i get wet at the thought of you

"I'm sorry I didn't let you know, but I thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"It was a nice surprise!" She exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air, "It is! I love when you're here! I love being around you!"

Silence settled in the room, the only sounds being her exasperated breathing.

"Then baby, what's wrong?" He asked, gently.

He takes a slow step forward, and then another, like he's approaching a frightened animal. And with the wild look in her eyes, that feels like a fair comparison.

Next thing you know, he's right in front of her, sliding his hands around her waist gently. Her chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but she seems more calm than before. Looks less like she's going to bite someone.

"Just talk to me." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.

A large exhale. Then he feels her hands twist themselves into his shirt, holding on tight like he would float away otherwise.

"It's just," the mumble comes from pressed into his chest. "It's just stupid, fucking Gina."

"Gina?" He questions, still cradling her. "From work?"

"Yes!" She huffs. "She and freaking Roger-"

"Her boyfriend?"

"Not anymore! They're engaged now!"

He can feel her tensing up in his arms again, and starts to rub her back in small circles.

"Is that a bad thing?" He questions. "Just last month you told me he was gonna pop the question any time."

"No it isn't a bad thing, I'm very happy for them!" She puffs indignantly.

He smiles into the top of her head. He doesn't know how she continues to be so endearing even when clearly quite upset about something.

"Then what's the issue, my love?"

This gets a reaction, but not quite the one he was hoping for. She pulls out of the hug and starts pacing the kitchen again, mumbling and pulling at her hair now.

"It's just that, now that they're engaged Gina won't stop talking to me about all their damn wedding prep." She pauses her footsteps and squeezes her eyes tight, pinching her nose. "And it's like, well duh! Of course she's talking to me about it because we," she gestures between the two of them. "-are also engaged! But we've been engaged for months and in a fucking week it feels like she's already so much more prepared than I am!"

She stomps over to the sink, grabbing a glass from the counter and filling it with water, then downing it all in one go. Then she continues.

"He booked everything for their honeymoon last weekend, the venue she wanted didn't even have a wait list, and get this," she throws her hands in the air again. "-she's already got her dress!"

"Don't you have an appointment to go try on dresses in a few weeks? I'm sure you'll find yours-"

"But it isn't about the dress." She sighs. He can slowly see the fight abandoning her, leaving whatever ugly feeling was truly the cause of all of this. "Her boobs are just perfect."

Silence.

He blinks once. Twice.

"Sweetheart, it doesn't matter to me how nice hers are, I'm quite attached to yours."

This gets a smile out of her. Brief and small, but the first smile he's seen since she got home.

"You don't get it." She murmurs. "Hers are so nice, and they sit pretty by themselves, and she could wear a bra that has no support whatsoever and she's still gonna look like a freaking Barbie. Do you know what she told me about her dress?"

He knows this is rhetorical, so he waits.

"She doesn't have to put on any shape wear. Not a single piece. She doesn't have to tape, or suck in, or squeeze. She just looks that way! I don't even have my dress and I just know I'm gonna look like a stupid walrus if I'm not squished into spandex."

"Now wait a second that's not-"

But the truth is starting to spew out now, she's already started and can't hear him.

"My boobs have never looked like that. They will never look like that. If I took my bra off right now they would damn near kiss my bellybutton, can you imagine if we have kids?" She violently blinking, refusing to make eye contact now.

"And then I started thinking about everything I need to fix before we get married, everything I'm trying to get dealt with before the ceremony so you don't have to see it." She squeezes her eyes tight.

Crickets can be heard for a moment, it's quiet enough you can hear the television from the next apartment over.

"It makes me wonder if we should even do this at all."

"Stop."

Her head snaps up.

His eyes are burning, his chest is tight and his fists are balled. He's enraged, but not at her. Never at her, but at the way she clearly sees herself.

"Don't do this, don't ever say those things about the woman I love ever again."

Tears are now streaming down her face, but there's a ball of indignation rising in her chest as well.

"How can you say that when you don't even know all the gross things about me?"

The kitchen is starting to feel suffocating, so she leaves into the living room. He's right behind her.

"Baby there is nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me not love you-"

"Oh yeah?" She eyes him. She's too far now, everything that's been kept locked up for the last almost year is forcing itself through the open dam.

"I haven't worn my retainer in a year, and I can actively feel my teeth shifting back to the way they were in middle school. That isn't pretty."

She circles the couch, now keeping him on one side while she stands on the other.

"Not only are my tits saggy, but they're covered in stretch marks. And they get absolutely disgusting when it's hot outside. They get white heads and the worst rash from my bra chafing and that sure as hell isn't appealing."

"My stomach rubs the tops of my thighs and makes ingrowns there that I pick at until they bleed. The insides of my thighs chafe so bad that they look infected, and I can hardly stand to see them myself!"

That boy just stands there, his heart breaking as she lists everything she can think of that should make him not love her.

"I get ingrown hairs in my armpits, that get worse when I shave so I have to let them grow out and I hate it! I have zits on my butt that I am so ashamed of, no matter what I do they will never permanently go away, and my worst nightmare-" she's hysterical now, snot clogging her nose and tears tattooing themselves on her face. "- my worst nightmare is you seeing me on our wedding night and being absolutely revolted by everything I am. Resenting me for all of my flaws, for not being able to fix everything I have tried so hard to keep from you."

She slumps into the couch, hands finding her hair and pulling.

"I'm so scared that we're going to get married and you'll realize that it's a mistake. That you deserve someone better, someone prettier and quieter and more presentable than me." She whimpers. "And then you'll leave."

Her eyes are glued shut, so when she hears footsteps she can only assume that he's leaving. Going to grab his things and head out the door now that she's finally laid out what he would actually be getting into. Everything that he would actually have to deal with as her husband.

She was right, it was too much. She wasn't enough like Gina to make him stay, and now she needs to gather the strength to tell everyone that their engagement has been called off-

Then a warm, calloused hand is gently cradling her chin, lifting her head out of her hands.

"Open your eyes, pretty girl." He whispers from in front of her. "Let me see you."

It takes a moment, but he's patient, and when she finally opens her blurry eyes she can see him, the man she loves more than anything else in the world, on his knees with his eyes full of tears.

"Thank you," he murmurs as he presses a kiss to both of her cheeks. "Thank you for sharing this with me, I know that it wasn't an easy thing to do."

A watery laugh escapes her unintentionally. "That's your response?"

"Not entirely," he gives her a little smile, brushing away the baby hairs that are stuck to her forehead and the sides of her face.

"You are the most precious thing in my whole world, and nothing that you just said will ever be able to change that." He gazes at her lovingly. "Your body being totally normal and human is not something that I will ever hold against you, not something that will ever drive me away."

He takes his thumb and ever so carefully wipes the tears and smudged mascara out from under her eyes.

"You are my beautiful fiance, the woman that I am so blessed to be with. The woman that I cannot wait to marry, to live with. The person that I hope to give my children, the incredible lady that I dream of growing old with." He nuzzles his nose against her own, unbothered by her tears now mixing with his.

"It makes me feel so special to get to be the person that you share these things with. To be a safe place for you to rant and rave and cry and scream and just exist. And my sweet love, you are that for me as well. You hold me when I'm tired, piece me together when I'm broken, and love me when I cannot love myself."

He plants another kiss on her forehead, then stands from where he is knelt on her rug, carefully lowering himself next to her on the couch and pulling her close.

She easily clicks right into his side, right where she belongs, fingers once again tangled in his shirt like he'll disappear if she doesn't hold on.

"I can't wait to marry you." He murmurs, "I'm yours as long as you'll have me."

"I can't wait to marry you," she whispers into his neck, her breathing finally evening out for the first time this afternoon.

"..and I kind of feel bad about everything I said about Gina. She was just collateral because of how I felt."

An unexpected laugh bursts from his throat, and he squeezes her a little bit closer.

“God, it’s good to be home.” Luca had sighed as you’d emerged from the London Underground onto the bustling mid-December streets.

Most locals hated this time of year and, in fact, you both had friends that fled to family in the countryside over the festive period just to escape the crowded streets and confused tourists that Christmas brought to London.

Not the two of you, though.

Whilst moving to Denmark for Luca’s culinary career had been wonderfully exciting and whilst you’d learnt all sorts of things from your time there, nothing beat the familiar comforts of freezing cold England.

You had met here, back in school. Luca had eventually dropped out, and you’d always buried yourself in books and lectures. You’d tried tutoring him, for a time, but he was no good and soon gave up on his classes.

He didn’t tell you he’d dropped out for several weeks, continuing to come to your study sessions just to spend time with you.

Truthfully, sixteen-year-old you had only agreed to help because of how devastatingly gorgeous you’d found him so when he’d confessed his lie, you hadn’t minded in the slightest. You were over the moon that he liked you back.

And more than ten years on, here you both were, together and just as giddy with one another as you had been in your youth - only now you were buried so deeply in your scarf, hat and coat that Luca wasn’t sure it was you whose hand he was holding.

He squeezed your fingers anyway, smiling beneath the woolen wrap of his scarf, “I almost forgot how cold it gets here,” he muttered, glancing around as you walked on, “But, weirdly, I’ve missed it.”

You sighed, breathing in the air, slightly tinged with both must from the roads and the sweet and savoury treats waiting behind the gates to Winter Wonderland: the UK’s most renowned Christmas Market, “God, me too.”

You tugged him through the entrance gate and not even the ridiculous entry free could dampen your joyous mood.

The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine and ciders. Twinkling snowflake lights danced above your heads and Luca’s eyes widened with childlike joy as he took it all in.

“Look at all of this,” he breathed, letting his hand brush yours and laughing slightly, whisper-yelling, “It’s so cool.”

You grinned to yourself, swinging his hand in yours as you approached the first row of stalls, “I can’t believe you’ve never been before - we used to live like twenty minutes away.”

“I know,” Luca conceded, eyes drifting over the various tat on display - keyrings, nougat, crocheted hats and gloves, snow globes and the likes - and smiling cheekily, “I think I always thought myself too good for it, didn’t want to be lumped in with the tourists.”

You snorted, nodding your head and squeezing his hand, “Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because you know me, my darling,” Luca teased, leaning down to press a quick peck to your lips.

You laughed at his kiss, tugging him towards a stall that smelled strongly of gingerbread with a childish grin, “Come on, let’s try something. I swear I’ll make a tourist of you yet, London Boy.”

Luca smirked to himself, happily letting himself be dragged along to the wide cabinet displaying all sorts of oversized cookies and candy apples.

His eyes went wide at the sight of so much food and the baker in him practically exploded in excitement, “I think the rule is that we try one of everything, right? That’s how it works, isn’t it?” he teased, his grin sheepish and huge all at once.

“Alright, chill out,” you teased, but secretly, you were just as excited to try them all, “Just pick two and we’ll split them so we both can try both.”

“Mm… clever thinking, as always, my dear.” Luca mused, eyes fixed on the cabinet as he gently scratched the top of your head, “I’m thinking… white chocolate snowflake cookie and…”

He glanced back at you, eyebrows raised questioningly. You peered at the options before smiling, “Chocolate Christmas tree cupcake.”

“Chocolate, I should’ve guessed.” Luca smiled down at you amusedly, before turning to the counter and purchasing one of each of the items.

With his gloved hands, he tousled with the paper bag they came in until the cookie poked out of the top and took a big bite. Luca moaned dramatically, leaning back and stopping still in his tracks, “That’s lovely.”

You laughed and turned back, linking your arm with his and walking on. He offered the bag to you and you leaned down, taking a bite from the bag still in Luca’s hands.

You nodded in agreement, “Scrummy.”

With cookie crumbs still dusting his scarf, Luca’s eyes immediately caught a stall brimming with handmade ornaments, “Oh! Wait, wait, we’ve gotta have a look at these!” he exclaimed, picking up a tiny felt snowman, “We need one for us… for the tree!”

You chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a glove-cladded hand, “Do we really need another ornament? Our tree’s already… crazy enough, no?”

“No!” he replied, mock horror in his deep voice, “I’m sorry, but there is no such thing. I should have a thousand baubles on our tree by now. It’s the Christmas spirit.”

You sighed, trying to ignore the way your heartstrings were tugging fondly, “Fine… just one.”

“Our future children will thank you for this,” Luca reassured you, before striking up an enthusiastic conversation with the salesman over her hand-painted wreath ornaments.

Your heart swelled.

‘Our future children’.

You were engaged now. Soon, that life wouldn’t be your future at all, it would be your present. You couldn’t wait. Your body flooded with an excitable warmth and you felt like letting Luca buy out the whole store in that one moment.

Several purchases ornaments later, you were still letting him drag you from stall to stall. You sampled roasted chestnuts, sipped mulled wine, and Luca even insisted on trying a candied apple, much to your amusement when he complained about how sticky it made his teeth for a full hour afterwards.

Eventually, you wandered to the star of the market’s show; the ferris wheel.

“We have to go on it.” Luca declared, arma filled with what could only be described as the holiday spirit - several ornaments, the wrappers from all the foods (because he just couldn’t seem to find a bin), and at least three stuffed animals that he’d managed to win from those fairground games that you’d sworn up and down were rigged.

“I’m sorry, what happened to the man who thought Winter Wonderland was too tourist-y?” you teased, standing on your tiptoes to come closer to his height.

“He’s gone. Being a tourist is amazing. I take back everything I said.”

You laughed heartily and all it took was one kiss to the cheek before you were piling into a carriage beside your fiancé, looking out at the market’s scenery below.

Luca’s arm found its way around your shoulders, pulling you close as you leaned further into him. It was quieter up here. You let your eyes shut briefly.

“This is nice.”

Luca gave you a gentle squeeze, “Very nice.”

You tilted your head to look at him, and even with the fairground’s lights reflecting in his eyes, you could see the warmth and tenderness he held just for you in there, “I’m glad we’re here together,” you murmured.

He smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your temple and cupping your frost-bitten face, “Me too. I could stay like this forever.”

"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all you’re taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."

Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Bastard.

You can’t help your smile, glancing at him sidelong and drumming your fingers along your keyboard.

“Don’t you have something to do?”

He rolls the chair forward, bringing an elbow to your desk to rest his chin atop a fist.

“Stopping by in the middle of you reaming into everyone's favorite was on my to-do list.”

You flick him on the nose.

He snatches your hand, trapping it against his cheek.

“Wanna make out?”

You snort and yank your hand back. “You’re three seconds from Mike part two if you don’t leave me alone.”

He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh no, can't have that.”

He stands and meanders around the desk, slow, deliberate—giving you plenty of time to glare at him.

Never mind the twitch of your lips betraying you completely.

He drops to his knees in front of you, hands coming to your waist to stroke gingerly up and down.

Your brow hikes upward.

His grin widens.

“Leon,” you mutter, pushing loosely against his chest.

“Yes ma’am?”

“Stop. We’re at work.”

He hums. “I’m not doing anything.”

He edges a finger into your waistband and snaps it against your hip. You huff, planting your palms on his cheeks, smushing them once.

“Leon Scott.”

His brows lift at the middle name. You ignore them.

“I’m busy, you’re supposed to be busy…”

God, his stupid eyes.

You bite your lip at the softness in them, too close now to resist. He takes it as an invitation, closing the distance and capturing your mouth with his. His arms snake around your waist, scooting you forward so that he’s between your knees.

You sigh into the kiss. Involuntary.

He matches it, his tongue edging into your mouth.

“Okay.” You push a finger against his lips. “That's enough.”

He only stares, amused and slightly miffed.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, and bring your forehead to his.

“We. Are. At. Work.” Each syllable accompanies a light bump of your head against his.

“I’m aware.” He kneads the curve of your ass, aiming for your lips again.

You smile and lean back despite his arms heeling you. Your fingers walk under his chin, edging the stubble there.

“Look. The sooner we finish here—“

“Yeah, I’d like to finish here,” he interrupts, deadpan.

You slap his shoulder. “Listen. I was going to say, the sooner we finish here, the sooner we can continue this,” you run your thumb along his lower lip, “at home.”

He groans, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Oh god. Where’s my camera. The Leon Kennedy on his knees, begging? Nobody’ll believe me.”

He only plunks facedown into your lap, grumbling something that vibrates against your skin.

Your fingers comb through his hair, twisting the strands into small ringlets. “What? Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

He turns just enough to free his mouth from the fold of your thigh.

“Please don’t make me write another goddamn report today.”

Which also brings you to the main point, of this, that —he was also.. someone who rarely drank anymore, atleast not after everything he'd been through years ago, and he wasn't the same man who buried himself in substance to escape his thoughts or miserable thoughts.

because those days now were behind him and he was happier, healthier, and, as he always insisted, 'he had you', that alone was enough for him— as much as it was enough for you.

As time passed and the two of you built a life together, Leon would often tell you how he still couldn't believe you were real— how you were his. Despite everything he had been through, despite all the darkness he carried, you had still chosen every part of him.

In a way, it always warmed your heart to be loved and seen like that by someone who meant the world to you.

And it was enough to make molten lava flow through your veins instead of blood. Yet every single time, you would only smile, brush his worries away, and tell him it was nothing— that loving him had never been difficult. If anything, it had always been the easiest thing you had ever done.

Because Leon Scott Kennedy was, and always would be, so incredibly lovable, and even if it took eternity to make him believe it? You would spend it happily.

Still, he never left any chance to make you feel special too— so that's how he showed you everyday; how perfect of a boyfriend he is.

Today, though, there was a little twist in your daily routine. Normally, you would've spent the entire evening together, watching movies, cuddling, and doing all the little things you always did with him. But unfortunately, tonight his friends had invited him out for a party.

Leon had refused at first, wanting to stay home with you instead, but you were the one who encouraged him to go. Eventually, he gave in, and somehow his friends managed to convince him to have "just one more drink," which, unsurprisingly, turned into a little too many.

Now instead of peaceful evening with your lover you found yourself carefully helping a tipsy Leon into your bed, to help him sober up and sleep.

not that you complained, because it was still something you chose willingly. More than anything, you only wanted Leon to enjoy his life, to know that, besides work, missions, and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, he deserved nights where he could simply laugh, relax, and be happy.

"You okay?" you asked mid-thought to leon, with a small smile while, burying your own thoughts deep down like you always did, because right now, Leon was here, and it was everything to you and beside; all you wanted was to make him happier than he'd been in a long time.

He answered you with a drunken smile instead of his words— that adorable little twitch of his lips that always made his eyes flutter closed before a warm, content hum escaped him. Then, without a word, Leon lazily slung his arms around your neck, leaning his weight into you while you carefully slipped his boots off at the doorway.

"Mhm... sure am," he mumbled, already dazed with sleep, soon enough, you guided his slightly limping body which was quite heavy, to say the least, yet without a strained noise you managed to pull his ass away, into your bedroom, and the moment you stepped inside the room, he removed his hands from your neck and murmured 'will manage' and swayed slightly and strided straight towards the bed and collapsed onto the mattress with a tired sigh, calling your name, even in this absurdly drunken state.

at that, you couldn't help but laugh quietly, because the truth was.. seeing Leon like this was unbelievably rare now, and somehow it was still oddly adorable too.

there was something about seeing him so completely unguarded and vulnerable that made your heart melt like a wood in furnace which was burning still, even in its rigid state, while the ember of your love danced in the breeze that swayed in the room with sweet little flames, so; as gently as you could, you stepped closer to him, and leaned a little pulling the blanket over him, with a sigh of finally managing to put the big bear onto the bed, then you were just about to move when a warm hand suddenly wrapped around your wrist.

"W'ere're youuuuuu going?" he drawled, looking up at you through those ridiculously long eyelashes, his blue eyes catching the moonlight that slipped through your bedroom window. The sight alone was enough to make you let out a silent scream.

"I'm getting you some water." You breathe, and you smile softly at him.

"No w'o gave youuu perrmission to move?" He slurs on his own words and before you could say anything in protest, he gently tugged you forward with a little force, until you landed on top of his chest that makes you let out a small yelp, "Leon!" You giggle but his grip on you was stronger than anything, and good, god even in his drunken state he was still strong , super clingy, so instead of wriggling your way out of his grip, you just accepted your faith with a mumbled incoherent protest. Which you could say was hardly a protest.

then he smiled, happy to have you close slowly his arms lazily circled around your waist, holding you against his chest while his one sleepy hand drifted up to your face and his thumb absentmindedly strokes your cheek, with a little complement that you could not quite catch.

So instead you pressed a soft chaste kiss on his right cheek and he groans in response as you sniff him lightly; inhaling the mix of his musk and alcohol burn in your chest, then you brush a few blond strands away from his forehead. "You really are drunk."

He chuckled a little at your comment, while his eyes remained closed. And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly, like a silent thunder rumbling in his chest, making you feel every vibration passing through him, he spoke, and if you would have been a little far from him, you could have missed it entirely, then as slowly, shaking you out of your thoughts, he mumbled into your hair, "...my wife."

Your heart skipped an entire beat at....what he just said, for a second you could not believe it , and your insides froze completely and your eyes widened as warmth rushed down your spine, jolting away every trace of exhaustion you had been carrying.

Then you opened your mouth to say something—anything— but nothing came out, and you only stared at him, lips parting and closing like a dying fish, while breathing a little too heavily as you tried to process what had just happened.

"You are my wife..." he repeated again, smiling to himself, and his entire body turned even warmer than before and his grip tightened just a little on you."I'll pr'pose to y'u...s'meday."

And you completely froze.. your gut turning to ice while crimson takes over your skin. yep, he did not just said that right? You try to reason with yourself, but it was true you had heard him say it, unable to let out anything except a squeak and the air tangled so loudly in your lungs that you thought you would... forget how to breathe, then a second later he sighs heavily and continues, "...In fact..." he mumbled, clumsily letting go of your face, before fumbling around in his pocket.

and after a few seconds of determined searching, he pulled out a simple silver band with a small diamond set into it. Your breath caught, again "Leon... what are you doing?" Your heart began beating so frantically it almost hurt. His eyes never opened, and neither he processed your words and instead of replying while still being half-asleep, he found your hand by touch alone and gently slipped the ring into your exact finger, that was well reserved for this, but you didnt know it would... happen tonight, "I'll give you a better ring..." he murmured drowsily. "Until then... keep it... as a memento... so you'll wait for me." Your lips parted in complete disbelief, and tears starts to form in your eyes with emotions, with so much love that your tongue swelled itself with his name and single word, "yes, leon, thousand times yes," you whispered shakily.

"Oh my God..." A sleepy chuckle escaped him before he mumbled, "Wifey..." The word alone stole every coherent thought from your mind. "You're mine..." he continued again, "Even if... someday... you said no... you still couldn't get rid of me."

He smiled lazily, his thumb brushing against your fingers. "I can't imagine... a life... without you." Then a small small, sleepy smile settled on his lips before exhaustion finally won, and within seconds, his breathing evened out, and he was fast asleep, finally, while still holding you securely against him as though you were made from his ribs, and he was Adam while you were his eve.

You stayed perfectly still for a long while, unable to stop smiling, while tears clung deeply behind your eyes that your heart so impossibly full it almost ached. Then your gaze slowly drifted down to the ring resting in your hand, and your mind went completely blank, again, honestly you didnt know how many times, this happened tonight, and now: there wasn't a single coherent feeling left in you— only the overwhelming realization that somehow, without even knowing it, Leon had just given you every dream you'd ever been too afraid to ask for.

And for the rest of the night, you stayed exactly where you were, lying on top of him while his arms remained loosely wrapped around your waist, even in his sleep.

and deep inside, a chamber of your heart quietly soaked this memory into itself as though it had always belonged there. God... you were so, so grateful that he had gone out and drank tonight. Because if he hadn't? You never would've known what Leon had been thinking— what had truly been living inside his heart all this time. And now you did. Somehow, you hadn't known it was possible to feel this happy.

And somewhere between listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and tracing the familiar rise and fall of his breathing with yours.

your own eyes slowly grew heavy. Eventually, you drifted off against his chest, while the little silver ring still sat perfectly on your ring finger, and you swore then and there, even if it was in your dreams: that you would never tell Leon what had happened tonight.

not until the day he remembered it on its own, or find that the ring he carried so carefully inside his pocket is already rest in your fingers, and you would only tell this to him when he gets down on one knee completely sober, and asked you again with the same love that had slipped so honestly from his heart tonight.

So you could say 'yes' properly someday.

Until then you will wait, even if takes years or a lifetime.

Because for Leon everything— is worth it.

You walked over to the bed and adjusted the pillows that didn't need any adjusting, then sat cross-legged on the mattress and took a few deep breaths. You tried not to look worried, knowing that Leon would only pick up on your state. You didn't want to pry more than necessary, but you were ready to find out what was on his mind. After all, that's what he had you for.

Finally, the bedroom door creaked and Leon slipped inside, wearing black boxers and a grey t-shirt. As he sat on the edge of the bed on your side, the scent of body wash washed over you, along with a note you could never mistake for anything else – simply Leon.

You looked at him closely. His shirt was damp in places, meaning he hadn't dried himself thoroughly; his hair confirmed it too, damp and disheveled, with a droplet of water preparing to leap from the tip of his bangs. Leon reached out and placed his hand on your knee, squeezing it. But he didn't look at you. He was slouching incredibly, staring blankly at the rug.

You placed your hand over his – large, warm, and heavy – noting:

"Leon, you broke the rule," you said softly, forcing your tone to sound gentle and neutral despite everything.

Leon flinched minimally, then slowly turned his head toward you, his exhausted gaze piercing right through you instantly. Only a quiet grunt escaped his throat.

"Didn't break it."

In response, you expressively folded your arms over your chest and tilted your chin up.

"The shirt. Just like we agreed. Take it off," you replied possessively, in a tone that brooked no argument.

This was part of your routine whenever Leon insisted on "solitary showers" – he wasn't supposed to put on shirts until you had looked him over carefully, as he had tried to hide some nasty gashes before. Not on your watch.

Leon sighed and – knowing he wouldn't win – pulled his shirt off with a slightly heavy movement, while you expressively patted the spot next to you, letting him know to sit further back on the bed, which he did, scrambling over and sitting with his back to you.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You moved right behind him to take a look with your own eyes. His broad back, still slightly damp, was covered in the scars you knew so well, and between them, various bruises and scrapes were beginning to form, along with a few minor cuts, but luckily nothing serious.

The only thing that worried you was a massive, purple-and-yellow bruise just beneath his ribs. Carefully, you pressed your warm palms against his sides, checking if he’d hiss in pain under tighter pressure. Fortunately, he only winced, reacting solely to your touch.

So you got up and settled yourself in front, right in his lap. Your hands landed on his well-defined abs, then gently slid higher up to his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his skin flex instantly as he let out a breath through his nose. His hands instinctively found your hips and squeezed you lightly.

"I missed you so much," you said at last, reassured that you didn't see anything serious on the front of his body either.

"Me too, honey." Leon smiled at those words, sweeping his gaze across your face, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, yeah?" you began playfully. "Usually, when you miss me, you hold me a little tighter," you teased, tipping up the corner of your mouth meaningfully.

In response, however, Leon's gaze only dimmed further, then drifted to the side. He couldn't have made it clearer that something was weighing on him.

You gently caught his chin and turned his face toward you, before brushing his lips in a light kiss.

"Leon, I know I have great taste, but you don't need to study the pattern on the duvet quite so intensely," you smiled at him warmly and brushed a strand of hair out of his eye. "Tell me what's going on, or I'll tickle the information out of you by force."

"I'm not ticklish," he grumbled, clearly caught off guard.

"I guarantee you I'll find a spot," you countered resiliently, raising your hands to poke them under his armpits, but Leon intercepted them with a quick movement, catching them in his own, then pressed two kisses to the palms of your hands, one on each. And then he closed his eyes for a few long seconds; when he opened them again, he was slouching even more.

"It's just," he began, and you held your breath, "sometimes when I look in the mirror, I wonder why you even bother waiting for this. For me. Instead of having a normal evening, you have to check if I'm missing any limbs."

The tone in which he said it squeezed your heart. This wasn't the first time you had heard these words, and likely not the last. You knew that despite your sincere and frequent assurances, doubts crossed his mind regularly, most often laced with guilt and a sense of inadequacy.

You slipped your hands from his grip and placed them gently on his cheeks, caressing him with your thumbs.

"I'm waiting for the most handsome man I've ever met, who moves heaven and earth for me every single time he's around. I don't need anything more, it's worth everything, and I wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world, Leon."

The beautiful blue of his eyes, previously dull and tired, now grew slightly glassy. His face involuntarily yielded to your touch. He needed this.

"I wish I could be around more often and give you even more," his voice was just as quiet and raspy, a note of guilt sounding in every syllable.

"I get everything I need from you." your hands now moved to his shoulders, pressing your thumbs into the skin by his neck; the sheer amount of knotted muscle you felt beneath your fingers genuinely startled you.

"It's just that..."

"I need you exactly like this." You cut him off unceremoniously. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be my Leon, the one I love so much." to reinforce your words, you kissed him hard on his right cheek.

Leon stared at you in silence for a few long moments, and then, to your inner delight, you noticed the corners of his mouth twitch.

He leaned toward you and kissed your bottom lip, then pulled back to an almost imperceptible distance.

"Can't outtalk you, can I?" he murmured against your lips.

"Learning from the master," you shot back innocently, nudging his chin away with your finger so you could look him in the eyes.

And just like that, you had him; your touch and your voice were enough to – at least for a moment – distract Leon from his intrusive thoughts. You noticed him release the last of the air from his lungs, his entire body visibly going slack.

"Okay, you can put your clothes on," you finally decreed.

"Can I?" he mumbled, a half-smile blossoming on his face.

Before you could even reply, though, Leon grabbed you firmly by the waist and went down on his back, pulling you with him. He landed right on your pillow, but the moment he hit the soft fabric, a strange, crinkling rustle reached your ears.

Leon froze completely, then slowly arched an eyebrow. As you pushed yourself up, propping your hands against his chest, you could see genuine bewilderment written all over his face.

"I really hope that wasn't my spine," he grumbled, not moving an inch.

Heat rushed to your face as you remembered what you had hidden there. Instinctively, you reached under the pillow to track down the evidence, but Leon, seeing your reaction, was quicker. He anticipated your move and dove beneath the fabric, fishing out a slightly crumpled, colorful bag of gummies a moment later.

"It's just... for a rainy day," you began, blushing even deeper as Leon watched you with pure amusement.

"So these are the kind of wicked deeds going on here while I'm away..." he clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, then he rolled you to the side and propped himself up on an elbow, tearing the bag open and rummaging through its contents.

"Leon, you literally just brushed your teeth!" you pointed out, trying to deflect from what you had hoarded in the bed.

Leon merely shrugged and popped two gummies into his mouth at once. Before he even had time to chew them properly, his face contorted into a hideous grimace, he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the sour treats with difficulty.

"And they're sour, too?"

You laughed quietly at the sight. "My beloved agent, the bane of the most terrifying creatures, just got defeated by a fake lemon."

In response, Leon only looked at you from beneath half-lidded eyes and shoved another two into his mouth.

"They don't stand a chance against me."

"I thought you didn't like them."

"I have to make sure I don't like all of them," he grumbled, giving you a faint smirk. You joined in on the brief feast, trying to snag some for yourself as you watched the bag's contents dwindle surprisingly fast.

When you finished the "meal," you sat astride Leon's hips, mindlessly tracing patterns on his stomach with your hand. He watched you in silence for a moment before blurting out:

"Next time, I'm requesting a different flavor."

"It can be a different flavor, honey, but they're still going to be sour," you replied in an innocent little voice.

"And why is that?" Leon's gaze, though questioning at first, very quickly began to sweep over your figure.

"Because I already get enough sweetness just by looking at you, Leon."

Leon's face went completely blank with surprise in a split second.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked at last, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well... that you're sweet. Cute." you mumbled shyly, unable to suppress a genuine half-smile.

Leon watched you in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Not true. I'm fierce. And dangerous," he mumbled with feigned seriousness, his eyebrows almost meeting.

"Of course you are, teddy bear. If you say so," you replied, unable to stop yourself from laughing.

"Talking back, too..."

Before you could even realize what was happening, Leon bucked his hips, causing you to lose your balance and fall forward onto him in surprise. He caught you with his hands just before his face and, locking you in a strong, tight embrace, kissed you hungrily.

Leon slammed his lips against yours so hard it knocked the wind right out of your lungs. For a fleeting second, you tasted the sour tang of the gummies again, but it quickly dissolved into the steady warmth of his breath. You could barely keep up with returning the kiss – Leon kissed you heavily and possessively, every single inch of your mouth belonged to him in that moment, and the slightest parting of your lips was enough to feel his wet tongue inviting you to dance.

His large hand gripped the nape of your neck in a powerful hold, while the other roamed from your hip to your backside, as if he needed to re-memorize every piece of your body after being away for a week. He pressed you against him so tightly that you could clearly feel the thudding of his heart.

Every time you tried to catch your breath, Leon deepened the kiss, a low hum rumbling against your lips, his vibrations instantly sending shivers through your body. You knew that in this desperation and in every movement of his mouth was everything he couldn't put into words, everything he couldn't name. You felt gratitude in it, a reassurance that you were truly here, and a promise. He sucked on your bottom lip and nipped at it gently, only to soothe the bite a moment later with a swipe of his tongue, completely taking control of the rhythm of your mouths. You surrendered to him, knowing that in this moment you didn't need anything else, that everything you needed was right there in your arms.

When Leon finally pulled his face away for a second, you were both panting heavily. You rested your forehead against his, seeing that his eyes were still closed. His fingers against your neck were trembling slightly.

Once your breathing evened out, Leon let his head fall limply back onto the pillow and looked at you from beneath half-lidded eyes.

"I missed this," he murmured softly, his voice slightly hoarse.

You leaned down and gently kissed one eyelid, then the other, forcing him to close his eyes. "Time for bed. You need to rest." With those words, you tried to untangle yourself from him to reach for the lamp and turn off the light. Leon only looked at you, opening one eye in a suspicious gesture, before reluctantly loosening his grip on you.

As soon as darkness flooded the bedroom, you immediately slid right back to Leon, pressing into his arm and the crook between his neck and collarbone. He smelled almost entirely like home now – soap, Leon, and your fresh bedding. He wrapped his arm around you instantly, pulling you to his side so tightly that you couldn't have slipped a single finger between you. You wedged your leg between his thighs and planted a kiss on his neck.

"Is my fierce chosen one comfortable?" you asked with a hint of amusement in your voice.

Leon laughed quietly under his breath and kissed the crown of your head.

"Not complaining."

You lay there in silence for a couple of minutes at most.

"Leon?" you started again.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" his voice was already incredibly low from the oncoming sleep.

"You know I love you?"

There was a moment of meaningful silence during which you actually wondered if he had fallen asleep along the way.

"Yeah, I think you mentioned something."

You couldn't help it – you cracked him in the ribs with your elbow.

"I didn't know you were already having memory issues..." you teased.

Leon only laughed throatily and turned his head to kiss you hard on the cheek, returning the gesture you had graced him with not long ago.

"I know. But unfortunately, I love you more." to confirm those words, he squeezed you even tighter, if that was even possible.

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"And are you going to argue with me about this now?" you asked, beginning to run your fingers through his rough stubble along his jawline, slowly and unhurriedly.

"Always," though you heard resolve in his voice, it was clearly growing weaker and weaker.

So you continued, running your fingertips over his cheek this time and scratching him gently. With every passing moment, you felt the tension vanish from his face, his body relaxing further. His jaw was already slack, his eyes closed, and his breathing steadier.

"You are the most important person to me, Leon. You're my lottery win," you said softly, to which you received only a quiet grunt. Leon buried his face deeper into your hair, and though his breathing was growing heavier by the second, his hold on you never wavered.

You merely reached down for the duvet you had – contrary to all logistics – overruled by lying on top of it, pulling it over your legs as much as you possibly could. You knew that in the sleep that came so quickly, Leon had surrendered himself to you, along with his nightmares and his doubts. That even though he sometimes battled his own thoughts, subconsciously he gravitated toward you, ready to give you everything with absolute trust.

Your heart absolutely stopped for a second. What? You can’t even hear your own voice.

He laughs. Nothing serious. He’s just worried you’re hungry.

Huh? Your voice is still raspy from sleep.

Just come.

So now you’re here, climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge. And it’s just your luck that someone is guarding the door.

He scans you up and down, then shuffles a bit closer to block the entrance.

"Hi, um, my friends are inside waiting for me."

He raises a brow. "Sure.”

"Yeah," you insist. "Roy and Jason—"

His face falls. "You’re Jason’s girl?"

"Sorry?" You blink twice. "What do you mean—"

But you’re interrupted for a second time. You frown and check your phone again, to see if there are any missed calls. There’s not.

The man turns around and taps his earpiece. A moment later, he spins back to you, smiling brightly. "You can absolutely come in." He opens the door for you. "Jason’s girl."

You mumble a thanks, still very weirded out by the whole experience.

The second you step inside, all eyes snap to you. Granted, there are only five other people besides Roy and Jason, but it’s still very weird for everyone to be tracking your movements and whispering to each other.

You ignore the stares and make your way to the boys’ table in the corner of the room. Just where Jay would’ve chosen it— away from any potential threats.

"Roy! Jason!" you call.

Jason is rambling to Roy, waving his hands around and smiling brightly. But the second he hears you, his whole body freezes. Even his hands stop mid-gesture. His pretty green eyes immediately start scanning the room until they land on you.

And then he waddles. He waddles toward you. His movements are clumsy as he tries to grab you, nearly walking straight into a decorative plant.

"Baby!"

You catch him just as he’s about to collapse on top of you. Struggling to support his weight, you try to steady him.

He lets you. Then he picks you up.

He kisses you on the nose, and all you can do is blink in confusion before he throws you over his shoulder.

"Jason?" you whisper-yell. "Put me down right now."

"Nuh-uh." He sounds smug. "Can’t."

The world flips again as he plops you down beside him on the velvet couch. Now you’re sandwiched between the two of them.

You look at Roy, raising a brow. "What did you even give him?"

He smirks, raising his hands innocently. "He said he could handle it."

Jason is playing with your hair. He tugs on a strand before curling it around his index finger.

"Why is everyone looking at us?"

Roy laughs, bright and loud. "Jason couldn’t stop telling everyone about you. The cocktail guy, the—"

"Bouncer?"

He snaps his fingers. "Yeah." Roy grins. "You know, I thought he'd eventually run out of facts."

You blink. "Facts?"

"Oh, yeah." He starts counting on his fingers. "You brush your teeth for ten minutes— you’re a psycho for that, by the way. You like your toast overly done. You cry at movies, even if they’re not sad. He’s dissected the meaning of all of your favourite songs...”

You’re too dumbfounded to properly answer. Roy continues.

"You apparently have the prettiest smile in the tri-state area."

Jason nods solemnly. "It's true."

Roy whistles. "He's got it bad."

Jason is still playing with your hair. "You’re so pretty."

You turn to him with a smile, brushing his cheek softly. He immediately nuzzles into your touch. "Not as much as you."

He shakes his head. "No, no. You’re ridiculously pretty. Sometimes"— he drops his voice, as if you’re sharing some great secret—"when you smile, I forget how to think. Or when you do anything, really."

He wraps an arm around your waist until there isn’t even an inch of space between you. You can feel every line of his body, the hard muscle beneath his clothes. "My pretty, pretty girl."

You place a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you, Jay."

"And you also make me really hard."

Roy’s laughter is impossible to ignore. He slams a hand on the table, wheezing as he mumbles something between fits of laughter. You see him fumble for his phone out of the corner of your eye.

"Yesterday, for example, when you—"

"Jason," you say sternly.

His face falls. "Don’t be mad at me." He’s frowning now, his big green eyes glossy and wide.

You cup his face. "I’m not angry, baby."

"Oh, okay." He nods slowly. "I’m sorry I told Roy you snore."

"I do not—"

Roy nudges your shoulder. "According to Jason, you do."

Jason nods matter-of-factly. "When I can’t sleep, I listen to you breathe. So yeah. You snore."

Your heart pounds in your chest, steady and hard. You want to kiss him. Not just his lips. Everywhere.

Because who decided kisses on the lips were the most intimate? You’d kiss every scar, every freckle, every crook of his beautiful body. You want to worship him with kisses.

"And you make me soup," Jason continues, completely oblivious to the look of pure love on your face.

Roy blinks. "Okay?"

Jason sighs dramatically. "Not canned soup. Actual homemade soup she spends time and effort making."

"Congratulations.”

He rolls his eyes. "You don’t get it." Then his eyes find yours, unwavering. "But you do. You get me, and you love me."

"Of course I do, Jay.” You smile softly.

Jason smiles before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His eyes flutter shut as you run your fingers through his hair. "You’re my definition of an angel."

The next morning, Jason wakes up with a killer hangover and his entire body wrapped around you.

Then he bumps into Roy in the kitchen. He dies of embarrassment the second Roy holds up his phone to show him something.

The video shows nothing but the club ceiling, dim lighting, and red velvet. The audio, however, is crystal clear.

What if she’s hungry?

Jason physically cringes at the sound of his own whiny, worried voice. He’s never drinking again. Roy is barely holding in his laughter, the phone slightly shaking.

She’s an adult, man.

She forgets to eat. There’s a frustrated grumble. I can’t unlock my phone. Stupid numbers. A brief shuffle. The password is her birthday. You call her.

“You’d have to give me a thousand bucks. Or, put a gun to my head.”

“Dramatic,” she murmurs under her breath—not nearly enough to seem any less rude than it sounds, “Does that imply you’re only worth a grand?” You decide to let her think it out, but it doesn’t last for nearly long enough. Robin’s eyes flit from the ground, to the ceiling, and then back to you. She exclaims, “It’ll exponentially improve your mood if you just let it out. It’s psychologically proven!”

Though she’s been trying to convince you for the better part of a month, you still haven’t let up: you will not admit that you’re jealous of Nancy Wheeler. By no means is it Nancy’s fault. In fact, you adore her just a little bit more everyday with the way she takes lead on the crawls and makes sure that everyone’s in top shape for any major emergencies. The fact of the matter is that Nancy Wheeler is still the centripetal force of Steve’s affections. Steve sees her shaggy curls, the denim-jackets placed over floral blouses, the stack of metal bracelets, and his brain goes on the fritz.

The way that he looks at her makes you want to retreat into your own skin—siphon yourself out of existence—and still, you stick around to watch. A train crash you can’t bring yourself to look away from. Part of you wonders if it’s the nostalgia factor of it all—if Steve’s just one to reminisce about the good old days, still caught up on “King of Hawkins.” The worse, and fearfully more accurate alternative, is that Steve is in love with Nancy as she is now. Clever, witty, journalist Wheeler. The kind of gal to chew the ends of her pens and weasel the right information out of people. Strategist with a sawed-off shotgun. Though you’re not one for comparison, you’re sure that she must win in some way or another.

But, your harbored feelings for Steve are hardly anything new. Robin’s known about your little schoolgirl crush—you try to tell her, We’re early-twenties! Not early-tens, to no avail—since you started working at Family Video. You’re sure that’s when it started, because that’s when you had to start being around him five days of the week. Though you’d been a particularly good fly on the wall in high school, graduation swung around quickly. You needed a job to pool up a good sum of cash to move to some far-off city (the cliché smalltown transplant). Family Video was conveniently there. So were Steve and Robin.

Robin takes the record—U2, you think—gingerly from your hands and deposits it into the shelf in some off-place you’ll likely fix within the hour. She places both of her hands atop your shoulders. “Okay. You cannot tell me that you weren’t trying to laser-blast her with your eyeballs last weekend at the Wheeler’s. I saw it.”

You snort skeptically, “Why would I do that?”

“Because Steve was being all Steve. He offered to serve her plate and you were all weird and zoned and didn’t talk until Mrs. Wheeler started asking you about where you got your blouse.” Robin tugs at your collar—hung smile, like she’s got you all figured out—and it nearly makes your left eye twitch.

“Well, maybe, I’m just watching out for Jonathan. He gets all weird and jealous whenever Steve’s involved, and we kind-of, sort-of don’t have time for infighting.” You retreat from Robin’s touch, taking yourself into the little seating area the WSQK has set aside for breaks. You crash down on the coffee-stained orange couch, trying to be as leveled as possible with Robin; she lands just beside you, half-leaned on the back of the couch, legs crossed.

“There’s actually plenty of time for it. It’s been months with zero action in the Upside Down—minus the stupid patrols. Hop’s found nothing. You are scot-free to play this whole thing out. Finally!” Aside from Vickie and radio-hosting, you’re absolutely convinced that this is the only entertainment that Robin gets. “You are the master,” she claps her hands together, bows down to you just slightly, “of the long-game.”

You hate to think of it like that. Like you’d had some deliberate motive. For the first month of knowing Steve (Mr. Cologne-Heavy) in the flesh, you were just slightly dazed by the normalcy of him. He was just a guy—and, frankly, a bit of a dork. Clumsy sometimes, and easy-to-please. You weren’t nearly as serious about your little boy-crush then. Steve was just the nice back you got to look at during your morning shifts, you labeling the VHS tapes and him re-alphabetizing the romcoms.

You liked Steve; he was attentive. He knew that you liked to park your car under the fir in the backlot to keep the leather from frying up under the sun. He knew which customers you despised, and he knew when to step in. He knew that you wanted nothing but silence for the first hour of your shared morning shift—and was ready and willing to sort tapes conversation-less with you. He was your very good friend.

You sat through every single one of his failed matches with a strong-held despondence—even the desperate one-night stand he’d had with one Priscilla Allbright, a matchmaking scheme hatched up by Robin herself; she was the older sister of one of Robin’s theatre-kid buddies, but a tad too mean towards waiters—so it was easily one-and-done. And though Steve had rambled on about his continuous dry spell, you didn’t see it fit for you to throw yourself in the ring. It wasn’t until Steve’s dating ceased that you started to get concerned. He’d just stopped trying after Hawkins split in two. Nancy’s unintended doing.

Robin can’t help it. She wants more than anything to see the two do to shack up. She’s been making nothing but stupid bets and wagers for the past year—and even though she hasn’t made even a dime from it all, she still gets to revel in the satisfaction of you and Steve even being in the same room.

“I’m not jealous,” you affirm—easily ignored by Robin, who stretches her back left-and-right on the cushions.

“I don’t blame you. I’d be freaked too if Vick had some super-cool, fiery ex-girlfriend. No—I’d die!”

—

The next time the five of you get together—you, Rob, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve—is at another one of those Wheeler-Byers dinners. This is the routine under your newfound militarized quarantine, especially when the Hawkins movie theater has tired of playing the same collection of movies five times over and you can only hit the same bar up so many times. All things considered, you think it’s a nice gesture that the Wheelers have offered up their home; it works out to have everyone under the same roof. They’re just as charitable when they host their little dinners, foldable chairs pulled from the basement and stuffed leg-to-leg at the dining table. Everyone pitches in to help prep—save for Mr. Wheeler, who slouches at the television box watching old tapes of football games from the year prior.

You have a decent spot at the corner of the table, wedged between Robin and Steve. Then, Steve next to Nancy, Nancy across from Jonathan… the usual. Steve has the tendency to jump his leg up and down underneath the table; the friction of his against yours isn’t easily ignorable, and yet you try to keep yourself quiet. In your peripheral vision, you can see the dad-looking sweater he chose for tonight, and his coiffed black hair. 

You hate sitting next to Steve. It’s like this every dinner. You, getting passing whiffs of sandalwood and hairspray—trying not to look him in the eyes. Him, oblivious. There’s lots of ruckus; you’re pretty sure that there are four different conversations being shot across the table between the boys (save for a recluse Dustin), the parents, and you half-adults. Though Hop and El are still where they always are at the cabin, you’re sure that Joyce will bring them a well-packed plate the morning after. This dinner, Jonathan has persistently wrestled to pick up Nancy’s plate and serve her food; you’re very sure that she’s irritated by his insistence, because she gently scolds him with “I’m not a child.” Steve snorts, and you… don’t do a single thing. The chatter carries on, and you sit scooping peas over your mashed-potatoes.

You feel Steve lean his shoulder against yours, a too-warm attempt to get your attention. You’re too quiet for his liking. You crane your neck to look up at him, with a too-casual, “Yeah?”

“You know, the ‘indie’ stuff is really growing on me,” Steve chews, “I mean, I don’t really like how it’s all British—Go, Boston Tea Party, right?—but, they sound great.” You’ve been tossing in your personal favorites into Robin’s morning setlists. He’s clearly noticed.

You almost have to laugh. It’s a shocker, coming from him. “You like indie.”

Steve’s brows furrow, nodding his head along mid-question. “I do now. You’re, like, the connoisseur of the stuff. No offense, Rob.”

Robin beams. “Sure. None taken.” You hate sitting next to Steve. Especially when he acts like this.

The conversations carry on. Topics are restricted to normal, non-Upside Down, non-military—a house rule set by the kids. It’s like you’re spies. Steve picks up his reindeer-shaped ceramic mug—no thanks to the cup shortage (the Wheeler’s never hosted parties this big before)—takes a big swig of water out of the top. “You know what I miss? County fair.” Random. He continues, “I would kill for a churro. You guys ever ride the Zipper?”

Will diverts his attention from whatever pre-Calculus assignment Mike keeps moaning about to over to the other half of the table. “Jonathan threw up after the Zipper. Didn’t you?” Though he’s flat-faced, Jonathan’s clearly frothing with embarrassment.

“I did not throw up,” the older Byer brother insists, tone wavering just slightly. Will takes the win, turning back to the rest of the boys to continue rattling on about trigonometry.

“No throw-up talk at the table, please. Dinner,” Joyce warns, lifting her fork pointedly at Will and Jonathan. Tight-leash. You’re sure that she tries very hard to push good manners, especially under the Wheelers’ roof.

Steve carries on, trying to recall under his breath: “I took… Dana Mattey to the county fair? Think I won her a bear.”

“That was me, actually,” Nancy amends. Too loudly. Any existing conversation ruptures, leaving only the lingering silence of a dinner turned sour. Steve softens in his chair, looking at her meekly—before looking straight down at the table; he stops his jittery leg, eerily still. You’re very sure that you can see Jonathan’s knuckles whiten as he grips his fork. Mr. Wheeler grumbles some string of expletives that you can’t quite catch, and little Holly’s eyes flit between her parents and her siblings.

Mrs. Wheeler—already half wine-drunk—jumps to turn the conversation back around. She slurs, “The two of you aren’t seeing anyone?” The direction of her question toward the half-adult end of the table tells you that the question is pointed. The interrogatees: you and Robin. Steve is exempted, clearly. Mrs. Wheeler does this most nights, because Steve’s still very much her daughter’s preppy, popular high school ex-boyfriend.

Robin coughs up a bit—caught off-guard: “Oh. No. I’m not really looking for dates right now. Very career-focused. Radio’s, like, the new TV.” Robin lets out an affirmative, little “mhm!” before scarfing down too much food. Shitty liar. You try to give a nod in agreement, hoping that Robin’s response is satiating enough.

Mrs. Wheeler takes another swig of her wine, and then points lazily with her glass at you: “You?”

“Me.” You feel clammy.

She giggles coquettishly, “Well, you’re gorgeous. There’s got to be guys flocking to see you.” The wine in her glass sloshes left and right with the beat of her matter-of-fact explanation. You hear a little bit of a snort coming from the other half of the table.

“Lucas had a crush on you in middle school after you babysat him for Memorial Day,” Mike snickers, “Does that count?” 

“Dude, shut up.” Lucas smacks Mike’s hand down into the table brusquely. You can see the two of them shove each other back-and-forth just beneath the sightline of the dining table. Robin gives you a nudge; the sole of her shoe juts into your calf, trying to urge a response out of you.

You’ve got a choice: tell the truth (you’re the modern-day equivalent of an old maid) or, opt for the easy way out. You choose the latter, replying wondrously—and maybe too proud: “I actually have a date on Saturday night.” Robin stifles her loud guffaw; she’s loving your improv. The rest of your friends—no, the entire table—look quite caught off-guard. Seems like everyone’s hushed up, save for the metallic scraping of forks against plates. It’s the puzzled tilt of Steve’s head that really does you in. 

Though, Mrs. Wheeler is pleased enough with your response. “Of course you do, honey. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“He’s… uh…” Now, you’ve really dug your own grave. Your stammering dims her grin, and you’re afraid Mrs. Wheeler can see right through you.

It’s taking you far too long to spill. Robin brings her own drink slowly to her lips—wineglass, filled with apple juice—trying not to wear a sorry look on her face; it’ll only make it worse if she tries to come up with something for you. You’re just about to say a measly “boyfriend from Canada” joke, when Steve wraps his hand around your knee. “I’m taking her to Enzo’s.”

Robin makes a quick inhale-and-snort of her apple juice, and grabs for her napkin to try to wipe away the mess under her nose, dribbling down to her chin. The rest of the table reacts similarly—doe-eyed and curious. How did this happen? Mike murmurs a quick “Bullshit” under his breath, to which Nancy shoots out a stern “Mike!” By the looks of it, though, Nancy and Jonathan are the most confused out of everyone; after all, they spend the majority of the week with you guys at the Squawk, and they’d be able to see if you two were hooking up. And, it certainly doesn’t pair well with Steve’s here-and-there advances towards Nancy. The only person who’s mildly amused happens to be Will, who wears a proud, open-toothed smile on his face.

You try not to look as astonished as they do, but it’s taking a lot of work considering the fact that Steve’s hand is still landed on your knee—fingers edging toward your inner thigh. You’re so packed together in this dining room that you’re sure that the heat pooling off your cheeks easily reaches the other end of the table. You sum up just enough courage to look Steve in the eyes—maybe, to try and seal the deal, convince everyone that you are going out. Steve only gives you that tender, puppy-dog sort of look that he gives to pretty girls. You almost want to punch him for doing this for you. It’s too big of a lie.

When you swivel your head to look back at the rest of the table, everyone’s rather occupied by the sight of the two of you: Steve’s watchful eye and your electrified posture. You smile weakly, “We don’t have to talk about it right now. Lotta pressure.” An un-entertained Mr. Wheeler excuses himself to the living room (presumably, to watch last year’s baseball), and all the chatter resumes accordingly.

—

Robin’s the first to leave. A promise to Vickie to bring coffee for her late shift at the hospital gets her out the door promptly by nine o’ clock; she uses an easy excuse—need to make sure Grandma takes her meds. She doesn’t leave without giving you a wary look—you’ll get a stern talking to tomorrow—before she makes it out the door.

There’s a handful of things that run through your mind as you’re washing the dishes after dinner—up to your elbows in suds as you wash everyone’s plates. It’s Steve who insists on helping you dry them all off with a kitchen towel and file them back into the cabinets. Together, you create a two-person factory line. Wash-and-dry.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you murmur to him—hoping that the sound of the sink running will drown out your voices. Everyone else is scattered back around the house by now, but you’re quite sure that the boys are gathered in the living room. Nosy.

Steve shrugs. He leans in to murmur back to you, “Isn’t that what friends are for?” Right. Friends. “And, besides, it’ll get old Jonathan off my back about being around Nance so much.”

Now, you’ve got a better picture. If Steve “dates” you, he’s not nearly as much of a threat to their relationship. You’re not sure how much you like the sound of it. “Yeah. It’s a… good trade.” It’s hard for you not to wince. You focus more ardently on scrubbing the fork in your hand. “But, if they ask about the date—“

Steve tosses the towel over his shoulder, leaning against the counter beside you.  “You’re right. Enzo’s is a stretch; I’d pay for it if you wanted me to, but realistically, you’d probably insist that I not do that. We would probably go for fries and a shake at Dee’s. Then, a late showing. Top Gun.” It’s the same old routine you go through every other week: post-work snack and a movie.

You snort, trying not to spritz soapy water on yourself: “God, we’ve seen it like a trillion times.” Steve pops a grin, too—satisfied with making you laugh for the first time tonight.

He leads, “Which is exactly why we would totally go see it again. Boom: flawless plan.” As soon as you slot the last plate into the dish rack, Steve takes the towel over his shoulder and tosses it to you. After drying up, you toss it over the rack of the oven. “Let me walk you out to your car, babe?”

“Asshole.”

—

You’re on one of the wheelie chairs back at WSQK. Saturday opening shift—you and Robin. It’s still shivering-cold this time of year, and there isn’t a bit of insulation. Steve’s not due for thirty, so the two of you are stuffed into the sound booth wrapped in blankets pulled straight from Robin’s trunk. You talk about the dinner, and after the dinner, all while you’re queuing up the setlist and sound cues for today’s morning segment. Robin’s too excited—flailing her arms around, up and at ‘em, pacing back and forth in the studio—while you scribble hard on the clipboard on your lap.

“This is perfect!” she shouts. It makes your right eye twitch; her volume is fifty decibels too loud for six-in-the-morning.

“No, Rob. It’s embarrassing.” You check off cassette numbers, placing the janky plastic cases into their respective slots.

“Sure, he volunteered to be your boyfriend—fake boyfriend—to save you the embarrassment of being a perpetual single. That’s nice and all. But, if you guys keep this up—“

It’s a nightmare just to think about. Every Wheeler-Byers dinner spent with Steve pretending to coddle you. Now, you’re really feeling sick of the military quarantine; New York sounds especially appealing. Or, Antarctica. You have to interrupt her. “We can’t keep it up.”

Robin goes blank, dingy-old Converse glued to the rug beneath you both, before shaking her head with an especially sharp-edged stare. “Sure you can. You have to. Or, it’ll disappoint the hell out of everyone.” ‘Everyone’ and ‘Robin’ are somewhat interchangeable, you think.

“I don’t think he’s going to want to keep it up that long.”

“He might surprise you,” she says earnestly. You wonder if you should trust Robin a little bit more than you do with these matters; after all, she is his best friend as much as she is yours. She carries on, “And, he’ll eventually face the fact that you are the top-tier option. Can’t get better than this.” Robin tugs cheekily at your collar, flouncing your hair a bit. It isn’t until you hear Steve’s Beamer roll up onto the gravel out front that you begin to shove her wriggly hands away. “Okay, okay,” you tell her, “Cool it, Buckley.”

As you carefully smooth down your hair, Steve makes it through the metal front door with a carton cup holder balanced on one hand and his keyring swinging in the other. “Coffee delivery,” he shouts over to the two of you, shoving his keys into his back pocket.

“Robs,” he deposits the cup on the nearest surface by her: counter by the microphones. “Steve, equipment. We talked about this,” she squeaks out, picking up the hot drink and placing it outside of the booth on the sturdier surface of a coffee table.

“Sorry, sorry,” he spews out haphazardly, before sliding over to you. You prop the clipboard gently onto the floor so you can take the coffee cup from his grip. Leaning down to bestow the cup upon you, Steve mumbles, “Girlfriend.” Your hands tremble just slightly as he hands it over to you—fingertips pressing against yours. A strong grip around the coffee cup quells your shaking—but you feel extremely hot-faced. Through the waxed-glass window of the sound booth, you can see Robin flags you with a crazed, wide-eyed smile. You’re only thankful that Steve has his back turned away from her.

“You don’t have to fake it right now,” you tell him. He knows and you know and Robin knows. There’s absolutely nothing to hide amongst the three of you.

Steve tuts softly, “Well, I know that. I’m just trying to build a good habit. I don’t want to be the one who slips up.”

“Well, I definitely won’t be the slipper-upper,” you retort. It’s a half-competitive, half-truthful sentiment that urges you to stand up, shedding your blanket over the top of the rolling chair—still gripping your cup tight. This brings you and Steve chest-to-chest, you tilting your head up to meet his gaze. You swear to God that the sound booth usually feels a lot bigger than it does right now. Steve pulls at the hem of your shirt as he looks over you.

“Actually, speaking of,” Steve perks up, “I wanted to run something by you.” You try to keep it cool, letting a lowly breath pass your lips.

“Yeah?” You can feel heat fanning across your body.

“If any of our friends ask about our little movie-date—like the little P.I.’s that we know they are—we should probably make sure that our stories line up.” Right. Steve wants to make sure that you both have all your bases covered. Clever. You give him a curt nod, under the impression you’ll both just have a little study session after Robin gets off-air, when he says: “We’ll just go on it—the date. As friends.”

You’re not sure whether you should be pleased or frightened, but Steve looks rather adamant about carrying through with the whole ordeal. “Are you sure?”

“Well, yeah. We’ve already put in all this work to keep it up, so we can’t just back down now,” he tells you plainly, “I’ll even bring you flowers to seal the deal. Still, flawless plan.”

The thought of Steve showing up to your doorstep with his stupid cologne and bouquet of lilies is nice. Too nice. A part of you has to wonder whether he’s still doing it for you, or if he’s doing it for himself. Realistically, it’s a bit of both—and you’re not sure if you see this working out well for either of you. You want to tell Steve, No, you should just tell her that you love her, but the sound of Robin knocking over a stack of cassettes just outside the booth makes you falter.

“Flawless plan,” she crackly echoes, before ushering herself to the vinyl shelves. You’re certain that if she turns around to face the both of you, her face will be highlighted red from top to bottom. But, Robin merely huddles herself against the wall—face out-of-sight.

—

Steve doesn’t show up with lilies, because you both leave straight from the WSQK. The sappy offshoot: a couple of daisies picked off the lawn outside. Curfew in Hawkins means any plans are pushed back at least a couple of hours. So, your Saturday night date is more like a Saturday afternoon. The two of you roll up to Dee’s with a Daryl Hall & Oates cassette slotted into the player of his Beamer. It’s better this way, you think. More like you. You’re just glad it’s not Enzo’s, and that neither of you had to dress up. Steve spritzes his cologne, you spruce your hair up a bit. It’s comfortable.

Not too many customers at this hour—so you and Steve get placed at a booth in the corner right away. You wonder how it looks from an outsider’s perspective—if it looks right, the two of you sitting on the same side. The waitress sure buys it, with Steve ordering for the both of you with his arm scooped around the back of your seat. She takes your orders as quickly as she can so she can skitter away to the kitchens, out of sight—probably to smoke a cigarette out back. 

Once she’s gone, you turn to Steve with a hint of a smile on your face. “Okay. We should have, like, a good anecdote. Something really cute.” You want to be able to make this whole thing believable for the entire clan that is your friends.

“Right.” Steve tries to think something up, hand rubbing his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. He’s sifting through the possibilities. Then, he gets it—finger successively tapping on the surface of the vinyl table: “This old couple sat right by us and told us that we reminded us of them.” He looks so exhilarated by the little made-up scenario, head perked up like a meerkat out of Nat Geo—that you almost don’t want to shoot it down…

Still, you shoot out: “...Yeah, that sounds like bullshit.” He’s just a little bit offended—shoulders dropped, huffing out in only slight irritation.

He nudges his shoulder against yours. “Go ahead, then. Come up with something better.”

“Okay—we… got bored and played hangman on the placemats,” you volunteer. It’s not a terrible lie; Dee’s has the plain-white paper placemats, and crayons in cups just behind the counter for kids. A pretty good way to stay entertained.

“Just as bad as mine,” Steve retorts, stretching back out with his arms folded by his head, extended against the back of the seat. You’re very sure that Steve has some kind of back issues from everything you’ve been through—he’s always complaining about knots—and it worries you every now and again. Twenty-one going on sixty. It worries you even more when he does the little stretch-and-groan, an occasional test of your self-restraint. You try your hardest not to flick your gaze down to the sliver of stomach that gets exposed in his movement. Steve grumbles out: “My God—that’s gotta be from a movie or something.” Absolutely clueless. 

You keep your eyes locked on the table in front of you—hands locked neatly together. “It probably is. God knows how many bullshit romcoms we sped through back at Family Video. Probably printed onto our brains by now.” He snorts.

The waitress comes with the fries—a large plate of them for the two of you, and a cookies and cream shake with two straws plunged into the cup. You don’t remember Steve asking them to group it like that, but to ask the waitress to send it back sounds like so much of a hassle, and you’re already pretending—it would be weird if you didn’t split it. The image of the two of you sharing the shake, nose-to-nose, makes your palms sweat.

Steve doesn’t give you any flack for the panic setting in on your face, just scoots the shake towards you with a nod. You first. “I know you totally dig that stuff. You don’t have to lie,” Steve carries on, “Hots for Swayze big time.” Relief. You pull the straw into your mouth, sipping up a gulp of the shake. It cools you down, only by a bit, and you spend the next couple of seconds focusing very intently on mashing the cookies around the bottom of the cup.

“Swayze’s not my type,” you say. Too much conviction. You know your type well—got it all figured out. So, this piques Steve’s interest; his eyebrow raises up just a tad, and you can feel him eyeing you.

Steve tries again, not before chewing on a couple of fries. “Then, what is your type?” Tall, dark hair, loyal as a German Shepherd, maybe a little bit dense…

“Don’t have one.”

“Everybody has a type,” Steve insists, “I’ve got a type.” He drags the shake towards himself, out from your hands, to take a generous sip. You’re very sure that you have his type all figured out, too.

“Witty and unavailable?” Nancy Wheeler, in two words. This gets him straightened out, trying to check the validity of your suggestion. Steve mulls it over, while you find yourself grabbing for a messy stack of fries to shut yourself up. This is small-talk Hell, and you’re only making it worse for yourself.

Finally, Steve gives a noncommittal shrug—wick of black hair falling over his forehead. You’re even sure that his ears have turned a bit pink; the overhead lights of the diner are bright, not doing him any favors in concealing it. He hums, “That’s one way to put it.” Then, he slides the cookies and cream shake back over to you insistently: finish it. “You’re sure Swayze doesn’t do it for you? No? Okay. The, uh, the Indiana Jones guy,” he guesses.

“None of the above,” you retort, shaking your head with a faint grin on your face. Steve smiles to himself, only satisfied with the fact that he’s giving you a light bit of entertainment.

You spend the rest of the meal—as short as it is—thinking about his answer. It’s still daylight by the time the two of you make it out of Dee’s and back to Steve’s Beamer. On the drive to the movie theater, you’re still thinking about it. About him. It puts you into a bit of a crisis, really. Steve’s in love with Nancy, but he’s out on this date with you. It takes a bit of time to settle with it again: it’s fake, it’s a favor, and Steve’s only half-there on your behalf. He isn’t yours.

Your contemplative silence on the drive to the movie theater makes him only a little bit unnerved. Steve decides to drive the two of you around to the back of the theater—“knowing a guy who knows a guy who’ll let him park his car in the backlot.” You’re pretty sure it’s one of Steve’s old basketball teammates, but you’re not particularly inclined to call him on it. You know it’ll all be pretty patched-up once you make it through to Top Gun. Quoting lines to each other, all whispers and airy laughs, like always. Good friends.

—

You decide to go in one car for the next Wheeler-Byers dinner a week after. Robin’s already inside, planning some monthly interview for the WSQK with Nancy—so it’s just you and Steve in the Beamer, parked up on the end of the block. “Should I give you my sweater?” he asks you, shifting his gear shifting into park, “I feel like that shouts ‘We’re together now.’ You can leave your coat in the backseat, we’ll say you forgot it, and I’ll freeze my ass off. Totally sells it.” He doesn’t wait to hear your response, just slides out of the car and shuts the door soft behind him. Steve swings his keyring around his index finger, coming around to the passenger’s seat to open your door for you. He grabs your hand, helps you out of the car with a steady grip.

Once he shuts the door, you jump to ask him: “How long do you think we should keep this up?” Like a deer caught in headlights, Steve stares at you. He purses his lips. 

Erring on the side of caution, he replies, “That’s a good question. How long do you want to keep it up?”

“Well, what if there’s somebody that you really, really like and we have to stage a massive fake-breakup?” A worst case scenario given Nancy breaks up with Ionathan. Even worse: “Or, what if they expect us to kiss?” So, maybe you sound a bit immature, but it isn’t out of the realm of possibility. There’s a chance that—given enough wine—Mrs. Wheeler will become just audacious enough to ask you about the more intimate aspects of your relationship; it’d be strange for you and Steve not to be all attached at the hip. And, other places. Steve seems to think it over, hands moving to rest on his hips. He looks troubled, tapping his sneaker against the sidewalk, eyes darting across your face like he’s trying to glean something off of you.

“Okay,” he decides, a short sigh—before sidling up closer to you. He tries to kiss you—and you let him. He leans in, plants his lips onto yours—your noses tentatively bumping against one another in the quick motion. Steve’s face is hot against yours, and you can hear him let out a guttural sigh as your lips move to meet one another. It’s like a dream, the way he walks you back against the Beamer, and runs his fingers through your hair… He stops as soon as he feels you push against his chest. Your lips brush for a second more, before Steve retreats away from you. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He peels off of you to lean on the side-door of the Beamer beside you. Steve’s hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, as he looks gravely down at both of your shoes on the concrete. “Stupid idea.”

You have your arms crossed, hand over your mouth. He just kissed you—hard. You can’t say you’re not pleased with it, because you are. Extremely so. But, you’re even more confused by it than anything else. “You’re in love with Nancy,” you spout.

Steve’s head whips up, dumbfounded. “No, I’m not.”

“Uh… yeah, you are. You hate Jonathan, you get all close and weird like you do, and you can never stop staring at her.”

“I don’t hate Jonathan. I love pissing him off,” Steve corrects you. The lack of reaction that you give him makes him startled. He backtracks, “Okay, okay—maybe, I thought I had a shot with her last year, but that was last year. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was all over the place. We’re friends and all now, but that’s it.”

“But, we were talking about—y’know, on Saturday,” you stutter out, “Nance.”

“I was talking about you,” Steve shakes his head, “You’re witty and unavailable and…” His train of thought takes him right up against the truth. Steve is nearly glowing with recognition—you don’t respond, reticent, face hardened with embarrassment: “You’re jealous.”

You almost feel like bolting down the edge of the street, ditching Wheeler-Byers’, and maybe even running home. You open your mouth to protest against the claim, and Steve’s astounded expression just makes you more fired up to prove him wrong. There’s a long string of “I’m not’s” and “You are’s” that passes between the two of you, enough to lose count—God, he’s so like Robin in his stubbornness. No wonder they get along—before you finally shut him up with a loud: “I am! I’m jealous of Nancy, and it drives me crazy. Happy?”

With a tilt of his head and a shrug, Steve murmurs, “I mean, yeah.” You can only reach out to shove him by the shoulder. He lets you push him back a couple of feet, soles scuffing against the sidewalk, before he plants himself more solidly on the ground. He’s trying very hard to conceal the growing grin on his face as you swat at his arms, all pissed and flustered. The second you let up, he grips you by your arms. “I should’ve just asked you on a regular date,” Steve admits, “I kept on putting it off because you’re just so…” He moves his hands to gesture over you. “You. And, with the whole dinner thing, I thought, ‘What the hell, why not take the easy way out of friendzone?’—even though I could’ve just asked you out months ago and solved the whole issue in the first place.”

“We’ve been dancing around each other for no reason,” you murmur.

“Not a lick of it,” Steve nods, shooing you aside a bit to pull open the backseat of the Beamer. “Now, toss your coat in the back.” You shrug your coat off of yourself, taking the heavy lump of fabric and tossing it haphazardly on the leather cushions. It’s shivering cold without it on, but the heat emanating off your face makes up for the lack of layers.

It doesn’t last for long. Steve shuts the door, before grabbing at the bottom of his sweater and pulling it over his head. He gestures for you to come closer to him, before tugging it carefully over your head. You slot your arms through the sleeves, well-wrapped in the warmth of the plush fabric. He makes sure the hem is straightened out, and fixes your hair accordingly. “You’re it for me. No fake-outs.”

You hook your pinkies into his belt loops, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. A flat “oh” slips past his lips as you pull him in, and he makes sure to place his hands around your hips as your lips slot together. Again. And, again. Steve’s wearing a smirk through each of your kisses, nothing but pleased about how it’s all played out. “Can’t wait to do this all the time,” he exhales.

“Let’s get inside. I know you’re freezing to death in just this.” You pull at Steve’s white t-shirt. His shoulders are tightened, arms quickly crossed, and you can tell very clearly that he’s trying not to shiver.

—

Entry into the Wheeler house isn’t anything but excitable. As soon as you're through the front door, Robin peeks the two of you from the staircase—Steve’s red face and your swollen lips; she nearly pushes Nancy over to tumble down the steps, inspecting each of you closely. “Holy shit,” she gasps quietly, “Holy shit! Did the two of you hook up? Say yes.”

“We kissed, you dork.” You have to slap her hand away as she pokes her index finger against your bottom lip. “Don’t say the H-word. There’s kids around.”

“Holy shit, or hook-up?” Steve asks. Neither of you respond.

“Well, I’m just saying that the credit for the H-word should be given where it’s due.” Robin points two thumbs in her own direction, and you reach up to noogie her hair. She yelps, trying to pry you off of her. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up,” she tells you, but you can see her divert her attention towards Steve with a devilishly pleased expression. Robin punches him without restriction on the arm with a cheerful “You did it, bud!” 

Your eyes flit suspiciously between the two of them. She’s proud, and he’s sheepish. God, Robin’s a meddler, but you can’t be completely irritated with her. Nancy makes her way down the stairs behind Robin with a pleased smile—and a teasing “nice”—shot at all three of you before she passes through the hall. You follow her trajectory to the dining room, where you can see the rest of your motley gathering of family moving around to set the table. You’re not nearly as scared to play boyfriend-girlfriend with Steve—especially when you can feel his hand resting securely on the small of your back.

This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.

Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.

“This is the last time, Sam!”

But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.

Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.

Two: find a comfortable surface.

The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.

Three: be extremely tired.

The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.

Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.

Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.

Four:

Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.

Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.

Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.

“Comfy?”

Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.

He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.

You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.

The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.

“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”

Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.

What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.

The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.

That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.

And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.

He smells good.

That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.

Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.

Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.

By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.

─ ·✶· ─

When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.

It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.

Your skin feels warm.

It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.

How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.

Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.

It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.

“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.

He hums back. “Morning.”

“Uh… What happened?”

It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.

“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”

The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.

“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”

He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.

“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”

You blink, taken aback.

“You slept well?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”

Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.

Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?

“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.

Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.

“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”

The second time happens two weeks later.

The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.

It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.

You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.

After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.

Fatigue creeps in.

Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.

Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.

And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.

Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.

But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.

A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…

…is he alright?

Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.

You can no longer move.

Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.

His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.

Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.

But never like this.

It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.

Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.

She’s already smirking.

You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.

Might as well get some shut-eye.

─ ·✶· ─

“Hey.”

You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.

“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.

“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”

You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”

You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.

You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.

At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.

Steve starts it.

“I’ll take the couch.”

You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”

“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”

He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.

You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”

Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”

“Then take the bed.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“The couch.”

“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”

“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”

He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.

Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.

Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.

Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.

Which leads you to this point in time:

Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.

The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.

Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.

His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.

You can’t remember.

He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.

You’re counting.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shift from your side to your back.

“You caught me. You?”

He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.

“Same.”

You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.

“Does it happen often?” you ask.

He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”

You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.

“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”

He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.

He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.

“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.

You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.

Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.

“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”

He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.

You finally tell him.

“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”

Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.

Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.

On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.

You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.

They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.

In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.

But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.

Yet it tastes familiar.

Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?

What on earth does he see in you?

You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.

“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”

His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.

Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.

But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.

To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.

It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.

You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.

How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?

A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.

“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.

“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”

“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.

Your lullaby.

You don’t know he falls asleep right after.

─ ·✶· ─

Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.

Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.

It reminds him of sunflowers.

Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.

Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.

You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.

You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.

What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?

What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?

You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.

Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.

This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.

When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.

Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.

The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.

He allows himself one final thing.

Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.

Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.

The fourth time happens because you ask for it.

He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.

Wide awake on page 257.

Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.

Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.

He opens the door to see you.

The sight tears him two ways.

You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.

It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.

“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.

He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.

“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”

You part your lips, deliberating.

“I can’t sleep.”

It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.

He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.

Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.

He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.

You finally find the words.

“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”

He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.

He swallows. “Me, too.”

In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.

But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.

And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.

Every night.

“Can I please sleep with you?”

You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.

“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”

“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”

You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”

“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.

Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.

“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”

You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.

He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.

You don’t climb into the bed until he does.

“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.

You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.

“It’s not a blankie.”

“Then why’d you bring it?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”

He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.

“I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”

That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.

But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.

That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.

The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.

Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.

“You okay?” he asks.

You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”

There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.

Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.

“Can I hold you?”

He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.

You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.

So he doesn’t answer with words.

His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.

There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.

How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.

For once, he doesn’t give a damn.

He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.

Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.

A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.

You bring him both.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.

You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.

“Thank you.”

I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.

So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.

He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.

Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.

For now, he allows himself one small thing.

He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.

Each bearing a promise.

There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.

A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.

That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.

He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.

taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie

You had been explaining to him the plot of a 90s TV show you had stumbled upon while browsing during the late hours of the night.

"So the female lead, she decides to go to his house — ugh, I keep forgetting his name "

"Jerry." Jason murmurs, eyes focused on the bowl of ingredients in front of him. Regardless of what work Jason was doing, he always listened to you when you spoke. It almost felt like it was his duty to catalogue every word that left your lips. And he performed that duty to the best of his abilities. It did not matter if he was in the middle of a mission or doing the mundane tasks of living  — Jason listened.

Always listened.

"Ahh yes, Jerry, " you repeat, looking up at him with a slight smile that curves into a scowl as you gather your thoughts about the plot. "now Gabriela should dump Jerry's ass, right?"

"Yes," Jason affirms as he takes in your face, painted with annoyance.

Cute.

"But instead she begs him, like what the actual fuck ? Why do these directors even —" the vibration of your phone against the counter cuts your rant short, a wide smile replacing the frown on your face.

"It's Zara."

A few minutes into the conversation, Jason can see you hunched over, giggling about something that your best friend told you over the phone. Meanwhile, Jason had finished making the paste and, almost as a reflex, scooped a spoonful of the paste and brought it to your mouth.

His hand is under the spoon, making sure the red doesn't fall on any of your clothes. He had already made sure it was not too hot by blowing over it multiple times. You open your mouth as the stainless steel presses against your tongue, coating it with red. Jason looks at you, eyes wide with hope and lips pressed into a line.

You hum, squeezing your eyes before kissing your fingertips and moving them away towards him with a spread of your fingers accompanied by a dramatic flair.

Chef's kiss.

Jason huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he starts prepping the pan on the stove. The sudden sound of sizzling onions next to you has Zara asking whether you were at some street food corner.

"No, It's just my husband —"

You wished he hadn't listened to the slip of your tongue over the sound of his cooking but Jason always listens and you knew he had heard when you saw his entire body going still.

His back is turned away from you, broad back covered in black cotton with a spatula in hand as it remained stuck in the air, just a touch from the pan. You don't do any better as you get off the counter and scamper into your shared bedroom, all the while Zara is giggling in your ears.

It was not that Jason did not want to be your husband.

No, it would really be his honor.

But Jason Todd was not completely beyond his insecurities.

Why would anyone want to be with him for a lifetime out of their own will?

You were not one of his siblings who were obligated to be with him as a reason of familial relationship, nor were you part of his team of outlaws who possessed a shared goal.

You had been someone he had fallen in love with at the bookstore.

Was he even worth everything?

"Jason."

He turns at the soft whisper of his name. There you were, standing with your hands rubbing against each other as those angelic eyes of yours refused to meet his. You had cut the call short once the panic had morphed into fear. Zara had understood and reassured you, but your heart wanted the answer from only one person.

"I-I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, " you murmur, eyes blinking rapidly at the tears forming along your waterline. Both of you had only been dating for a year now but it would be a lie if you never thought about the prospect of marriage with Jason.

They say you know the one when you meet them.

He was the one for you.

But you never voiced it. It had been a slip of the tongue, something you wish you could take back if it had made him even a tiny bit uncomfortable.

"No angel," He takes your hands, rubbing smooth circles onto your skin over the back of your palm. "I-You want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

Jason almost doesn't let the words slip out from him, throat dry like all the moisture had been sucked. His green eyes gleam like those of the vast forests under the soft golden light of the sun. They murmur to you of peace, of love, of eternity.

"I would gladly spend every minute with you Jason. Every waking moment with you," you vowed as you peer at him, "and every non-waking moment too in my dreams." Jason chuckles, a faint glow surrounding him like love emanating from the previously filled crevices of nervousness.

Jason envelopes you, the softness of your cheek pressed against his beating heart. His chin is on the top of your head as you see the slight movement of his Adam's apple, almost like he was trying not to cry.

For the first time, someone who had no moral duty to Jason wanted to stay with him forever.

For eternity.

All because you loved him for him.

He presses a small kiss against the top of your head, gently pulling you even more closer, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly.

"I will gladly spend a lifetime with you too, my love"

Jason could feel the curve of your smile, tracing against his black t-shirt. The both of you stay wrapped in each other's presence like a warm blanket accompanied by the smell of something burning — burning?

"Jason, I think something is burning, " you say, trying to peek through the gaps of his muscled arms, but to no avail. He only lets out a contented sigh, still blissfully bathing in your warmth. You pinch his skin, a sharp yelp resounding from his mouth.

" SOMETHING IS BURNING."

Finally, Jason lets you go as you both turn towards the source of the smell. The once sizzling onions were now burnt to a crisp.

"Fuck"