they were learning more and more each day. And the more you delayed talking to Steve about your ideas, the more desperate you felt. In the blink of an eye, it’d be the middle of summer, and you still didn’t have a place to plant anything or any way to preserve meat.

You took the decision one night in the cafeteria. The kids were cleaning the table while you checked how many cans you had left with Jane. Steve was talking with Dustin, laughing with him while they cleaned together. The darkness that once saddened his under eyes was almost gone, his cheeks were full and the shirts that had once looked baggy on him now fitted him just right. Maybe next time you’d go out you’d make sure to get him new clothes if you found any.

The thought would’ve embarrassed you if it wasn’t for the fact he had caught you staring, and the heat rushed to your cheeks. Lifting his soft eyes at you, he waited for a gesture, or a few words. He had somehow gotten used to let you lead, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

‘We’ll finish tomorrow morning.’ You said to Jane, squeezing her shoulder softly.

‘Are you sure?’ She asked, giving you the clipboard where you wrote your daily checks.

‘I’m sure.’

He was still looking at you when you walked towards him. The kids were almost done, and your eyes were focused on the clean table because for some reason you couldn't hold Steve’s gaze.

‘Can I speak to you alone?’ You said, finally getting the courage to lift your eyes.

He nodded with a serene semblance on his face. Maybe this could turn out well, maybe he’d actually listen to you this time.

‘Right, everyone.’ He said to the kids. ‘Go brush your teeth and I want you all in bed by ten.’

You smiled to yourself for some reason, but they all did as he said. In the dark hallway, you waited until Jane and Mike got lost behind the rest of the kids to look back at him, his expectant eyes on you as he rested his back on the opposite wall.

‘So?’ He said, putting his hands inside his pockets nervously.

He had lived this before, maybe in this same hallway once, when he tried to ask a girl to prom what it had felt was a lifetime ago. Now you were hiding your eyes from him while looking at your boots, in completely different circumstances. And yet sometimes life was still so similar to what it used to be.

‘I took the liberty to have a look at the school’s plans some weeks ago.’ You started. He seemed to be waiting still, no sign of annoyance on his face, so you took that as a good sign. ‘I found them upstairs, at the principal’s office. And I’ve been thinking about a few… They’re more like ideas, you know. Ways in which we could restructure things better.’

‘Okay.’ He said after a while, standing straight. ‘You wanna show me?’

You nodded softly, leading the way towards your room as you felt childish excitement taking over you, even if you tried your best at repressing it. You had been overthinking this moment for too long and things seemed to be going okay, he seemed to be listening.

Steve stayed on the threshold of your little room as you walked in. You flattened the plans on the wooden table, ready to start talking when you realised his eyes were lost on something behind you.

‘Are you okay?’ You asked softly.

‘Did the kids draw these?’ He said walking into the room. Your walls were full of paintings the kids had done for you. Some of them were portraits, others landscapes. Will’s were somehow more imaginative, illustrating scenes from the books you had brought him from the library.

‘Uh, yeah.’ You smiled, leaning back against the desk. ‘They’re pretty good, aren’t they?’

‘They are.’ He said stroking a little doll Erica had drawn just for you. He couldn’t help but smile as his eyes lingered on the rest of the drawings, somehow feeling happy that you two agreed this wasn’t a waste of paper or pencils. Here it was. Hope, in the middle of the chaos. ‘Wait, when was your birthday?’

‘Oh.’ Your eyes fell on the card they all made for you, hanging next to your bed. ‘A couple of weeks ago. Kind of.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He said looking back at you.

You had to blink a couple of times trying to find an answer, wondering if what you were seeing behind the brown in his eyes was hurt.

‘I didn’t think it mattered.’ You confessed. ‘I don’t really know when my birthday is, exactly.’

A few moments of awkwardness opened between you two until you spoke again.

‘I’ve never seen my birth certificate. This was just a random date the system gave me.’ You swallowed hard, looking back at the plans. ‘Anyways, I’ve been thinking about turning the pool into a garden area. A place where we can grow stuff. It’s very spacious and if we’re smart enough, it could even become a kind of greenhouse.’

‘Right.’ He nodded. But he was still thinking about what you had just said, about the fact you didn’t even know when you were born. ‘Okay.’

You looked back at him; his confused eyes looking at the strokes of pencil over the plans and the little abbreviations on your handwriting.

‘Can I show you?’

He lifted his eyes at you, and just then you both realised how close you were from each other. You took a step aside to avoid making him uncomfortable, and he stood straight, observing your careful movements.

‘Sure.’ He said.

You and Steve walked silently towards the pool area, your steps echoing through the silent hallways. It had been about three months since you arrived and there were still moments when you wondered if he’d ever fall again into that darkness he was in when you found him at the library. You wondered what it must’ve felt like to walk through the same hallways you once grew up in as an adult, in such conditions. And you wondered about Eddie every day.

Yet you completely forgot about it all as soon as you pushed the doors and you found Mike and Jane sitting on the edge of the empty blue pool, sharing, well… a kiss.

‘What are you two doing here?’ Said Steve before you could even open your mouth. ‘Jesus, and what—’ He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and you had to bite your lip not to laugh at him in front of the kids. ‘God, I don’t even wanna know. Bed. Now.’

The pair of embarrassed teenagers looked at you for what could’ve been protection or mercy, but you shook your head with half a smile adorning your face.

‘Do as he say.’ You said as softly as you could.

Jane and Mike stood up, the blush visible on their cheeks despite the lack of artificial light as your eyes followed them and they got lost behind the doors.

You laughed softly as soon as Steve and you were alone again.

‘They’re gonna be the death of me.’ He complained, brushing his hair with his hand. ‘I swear. Am I—Am I stupid or were they kissing?’

‘I— Yeah. Yeah, they were kissing.’ You shrugged. ‘S not a big deal.’

‘Not a big…?’ He looked back at you and rolled his eyes at the way you were smiling. ‘I need a cigarette.’

Your eyes opened widely at his words, your mouth opening slightly at the possibility of such a luxury.

‘You have cigarettes?’ Your voice turned high-pitched in a way that was so adolescent Steve had to fight hard not to laugh at you. Sometimes he forgot how young you were. God, sometimes he forgot how young he was.

‘Just one box I save for… occasions.’ He sighed, his eyes got lost on the empty blue of the pool, as if he remembered something. ‘But well, fuck. I missed your birthday, so we might as well have one.’

‘This is delicious.’ You admitted taking another puff at the cigarette Steve had given you. You were both sitting on top of his mattress, the school’s plans all rolled up on the floor after you had explained the greenhouse idea minutes ago.

Somehow, it had lost their importance for a little while, you were too busy enjoying the feeling of the smoke in your lungs as your head rested against the wall. Unaware of Steve’s eyes on you, his gaze lingered on the way your lips opened slightly to let the smoke out, on your lashes kissing, the curve of your cheek under the dim light, your natural eyebrows, thick and pretty on top of your closed eyes.

‘How long has it been since you had one?’ He asked.

You had to look away as soon as your eyes met his, your head rocking softly as you tried to remember.

‘Thirteen, I think?’ You said. ‘I lived with these nuns for a while, they used to give me as many as I wanted.’

He let out a snorty laugh, sitting down better to look back at you.

‘Are you serious?’

You shrugged.

‘They liked me. I liked reading a lot, so we used to hang out after I came back from school and we’d discuss philosophy, theology and all that stuff together.’

He shook his head, taking another puff from his own cigarette.

‘That’s crazy.’ He said to himself. ‘You were the kids’ age.’

‘The “kids” as you call them, were just sneaking from their rooms to make out.’ You reminded him.

‘Oh, please.’ He took his fingers to his eyes once again, and this time you weren’t able to keep your little giggles in. ‘I’m not ready for this shit. Like, everything else I can deal with, but what am I supposed to do ‘bout this? They’re thirteen.’

‘So?’ You said exhaling the smoke once again. ‘I bet you were doing worse things at their age. I’ve heard stories from Max, you know? I know about King Steve.’

You would’ve sworn his cheeks turned rosy at your comment as he laughed shyly, shaking his head as he looked down at the mattress.

‘That was a different life.’ He said with the cigarette still hanging on the edge of his mouth.

‘I bet.’ You agreed after a while. ‘High School feels like a different life to me too.’

‘Do you miss it?’ He asked sitting against the wall next to you.

Your sleepy eyes looked up at him, slightly taller than you even when you were both sitting in the same position.

‘How can I not?’ You admitted. ‘I thought it’d last forever. I had a scholarship, you know? In New York. I was ready to leave my illiterate foster parents, my dull boyfriend and my boring friends to have something mine for once.’

He lifted his eyebrows, inhaling from the cigarette again. It didn’t surprise him, you were exactly the type of girl who should’ve gone far, to great places. Away from the unfair life you’d gotten.

‘You had a boyfriend?’

His question made you look back at him, laughing softly before you took the cigarette to your mouth again.

‘Is it so hard to believe?’ You joked.

‘Uh…’ He hesitated, and you pushed his shoulder lightly with yours, making him laugh softly. ‘What happened to him?’

‘God knows. Maybe he got bitten.’ You joked, and he couldn’t help but laugh. ‘He was too stupid; I don’t think he survived more than just a couple of days. Honestly.’

‘I can’t imagine you dating someone stupid.’ He said before taking a long breath, probably the last one before he’d have to kill the cigarette.

You rolled your eyes with a smile on your face, shrugging.

‘I didn’t date for brains, exactly.’ You admitted, looking down at your socked feet that rested on the edge of his bed, so close from his. ‘I was horny and touch starved.’

He laughed softly, killing the cigarette on the wall. A small silence opened between you two as you finished your own and he wondered if he should offer you a second one, if it’d be too obvious that he wanted you to stay a bit longer here. He never spent that much time inside this room, it reminded him too much of Eddie and how everything was when they first moved into the school.

‘What about you?’ You asked.

‘Am I horny and touch starved?’ He joked.

Your laugh mixed with coughs while you killed the cigarette on the wall next to you.

‘That I bet you are.’ You murmured before turning to face him. It wasn’t flirty in any way, at least you didn’t think it was. ‘When was the last time you had sex?’

Steve looked back at you for a second, his mouth almost turning into a smile but not quite, shocked at your question.

‘What?’

He let out a laugh that sounded more like a scoff.

‘When was the last time you had sex?’ He asked instead.

‘A long ago, okay?’ You laughed, pushing his arm. ‘God, I don’t even know why I asked. You never take shit seriously—’

‘What am I not taking seriously?’ He pushed you back.

The smile on your mouth slowly died when you licked your lips. Steve observed you nervously rub your hands on your jeans, trying to come up with what you wanted to say in a polite manner, but you didn’t think there was a modest way to ask him what you really wanted to know. He swallowed, wondering if you were thinking the same thing he was, if it had ever crossed your mind.

‘I—’ You started, ‘Well, I don’t know. I guess it’s normal to want that kind of intimacy again. Don’t you miss it?’

You looked back at him as if you were discussing canned food or an itinerary. His eyes avoided your gaze as he looked down at his hands, thinking that he had misinterpreted it all, and that in the process he had discovered something he couldn’t deal with. Something that he had probably been fighting for a while already. Something that should’ve stayed buried inside him.

‘Intimacy is not the same as sex.’ He said looking back at you with a serious gaze.

‘Hmm.’ You bit your lip, thoughtfully looking at your hands. But your head was slightly leaning towards him.

It felt a lot like being drunk, and you blamed it all on your hormones or the longing to have someone understand you, even if that someone was Steve. His heart skipped a beat when you finally looked back at him, revealing a new side of you that was nothing like the restrained girl that stayed away from the kids’ selfless affection. But maybe the difference here was that the kids could get hurt, and Steve couldn’t. That’s what you thought.

‘I suppose.’ You murmured, looking back at him. ‘Maybe what I really miss is sex.’

He smiled softly at your words, lifting a hand to rest it on your warm cheek, your body temperature all over the place by the tension between you two. His hesitant eyes looked back at yours as he wondered if he should reject you and forget about this. You’d hate him, God, he’d hate himself, but this could ruin it all. This could really fuck things up.

‘We need to be careful.’ He warned you. His eyes were soft but his words severe, and full of fear.

‘I know.’ You whispered, unable to stop yourself from looking at his lips.

‘And we can’t let the kids notice.’ He cupped your chin firmly, so you’d heard him right. ‘Okay?’

‘I know.’ You said between your teeth, the darkness in your eyes hiding something more than annoyance.

‘And just because we’re doing this doesn’t mean I trust you.’ You let out an offended scoff, moving back to stand up, but he cupped your cheeks to pull you in. He was too far gone to let you leave this room now. ‘God, come here.’

His lips were soft and warm against you as you felt every hair on your body turn into a goosebump. His hands were needy. All of him was, fists wrapping around the fabric of your shirt, knee finding the space between your legs quickly so he could feel the warmth you were hiding there.

It turned messy and desperate too quickly, his tongue licking the skin of your neck with hunger while your hands pulled locks of brown hair. Steve lifted your shirt to kiss your breasts desperately, your back arching on the bed while your hips rolled against the leg between yours. It was more than animalistic; it was human and primitive. He wanted to drown in your scent, to dive in your chest and sleep there forever.

As if you could read his mind you took your shirt and bra off at the same time, letting his tongue tease you a bit more and biting your lip at how pathetically wet you were. Growling softly, you twisted urgently as your hands unzipped his jeans, desperately wanting to get of rid of all the clothes. You wanted to hear the beat of his heart, the pulse of his blood. To feel his sweat and see his hair and forget for a second that maybe this was the more human you had felt in a long time. He made sure to do so, quickly throwing his shirt away and pulling down his jeans along with his boxers while you did the same thing with the rest of your clothes.

His mouth came back to yours once there were no more layers in between you too, his hands grabbing everything they could, squeezing your butt cheeks, pinching your nipples. You even chased his fingers with your mouth when he cupped your cheek as he moved back, panting needily while sucking on his thumb deliciously. It was an agreement to forget everything you were outside this room, and you were both committed to follow it even if regret stabbed you tomorrow.

With controlled strength he wrapped your legs around his hips, your hand instinctively finding his warm dick, so hard and thick you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as you started stroking it. Steve leaned in, holding his breath at the movements of your hands as the smell of sex filled the air. His fingers found your clit in between the soaked hairs of your pelvis, sticky with your warm wetness that had probably stained his mattress too.

‘Shit.’ You moaned softly, arching your back at the stimulation.

‘Shhh.’ He hushed you, unable to hold his own whimpers as his forehead rested on your shoulder. The pre-cum on his tip making it all worse while you still stroked him with skilful intensity. ‘Fuck.’

‘It’s been too long.’ You complained in between breaths. ‘Feels so good.’

‘I know.’ He whispered. ‘Can I…?’

You pulled him in with your legs, stroking his tip against you soaked folds that were already almost pulsing at the stimulus of his fingers.

‘Yeah.’ He moaned. ‘Holy shit.’

‘Just don’t cum inside me. Please.’ You lifted his chin to find his cheeks red and his agonising eyes glossy. Soft tenderness engulfed you for a second, his gaze never leaving your as he caged you with his free arm.

‘I got you.’ He assured you. ‘Okay?’

You nodded enthusiastically, positioning him with your hand before he slowly pushed himself in. Shutting your eyes hard at the pressure, you tried to focus on the way he played with your clit when you felt him move back.

‘What are you doing?’ You complained desperately.

He dived his nose on your hair, your heart beating fast at the way he unexpectedly kissed your skin, laughing softly.

‘Takin’ it slow.’ He moved back to have a better look at you, at the way you rolled your eyes when his thumb kept stroking your bud while his index and middle finger found the soaked insides of your pussy. You opened your legs wider, all exposed for him as he felt the veins of his cock pulsing, aching to be inside you.

‘Need you.’ You begged, trying to push him back into you with your legs.

He would’ve fucked you right there if he hadn’t almost lost his balance at your simple words. He knew what you meant, he thought as he took his fingers out and positioned himself again, looking at you with mesmerized hooded eyes. You needed to feel it, to feel something. Yet so much had been revealed to him in the haze of your heat: all he really wanted was to be needed. By someone. By anyone, really. But specially by you.

He was caught off guard by the way your hand pushed his hip against you then, his dick sliding in gently. You both still needed a few seconds to adjust, your breath caught on your chest at the stretch and the friction, but as soon as his hand resumed his strokes on your clit, the familiar hunger took over your body again.

Before he could even move, you were already chasing his hips with sensual movements. The grip of your legs around his hips was needy, the way you pulled his hair encouraged him to match your pace. It was you leading again, it was him following right behind no matter where you decided to take him. Heaven or Hell, it was the same thing with you.

The tiniest, most guttural sounds emerged from your body as you two moved faster, shutting your eyes hard and biting your lips to keep you from saying the wildest obscenities. He noticed too, by the way your fingernails were marking the skin of his back painfully, but he couldn’t blame you. Your pussy was deliciously warm and wet for him, and he was dying to shower you in the dirtiest compliments, to praise you for being so creamy and good.

‘Hmm.’ You moaned. ‘Steve.’

He looked down at you without losing the pace, searching for your eyes that were all dopey by the pleasure.

‘You’re gonna…’ You tried to whisper, but the walls of your pussy started to pulse around him. ‘Uh. You’re gonna have t’ cover my mouth.’

He nodded softly. Your eyes unable to look away from his reddened cheeks and sweaty face, making it all worse by stroking your cheek tenderly. The softness of it all was too much, your mouth slightly opening when you felt yourself convulsing, and his hand quickly covering it to hide your sweet moans.

Your fingers replaced his on your clit as soon as he pulled himself out, the warm cum falling on your stomach and your lost self making it all dirtier by rubbing it on your boobs while you still played with your clit.

All Steve could do was look down at the spectacle you were giving him, watching himself cumming a bit more on top of you until there was nothing else that could come out of his system.

You were panting hard when he removed his hand from your mouth, and you slowly came back to Earth. Your eyes followed him as he reached for the shirt he had just taken off to cleaned your torso with, silly giggles leaving your lips as the actions of your horny brain fell on you.

He shook his head in disbelief before his body fell next to you on the bed. Only the sound of heavy breaths turning into soft ones filled the air. You were still sweaty and a bit thirsty, your groin was still shaking a little. The more the heat died down the more you got lost in your thoughts. This had been wrong, but a part of you knew that it was bound to happen. You were two clueless people raising seven kids together under the same roof, having lost your youth to this unfair world.You were both unlovable and utterly alone. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen, right?

You looked at Steve next to you, with his eyes closed, cheeks still blushed and breath pattern slowing down. What’s done it’s done, you thought. There was no point on worrying, no time to overthink.

‘Six months.’ Said Steve, with his eyes still closed. ‘What about you?’

‘Two years.’ You admitted softly. Moving to your side to rest your face on your hand. Your eyes lingered on the moles on his neck, on the hair on his chest.

He frowned softly, eyes opening partially to meet your gaze.

‘Boring boyfriend?’

You shook your head, and he lifted his eyebrows at you. His eyes followed you as you laid back uncomfortably, your gaze lost on the ceiling.

‘There was this… guy.’ You said. ‘He had been in foster care too. You know, one of those who claim they want to protect kids because the system’s fucked, but they end up fucking the system even more.’

Steve nodded softly, wishing to ask questions that would’ve been proper if you trusted each other. But he saw the way your eyes got lost in the memories, and he didn’t dare to ask how much older he was, or for how long you had to go through that.

‘We spent the last day before the apocalypse together.’ You said softly, still looking at the ceiling. ‘For a while I— missed it. I thought I was happy.’

You looked back at him after a few seconds of silence. It was nice to see some compassion on his face for once, even if you weren’t sure if you wanted to welcome it.

‘What about you?’ You said facing him, placing your cheek on your hand again.

‘Last day?’ He asked.

‘Mhmm.’

He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling and trying to remember, but he didn’t need to try hard. He remembered. Sometimes he felt as if he was still there.

‘I came to school.’ He shrugged, trying to play nonchalant. Trying to pretend he wouldn’t give it all to go back to that day. ‘Got a D in English, went to Eddie’s right after and spent the night smoking and playing videogames.’

You smiled softly. The memory was so mundane, so simple and perfect, that you couldn’t help but envy him.

‘How did he die?’ You asked after a while.

Steve took a deep breath, brushing his hair with his fingers, still avoiding your curious eyes. He was sure the kids would’ve told you or mentioned something. He left the room when they talked about him, when they remembered funny stories about him, how he used to spend the day at the vegetable patch, how they all used to sit around the fire once a week. How he turned them all into a family. He knitted sweaters for them, and cooked for them and Steve followed him everywhere.

‘He went to search for supplies and got bitten.’ He related quietly. ‘But he came back, left the things outside and, uh… He asked me to take the kids to the gym that day and tell them it had been someone else. He shot himself in the vegetable patch.’

You wished then that you could touched him, not like you had minutes ago between bites and licks. True, vulnerable touch. But you didn’t know if he’d welcome it.

‘That’s why you buried him there.’ You whispered to yourself.

He nodded softly, swallowing hard at the memories, trying to push Eddie’s ghost away. His best friend, the person who had brought him here, who had kept him alive. And now he was gone.

How could he forgive the world for that?

‘Do the kids know?’ You said after a while.

He frowned briefly, trying not to sniff too loud before looking back at you.

‘I told you; they think it was some guy in the forest.’

You shook your head softly. A sad smile lifting your lips as you searched for the truth hidden inside the brown of his eyes.

‘Do they know you loved him?’

Steve licked his lips before swallowing hard. He looked down, finding your other hand next to his naked body. His eyes focused on the way his fingers played with yours until he shook his head slightly.

You stayed like that for a while as the smell of sex slowly dissipated in the air. The honesty melted too, turning into the casual civility you treated each other with. When he laid asleep, with his lashes kissing and his mouth partly open, you disentangled your pinkie from his and got dressed in the dark.

‘Where are you going?’ His voice was soft and raspy behind you.

You were standing in the middle of his room, looking back at him over your shoulder.

‘I can’t sleep with other people in the same bed.’ You whispered. ‘Foster child things.’

His eyes stayed on you, shining brightly like two brown moons in the darkness of the night. For some reason you waited. He did too, wanting to ask you. Wanting to beg you to stay.

‘Goodnight.’ You whispered when he didn’t. And he just stayed in bed, hearing your footsteps in the hallway.

The next day you kept on with your routine as usual. You woke up a couple of hours after leaving Steve’s room, finished counting the kitchen inventory and went out to set the traps. Just after you got rid of the dirt on your hands, you sat down to watch the sunrise outside, thinking about what had happened the night before. Even human warmth was a luxury, and here you were, lucky enough to have it even if it was for a little while. You had let your human needs get the best of you, and even if there was a little bit of embarrassment sitting on your chest, you walked into the school an hour later thinking there were so many things to do that you had completely forgotten about it.

By the time the kids were walking into the gym, you had finished painting an improvised bullseye on the wall. They all greeted you with their sleepy good morning and you smiled back from your place.

After the one hour run they took every morning, the kids stood around you while you placed a bucket on the floor that was full of rocks you had picked this morning.

‘Okay, so,’ Their tired faces were so adorable that you couldn’t help but smile when you were trying to be serious. ‘Please remember your slingshots are weapons, okay? I want you to carry them around with you, but I don’t want to see you pointing them at each other. Not even as a joke. Is that clear?’

They all muttered a tired yes and you made them stand in a queue, close enough to the bullseye so they’d all hit, but far enough that it’d add a bit of difficulty. You needed to help some of them, Dustin balance wasn’t great, Mike reflexes were a bit rusted, and Will seemed to get so nervous he had to dry his hands on his jeans for a little while before even attempting to shoot.

You were still gentle with them, encouraging them with kind words and patience. At times you’d help them with their posture or would give suggestions here and there. An hour after you started to hear their low sighs and complaints, and you finished the workout by sending them straight to the showers.

‘Hey.’ You were starting to pick up the remaining of the rocks on the floor when Max’s stood next to you.

‘Hey, sweetie.’ The endearing term fell so easy from your lips you forced yourself not to think too much about it. You didn’t even know why you were blushing. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah.’ She laughed nervously, putting her hands on her back pockets. ‘I just wanted to ask if… Uhm, would you teach me how to shoot a gun?’

You stayed quiet for a second, thinking about what to do. But Max was great with the slingshot, she was probably the most mature of all the kids. And most importantly, she’d have to learn eventually.

‘Sure.’ You said, ‘Maybe just a couple of shots, okay?’

‘Great.’ She said smiling, trying to contain her excitement.

You explained the basics to her as you two stood far from the bullseye. She assured you she was prepared for the noise and the impact that would push her slightly back, but you still reminded her and fixed her posture so the effect wouldn’t hit her so unexpectedly.

‘Okay.’ You said taking the gun out of your pocket. ‘Just two shots. Unfortunately, we can’t do more than that.’

Something made your stomach twist when you placed the gun on her hand, but you made sure to swallow down the knot on your throat. Max was not your child. And if you wanted her alive for long enough that she’d reached adulthood and old age in one piece, this was your way of assuring that future for her.

You bit the nail of your thumb from your place when she pulled the trigger. The noise echoed through the gym, and she did jump back at the impact of the shot, yet the little hole on the wall showed that she had hit almost perfectly in the middle. She took a second deep breath before shooting again, and this time she was able to control her body a bit better.

‘Oh my god.’ She laughed in disbelief, handing you the gun. ‘That was so cool.’

‘And you were so good at it—’

‘What the fuck are you doing!’ Steve’s voice echoed through the gym, making Max jump unexpectedly.

The heat rushed to your cheeks as soon as you saw her eyes full of panic. Steve was looking at you with anger overflowing his pupils, but your irritation though palpable, was much more controlled than his.

‘You don’t have to scream at her, Steve.’ You said firmly, taking the gun from Max’s hand and securing it inside your back pocket.

‘I’m not screaming at her, you idiot.’ He shouted, taking a step towards you. ‘I’m screaming at you. What the fuck were you thinking!?’

You stood on your place, perplexed at the tone he was using.

‘Answer me!’

Max jumped once again on her place, her eyes looking from him to you, her pale hands shaking on either side of her as she stood petrified.

‘She asked me if I could teach her and—’

‘And you say no!’ He shouted, the veins of his neck that you had just kissed the night before protuberant as his face turned redder. ‘If she asks you for the fucking gun, you say no!’

You narrowed your eyes at the way he seemed to be on the verge of tears or a heart stroke.

‘Steve.’ You took a step towards him, but he moved back instinctively, thick drops of sweat falling from his temples.

‘Do you have any idea of what I thought—’ He brushed his hair with his fingers desperately. Looking defeated. ‘FUCK!’

All it took you to wrap Max with your arm was to see her jump once again. You didn’t even look back at him as you walked her out of the gym.

Steve wasn’t seen around the rest or the day or at dinner. The kids looked at his empty seat with confused eyes and you left a kiss on top of Max’s ginger before explaining that you two had a fight earlier and he was still mad at you. You assured them you’d save some dinner for him, and that you’d make sure he came by to say goodnight later.

They ate in silence, all a bit saddened by the tense atmosphere on the table. So, you gave them all a gummy bear right after their meal, feeling a weird sense of defeat inside you. It was then, as you picked the plates in silence while they joked with each other, that you became aware of who you were for these kids. You had never been this important in anyone’s life, and it was on instances like these where you felt that you didn’t even know what you were doing.

Once the kitchen was clean, you decided to walk them all to the toilets by yourself. There was still no sign of him as you stood outside the toilets, searching for him in the shadows of the school hallway. It took you twenty minutes to get them to be ready, and another thirty to hear absolute silence coming from their rooms.

You walked towards the showers in silence, feeling the weight of exhaustion falling on your shoulders. Fights between you and Steve were inevitable, but you didn’t think the kids had to pay for it, that’s what had pissed you off so much. Max loved him, she worshipped him. You knew what it was like to have all your trust shattered by people you once thought you loved; you wouldn’t let him do that to her.

It shouldn’t have surprised you to find him sitting on the bench in front of the showers. Maybe he was waiting for you, maybe he was just too much of a coward to face the kids. Still, you undressed in silence, thinking about where to start, how to get rid of this anger that was eating your alive probably since the day you found him in the library.

The soft sound of the running water and the feeling of it on your hair made you stupidly emotional as you felt him walk into the shower minutes later.

‘I want you to apologise to Max first thing in the morning.’ You said in a hoarse voice, not facing him.

Yet all he could do was wrap his arms around you, strong and needy, reminding you of what had happened the night before. You turned to face him, feeling the resentment alive inside your chest even at the sight of his puffy eyes and red face.

For a moment it was as if you were back at the supermarket, and you wondered who was going after who first. Even if you were both naked, wet, and ready to love on each other’s bodies, there was always the implicit question of if you’d get to make it out alive together, or if nature would eventually ask you to betray each other.

‘I rather kill you than see the kids fear you.’ You admitted firmly. ‘That is not why I’m here, Steve.’

‘I know.’ He rushed to say. Getting carried away by the guilt and your presence, he cupped your wet cheeks, placing his forehead against yours. ‘I know, I’m sorry. ‘M so sorry.’ He sobbed. ‘I just heard the shot and remembered…’

The water filled the empty words he didn’t say, and you nodded softly, looking down at his frail body and thinking about all the memories that still haunted this disturbed stranger that had dragged you inside his home to give you something life had denied you for years.

‘I’m sorry.’ You heard yourself whisper. Your thumbs instinctively found his temples as the rest of your fingers dived inside his wet hair. ‘I didn’t think that’d trigger you, Steve.’

‘I didn’t think either.’ He said between tears, sobbing a bit more. ‘I didn’t know— I have no idea why the fuck did I do that.’

It was instinct, the way his head rested on your shoulder so softly as you comforted him inside the shower, in a moment where you two were allowed to behave your age, or even younger. Scared, and unsure of what you were doing here, hidden inside a school in the middle of a dead town while the world was too busy ending outside.

You searched for his mouth first, because you didn’t know what else to do to stitch the wounds and take the sadness away. This time your hungry tongues searched for something else that went beyond human need, maybe some sort of reassurance. He hoped that despite all this mess you’d still stay, and you wished that he’d never failed you again.

It was much quieter, but the desperation was still there while he pushed you against the wall as his dick slid inside you, holding you head delicately under the water. The pace was fast, the tiles against your back were cold, but your body was warm as he swallowed your moans with his kisses.

‘You’re so good to me.’ He sobbed against your neck.

‘Shhh.’ You whispered, moving to face him once again. ‘I’m here.’

His eyes were still red by all the crying, and you removed the wet hairs off his face to have a better look at his precious eyes while he still fucked you.

‘I’m here.’ You left wet pecks along his cheekbone, moaning softly against his skin while he hit the right spot inside you. He growled softly at your tenderness, while his thrusts turned faster and his tears mixed with the water, and he was hoping that you knew he was trying. He was hoping that you knew he wanted you to stay.

He almost asked you when he felt your body shaking under his, a pull of his hair, a chocked moan echoing through the walls, and he already knew that his mouth finding yours to relieve you from your agony is what’d fix it all.

You helped him too, with your nose brushing his and your hand around him, spoiling him with the sweetest strokes. Your mouth open against his, his eyes shut hard as he held onto you until he lost it. The weight of his exhausted body fell onto you, and you held him there, in a way you’d never held anyone before. In a way you had always wished somebody would hold you.

The next morning you woke up disoriented, you even stayed in bed for a few minutes, fingers tracing the places he had kissed the night before. There was dark pink love bruise on your shoulder, it didn’t hurt when your fingers pressed on it, but your stomach twisted when you wondered if things would be awkward today.

By the time you were ready you had forced yourself to put all those thoughts aside, starting the day as usual. But when you walked into the kitchen to search for the traps, you frowned at the look of the empty table in the cafeteria. When you walked into the kitchen, you couldn’t help but hide your shock when you found Steve taking a few supplies out of his own backpack.

‘Hey.’ He said simply, a serene smile adorned his face as he took out some cans out, placing them on the cupboard above his head.

‘Y-You went out?’ You asked, trying to sound calm, but a part of you was worried, maybe a little scared. Maybe a little protective.

He nodded, his back facing you as he kept arranging the supplies. Your eyes wandered around the rest of things he had managed to bring: a bag of cotton buds, a box of band-aids, and a crystal jar with a white powder inside.

‘Oh my god.’ You said taking the jar with shaky fingers. ‘Is this…!?’

Steve observed you from his place on the other side of the table, how you opened the jar quickly and dipped a finger inside the powder to then take it to your mouth. The overly strong taste left you speechless, your tongue begging for water as soon as it came in contact with it.

‘Where the fuck did you get salt?’ You laughed under your breath, still looking at the jar.

‘I went to my house.’ He murmured, not because of shyness or embarrassment, but because he would’ve sworn your eyes turned a bit glossy as you closed the jar again.

‘Your house?’ You asked casually, blinking many times to try to get rid of the tears.

‘Yeah.’ He said softly.

You looked at each other in silence. There was so much you wanted to ask him, and he was kind of waiting for you to ask. He’d answer it all, really. But all you could do was look down at your boots as they softly hit the leg of the table between you.

‘I was looking for this.’ His voice made you lift your eyes. His cheeks had acquired that rosy tint you had only seen whenever you gave in to each other’s body. It almost made you smile, until your gaze fell on the device he took from his bag. ‘Do you think Max might like it?’

‘Oh my god.’ You walked around the table to grab the discman in your hands. ‘Is this real? Does it work?’

‘I think so.’ He laughed at your amazement. It took you a few seconds of sweet tension to realise that you had never heard him laugh before. ‘It’s still got the batteries… do you wanna try it?’

‘Yes!’ You said enthusiastically. It amused him to see you so excited, suddenly looking so young.

This same thing could’ve happened in this same school a long time ago, he thought as you sat outside before the old vegetable patch, before Eddie’s grave. Maybe years ago, there were two teenagers who sat right here. Sharing headphones just like you were doing now, before the sunrise threatened to light everything up.

Your eyes stayed on the stars that were slowly fading as the sky turned from navy to blue, trying to ignore the fact he was taking out the Radiohead CD you saw back in the supermarket from his plastic case. That had seemed a lifetime ago. And as soon as the song started played you wondered when was the last time you had heard music, and how had you managed to do without it – and him for so long.

Her green plastic watering can / For her fake Chinese rubber plant / In the fake plastic earth

That she bought from a rubber man / In a town full of rubber plans / To get rid of itself

It wears her out.

It was the only time you were able to use it, because Max got quickly obsessed with the little device and the CD. You smiled silently as she walked around the school with it, sometimes taking turns with the other kids, sometimes mumbling the lyrics as she weaved the traps or helped Steve in the kitchen.

It seems like you and him had silently agreed on a different way to do things. While you and Lucas worked on greenhouse together, he’d gone out to get supplies from the houses around Hawkins. You observed from a distance how the kids’ rooms started to get filled with souvenirs of another lives: a teddy bear Erica had left under her bed, a picture of Mike with his sister, a locket from Dustin’s mother that he now carried underneath his clothes all the time.

The kids had also learned how to do more things by themselves, and slowly you were able to breathe properly again. You hadn’t realised you had been holding your breath since the first day you had moved into the school. While Lucas helped you grow the plants you brought from outside the school, Mike and Dustin learned how to preserve the meat you brought for them for the winter. Jane made sure to keep her inventories so precisely up to date that you didn’t even need to assist her anymore. And Will had promised to help everyone as long as you’d kept bringing him all the books on human anatomy and biology that were at the library. Erica and Max kept weaving traps and practicing with their slingshots and you were hoping that soon you could maybe bring Max with you on a long hike to get better supplies.

Things were working. And if you were able to breath now, Steve was the one who had to hold his breath every day the less needed he felt. Worse than that, there was this feeling sitting on his chest, that soon you’d think you weren’t needed anymore and decide to leave them. To leave him.

He held his choky breaths at night, when your body was on top of his, and his hands on your face as he pulled you into a kiss. Your breaths were silent but still desperate as you undressed in the darkness of his room, trying to ignore his naked walls where you’d hope to get a glimpse of his past life, a picture of his parents, maybe. Or one of Eddie and him back in school. But he never seemed to bring any of those souvenirs for himself, and you never dared to ask.

The kids didn’t notice anything. During the day, you were civil with each other, often exchanging kind smiles and always siding with each other if it involved the kids’ wellbeing. But it was implicit that your nocturnal desires never bled into the day’s routine. It was implicit that the kisses, the love bites, the choked moans and the lust were a natural by-product of the complexities of human loneliness.

And yet still you had little slips, moments where it was impossible not to try to hold onto the warmth. When you were done and he held you on top of his body, and you showered his face with careful kisses, lips barely brushing his skin, almost begging him not to entertain your attachment too much. Or the times when you stayed until he fell asleep, playing with the hairs on his chest, and then you’d kiss his shoulder before disentangling yourself from his body. On those instances, he noticed you’d get lost the next day, spending your time in the greenhouse until dinner time.

The truth was, you were in a hurry to get the greenhouse working as soon as possible, but the project required so much studying you could barely catch a break. It hadn’t been easy to find the right seeds in the wild, or to get the temperatures right in the middle of summer. You were in a race against yourself to try to get this done before the autumn and you didn’t know if you’d be able to.

That morning you had decided to sneak out into the library and find an alternative. You were silently desperate and terrified of disappointing everyone, but the more time passed, the clearer it became that the greenhouse would take you at least one year of acclimatation, hard work and patience to start giving results. It sucked, you even cried a little on the way to the library, feeling that you had wasted Lucas’s time and had probably lifted everyone’s hopes.

You spent most of the day out, reading about farming alternatives that were impossible to adapt to the apocalyptic reality. The ideas never came, so you decided to walk around the town to clear your mind, because after months of work, you were exhausted. And because your curiosity was about to get the best of you.

Maybe it was the fact that staying in the school had made you more human. Or perhaps it was something else that had made you reckless and stupid, as you walked through the empty road that led to the houses. You tried to imagine Hawkins in a different life, where the kids could’ve been riding their bikes around town, summers where the community pool was open. You wondered what it would’ve been like to grow up around here, in a real neighbourhood with a real family.

It took you a few houses to finally find Steve’s, after you found a picture of him sitting on top of a dusty fireplace. Your lips lifted instinctively, bittersweetness sitting on your chest at the look of teenage arrogance on his smiley face. You looked around the house, beautiful and modern once upon a time, and now empty and haunting. He had everything you never did, all the stuff you had dreamed of once.

You learned so many things by looking closely and carefully. All pictures were of him or his parents, and this made you smile to yourself. It had been so obvious since the beginning, that he was an only child, yet you had never guessed it. It wasn’t until your eyes fell on a couple of forgotten letters addressed to his dad that you learned his last name.

‘Harrington.’ You whispered to yourself softly as your finger stroked the surname. ‘Steve Harrington.’

He played basketball, apparently. His room was full of sport trophies and medals, yet your eyes easily found a few plaques from theatre camp hidden among them. There was so much to look at, you were almost overwhelmed, wondering why he wouldn’t take any of this with him back to the school.

Goddammit, why wouldn’t he live here? Your hands stroked a hoodie that peaked out from a drawer before sitting on the bed, looking at the band posters, at a useless calendar sitting on the table. There were boxes of board games piled on the shelves inside the open wardrobe. This was the kind of home you would’ve killed for as a child, and he didn’t want it.

It hurt, so deeply and so much. You couldn’t help but lay on the bed— his bed, and cry a little. Maybe you’d even take a nap, far from the exhaustion life constantly overwhelmed you with. You wished he was here, comforting you. Telling you stories about what it felt like to be part of a family, you couldn’t even imagine what it felt like, to love a place so much you could never go back to it.

You woke up a couple of hours later, sweaty and well-rested for once. It was disorienting at first, and you almost jumped from the bed at the sight of the orange sky. You walked back to the school, thinking about how to give everyone the news about the greenhouse, but the Steve from the childhood pictures was still behind your eyelids, twisting your stomach, in the heart of the knot throbbing in your throat.

The daydreaming didn’t last long, though. You had reached the edge of the school when you heard paused steps near, making you stop on your tracks. When you lifted your neck to the left, you noticed the zombie who walked in the school’s direction, towards the gated vegetable patch.

With your gun on your hand, you waited for him or her to get a bit closer so you could walk behind it without making too much noise. A part of you wondered if they’d try to open the gate and inevitably get burned by the acid, but the other part of you, who had always been so fascinated with the undead, didn’t see the point in such a scene.

So, it didn’t take you long to make the decision. You got close enough to be able to shoot them in the head and you did, a quick and clean shot that made them fall to the ground with a loud thud. You stood there in front of the dead thing, the twice as dead thing.

And because old habits die hard, you couldn’t help but lean in to have a look at it, to smile curiously at the colourful spores that blinded her, to the purple lips that had once muttered words. Maybe she had been a mother once, maybe she had been a mother, and she just couldn't handle it. And maybe out of compassion she had given her baby away, and that’s why you had killed her. Out of compassion.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your name being shouted. As soon as you lifted your eyes, a frown adorned your face at the sight of Will and Lucas standing on the kitchen door, inside of the vegetable patch. You didn’t have time to react until you felt a hand cover your mouth while another stole the gun from your hand.

‘Open the gate.’ The man threatened the kids as you tried to get rid of his grip. You tried to have a look at his face, but he held you firmly against him. Yet a part of you knew he couldn’t be too strong, you could feel his body was bony and skinny, you had a chance if you tried to act quickly. ‘Or I shoot her.’

Will left first, and you thanked God he did, because things could get ugly if you didn’t succeed at getting rid of the man seizing you. Lucas stayed in his place, unable to move. His jaw was shaking, low sounds of ‘SSS—’ trying to leave his mouth.

‘Get your hands off her.’

Will had come back with a gun in his hand. God knows where he had found that, and why hadn’t he called Steve. Under the man’s grip you tried to shake your head, you could hear the pulse on your ears and see the way Will’s hands around the weapon were shaky and insecure. If you were going to die, you’d rather die by the hand of this unnamed man than by any of the kid’s, they’d never be able to get over it.

‘Open the fucking gate!’ The man repeated.

You tried to bite his hand, but he seemed immune to it, worse than that, he seemed to have felt it but completely ignored it. His hand fell from your mouth to your neck, squeezing hard and so unexpectedly that you couldn’t escape his grip. Through your glossy eyes, you could see Will hesitating, and Lucas almost losing his breath at the sight of your body shaking under the man’s strong hold. You had completely underestimated the situation. You had fucked up big.

‘D-Don’t look.’ You said chokingly. The man pulled you in from your throat to look straight into his face, the light eyes that looked at you hiding a madness you had only seen once, months ago back in the library. Thoughts were dissolving in your mind as he lifted you in the hair to be at his same level, the cold metal of your gun pressing against your temple.

It was like floating on the clouds, you thought, before hearing the shot.

The third time you woke up the fever had decreased. Hair was stuck to your face, and your cheeks were sticky, but at least the headache was gone.

Steve hadn’t dare to look at you the first few seconds, as your glossy eyes lingered on his face. Under the dim light of a lamp, it almost tendered you to realise the darkness in his undereye had returned. But he was ignoring you, changing the bloody dressing on your arm under the cold lights of the nurse office.

You moved your neck slightly to find your walls covered in new drawings, clumsily handwritten get well soons, a few dark representations of the incident that would’ve made you laugh if it wasn’t for the fact your ribs hurt so much decorating the space around you.

The dressing was done a few minutes after. The tense silence between you two felt heavy but somehow relieving. You were alive, that’s all that mattered, right? So why did he feel like he wanted to scream at you?

Steve stood up from the bed, taking a deep breath as you observed him brush his hair with his fingers and walk around the little room. Maybe he’d asked you to leave for good, you thought, fighting the need to sniff as you looked around you. On the other side of room, on top of all your plans, maps and books, there was at least half a dozen teddy bears you had never seen.

‘The, uh…’ Steve started, your eyes falling on him as soon as he spoke. His hands on his hips as his eyes got lost in the blue sheets over your body. ‘The kids got ‘em for you.’

‘Whe—’ You tried to speak, but your voice was raspy and hoarse, it hurt. ‘Where—’

‘No idea.’ He shrugged as a little sad laugh left his lips. ‘Probably from the houses.’

‘They’re going out!?’ You stood up quickly, the alarm in your words so loud your throat was on fire. Your muscles too as you tried to sit down, but your head was spinning and you felt like throwing up.

‘Easy.’ He said approaching you, his hesitating hands rested on your shoulders as he sat down next to you. ‘We still need supplies, and you need to rest.’

‘N-No.’ You almost screamed with tears in your eyes. You turned more tense under his touch as he kept you in place, but you were quick at untangling from it. ‘Fuck no, Steve. They’re not ready.’ You pushed his chest with your fists, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks and your throat burn a bit more as you lost it right in front of him. ‘How could you send them out there? They could die!’

‘You could’ve died!’ He screamed back, shaking your shoulders as you looked back at him in shock. His brown pupils overflowing with fear, and resentment, and anger. ‘You could’ve fucking died in front of them! Do you have any idea what happened to you? Will tried to shoot him and he missed! If I hadn’t shot the asshole, you would’ve traumatized them forever. All because you wanted to… what!? Stare at a zombie!?’

Your cheeks turned even hotter as his grip turned softer and he started walking around the room nervously again. When his hands went to brush his hair again, you realised his hand was full of blood, your blood. You were so agitated and angry that you hadn’t even noticed his clothes was still stained with the same red fluid, you couldn’t even remember how you’d made it to this room.

‘How do you know about that.’ You murmured under your breath, looking at your shaky fingers through your glossy eyes.

‘Will said.’ He shrugged. A few seconds of silence opened, an incoming accusation lingering in the air as he stood in front of you. ‘You know they thoughtyou had been bitten at some point? O-Or worse, they thought you wanted to be bitten. They have no idea what’s going on! I have no idea what’s going on.’

‘I’ll talk to them.’ You said under your breath, moving to climb down the bed, yet as soon as your bare feet touched the cold floor you almost fell forwards. Steve’s hands held you from your armpits sitting you back on the bed as if you were a fucking child.

‘They’re all asleep.’ He said firmly as you looked at him with the outmost hate. ‘You can talk to them tomorrow, but you owe me an explanation.’

You scoffed, the sound so arrogant and childish he couldn’t help but fist the bedsheet on either side of your legs.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do.’ He insisted. ‘You owe me your life.’

‘So do you.’ You said, stubbornly. ‘Guess we’re even.’

‘No, we’re not.’ He said in the same firm tone. ‘If you’re gonna be living here, I need to know if you’re just not some freak weirdo. Now, I need to know about what Will was talking about. What was that?’

You looked away for a second, turning small under his eyes so quickly that he forgot where his anger was coming from. Underneath it all, there was just the thickest, rawest fear of knowing he had almost lost you.

‘I—’ You started, feeling the pain in your throat for completely different reasons. It hurt when you cleared your throat. ‘I still… look for my parents.’

You shrugged, feeling embarrassed and ashamed, fighting the tears that pooled in your eyes as you looked away.

Steve needed a few seconds to process what you had said. It was as if the world was falling around him, because he knew what that meant. That this, the school, the kids, him, was just a temporary stop. Everything that he had feared from the day you’d set a foot on this school was slowly becoming a reality, and he could’ve dealt with the changes and the routines and all the life you had brought into this sad little place. But he knew for certain that he wouldn’t be able to live with what this confession meant.

‘They’re alive?’ His voice sounded so small it made you looked back at him immediately. The hurt in his pupils only made you feel more childish and stupid.

You shook your head, looking at your hands.

‘I don’t know.’ You admitted in a whisper. ‘I know it’s delusional. I know, deep down— I know they’re dead.’ You laughed bitterly. ‘There’s no way they could’ve survived any of this.’

You closed your eyes when his forehead fell on yours, his hands so naturally fitting on each side of your waist, his tender thumb carefully stroking your ribs over your shirt. His mouth searched for yours after all the exhaustion and the frustration of not being able to tell you how scared he had felt the whole time you lay unconscious in this bed. All the nightmares he got from sleeping on a chair on the other side of the room, while your warmth was so far from him.

‘I’m so sorry.’ You whispered in between kisses. ‘I know it’s fucked up.’

‘S not fucked up.’ He whispered back, pulling you in so you could get impossibly closer. ‘S not fucked up, baby, I was just terrified. I thought I’d lost you.’

You shut your eyes again, letting him engulf you in this soothing vulnerability that had once seemed unthinkable between you two, and was so necessary and so natural now.

‘Can you stay?’ He heard you say, so softly and small under his worried gaze. Mesmerized, he recalled all those nights he cursed his nightmares, wishing you were as pathetically needy as him. Wishing you stayed. In his bed, in the school, in his life. ‘Please.’

You opened your eyes when you heard his deep breath, shaky and terrified. His brown eyes were soft and pleading as he looked back at you. He swallowed hard before speaking, his thumb brushing your cheekbone delicately.

‘Can you stay?’ He asked, sincerely. It took you a few seconds to realise what he was asking. ‘I know this is far from being a home. I know this is—’ Your eyebrows arched softly at the gravity of his words, and he had to grasp for air as your fingers dived so softly in his hair and you took a better look at him, at the way he was shutting his eyes hard. ‘You’re gonna have to keep bossing me around, but I— This is not about the goddamn kids. I just need you.’

The soft, shy laugh you let out gave him absurd hope, his eyes lighting up briefly as soon as they opened again. You nodded, at first shy and then more enthusiastically, pulling him in for a kiss that would fix everything in this world where darkness never let anything grow or live for too long. But he’d follow you, until you both reached the light that you hoped was waiting. Somewhere, far away from here.

♡ if you enjoy my writing, please consider donating/sharing the following causes ♡

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You sip some coffee from a paper cup (it's not quite as sweet as you like but there were only 3 packets of sugar in the break room drawer) and look over the clipboard with your crew's assignments for the night.

The emergency department at the Walter Mondale Care Center was only 20 beds and not terribly busy most nights. You had the occasional bar fights needing stitched up on the weekends, car accidents from icy roads, people needing a dose of Narcan, typical ED fare, so you usually only had 5 or so nurses under your charge on any given shift.

Tonight, however, you noticed a name penciled next to yours, which was new.

Steve H. -- training shift 1

Guess you've got a newbie tagging along tonight. You breathe a little sigh into your coffee cup, not necessarily abhorred by the idea of having a trainee; it just meant you'd really need to perk up since you'd probably be talking more than you're used to, and you didn't want to scare them away before they even got started.

Bodies start shuffling in, bags being tossed into lockers and the Keurig spurting to life as your crew gathers for pre-shift huddle. You give everyone a small "hello" as they sit down and start going over their assignments for the night. It was a solid group tonight, reliable nurses that you could trust to get their shit done, so it would make training the new guy easier for you.

Your eyes flick over the new updates that hospital management wanted you to share, and just as the clock ticked over to 18:45, huddle start time, the break room door swung open violently and a man came stumbling in.

He had long, dark hair, tousled in a way that looked effortless but stayed perfectly in place as he bounded in, so it was obviously a meticulously crafted masterpiece. He's got big, beautiful, hazel eyes, full of panic thinking he was late, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.

"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. I couldn't find the fuc-- the darn break room." He stood straighter, adjusting his badge on the right corner of his scrub top where you saw the flash of his name - Steve.

"Well, hey newbie. No worries, we usually give ya about 5 minutes grace, traffic and whatnot. Usually you'll come in and grab your assignment, but you're with me tonight so why don't ya just take a seat and we'll get started?"

His eyes glitter and a wide smile splits his face, ever so slightly tilted higher to one side than the other. He was...okay, he was really, really cute.

He clutched the strap of his messenger bag and awkwardly scooched past some of the other staff to sit at the very back and observe. You couldn't help but notice how his blue Figs hugged his very tight ass.

18:48 PM

You shook the thoughts of Steve's ass out of your brain (at least for the moment) and went into leader-mode, giving your spiel, discussing the plan for the night, going over assignments, and stopping a potential meltdown one of the older nurses was about to have because her assignment was near the doors, and she didn't like sitting near the doors since they were loud and let in the chilly night air.

"Madgie, just sit at the central station, you can pull up your vitals on the main computer."

"Well, someone's gonna have to show me how."

"That's fine, we gotta train the new guy on it anyhow. You can watch. Speaking of which, everyone say hi to Steve. He's coming to us all the way from Indiana, so let's give him a nice welcome, 'kay? No biting."

You shoot him a quick wink and he smirks, giving the room a small, demure wave.

"Morning. Well, evening, I guess? I didn't really do nights before. That'll take some getting used to.

"No one really cares, kid." One of the gruff male nurses, Odie, grumbles from the corner. His massive arms are crossed, highlighting the tattoos scrawled all over almost every inch of visible skin. His thick, black mustache wriggles as he abuses the wad of gum between his teeth, chomping far harder than necessary. He's been trying to quit smoking this week, and the Nicorette just isn't cutting it, but you were proud of him regardless.

Odie was a damn good nurse, rough around the edges, but had a way with kids that was astonishing. One would think he would scare them off, but it was just the opposite. He'd walk in, blow up a glove like a balloon and throw a little happy face on there, and they were putty in his hands.

Steve, who didn't know yet that Odie was actually a huge teddy bear, looked horrified.

"He doesn't mean that, Steve. Odie just needs to chug that coffee and maybe go ahead and start a second one, hm?"

He grumbles something else that may contain a "Sorry" and Steve's shoulders relax a fraction.

"Okay gang. Shift change in 5. Get out there, wash those hands, get to your stations. And Claudia, please get your BLS done tonight. I don't want you to get locked out of the system, hon."

Claudia, a pretty, young, blonde nurse who started about 7 months ago, nods sheepishly.

"Got it, boss. Sorry, slips my mind every time."

"I'll try to circle back around 5 to remind ya, okay?"

"Thanks. Have a good shift, Steve." She wiggles her fingers at Steve in the corner and he nods eagerly, excited just to be acknowledged. It was honestly refreshing, you missed sometimes how much you used to bubble over about your job. Unfortunately it can wear you down fast, but maybe Steve some of Steve's positivity will rub off on you.

"Alrighty, Harrington. Got any questions to start? Ya get a tour of the place yet?"

He jerks to his feet, that golden retriever energy still very much alive.

"Yeah, tour's done, it's a nice place. I was in pediatrics for a little bit back home before I decided to haul ass to a new state and try something else. It was a lot bigger, but I like this. Easier to navigate for sure.

"What so you -- ya just packed up and moved to a completely different state? Just...because?"

You were jealous. You've been stuck in Stark County your entire life, dreaming of one day getting the hell out but never really seeing it as a possibility. Steve shrugs.

"My friends all split up and went their different ways after colleges and careers happened. I didn't really feel like being the only one stuck in Hawkins, so, yeah. Just took a leap."

The smile he gives you is warm, but there's a sadness behind his eyes. No one really prepares you for the very real possibility that when you grow up your friends just leave -- go out and live their own lives, make new friendships, and there really wasn't a lot you could do about it. Maybe you'd see each other around the holidays, maybe you'd send each other a funny text or an Instagram Reel that reminds you of them, but eventually even that becomes too much effort and they just turn into bittersweet, cherished memories. Childhood was short; adulthood was cruel.

And wow, you're sure a ray of fucking sunshine, aren't you? You shake off your melancholic musings and plant a firm hand on his shoulder, giving him a broad, welcoming smile.

"Well...I'm glad you leapt into our little pond, Steve. Now c'mon, get your stuff in a locker and let's go get started."

⚕️

"So you've got three training shifts before we boot ya out onto the floor, but anytime ya need anything ya can always reach out to whoever is in charge or -- well, anyone really. We're a pretty friendly bunch." You think for a moment, and add, "Maybe not Madgie. Don't -- don't ask Madgie for anything. But everyone else is perfectly pleasant."

Steve chuckles and nods, already having faced Madgie's miserly wrath when she caught him nibbling on one of the packets of graham crackers she kept in "her" drawer at the central nurse's station.

//

"The ones in the nutrition room are always expired, these are my personal crackers from home!"

"Madgie, I'm -- I can't tell you how sorry I am. I swear on my life I'll replace your graham crackers." Steve had told her, putting a hand over his heart and giving her the most sincere, apologetic look. You had had to turn your body away and bite your lip just to keep from bursting into a fit of giggles right there.

As soon as you both turned the corner of the corridor, leaving her grumbling about "all the crumbs he'd left, too," neither of you could hold it in. You both quietly wheezed, trying not to make a huge commotion. You smacked his shoulder and leaned into him breathlessly, mouth open in a silent cackle. He had caught you by the dip in your waist, holding you upright as you both tried to compose yourselves, tears in your eyes from laughing so hard.

//

That was probably close to 45 minutes ago, and the skin on your side was still burning from the feel of his hand gripping you there.

"So, got any questions so far, hon?" The pet name slips out without you realizing it, but you catch yourself. "Sorry, Steve. Please don't sue me for, like, harassment or whatever."

"For hon? My mom calls me hon. You'll have to do a lot worse than hon to get me riled up."

Well. That sounded like a challenge you could really have a lot of fun with...but, you just smile with a slight roll of your eyes, muttering, "Can never be too careful these days."

It's about halfway through your shift, and you can already see that Steve is an incredible nurse. He's just supposed to be sticking with you at the central station tonight, but he's started assisting when a new admit drops in, grabbing vital signs or just a cup of coffee for a family member in the waiting area. He's always courteous, kind, charming, and accommodating, even when people come in burdened by pain or anxiety. He's gentle in a way that's even soothing for you, and you're not even on the receiving end of it.

"I don't even know why they've got you training with me tonight, Harrington. You're a natural. A pro."

He beams at you, scrubbing down a countertop with sanitizing wipes while you QC test the glucometers for the unit.

"I dunno, I'm learning a ton. It's been fun hanging out with you, too. You're a good teacher."

"Oh, yah? What invaluable wisdom have I bestowed upon you tonight, Nurse Harrington?"

He pauses and thinks for a moment.

"You showed me where the bathrooms are. That's pretty important, I think."

You laugh so suddenly that you snort a little, hand darting up to cover your face.

"Goddamnit, I hate that stupid --"

"No! It's amazing, I love making you laugh. That's been the best part of the night."

He glances up at you and you feel heat rushing to multiple parts of your body, most noticeable visibly on your cheeks.

"Mine...mine, too. So thanks for that."

The small pause seems to stretch between you forever until he tosses the spent wipe in the trash along with his purple nitrile gloves. You catch yourself ogling every twitch and curl of his fingers as he tidies up.

"Hey, would you maybe wanna, like, stop for a coffee or something after our shift?"

The offer catches you completely off-guard. It hasn't even been a whole shift, and he's already asking you out for coffee? Or, maybe it was just professional courtesy. Maybe he just wanted to decompress after his first night shift in your ED. Best not to get your hopes too high.

"Oh, um...yeah, sure. There's a great little place a couple blocks from here. Bean There, Done That, I think."

His brow twitches and furrows.

"Bean There...Done That?"

"Yessir. We don't skimp out on the puns in this town."

"Oh, Christ. Is it too late to transfer down to Texas?"

"Oh, yah. You're stuck here with us now, Harrington."

You grin slyly and he laughs, raking his fingers through his gorgeous head of hair.

"I guess there's worse places to be."

His eyes are twinkly, making the harsh florescent bulbs above you seem appealing somehow. You're just about to come back with some more demi-flirty banter when the lights and sirens pull into the ambulance bay.

Both of your heads snap up in that direction, not expecting any kind of incoming trauma or emergency.

"Madgie, you know what this is?"

"How should I know?" She grumbles, smacking on one of her treasured grahams.

You jog outside to meet the paramedics, Steve not far behind. The doors to the back of the ambulance swing open as they unload a stretcher with a young man in his early twenties holding his fist wrapped in a blood-soaked t-shirt.

"Well, what do we got going on here?"

"Hey, Doc. Blew my fingers off with a firecracker."

You pinch the bridge of your nose with your thumb and pointer.

"Alrighty then. Well, I'm not the doctor, but go on in, they'll getcha sorted. Steve, ya wanna go with our friend and get the admit started?"

"Love to. C'mon, dude. So, fireworks, huh?"

He walks alongside the kid, chatting him up completely nonchalantly like two of his charred digits weren't sitting in a plastic baggie full of ice on his lap.

Yeah, he's gonna do just fine here, you thought.

You were pulled from your musings by a strong pair of hands snaking around your middle. You whip around, pushing at the chest of the ambulance driver and Chief of the EMS crew, Gator Tillman. His lip curled up into a wicked little grin, a half-healed bruise under his right eye from some recent scuffle.

"Helloooooo, nurse." He crooned, still trying to hold you against him by the small of your back as you weakly tried to push him away.

"Oh, yah, Gator, that never gets old."

"How's it goin' tonight? Who's the pretty boy ya came out with?"

"Hmm. Jealous? That's my new friend, Steve."

"Jealous? Please. Real men don't go into nursing, no offense."

Your jaw drops, and you shove away a little more earnestly, his hands falling away from your body. You cross your arms over your chest in a huff.

"Lots of offense, Tillman. Like, all of the fucking offense. Layers and layers of it. You tell that to Odie, he might actually strangle ya to death. Besides, what's wrong with a female-dominated career field? I think we kick ass."

He sneers and rolls his eyes, hands shoving into the pockets of his EMS vest jacket.

"Please, don't get all PC on me." He clears his throat and his voice gets a little smaller. "But, uh, don't tell Odie I said that, actually."

You snicker at that, and he gives you a softer smile in return.

"Sorry...didn't mean it bad."

"Well, it came out bad, Gator. Men and women alike can be amazing nurses. You've seen it, so don't even lie. You're just jealous of his hair, I think. Guys got an epic head of hair."

"Jealous? I'm not jealous a'that puss--"

You shoot him a look before he can make yet another sensationally sexist comment in your presence and his jaw clamps tight around the words. He sniffs and squares his broad shoulders, cracking his neck on both sides.

"Not jealous. He should be jealous. Cause I get to come here and do stuff like this..."

He closes the two steps between you both again, fingers slipping brazenly past the waistband of your scrub pants and gripping the flesh of your ass. Your breath catches in your throat as you cling to his shoulders, trying to keep your balance with him looming over you.

"Gator! Someone could see." You hiss.

"Mm-hm. I can tell how much ya like that, too." His fingers slide down the cleft of your ass and press against your core from behind, feeling the wetness soaking through the cotton of your underwear.

A shaky breath escapes your lips. You search around the ambulance bay wildly to check for any prying eyes, and, finding none, you grip the back of his neck and crash your lips onto his. He groans and hitches your leg up around his hip, then shoves his other hand into your pants and begins kneading and spreading your ass cheeks with his palms.

"Fuck I love this tight little ass." He mutters into your mouth as you grind your hips back into his grasp. He gives one of your flanks a little slap drawing a high-pitched squeak of delight from you. "So fuckin' dirty. Just lettin' me play with your ass while you're at work? Hm? You'd let me fuck ya right here, wouldn't ya?"

"Gator..." You growl, but he can tell his words are having an effect on you. He chortles, shaking his head and rutting his solid cock against your front, dragging it teasingly a few times over your throbbing clit.

"Nah, I know. I can't either, got shit to do. But, you'd still let me. If I wanted."

He straightens up, letting your leg fall from his hip as he withdraws from you completely. You roll your eyes and straighten your scrubs, fixing your ponytail in the ambulance side mirror. He adjusts his massive cock into the waistband of his work pants and slides his shades over his eyes.

Just as you try to decide what your next words would even be to this fucked up situationship you can't seem to shake no matter how hard you try (and believe me, you've tried), Steve comes walking briskly around the side of the ambulance to find you.

"Hey! Got the kid all settled in Room 6, Doc McKinley said getting the fingers on should be easy enough. Oh, hey man, what's up? I'm Steve."

Steve holds his hand out to Gator, and to your surprise he grips it without hesitation (although likely with far too much force) and gives it a hearty shake. He smirks in your direction, but you don't really know what that's about.

"Tillman. Gator."

Steve cocks his head in confusion.

"Which one of those...is your first name?"

You giggle and Gator glares at you briefly before returning the heat of his gaze back to Steve.

"Don't gotta worry about it. You can just call me Chief, cause that's what I am. Cool?"

Steve raises his eyebrows, flustered, and stammers,"Oh, yeah, sure, co--" before Gator cuts him off.

"Great. Alright, hon, watch it. I gotta get going."

Gator shuffles by you, purposely brushing his chest far too close to yours, and loads back into the driver's seat. With a wink and a click of his teeth, he turns the engine over and roars out of the bay. His presence is so domineering that you and Steve can't help but just stand there for a moment, basking in it. You turn to him and shake your head in disbelief.

"He used to be our county Deputy, if you can believe that. His dad is still the Sheriff. Roy Tillman?"

"Shit, yeah. I saw the billboard. A hard man..."

"...for hard times. Yeah, that's the one. Gator's...well, he's a lot. And his family is a hell of a lot. But, as much as it may not seem like it, he's a real great medic. Cool under pressure, quick-thinking, reliable. He doesn't quite have the compassionate care part down, but the backbone? He's nothing but." You give Steve a small, tight-lipped smile, not quite understanding why you felt the need to defend that man in front of this one, but you did all the same.

Steve nods but frowns, glancing down at his hand.

"...His, uh...his hand was wet."

You wrinkle your nose, cheeks growing warm with embarrassment at the realization of why Gator had that shit-eating grin on his face when he grabbed Steve's hand -- it was still slick with you. You jerk your head back towards the hospital.

"You better go wash that, hon."

A/N: okokokok this is a quickie but I wanted to get everyone introduced. This is gonna be so fucking fun, I can't wait.

Morning arrives slowly inside Joe’s apartment. Not loudly. Not abruptly. Just softly creeping through the curtains in thin streaks of golden sunlight while the faint sound of something sizzling drifts through the apartment.

Bacon.

Coffee.

Butter hitting a hot pan.

The smell wraps around you gently, warm enough to slowly pull you from sleep. You blink awake slowly, still half tangled in sleep.

For a few seconds, you just stare at the unfamiliar ceiling above you.

Huh.

Your room looks… different. You frown slightly, still groggy, eyes trailing toward the bedside lamp, the scattered vinyl records near the shelf, the guitar leaning carefully against the wall.

Then it hits you all at once.

Oh.

Joe’s apartment.

The memories return in soft flashes. The blackout. The fire escape. The movie. Falling asleep on his shoulder while he rambled passionately about Star Wars.

Your face immediately warms. “Oh my God,” you mumble quietly into the blanket.

You sit up quickly, hair messy, heart somehow already nervous this early in the morning. For a second, you debate hiding here forever out of embarrassment but then the smell of breakfast reaches you again. to be honest, that wins.

You quietly step out of the bedroom and follow the sounds into the kitchen. The sight waiting there nearly stops you in your tracks.

Joe stands at the stove wearing a faded gray shirt and sweatpants, hair messy from sleep, humming absentmindedly to himself while flipping bacon in a pan.

Morning sunlight spills across the kitchen counters around him.

Warm.

Soft.

Domestic enough to make your chest ache a little.

Joe glances over his shoulder and immediately smiles when he sees you standing there.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Your stomach flips traitorously. “You say that to everyone who sleeps in your apartment?” you mumble sleepily.

Joe pretends to think about it “Nope. Exclusive offer.”

That pulls a laugh from you instantly.

Joe points the spatula toward you dramatically. “Sleep better?”

You nod, still smiling a little, “Yeah.” then you glance toward the stove. “What’re you making?”

“Very serious gourmet cuisine,” Joe says solemnly. “Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Life-changing stuff.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “A true chef.”

“Thank you. Finally someone appreciates me.”

You move closer into the kitchen, still waking up fully. The apartment smells overwhelmingly comforting this morning. Coffee brewing somewhere nearby. Toast. The lingering scent of cinnamon from last night’s rolls.

It feels less like visiting now more like belonging which is somehow scarier.

Joe notices you swaying slightly from sleep and points toward the dining table.

“Sit,” he says gently. “I’m almost done.”

You obey surprisingly fast.

Joe notices.

His grin widens immediately “Oh, so now you listen to instructions.”

“Don’t ruin this for yourself,” you warn.

A few minutes later, Joe carefully places a plate in front of you.

Bacon.

Toast.

Sunny-side-up eggs.

And written messily in ketchup across the side of the plate:

Movie date with me? ;)

You blink once, then again.

Your eyes slowly lift toward Joe and suddenly the world’s most confident musician looks deeply nervous standing in his own kitchen. One hand rubbing the back of his neck trying to act casual who ended up failing horribly.

“I know it’s kind of stupid,” Joe says quickly. “I panicked halfway through writing it and committed anyway.”

You stare at him another second before bursting into laughter, Not mean laughter—fond laughter. The kind that makes Joe immediately relax hearing it.

“Oh my God,” you mumble, grinning down at the plate again. “You asked me out with ketchup.”

Joe points defensively “In my defense, I hadn’t had coffee yet.”

“That somehow makes this worse.”

“Wow. Tough crowd.”

Still smiling, you reach across the table and grab the ketchup bottle yourself. Joe watches curiously while you squeeze out one careful word onto the edge of the plate.

Yes ♡

When you finish, you turn the plate around toward him proudly. For one full second, Joe genuinely looks stunned. Then his entire face softens into the most ridiculously happy smile you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my God,” he breathes.

You laugh shyly “What?”

“You said yes.”

“Well,” you tease lightly, “it’d be pretty awkward if I said no after sleeping in your apartment.”

Joe gasps dramatically “So this isn’t because of my incredible cooking?”

“Joe, the eggs are slightly burnt.”

“They have character.”

Before you can tease him again, Joe suddenly walks around the table and pulls you into a hug. A warm, sleepy, tight enough to make your heart stumble.

You laugh softly against his chest “It was kind of cute, though,” you admit quietly.

Joe pulls back slightly “The ketchup?”

“The asking me out like a divorced suburban dad.”

Joe clutches his chest dramatically “That’s devastating.”

“You literally wrote on a plate.”

“And you,” Joe says immediately, narrowing his eyes playfully, “are the girl who introduced herself by leaving mystery cupcakes outside my apartment with handwritten notes.”

“That was charming.”

“That was suspicious.”

You smack his chest lightly while laughing. Joe only laughs harder, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist.

And standing there in his kitchen, sunlight spilling around both of you while breakfast grows cold on the table it suddenly feels less like the beginning of something. and more like finally arriving there.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

It takes nearly an hour for you and Joe Keery to come up with a plan. Apparently, going on a normal movie date like regular people becomes significantly harder when one of you occasionally gets recognized on the street.

At first, the ideas are reasonable. Hoodies, caps, masks. Then somehow, Joe completely loses his mind.

“What if,” he says suddenly, sitting upright on the couch like he’s just solved world peace, “we disguise ourselves as old people.”

You stare at him. “…Joe.”

“I’m serious.”

“You sound insane.”

Joe points at you dramatically “No, listen. Nobody looks twice at old couples. They’re invisible to society.”

“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

“But effective.”

You laugh despite yourself.

Joe immediately notices “That laugh means I’m winning.”

“It means I’m concerned.”

Ten minutes later, Joe emerges from his bedroom wearing:

a knitted brown cardigan wire-frame glasses a colorful with black eanie and a scarf wrapped around his neck like somebody’s retired grandfather going birdwatching.

You blink slowly. “Oh my God.”

Joe spreads his arms proudly. “You see the vision now.”

“You look like you pay taxes early.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

When it’s your turn, you walk out wearing:

a long wool coat a floral scarf oversized sunglasses and one of your grandma’s old knitted beanies pulled low over your hair.

Joe freezes immediately “…okaaaay wait,” he says, pointing at you accusingly, “why are you actually pulling it off?”

You grin “Maybe I was born for this life.”

“You look like you make incredible soup.”

“I do make incredible soup.”

Joe places a hand over his heart “God, you’re perfect.”

The words leave his mouth so naturally that neither of you fully processes them but the silence afterward feels suspiciously warm.

Eventually, the two of you end up on the subway trying very hard to look inconspicuous. Which immediately fails because Joe keeps whispering commentary under his breath like this is  some kind of spy mission.

“Don’t look now,” he murmurs dramatically beside you, “but I think that guy just looked at us.”

You stare ahead. “Joe, we are dressed like somebody’s grandparents.”

“Exactly, we’re vulnerable.”

“You’re impossible.”

The subway rattles loudly beneath the city while you stand beside him gripping the overhead pole. Then suddenly, a teenage couple sitting nearby stands up.

“Oh!” the girl says quickly. “You guys can sit here.”

Both you and Joe freeze. “No no, that’s alright,” you say quickly, deepening your voice slightly to commit to the bit.

Joe has to physically look away to stop himself from laughing.

The teenage boy looks horrified “Sir,” he says to Joe, “you’re really gonna make your wife stand?”

Joe chokes immediately.

Your wife.

You bite your lip hard, trying not to laugh. Joe clears his throat, suddenly committing WAY too hard.

“Honey,” he says in the shakiest fake old-man voice imaginable, “let’s sit down before my knees give out.”

You nearly lose your composure instantly. 

The teenagers look painfully relieved once you both sit and that makes everything worse. Joe keeps staring straight ahead with the expression of a man fighting for his life while your shoulders shake beside him.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you whisper.

Without looking at you, Joe mutters, “You’re my subway wife now. Respect the commitment.”

That does it. You snort loudly enough that the teenage couple smiles at each other like they’ve just witnessed true love.

Which honestly? Makes both you and Joe embarrassingly flustered.

By the time you finally reach the theater, both of you are exhausted from pretending to be seventy. The second you step inside, you immediately pull off your sunglasses.

“Next time,” you declare, “we take a taxi.”

Joe adjusts his scarf dramatically, “I thought I was being smart.”

“You fake coughed three times.”

“That was character work.”

A few minutes later, you’re standing beside Joe near the concession counter while he somehow buys enough snacks for six people.

“You realize this is just two-hour movie, right?”

Joe balances popcorn and drinks carefully in his arms “I panic-order when I’m happy.”

Your chest warms embarrassingly at that.

Inside the theater, everything softens again dim lights, quiet chatter. The smell of buttered popcorn filling the room.

You settle into your seats while previews flash across the screen and somewhere in the middle of fixing your coat and adjusting the popcorn between you, Joe’s hand quietly finds yours.

Natural.

Easy.

Like it belongs there now neither of you comments on it. You just intertwine your fingers with his automatically and Joe smiles softly at the screen before the movie even starts.

The theater finally darkens completely. Then the title flashes across the giant screen: The Mandalorian and Grogu.

Joe whispers dramatically beside you, “This is cinema.”

You laugh quietly, “Please be normal for two hours.”

“I can’t promise that.”

Halfway through the movie, Joe keeps leaning over to whisper commentary into your ear. “This little guy would absolutely steal from me.”

“That’s because he senses weakness.”

“You wound me.”

“You bought four kinds of candy, Joe.”

“That’s survival instinct.”

At some point, your popcorn sharing turns into feeding each other absentmindedly. Not even flirtatiously anymore. Just soft, comfortable. Domestic in that dangerous way, couples become without noticing.

And somewhere between your quiet laughter, intertwined hands, and Joe’s thumb brushing absentmindedly across your knuckles during the movie—you realize this no longer feels like: two neighbors hanging out.

It feels like a date. A real one because it is. and judging by the way Joe keeps looking at you whenever the screen lights up your face—he knows it too.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

After the movie, Joe Keery leads you through several glowing New York streets before stopping in front of a small restaurant tucked between a bookstore and an old record shop.

Warm golden light spills through the windows.

Inside, soft jazz hums beneath the low chatter of conversations and clinking wine glasses. The entire place feels suspended in another decade. Romantic in that quiet, old-fashioned way.

You glance at Joe suspiciously as he opens the door for you. “This looks expensive.”

Joe places a hand dramatically over his chest,  “You wound me.”

“You brought me somewhere with candles on the tables.”

“It’s called atmosphere.”

“It’s called terrifying.”

Joe laughs softly as you step inside.

The hostess immediately brightens upon seeing him. “Reservation for ,Mr. Keery?” Your brows lift instantly.

You turn toward Joe slowly. “You made a reservation?”

Joe suddenly becomes very interested in fixing his cardigan sleeve. “Maybe.”

Your chest warms immediately because somehow this entire day keeps unfolding like he thought carefully about every part of it. The two of you are seated near the corner beside a window overlooking the city street.

Outside, New York glows softly beneath the evening rain. Inside, everything feels warm. Golden light. Wine glasses reflecting softly against candle flames. The faint sound of jazz floating through the restaurant like perfume. It feels unreal.

Dinner itself comes easy. Not because there’s a lot to say but because being around Joe has stopped feeling difficult a long time ago. You talk about everything and nothing at once. The terrible fake old-couple accents from earlier.

The movie.

Ponkan.

Joe’s sisters.

Your café.

The weird man outside the theater who tried to sell Joe a laser pointer for twenty dollars.

“You almost bought it,” you accuse.

“He made compelling arguments.”

“He said it could ‘change your life.’”

Joe points at you “And what if it could’ve?”

At some point, your steak grows cold because you’ve spent more time laughing than eating.

Joe notices first “You should probably eat before I accidentally flirt you into starvation.”

You nearly choke on your wine laughing. “That was horrible.”

“You liked it.”

Unfortunately, you did.

The longer the night stretches, the softer everything becomes. Joe’s hand resting closer to yours on the table. Your legs brushing beneath it accidentally. Then not moving away afterward. The candlelight flickering gold across his face while he smiles at something you said.

And God, you suddenly understand why people write love songs.

Then, the music changes, soft piano and gentle brass. A familiar voice floating through the restaurant air like warm velvet. Your eyes widen immediately.

“Joe,” you whisper excitedly, turning toward the small stage near the back of the restaurant. “Oh my God.”

Ella Fitzgerald.

Joe looks over casually despite the fact that he absolutely planned this.

“No way,” he says suspiciously unconvincingly.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “You look guilty.”

“I always look guilty.”

“That’s true.”

The jazz singer begins softly:

Let’s fall in love… Why shouldn’t we fall in love?

Your entire face lights up.

And Joe, God may help him. Joe thinks he could spend the rest of his life trying to make you smile like that.

Before he fully thinks it through, Joe stands from his seat and extends a hand toward you “May I have this dance, honey?”

The nickname alone nearly melts you into the floor.

You place your hand in his instantly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Joe leads you gently toward the small open space near the stage. Neither of you are really good dancers but that makes it better.

Softer.

Realer.

Joe’s hand settles carefully against your waist while the other holds yours. Your free hand rests against his shoulder.  the second you move closer, everything else disappears.

The conversations.

The restaurant.

The city outside.

Gone.

Because suddenly all you can focus on is, the warmth of his hand against your waist, the smell of his cologne lingering softly between you, the way Joe looks at you like he still can’t believe you’re real

The music wraps around both of you slowly.

Our hearts are made of it… Let’s take a chance…

You sway together gently beneath the warm restaurant lights,  somewhere nearby, another couple joins in dancing. Then another. An elderly pair begins waltzing slowly near the edge of the room, smiling at each other like they’ve been in love for fifty years.

It should feel cheesy. Instead, it feels strangely magical. Like the entire universe softened for one evening just to let this moment exist.

Joe looks down at you, smiling softly. “You know,” he murmurs, “this is significantly better than pretending to be seventy on public transportation.”

You laugh quietly against him. “Debatable.”

“You called me your subway husband.”

“You fake-coughed at strangers.”

“It was immersive acting.” 

Your laughter fades softer this time because now you’re close enough to hear his heartbeat beneath the music.

Steady.

Warm.

Real.

Without thinking, your head settles lightly against his chest. Joe immediately stills, not because he dislikes it. Quite the opposite. Because honestly? He thinks he might remember this exact moment forever.

The song continues around you while Joe’s fingers trace absentminded patterns against your waist. And quietly, so quietly only you can hear—he leans closer and whispers: “You look really beautiful tonight.”

Your breath catches instantly, not because of the compliment. But because he says it like he means it, like it surprised even him.

“Even I dress up like a grandma?” you asked. 

“Especially, when you dress up like grandma,” Joe answered and kissed the top of your head. 

When you look back up at him, the space between you suddenly feels dangerously small. Joe’s gaze flickers briefly toward your lips. Then back to your eyes. Your heart stumbles hard enough that you’re sure he can feel it through your chest.

For one suspended second, it almost happens but then the song ends. Applause fills the restaurant. the moment breaks softly around the edges. not ruined, just postponed.

Which somehow feels even more romantic.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Still dressed as an elderly married couple, you and Joe Keery step back into the cool New York night after dinner.

The city glows around you. Streetlights shimmer against damp pavement from earlier rain while traffic hums softly in the distance. Somewhere nearby, music spills from an open bar door before disappearing again as people pass.

The entire night feels dipped in gold—warm and dreamlikelike something the two of you will remember years from now in strange little flashes.

Despite how full you already are, Joe suddenly slows in front of a tiny ice cream shop squeezed between two buildings.

You look at him immediately. “No.”

Joe looks at you innocently. “What?”

“We literally just ate steak.”

“And?”

“And dessert.”

“That was restaurant dessert. This is walking dessert.”

You stare at him. “That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

Five minutes later, you’re both holding ice cream cones while walking toward Central Park because apparently Joe is impossible to argue with when he smiles like that.

Your disguise somehow makes everything funnier. Joe still wears the oversized cardigan and glasses while your scarf remains wrapped around your hair.

At one point, a stranger opens a door for both of you and says: “Have a lovely night.”

Joe answers in his old-man voice: “You too, son.”

You nearly choke on your ice cream. “Please stop committing to the bit,” you laugh.

Joe looks offended “This is who I am now.”

“You’re eighty for one evening and suddenly you’ve accepted your fate.”

“I’ve lived a long life, sweetheart.”

“Oh my God.”

The two of you continue walking slowly beneath glowing storefront lights until Joe suddenly stops mid-step.

His eyes narrow dramatically, you follow his gaze. A claw machine inside a small arcade near the sidewalk. More specifically, a familiar pink plush sitting near the corner.

Joe points immediately “Isn’t that My Melody?”

You squint through the glass then gasp. “Oh my God, it is.”

Joe looks weirdly victorious about recognizing your favorite Sanrio character. “I knew it.”

“You remembered?”

Joe gives you a look “Of course I remembered.”

Before you can say anything else, Joe hands you his ice cream.

“Hold this.”

You blink. “…Joe.”

“I think I have change.”

“Joe.”

He’s already patting his pockets dramatically. You watch him crouch slightly in front of the machine like a man preparing for battle. Honestly? It’s kind of adorable.

“You know nobody actually wins these things, right?” you say, leaning beside him. “That’s literally how they make money.”

Joe inserts a coin without breaking eye contact with the machine “Not with that attitude.”

The claw drops, misses completely. Joe narrows his eyes.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “It’s learning my strategy.”

You laugh immediately. “That’s not how claw machines work.”

Second try, closer this time but still wrong.

Joe exhales sharply through his nose. “Interesting.”

“Joe—”

“No no, I’m understanding him now.”

“Him?”

“The machine.”

“You’re talking about it like a supervillain.”

“It started this.”

By the fifth attempt, Joe has fully entered his competitive era. His sleeves are rolled slightly now. His glasses have slipped down his nose. And he’s muttering things under his breath like:  “Okay… easy… easy…”

Meanwhile you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “You’re losing money.”

“I’m gaining knowledge.”

“You’ve spent fifteen dollars.”

“That Melody plush is mocking me.”

A group of teenagers walking past slows down to watch. One of them whispers: “Come on grandpa, you got this.”

You immediately burst into laughter.

Joe points at them dramatically, “THANK YOU.”

The claw finally grabs Melody for one glorious second, before dropping her again.

Joe stares in complete betrayal. “Oh, that’s evil.”

You’re practically doubled over laughing now, one hand gripping his arm for balance. “Joe,” you wheeze, “please let it go.”

“No.”

“It’s a stuffed toy.”

“She believes in me.”

“She absolutely does not.”

Joe rubs a hand over his face dramatically before turning toward the bored teenage cashier working behind the counter.

“…Can I just buy that?”

The cashier blinks once “No.”

Joe looks genuinely heartbroken. You laugh again so hard you nearly spill your ice cream.

Finally, before Joe spends his life savings fighting a claw machine, you gently catch his wrist. His attention immediately shifts toward you and for a second, everything softens again.

Streetlights glowing against his face. The city moving around both of you. His hand warm beneath yours.

“You don’t have to win me things, you know,” you say quietly, smiling.

Joe looks at you for a moment too long then softer now, “I know.”

And somehow, that answer feels like it means more than the claw machine.

More than the toy.

Maybe more than either of you are ready to say out loud.

You tug gently on his hand “C’mon, old man.”

Joe intertwines his fingers with yours instantly, “Wow,” he says, walking beside you again, “using pet names already?”

“You literally called yourself grandpa ten minutes ago.”

“And you stayed with me.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away completely.

As the two of you continue toward Central Park hand-in-hand, Joe glances back once at the claw machine.

Then sighs dramatically “I could’ve won.”

“You absolutely could not.”

“You’ll never know now.”

“A pink rabbit was psychologically torturing you.”

Joe gasps softly “Her name is My Melody.”

And somehow, beneath the city lights and melting ice cream and ridiculous disguises, you think this might be the happiest you’ve been in a very long time.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Central Park feels quieter after the rain.

The pathways still glisten beneath the streetlights, reflecting little pools of gold against the pavement while the trees sway softly in the cold evening breeze. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoes faintly before disappearing again beneath the hush of the city.

Everything feels softer and slower here. Like New York itself decided to exhale for one night.

You stand near the edge of the lake with your coat pulled tighter around yourself, watching the water ripple gently beneath the lights.

Behind you, the city still glows but here it feels far away.

A few minutes ago, Joe Keery disappeared claiming he was “getting something important,” which honestly could mean absolutely anything with him.

So you wait, smiling faintly to yourself still wearing your ridiculous grandmother disguise.

Then, you feel someone step beside you.

You turn and immediately freeze.

Joe stands there slightly out of breath, scarf crooked from apparently rushing back, holding two takeaway coffees in one hand and flowers in the other.

Lilies and tulips.

Soft pinks and whites wrapped carefully in brown paper.

Beautiful.

Warm.

Thoughtful.

So painfully him.

For a second, you just stare at him because throughout this entire night, he keeps finding new ways to surprise you.

Joe suddenly looks nervous beneath your silence.

“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck slightly. “These are for the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”

Your heart genuinely stumbles. “Oh, Joe…”

You take the bouquet carefully from his hands like it’s something fragile.

Something precious.

Rainwater still clings faintly to the petals.

Without really thinking about it, you lean forward and kiss his cheek softly.

Joe goes completely still—absolutely still as if his brain short-circuited.

When you pull back, his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. “You can’t just do that,” he says weakly.

You blink innocently. “Do what?”

“That.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, grandpa.”

Joe laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head “You’re evil.”

Eventually, the two of you settle onto a nearby bench overlooking the lake. Steam curls from the coffee cups between your hands while your flowers rest carefully in your lap.

The city lights shimmer softly across the water, for a while neither of you says anything silence with Joe has never felt uncomfortable. It feels full instead.

Joe glances toward you eventually. His expression softer now, more vulnerable than usual “You know,” he says quietly, “I really thought you were somebody’s grandma.”

You burst into laughter immediately. “Oh my God.”

“No, listen,” he says, grinning now. “The music. The baking. The sweaters. You had a floral apron, for God’s sake.”

“You were profiling me.”

“I was surviving.”

Your laughter fades gentler this time.

And Joe looks down briefly at the coffee in his hands before speaking again.

“The first time I saw you,” he admits quietly, “in the elevator… before we actually met… I remember hoping you lived on my floor.”

You look at him, really look at him,  suddenly his voice sounds different.

Softer around the edges, and honest.

“I don’t know,” Joe continues, smiling faintly to himself. “There was just something about you already. Then we started leaving each other notes and pastries and suddenly…” He laughs quietly “You became part of my day before I even knew your name.”

Your chest aches softly Joe turns toward you fully now. Cold air brushes pink against his cheeks while the city lights catch in his eyes.

By heavens, you think you could spend years looking at him.

“I kept telling myself we were just neighbors,” he says softly. “Then friends.” His smile turns smaller.

fond

“But somewhere between your coffee and your music and free tasting on your apartment…” He pauses, looks at you like he’s trying to hand you something delicate “...you started feeling like home to me.”

The words settle carefully between you wrm enough to make your eyes sting a little.

Slowly, you reach up and adjust his scarf slightly where it sits crooked beneath his jaw.

Your fingers linger there, against his skin, against him.

“Joe,” you whisper softly, “when I moved here, I was terrified.”

He listens quietly.

“I thought New York is not a perfect city for me,” you admit with a small laugh. “Everything here moves so fast. Everyone always seems like they’re rushing toward something.” You glance down at the flowers in your lap briefly. “but then you happened.”

Joe’s breath catches softly.

“You made this city feel softer,” you continue. “Like maybe there was room here for someone like me after all.” Your thumb brushes gently along the sleeve of his coat “Finding you felt like coming home.”

Joe looks at you then like the entire world narrowed into one single person sitting beside him on a bench.

You

Only you

The air between you shifts quietly after that. Not awkward.Not uncertain. Just…full. both of you finally arrived at the same place after walking toward it for months.

Joe’s hand slowly lifts toward your face, careful. Like he’s asking permission without words. His fingers brush softly against your cheek. Warm despite the cold and when your eyes flutter slightly at the touch, Joe exhales shakily. Like even this feels too good to trust completely.

“You’re really here,” he murmurs quietly.

You smile softly “So are you.”

Then Joe leans in, slowly enough for you to stop him. Gently enough to make your heart ache. And when his lips finally meet yours—it feels warm.

Soft.

Certain.

Like the first sip of coffee on a rainy morning.  Like candlelight glowing through apartment windows.  Like jazz music drifting through thin hallway walls.  Like every note and pastry and lingering glance leading exactly here. 

The kiss is unhurried. Tender in the way only people deeply fond of each other can be. Joe’s hand cups your face gently while yours rests against his coat, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath it. And for one suspended moment, the entire city disappears.

When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves far. Joe rests his forehead lightly against yours, smiling softly.

“There goes the whole neighbor thing,” he whispers.

You laugh quietly, breathless “Yeah.”

Joe looks at you again, completely gone for you now “Worth it though.”

and honestly? you think so too.

masterlist

Joe Keery’s schedule finally clears two weeks later. Well, technically he made sure it cleared. because every time something tried to land on tonight’s schedule, Joe immediately moved it somewhere else without hesitation.

And no, he refuses to examine why.

It’s just a guitar lesson, that’s all. A completely normal guitar lesson between two completely normal neighbors who definitely do not spend an absurd amount of time thinking about each other. Totally fine. 

Which is exactly why Joe is currently deep-cleaning his apartment like his life depends on it. Empty beer bottles? Gone. Song lyrics and scribbled notes scattered across the coffee table? Stuffed into drawers. Blankets folded. Kitchen cleaned. He even restocks the fridge after realizing the only thing inside was sparkling water, leftover takeout sauce, and half a lemon that looked emotionally exhausted. He frowned at the sight of that. 

Joe steps back in the middle of his living room, scanning everything carefully. The apartment suddenly looks… suspiciously presentable, too presentable. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters to himself. “Pull it together, Joseph.”

He runs both hands through his hair before groaning quietly. “It’s just a guitar lesson.”

Which is ridiculous, honestly. He’s played in front of thousands of people before.

Huge crowds.

Interviews.

Tours.

Entire arenas.

None of that makes him nervous.

So why does the thought of you sitting in his apartment make his heartbeat weird? Before he can spiral further a soft knock echoes through the room. Joe freezes immediately.

Then quickly tries to pretend he didn’t freeze. He clears his throat once, forcing himself to walk normally toward the door instead of sprinting like an excited golden retriever.

The second he opens it there you are.

Standing in the hallway with a soft smile and a container balanced carefully in your hands. and somehow despite seeing you almost every day Joe still has that stupid moment where his brain forgets how to function properly.

“Hey,” you say warmly.

Joe smiles immediately, like an instinct “Hey.”

You lift the container slightly. “I brought cinnamon rolls.”

Joe stares at you for a second before laughing softly under his breath. “At this point,” he says, leaning against the doorway slightly, “if I call you sweet, it’s not even a compliment anymore.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“It’s just factual information now.” That pulls a laugh from you immediately.

He steps aside quickly, gesturing you in. “Come in.”

The second you walk inside, warmth wraps around you instantly. Not just from the temperature from the apartment itself.

Joe’s place feels different from yours. Your apartment feels like fresh pastries cooling near a window. His feels like late-night music and unfinished thoughts.

Warm lamps cast golden light across the room instead of harsh brightness. Guitars rest carelessly against walls and couches like extensions of himself. Vinyls and VHS tapes fill handcrafted wooden shelves alongside stacks of books and old polaroids tucked into corners.

The apartment is neat but lived in, comfortable. Like creativity has been quietly breathing inside these walls for years. You notice framed pictures of his sisters and nieces scattered around the shelves. Tiny reminders of home tucked everywhere.  somehow that softens something in your chest immediately.

Your eyes drift toward one of the guitars near the couch. Then toward the notebook half-hidden beneath the coffee table then back to Joe.

“I like your apartment,” you say honestly.

Joe watches you carefully while you look around, like your opinion matters more than it probably should.

“Yeah?” he asks softly.

You nod. “It feels very…” You pause, searching for the word. “You.”

Joe laughs quietly. “That could either be a compliment or an insult.”

“It’s a compliment.” Something warm flickers across his face at that.

“Good,” he says, after a beat, “Make yourself at home.”

You place the cinnamon rolls carefully on the counter while Joe hovers nearby.

“You know,” he says casually, “normal students usually bring notebooks.”

You glance at him innocently. “I brought carbs instead.”

“Best student I’ve ever had.”

“I haven’t even touched the guitar yet.”

“You brought homemade cinnamon rolls,” Joe says seriously. “You already passed.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. poor Joe has to look away for a second because somehow seeing you inside his apartment, smiling softly beneath the warm lighting. 

An hour later you are officially losing the war against the guitar.

“Oh my god,” you groan dramatically, fingers fumbling against the strings again. “This is ridiculous. I suck at this.”

Across from you, Joe laughs quietly from where he’s sitting on the edge of the couch.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

You stare at him flatly. “Joe, we’ve been stuck switching from F to G for, like, thirty minutes.”

“Okay,” he admits through a grin. “maybe forty.”

You drop your head against the guitar dramatically. “I’m quitting.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“You brought cinnamon rolls,” Joe says seriously. “You’re committed now.”

That pulls a reluctant laugh out of you. Joe smiles immediately at the sound, softer this time. Honestly, he doesn’t even care that the lesson’s going nowhere. Having you here already feels distracting enough.

You adjust the guitar again with a sigh. “My fingers hurt.”

“That means you’re learning.”

“That means I deserve financial compensation.”

Joe laughs. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over willingly.”

“Yeah,” he says absentmindedly.

You try the chord progression again.

F.

Then, your fingers completely tangle trying to switch to G. The guitar lets out a deeply unpleasant sound. You stare at it in betrayal.

Joe bursts into laughter. “Oh, that was offensive.”

“See?” you point accusingly. “Even the guitar hates me.”

“No, here—” Joe stands, moving toward you. “Let me show you again.”

You barely register how close he gets at first. Only that suddenly he’s behind you, leaning slightly over your shoulder as he reaches for the guitar gently.

“Okay,” he murmurs softly. “Relax your hand a little.”

His arm slides beside yours carefully, fingers brushing yours as he adjusts your grip against the strings. “Like this.”

And suddenly Joe is everywhere. Warmth at your back. His voice close to your ear. His hands over yours. The faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you softly.

Fresh.

Clean.

Something earthy underneath. Like rain against pavement and freshly washed clothes from the laundry. 

You realize, distantly, that he always smells like this. And somehow that thought alone makes your heartbeat stumble.

Joe keeps talking quietly, focused on the guitar. “You’re pressing too hard here,” he says gently. “See?”

But you’re not really listening anymore. Because now you’re noticing things you shouldn’t. The warmth of his chest against your shoulder. The way his voice drops lower when he’s concentrating. The faint rasp in his laugh when you mess up.

 God he’s so close.

Maybe Joe notices your attention drifting. Maybe he feels the sudden shift in the air too. Because slowly his voice fades. And when you look up, he’s already looking at you.

The room goes quiet. Not awkward, just full. Like something is hanging there between you now, invisible but undeniable.

Joe’s eyes flick briefly toward your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Your breath catches softly. And for one impossible second it really feels like maybe..

The entire apartment suddenly goes dark.

You gasp softly at the sudden blackout. The guitar nearly slips from your lap.

“Shit,” Joe says immediately, standing quickly. “Hold on.” The room feels pitch black instantly. Too fast. Too sudden, before you can stop it panic curls sharply in your chest.

“Hey,” Joe says somewhere in the dark. “I’m grabbing my phone, okay? Stay there.”

The sound of movement echoes softly through the apartment.

A drawer opening.

Footsteps.

Then finally, a flashlight flickers on dimly from across the room.

Joe turns toward you immediately and freezes.

You’re sitting completely still on the couch, shoulders tense, hands gripping the edge of the guitar too tightly. Your breathing is uneven, eyes are glassy.

Joe’s expression softens instantly. “Oh,” he says quietly.

He crosses the room immediately. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.”

You shake your head slightly, embarrassed already. “I know, it’s stupid—”

“No,” Joe says gently. “It’s not.”

He remembers now. The story you told him one late night over coffee. During the camp trip, you were alone in the cabin when the power went out. The older kids were trying to scare you while you sat alone, crying in the dark. At the time, you laughed it off afterward. Said you grew out of it mostly. But apparently, not completely.

Joe crouches carefully in front of you. The flashlight resting dimly beside him now. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You try to answer. Instead, your voice comes out smaller than intended. “…don’t go.”

Something in Joe’s chest aches immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he means it.

Entirely.

Joe sits beside you again, much closer this time. Close enough that your shoulders touch. Then gently and carefully he pulls you toward him.

You go without hesitation. Your arms wrap around him tightly almost immediately, face tucked against his chest while Joe holds you there securely. One hand rubbing slow comforting circles against your back.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs softly.

You nod against him.

Joe stays patient.

Quiet.

Warm.

The kind of calm that doesn’t demand anything from you.

Just stays.

Outside, somewhere in the city, car horns echo faintly. But inside apartment, everything narrows down to this. The dark room. The soft glow of Joe’s phone flashlight.  the way he holds you like letting go never even crosses his mind.

After a while, your breathing finally steadies. You pull back slightly, embarrassed.

 “sorry.”

Joe frowns immediately. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I kind of ruined the lesson.”

Joe stares at you for a second. Then laughs softly in disbelief. “You think I care about the lesson right now?”

You shrug weakly.

Joe shakes his head, smiling gently. “You’re cute when you’re worried, you know that?”

Your eyes widen slightly.

Joe realizes what he just said and suddenly both of you go very, very quiet again.

After a while, your breathing finally steadies. The panic loosens its grip little by little until all that remains is the embarrassing awareness that you’re still tucked against Joe Keery’s chest. he still hasn’t let go, not that you want him to.

The apartment remains dark around you, lit only by the dim flashlight resting beside the couch. Outside, the city hums faintly through the windows.

Distant sirens. Car horns. Soft rain tapping softly somewhere against metal fire escapes. New York never really goes quiet.

But here inside apartment 6A everything feels strangely still.

Safe

Joe glances toward the hallway. “We should probably check what’s going on,” he says gently.

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves immediately for one awkwardly soft second, you both become very aware of how close you still are.

Joe clears his throat first. “Right. Okay.”

You laugh quietly under your breath, cheeks warm. “Okay.”

The second you stand, Joe reaches for your hand instinctively. Not dramatic. Not even fully intentional. Just automatic. Like somewhere in his brain he already decided: stay close.

And honestly? You don’t question it.

The flashlight from his phone bounces softly against the apartment walls while Joe carefully guides you toward the door.

“Watch your step,” he murmurs.

“I know how to walk, Joe.”

“Debatable after that guitar performance earlier.”

You gasp softly. “That was mean.”

Joe grins immediately in the darkness. “You’ll recover.”

The hallway outside glows dimly with emergency lights.

A few apartment doors remain cracked open while neighbors murmur to each other sleepily. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone complains loudly about the freezer defrosting. The whole building feels oddly alive now like the blackout pulled everyone briefly from their separate little worlds.

You’re halfway down the hallway before realizing something. Your hand still wrapped around Joe’s.

Warm.

Secure.

His thumb absentmindedly brushing once against your knuckles as he walks. Your stomach flips instantly.

Oh.

Slowly, you start pulling your hand away, embarrassed now that the panic has faded. But before you fully can Joe’s fingers tighten gently around yours. Not enough to trap. Just enough to say: it’s okay.

Your eyes flick toward him immediately. Joe glances back casually, like holding your hand is the most natural thing in the world.

“You good?” he asks softly. that tiny question makes your chest feel warm all over again.

“Yeah,” you answer quietly.

Joe smiles a little. “Cool.”

Neither of you mentions the handholding after that. Neither of you lets go either.

The two of you take the stairs down carefully with the rest of the tenants. The farther downstairs you get, the warmer and louder the building becomes.

People crowd the lobby in pajamas and slippers, illuminated by phone flashlights and battery-powered lanterns. Someone’s kid is crying near the mailboxes while another tenant dramatically predicts the building’s collapse over a broken fuse.

Joe leans closer slightly.

“New York really brings people together through shared suffering.”

You snort softly. A laugh immediately tugs at Joe’s mouth.

Near the entrance, the landlord wipes sweat from his forehead while explaining the situation for what’s probably the tenth time.

“Something sparked in the basement,” he says tiredly. “Electrician’s coming now. Probably another hour.”

A collective groan echoes through the lobby. 

Joe glances around once before looking back at you. “You wanna head back upstairs?” he asks quietly. “It’s getting crowded down here.”

You nod immediately. “Please.”

The walk back upstairs feels slower somehow. Softer. The building quieter now that everyone’s settled into waiting. still, your hand remains tucked in Joe’s the entire way.

When you finally reach the sixth floor again, you stop outside apartment 6D and knock gently. A few seconds later, the old man opens the door slightly, already holding a flashlight in one hand.

“Well,” he says, looking between you and Joe knowingly, “aren’t you two cozy.”

Your face warms instantly. Joe coughs awkwardly beside you.

“We just came to tell you what the landlord said,” you explain quickly. “Power should be back in an hour.”

The old man nods slowly. “Mhm.”

His eyes drop very obviously toward your joined hands. Neither you nor Joe notices immediately.

“Oh—and your cat’s fine,” he adds casually. “Little guy’s asleep on my recliner like he pays rent.”

That pulls a relieved smile from you immediately. “Thank God.”

“He snored once,” the old man says gravely. “Scared me half to death.”

Joe laughs beside you, warm and quiet for some reason he doesn’t let go of your hand even once.

A few minutes later, the rain has stopped, and you find yourself outside on the fire escape with Joe beside you.

The metal steps feel cool beneath your shoes.

Somewhere below, New York continues breathing loudly into the night—cars rushing past glowing intersections, distant laughter echoing from sidewalks, music spilling faintly from open windows several buildings away.

The city never really sleeps.

It just softens around the edges after midnight. The cool air feels nice after the crowded lobby downstairs. Quieter up here too.

Just you.

Joe.

And the skyline stretches endlessly before you.

Your head rests lightly against his shoulder before you even realize you’re doing it. Joe goes still for half a second. Then carefully relaxes beside you, shoulder nudging slightly closer like he’s trying not to make a big deal out of how much he likes having you there.

Below you, yellow taxi lights blur across rain-dark streets like melted stars. Everything glows. Even the silence between you feels warm.

Joe glances sideways. “You feeling better?”

You nod softly against his shoulder. “Yeah.” Then after a beat, “Sorry again.”

Joe groans immediately. “Oh my god, stop apologizing.”

You laugh quietly.

“I can’t help it.”

“Well, help it.”

“That’s not very supportive.”

Joe grins. “I held you through a blackout. I think I’ve earned the right to bully you a little.” You shake your head fondly.

The city wind moves gently around you, carrying the faint scent of rain and street food from somewhere below. For a while, neither of you says anything. it doesn’t feel awkward at all. It feels easy. sitting beside Joe has quietly become one of your favorite things without you noticing.

Then softly, almost out of nowhere, you speak.

“Joe?”

“Hm?”

You lift your head slightly to look at him. “Thank you.”

Joe’s brows pull together gently. “For what?”

You look back out at the city lights for a second before answering. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “For… everything, I guess.”

Joe stays silent, listening. So you continue. “When I moved here, I was excited, obviously. But I was scared too.”

Your fingers play absentmindedly with the sleeve of his hoodie he gave you.

“This city’s so loud all the time. Fast. Everybody’s always moving somewhere.” You laugh softly under your breath. “And meanwhile I’m over here baking cinnamon rolls and listening to Ella Fitzgerald like somebody’s grandmother.”

Joe smiles immediately at that.

“But seriously,” you continue more quietly, “I kept thinking maybe New York just wasn’t built for people like me.”

Joe’s expression softens. “What do you mean?”

You shrug one shoulder lightly. “I like slow mornings. Quiet nights. Small cafés.” Your voice grows softer. “I thought maybe eventually the city would swallow all that whole.”

The wind passes gently between you. Then you look at him fully. “But it didn’t.” Joe holds your gaze immediately. Because suddenly this doesn’t feel like casual conversation anymore.

“Because of you,” you say quietly.

And God, Joe’s heart almost stops.

You smile a little, softer now. “You made this place feel less scary.”

Joe doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t look away.

So you continue carefully, honestly. “You made me feel like maybe there is space for someone like me here.” Your eyes drift around the city again. “Like maybe I belonged all along.” Your voice turns gentler then. “And I’m really happy you’re my neighbor.”

For a moment, Joe just stares at you. Like he’s trying to process the fact that someone could say something that tender so casually. So sincerely. The city lights reflect softly in your eyes. And all Joe can think is, oh, I’m in so much trouble.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose before speaking. “Well,” he says softly, “first of all… you keep me fed.”

You laugh immediately, the sound bright against the quiet night. “There he is.”

“I’m serious,” Joe says, grinning. “You weaponized pastries against me.”

“That was strategic, actually.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

The teasing fades slowly after that. Joe’s fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee before he speaks again. 

“But honestly…” His voice lowers slightly. “You do the same thing for me.” Your smile softens. Joe looks down at his hands briefly before continuing.

“There’s always so much noise around me all the time.” He laughs quietly. “Not literally. Just… life, I guess.”

Tours.

Schedules.

Interviews.

People always needing something from him.

Joe rarely says things like this out loud. But somehow with you it feels easy. When he sits causally on your counter letting him vent out while eating anything you baked at that day. 

Then he looks at you again. “And whenever I’m with you…” he says softly, “everything slows down a little.”

Your chest tightens immediately.

Joe smiles faintly to himself. “You make me feel like I can actually breathe for a second.” The city wind catches softly in his hair. “And I think…” He pauses, suddenly looking oddly shy. “I think I forgot I was allowed to rest before I met you.”

Your expression softens completely. Joe lets out a quiet laugh, almost embarrassed now. “So yeah,” he says gently. “I should probably be thanking you too.”

The silence afterward feels different.

Heavier somehow, not uncomfortable, just full. The air between you has shifted into something neither of you fully knows how to name yet.

You’re still looking at each other when the lights inside the apartment building suddenly flicker back on behind you.

Both of you blink at the brightness. Then, almost simultaneously, you laugh.

The tension breaks softly around the edges but not completely because even while laughing, Joe notices your hand still resting near his. when his fingers brush yours again neither of you pulls away.

The guitar lesson never resumes.

Somewhere between the blackout, the fire escape, and the conversation that still lingers warmly between you both, neither of you really has the energy to go back to chords and strumming patterns.

Not when something softer has settled between you instead.

“So technically,” Joe Keery says while setting the guitar carefully against the wall, “you still owe me one proper lesson.”

You grin lazily from his couch. “I think the blackout spiritually ended the class.”

Joe snorts “Fair enough.”

Eventually, Joe offers to put on a movie. You immediately say yes. Mostly because neither of you seems ready for the night to end yet.

“Okay,” Joe says dramatically while scrolling through tapes and DVDs near the television. “Important question.”

You tuck your legs beneath yourself on the couch. “Hm?”

“Original trilogy or prequels?”

You gasp. “Oh, original trilogy. Obviously.”

Joe presses a hand against his chest. “Thank God.”

So now you’re curled together on his couch rewatching The Empire Strikes Back while the city glows softly beyond the apartment windows.

The city outside feels quieter now.

Sleepier.

Inside apartment 6A, the only light comes from the television flickering gold and blue across the walls. Somewhere in the kitchen, the leftover scent of cinnamon rolls still lingers faintly in the air.

Halfway through the movie, Joe starts rambling again. Something about practical effects. Or how Harrison Ford improvised half his lines. Or maybe how the asteroid scene changed sci-fi movies forever.

Honestly, you stopped fully listening five minutes ago, not because he’s boring. Quite the opposite.

Joe talks with his hands when he gets excited, eyes bright, voice warm and animated in a way that makes you want to keep listening forever.

It’s comforting like listening to your favorite song play softly from another room.

“And that’s why this is objectively the best Star Wars movie ever made—” Joe pauses suddenly because you haven’t responded. He glances toward you and immediately softens.

You’re asleep.

Somewhere during his rambling, your head had slowly slipped against his shoulder, breathing evening out softly beside him.

Your face looks peaceful like this.

Gentle.

The city lights outside paint faint gold across your features while the movie continues playing forgotten in the background.

Joe stares for a second too long.

Then another.

And another.

Something warm blooms painfully inside his chest. Joe smiles quietly to himself.

Because somewhere between hallway cupcakes, Ella Fitzgerald drifting through apartment walls, coffee tastings, fire escapes, and your sleepy head resting against his shoulder—he fell in love with you.

Deeply.

Completely.

Hopelessly.

And honestly? He thinks maybe he’s been falling for much longer than he realized.

The thought should scare him. Instead, it feels strangely calm. finally understanding the meaning of a song you’ve heard a hundred times before.

Onscreen, lightsabers clash dramatically while Joe carefully reaches up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. You shift slightly in your sleep, mumbling something incoherent against his shoulder.

Joe lets out the softest laugh. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Exactly.”

Carefully, so carefully—Joe slides one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. He lifts you slowly from the couch. You stir immediately, brows furrowing for half a second before instinctively curling closer against him instead.

Joe’s heart nearly explodes on the spot. “Oh, you’re killing me,” he murmurs quietly, mostly to himself.

The apartment feels softer somehow carrying you through it. The warm glow from the kitchen. The low hum of the refrigerator. The movie still playing faintly in the background.

Everything feels suspended; the night itself doesn’t want to end yet.

Joe carries you carefully into his bedroom and lowers you gently onto the mattress. You barely wake, only sighing softly as he pulls the blanket over you.

For a second, he just stands there looking at you. You fit here so naturally it almost terrifies him. Like you’ve always belonged in his space. Like his apartment somehow waited for you too.

Joe exhales softly through his nose, smiling helplessly.

Then, before he can overthink it—he leans down and presses the gentlest kiss against your forehead.

Soft.

Lingering.

Tender enough to say everything he still isn’t ready to admit out loud. You shift slightly beneath the blanket but don’t wake.

Joe smiles instantly.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispers.

Then he quietly leaves the room, leaving the bedside lamp on dimly before heading back toward the couch.

But even lying there hours later, staring at the ceiling while the credits roll silently across the television, Joe still can’t stop smiling.

issy talks: im gigling and maybe crying because of joy writing this. originally, this supposed to be a one-part only and not a series but here we are AND I LOVE IT so thank youuu!! suggestions and requests are open. love you all. mwa mwa

By the time evening settled in properly and the two of you narrowly escaped a storm that was brewing the entire time you were out shopping, neither of you had done much beyond slowly sinking deeper into the couch cushions together, eating some takeout and watch old re-runs of sitcoms neither of you paid much attention to.

To you, this was the perfect Saturday, because for once, Walter had let go of the urge to sit in front of his desk and let the day unfold around both of you instead.

Walter had been reading with you curled into his side beneath the blanket, one arm lazily hooked around your waist while his book rested against his chest and you were scrolling through your phone aimlessly, checking up on Millie's countless instagram stories and catching up with messages in group chats.

It was comfortable in the way evenings with him always became once he fully relaxed.

Your eyes naturally drifted toward the shopping bags on the kitchen counter, the brown Lush Store bag still sitting beside the drugstore one Walter insisted on stopping at right after, because apparently spending one week using your products had him suddenly desperate to smell normal again.

The memory alone made you grin absentmindedly. Especially because this entire situation was his fault to begin with.

You still remembered stepping into the shower that morning only to discover your expensive shower gel being empty, because he was too lazy to get himself a new one.

"Walt", you speak up and he hummed in response, signalling he was listening, but his eyes never left the page he'd just turned to.

“We should take a shower.”

That got just enough attention for him to glance down at you over the top of the book, though his expression stayed comfortably relaxed. “We already showered this morning.”

“I tried to shower this morning”, you corrected immediately, “you left me fighting for my life with an empty bottle.”

Walter sighed, knowing there was no use arguing. He dug his own grave with that one, fully aware your shower gel was empty by the time you got in after him, but praying to any higher power that you actually had another bottle stored in one of your cupboards.

You didn’t though, which was exactly how the spontaneous, for him absolutely nerve tearing, trip to Lush happened in the first place.

“You’re still acting like I committed a crime.”

“You used all my expensive shower gel.”

Walter’s mouth twitched slightly, before he hid it again by lowering his gaze back to the book. “You survived.”

“Walter, don't you dare”, your head rose and you gave him a pointed look.

“You’re dramatic”

"So are you!", you complain, your brows crinkling in that specific way that let him know winning this back and forth was barely a possibility for him anymore.

Walter shook his head softly, a little bewildered, though you could already see him contemplating whether or not staying put would actually make you give him the silent treatment. The worst punishment imaginable to him.

He always did this and it amused you to no end. Complaining just enough to pretend he was resisting before inevitably giving in anyway because, realistically, he liked doing things with you far too much to actually say no.

You smiled when he finally closed the book and set it aside. “You’re exhausting”, he muttered, letting you pull him up without a fight, just a long groan as he grabbed the shopping bags in passing.

“You say that like you aren’t following me willingly.”

“Willingly? I’m choosing peace.”

“You’re choosing to see my boobs”

Walter rolled his eyes quietly, though he couldn't really argue against it.

The bathroom warmed with steam while you adjusted the temperature and Walter leaned against the sink beside you looking tired in the softest way possible, hair messy from where you’d spent most of the evening playing with it, his glasses forgotten on the couch.

“You know”, he murmured eventually, pulling the products from the shopping bags and trying to inspect them one by one, squinting at the tags, as if he wasn’t the same person insisting on paying for them a few hours earlier. “Normal people don’t own this many products.”

“Normal people don’t use up their girlfriend’s expensive shower gel in four days and abandon her to a cold, joyless existence without even the faintest scent of sweet pastries to comfort her through the tragedy that is life”

Walter looked mildly offended as you grab some of the bottles from him and place them in the shower. “That's genuinely one of the most insane things you’ve ever said to me.”

You just raised a challenging brow before pulling your shirt over your head without uttering a word.

He shook his head again, though the second you stepped under the warm stream and reached for him, most of the remaining resistance dissolved almost embarrassingly rapid.

Walter stripped out of his clothes without another word, stepping in behind you. He was close enough now that his chest was pressed against your back and the steam curled around the two of you. His arms settled around your waist on instinct, then you felt his chin come to rest against your shoulder too, alongside the quiet exhale that left him as all remaining tension left his body.

For a moment you just existed in this quiet little bubble together and you smiled to yourself, loving these shared moments with Walter more than you could properly put into words. Grinning softly, you reached for one of the new bottles stacked neatly along the little shower shelf.

The second you turned around in his arms, facing him with every intention of using the sticky shower gel on him once more, his expression shifted into immediate realization.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes”, you quip, flipping the bottle open and bringing it closer to your nose, breathing in the familiar mix of honey, caramel and something bizarrely close to vanilla sponge cake.

“Babe, look, we both got our refills. You got yours, I got mine”, he tried to reason, though to you, it was just another whiney attempt to try and prove he doesn't actually enjoy it, when you know he does.

You were already laughing while squeezing some of the shower gel into your hands and Walter watched you with deep suspicion right up until your palms slid over his shoulders.

Then, like always, he melted embarrassingly fast.

“You didn’t seem too put off by it when you used it for a week straight”, you mused and his eyes slipped shut for a second while warm water ran down his back, hands settling more firmly at your waist as you worked the shower gel into his skin.

“God, that’s exactly how you get to me”, he muttered out, his voice quieter now as his head dipped forwards. You weren't exactly sure what he meant by that and when you voiced your confusion Walter let out another small sound. “You make it feel nice on purpose.”

You laughed under your breath as your hands brushed over his chest. and the hair covering it was now lathered in the sweet scented, ivory coloured foam. “That's usually how taking care of someone works, Walt”

His head rose at that, one eye opening to squint at you. “You know exactly what I mean”, he states and the sight of him like that made you giggle.

By the time you reached for the matching body scrub, Walter stopped pretending like he hated any of it. The need to complain faded somewhere between you massaging his shoulders and him realizing how stupidly happy it made you to share all of this with him.

At some point, smelling like cedar wood stopped mattering nearly as much as the soft excitement on your face whenever you used another one of your favourite products on him.

So when you held the scrub up with an expectant smile, Walter only sighed quietly before turning around for you without another argument, warm and relaxed beneath your hands while steam continued to curl around you.

Honestly, he’d already lost the battle the second he realized making you this happy felt better than winning it anyway.

Walter relaxed further as you rinsed the honey scented conditioner from his hair. Every now and then your nails brushed against his scalp and you couldn’t help smiling to yourself, whenever he sighed at the feel of it. He’d completely softened over the last hour.

So much for all the dramatic complaints earlier.

By now, he’d survived the entire routine and apparently discovered it wasn’t nearly as terrible as he originally claimed.

You reached to put the conditioner back onto the shelf, already preparing yourself to do your own routine quickly, but before you could grab the shower gel once more, Walter reached past you, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

“What are you doing?”, you try to grab the bottle from him, but he shushes you with a grin on his face, flipping the cap open and immediately squeezing some of the shower gel into his palm.

Your expression softened instantly because despite all the earlier complaints about your “ridiculous amount of products”, Walter still wanted to do this for you.

He started with the same shower gel you’d used on him first, hands moving over your skin, slowing at your chest, because he was a man after all, one who firmly believed you were way out of his league and this was a privilege he'd make use of as long as he could. After rinsing the foam, he reached for the scrub next without needing to ask anything at all.

He’d been paying attention the entire time.

At the realisation, you giggled quietly. And Walter looked down at you lovingly, but the feeling in your chest only grew warmer when he lathered your hair carefully, rinsed it out and immediately repeated the process a second time because he’d apparently noticed you always shampooed twice.

Only then did he reach for the conditioner, working it through the lengths of your hair with far more patience than someone who spent the last hour complaining about overpriced vanilla products should realistically possess.

And suddenly the warmth in your chest became almost unbearable.

Because Walter acted like he hated every second of your routines. He rolled his eyes at the matching scents, sighed dramatically about exfoliating and insisted your shower shelf looked like a dessert themed chemistry experiment.

But despite all that, he’d still memorized every little step, because he loved you.