keerycoded

“Okay” 

He sighs, reaching forward to squeeze your thigh gently. 

“Go get changed, and then you can come back and help me mark them. Is that okay?”

You brighten immediately, pressing one more quick kiss to his shoulder.

“Okay.”

And you actually go this time— padding off down the hall, leaving him sitting there, smiling to himself like an idiot before he even looks back at the papers.

by the time you return, bundled up and far less distracting (which is debatable, in Steve’s humble opinion), he’s fully clothed again— well shirtless this time, pen already in his hand—but the moment you settle on the corner of his lap, curling into his side, he leans into you just as much.

“Look— read this.”

Steve scoffs, dragging the paper closer before turning it toward you, pen tapping against the page.

You lean in, eyes scanning the messy handwriting, lips already twitching before you’ve even finished.

“The ovaries keep the baby before it goes into the stomach”

There’s a beat.

You can’t help yourself from laughing, head dropping against Steve’s shoulder as you try (and fail) to hold it in.

“Oh my god— Steve—”

“I know”

He cuts in, but he doesn’t sound amused. At all.

You’re still giggling, but when you glance up at him, his brows are furrowed again, mouth set in a tight line as he looks back down at the paper like it personally offended him.

“It’s like they don’t even listen to anything I say” 

He mutters, more frustrated than anything, circling something a little too aggressively with his pen.

 “I went over this— twice.”

The fact that he’s pouting like a toddler only makes you laugh harder.

“Hey—” 

He nudges you lightly, trying not to smile. 

“It’s not funny.”

“It is funny” 

You insist, wiping under your eye as you try to calm down. 

“The stomach, Steve? Really? That doesn’t make ou laugh like even a little bit?”

He groans, leaning back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face.

“I’m serious, it’s like I’m talking to a wall half the time.”

Your laughter softens then, fading into something gentler as you shift closer, resting your head against his shoulder again.

“Hey” 

You murmur, nudging him lightly with your nose. 

“Don’t take it to heart, the concept of just the word ‘ovaries’ to twelve year olds was probably enough.”

That earns a quiet huff from him, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.

“They’ll get it eventually”

You add, softer now, your hand finding his arm and squeezing.

 “And the ones that don’t? That’s on them, not you.”

He glances at you then, expression still a little annoyed— but warmer now, less tight.

“…Still annoying though” 

He mutters.

You grin, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw.

“Yeah” 

You whisper, teasing.

“But you love your stupid little students.”

He rolls his eyes, there’s no real bite to it this time, just a quiet sigh as he leans into you for a second before looking back down at the paper.

“Unfortunately.”

The night drags on in small moments like this— but not in a bad way. In a soft way that settles into your chest and stays there. A quiet, constant reminder of what you and Steve have— how easy it is, how real it feels. Something you’ve both been looking for longer than either of you would probably admit. And well now, you finally have it

“I love you.”

You mumble it into his cheek, words a little muffled where your face is pressed against his skin.

“Yeah?”

Steve’s pen, his attention shifting fully to you as he turns his head slightly. You nod against him.

“Your alright”

You pull back just enough to smack his arm.

“Steeeeve, you’re actually a dick.”

“On the topic of dicks, I could go for round two—”

You’re off him immediately, laughing, even as his hands instinctively try to pull you back into his lap.

“I’m kidding”

He grins, catching you again and settling you back where you were, arms wrapped loosely around you. 

“I love ya too.”

That softens you instantly.

You lean in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his lips before slipping away again, padding toward the freezer with a kind of dramatic purpose.

It opens with a tug. And well…sparse doesn’t even slightly cover it.

In it sits a sad bag of frozen vegetables. And the pork chops from that overly fancy work dinner with his boss the other night that neither of you have touched since.

You stare at it for a second.

“You want to go get me some ice cream from the store, Stevie?” 

You call over your shoulder, voice dripping with sweetness he knows is at least a little fake. It still works though— kinda

“Honey, all the stores are closed—” 

He starts, before cutting himself off, dropping the final paper onto the pile with a satisfied little exhale. 

“-aaaand finished.”

You turn just in time to see him stand, stretching his arms over his head.

“Let me go get a shirt, then we can go to the gas station, yeah?”

Your face lights up immediately.

“Oh, my knight in shining armour” 

You grin, grabbing your shoes from the closet across the kitchen

“What would I do without you?”

He snorts, already heading toward the bedroom.

“Starve. You would definitely starve.”

─── ⋅

The streetlights frame Steve’s face perfectly as you drive, soft gold catching on his skin, his hair, the slight crease between his brows as he focuses on the road and the flex of his bicep as his hands grip the wheel. It’s distracting. So distracting that you don’t even realise you’ve been staring until he glances over.

“What— do I have something on my face?” 

He asks, rubbing at his cheek

You shake your head, smiling to yourself, something quieter sitting underneath it.

“No… I just—” 

You pause, almost like you’re still figuring it out.

 “I can’t believe you’re real. What do you mean you’re my husband?”

Steve lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“Now you wanna be nice? Take it back to, like, maybe an hour ago.”

“Oh, c’mon. you liked that.”

“I did” 

He admits easily, a smile pulling at his lips as his eyes flick back to the road, the light turning green.

beat.

“I can’t believe you even said yes” 

He adds, quieter this time.

That makes you turn properly, studying him now.

“Really? What made you think i would say no?”

He shrugs, one shoulder lifting slightly.

“I don’t know… I’ve just never really thought anyone liked me like that. Like— actually liked me enough to wanna be with me forever.”

There’s something softer in his voice now, something a little more honest than he probably meant to let slip.

You don’t even hesitate.

“I like you a lot” 

You say, gentle but certain. 

“I love you, so much that i will be able to put up with your whining till i’m eighty”

He glances over again, just for a second, but it’s enough that you catch the way his expression shifts, something warm and a little disbelieving all at once.

“I got that hint” 

He murmurs, a smile settling in.

 “I love you too.”

The car rolls into the parking lot of the run down 7/11, headlights cutting across cracked pavement and flickering signs.

The bell rings as you step inside, a sound that rings louder than it should this late at night. Behind the counter, a teenager who looks like he hasn’t slept in days is absentmindedly picking at his fingernails, barely even glancing up.

You don’t pay him much attention anyway already making a beeline for the freezer aisle, practically skipping as Steve trails after you like a lost puppy, the same way that he always does.

“Okay, what should we get?”

You drag your finger across the fogged up glass, peering in at all the bright, colourful tubs.

“C’mon”

Steve huffs, stepping closer. 

“Is that even a question?”

Before you can even answer, he’s already opening the freezer door, reaching over your head and confidently grabbing a bright, neon-pink tub. Sherbet.

You squint up at him immediately.

“Steve… what ice cream do you think you’re holding right now?”

You tilt your head, trying not to laugh yet.

He raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed, the tub balanced in his hand as little droplets of frost melt and slide down his arm.

“Uh— your favourite? Cookies and cream.”

He says it like it’s a fact. Like there’s absolutely no room for discussion.

You press your lips together.

“Nope”

The p barely leaves your mouth before you’re breaking, laughter spilling out of you as you double over slightly.

“Wait— what?” 

He frowns, finally looking down at it properly.

“You should’ve kept your glasses on”

You manage between laughs.

He blinks at the tub. Then at you. Then back at the tub.

“…Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You’re still laughing as you gently take it from his hands, sliding it back into the freezer and replacing it with the actual cookies and cream.

“Here. This one. The not bright pink one.”

“Wow, h-how did I even mess that up?”

He huffs, shaking his head, though there’s a grin breaking through. 

“Maybe get me a colourblind test while you’re at it too.”

His cheeks are just a little pink now, whether from embarrassment or the cold air, you’re not sure— but it only makes you laugh more.

He ends up laughing with you anyway, bumping his shoulder into yours lightly as he takes the correct tub this time.

And once the moment settles, you’re already wandering off again, padding towards the chips aisle like nothing happened. You grab a bag of cool ranch Doritos without even thinking, tossing it onto the counter where Steve’s waiting.

“Experienced choice” 

He hums, eyeing the bag.

“I know what I like.”

He nods, then adds, almost absentmindedly, 

“I’ll also get a pack of Marlboros.”

You shoot him a look immediately but you don’t say anything about it. Not until you’re both back outside, the cool night air hitting your skin as the door swings shut behind you.

“Thought you quit?” 

You say, narrowing your eyes at him as he walks beside you.

 “I told you not to get into my bad habits.”

“I know” 

He shrugs easily. 

“They’re not for me. They’re for you.”

You stop.

“…What if I told you I quit?”

He freezes for half a second, turning to you so fast it’s almost comical.

“Wait seriously?”

You nod.

And the way his face lights up. You’d think that you just told him you won the lottery 

“Yeah”c

You smile.

He’s in front of you before you can even say anything else, hands finding your waist as he leans in, kissing you properly this time, guiding you back until you’re pressed lightly against the car.

“I’m proud of you, baby” 

He murmurs against your lips, voice soft, genuine.

You barely have time to react before he pulls back just enough to toss the unopened pack straight into the trash nearby.

You blink.

“That was kind of a waste of money, though.”

He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter at all.

“It’s whatever.”

And it really whatever to him.

He just smiles, opening the car door for you like it’s second nature before walking around to his side, the night settling back into something quiet and easy again.

 ─── ⋅

And when you get back home, you don’t even bother taking your shoes off properly, instead you roughly kick them somewhere by the door before heading straight for your shared bed.

You flop face first into the comforter, the ice cream tub still clutched in your hands, now more melted than not— but honestly, that’s exactly how you like it.

“You tired?” 

Steve asks from across the room, already reaching for the TV.

“Not tired enough to skip a rerun of Princess Diaries”

You mumble face still pressed against the sheets.

He lets out a fake groan, dragging a hand down his face as he grabs the tape anyway.

“Again? You probably have it memorised by now.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes wide in mock innocence.

“Please?”

He glances over at you then huffs, but there’s no fight in it.

Right as the film flickers to life, you’re already shifting, making space for him, holding out a spoon as a peace offering. Your fingers brush when he takes it, lingering just a second longer than necessary. He doesn’t say anything— just climbs into bed beside you, settling in as you immediately lean into him like it’s instinct.

The two of you dig into what’s now basically sweet, melted mush, passing the tub back and forth as the familiar opening scene plays.

You’re already mouthing some of the lines under your breath.

Steve glances down at you, amused.

“You actually do have this memorised.”

He asks, turning to face you fully. For a second— a small peaceful second that feels like everything and nothing all at once— time itself practically stills. His honey gold-brown eyes lock onto yours, sharp and searching, like he’s trying to read every thought before you even have it.

“Sort of”

You say softly.

 “My mom used to say fate’s laid out for you— you just have to work for it. I guess I… kind of believe that.”

“Wasn’t your mom a crackhead?”

You huff out a quiet laugh, nudging his splayed out arm.

 “Off the table. Anyways…I just— I don’t know. There’s something about you. About us.”

Something in his expression shifts. It’s quick, almost too quick to catch, but you see it. It’s a flicker of something deeper, something guarded. His eyes give him away for half a second before he looks like himself again, like whatever thought crossed his mind got shoved down just as fast.

“I think that’s the weed talking”

He says, letting out a short laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It does its purpose tho, filling the small space between y the two of you, but only barely.

“I don’t think it is.”

That makes him look back at you. Really look this time. His gaze drags over your face, slow and careful, like he’s searching for an out. For some hint that you’re about to laugh it off, say you didn’t mean it, drop a casual I love you like a brother and make this whole thing safe again.

But you don’t.

There’s nothing there but you, looking at him like he’s something rare. Something worth believing in. For a second, he can’t tell if it’s the weed or if you’ve always looked at him like that and he’s just now noticing.

“Elly, I—”

“I love you.”

The words leave him too fast, like they tripped over themselves on the way out. Your eyes go wide at the exact same moment his do, his own shock echoing yours, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he didn’t mean to say it at all. They screw shut tightly not even a second after 

“I mean— I like, uh—”

He clears his throat, pushing himself up a little, now leaning his elbows against the scruffed up carpet. Suddenly too aware of everything— of you, of the space between you, of what he just did and how there’s no taking it back now.

As he straightens up, his sweatpants strain against the very prominent hard on that you can obviously see. Although in this moment, he doesn’t notice it.

“Are you hard right now?”

Your gaze dips down, then back up again to a very flushed Elliot. And you wish you could take a polaroid of how he looks, his blonde curls falling messily against his forehead, catching the soft amber glow of the lamp beside you. His cheeks getting hotter and pinker at the moment so much so it reaches the tips of his ears.

He immediately moves to cover the rather large elephant in the room, tucking it into the waistband of his briefs. His hands soon come up pull and tug at the skin of his face as he lets out a large groan

“Fuck— I promise that wasn’t— I didn’t mean to make this weird, weed just makes my body horny and shit”

You’ve never seen him how he is now, so flushed and nervous, you let out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh 

“Oh, so it’s not me that’s making you horny?”

You meet his eyes again

“No! No, I mean you— shit, you are”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I sort that out for ya?”

You gesture down towards his bulge, a smirk adorning your features. 

Elliot’s jaw practically drops at your offer, he still can’t tell if this is what he thinks it is, still in disbelief. Sure, he’s always dreamed of this, let his mind wander a little too far, spacing out as he imagines how it would feel to have your warm heat wrapped around his pulsing cock. But even in those daydreams, there was always something that held him back. A line he wasn’t supposed to cross, a thought that he shouldn’t allow. Because it’s you— his best friend that he’s basically glued to. 

There’s not a version of him that exists without you in it:: every scraped knee, every stupid argument, every late-night laugh that turned into something softer. You’ve always been there, woven and stitched into everything.

You learned things together— how to roll your first joint, how to handle your first hangover. You were there for his first girlfriend too, sitting beside him through every high and every inevitable low, even when he couldn’t explain why it never felt right. Because for him it wasn’t her, it was never her it was always without any shawdow of a doubt, you. 

And that’s the part that twists something uneasy in his chest. Because wanting you feels like wanting something he was never meant to have— like risking the one thing in his life that’s ever been steady, ever been certain. Like if he reaches for it, he might lose you entirely and that in itself would probably kill him. Because he’s never had to live in a world without you at his doorstep every single morning. 

“Are you being serious right now? ’cus I genuinely can’t— like, if this is some kind of joke—”

His words stumble over themselves, breath catching somewhere between hope and embarrassment.

You shake your head before he can spiral any further, your gaze steady now, heavy with something that’s been sitting there longer than either of you have been willing to admit.

“Not a joke”

You murmur. 

“I promise.”

Your teeth catch your lower lip, nervous, waiting.

For a second, Elliot just exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to ground himself You’re still there in front of him. Still looking at him like that.

He can’t really tell when he moves, all he knows is that you do to. 

It’s messy, the way your lips meet. There’s no perfect timing, no careful build up. Just two people who’ve wanted this for too long finally closing the distance all at once. Your lips press together, a little clumsy at first, but warm and desperate in a way neither of you tries to hide.

Nothing about it is soft, it’s  hungry, and a little breathless

Elliot lets out a quiet, rough groan against your mouth, his hand coming up almost instinctively to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real. 

You swing a leg over his lap, settling there as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer into you— like that’s even possible. There’s no space for hesitation anymore.

Elliot’s hands find you almost instantly, hovering for half a second before his fingers are pressing deep into the plush of your thighs

Your forehead nearly bumps his, breaths mixing, uneven and shared. It feels like you’re running on him now— treating him as if he’s your main and only source of oxygen, every inhale only works because he’s right there, close enough to steal it from.

At the very second that his tongue slips past your lips to slide against yours, you tentatively roll your hips forward. Clit brushing just above his dick in a way that feels undeniably electric.

“Shit”

Elliot groans against your lips

“D-do that again”

So you do, and then you grind again to the point that his hard heat below you is twitching. 

Elliot’s hands shift up towards the seam of your tank top, bunching the side of the fabric up to feel any sliver of your hot skin under his sweaty palms

“Can I take this off?”

the words are pressed against your lips, you nod feverishly, letting him slip the warm fabric above your head. 

Elliot chokes on nothing against your lips when he realises your not wearing a bra. He pulls back just enough to catch a glimpse of your bare breasts that he’s practically face to face to at this point

“holy shit”

He mumbles, not touching— not yet, just staring. You grow shy under his piercing gaze, instinctively folding in on yourself 

“Is that a good holy shit or a bad holy shit” 

“Good, really really good”

He stares for a couple more seconds, as if your something fragile that can’t be touched, before his mouth is dipping forward, tonguing the flesh around your nipple before his teeth roll the sensitive bud between them.

His hands grab at the neglected chunk, his mouth working one side while his fingers knead and pull at your soft, sensitive skin. 

You moan softly, hands grabbing onto his short blonde curls as he continues to lick at your boobs

“These tits are so perfect, better than i ever imagined”

His words vibrate against you, but you still hear them loud and clear

“Y-you”

You moan when his mouth detaches from your left nipple to the neglected one, his tongue moving slowly and tortuously in the same way he was doing before

“you’ve imagined this?”

You manage to breathe out, back arching towards him 

“Oh yeah”

He says between kisses to the expanse of skin between your breasts

“Every”

Kiss

“Single”

then another kiss

“goddamn night”

Your pulling him off of you at that, letting your tongue slip past his mouth yet again. 

This kiss is quicker, sloppier and full of every pent up need the two of you are feeling 

“Hm— Elly?”

He hums against you, pulling back to rest his sweaty forehead against yours 

“Will you fuck me?”

His eyes go wide, and then he’s nodding, sheepishly so. He wasn’t expecting your forwardness but who is he to complain? If anything that made the ache in his briefs even worse

“You want that babydoll?”

He asks once more, hands sliding down the sides of your stomach, rubbing tight, grounding circles against your skin. You swear he can probably hear your heartbeat jumping through your veins

“Please”

That’s all it takes for him to be flipping you onto your back against the rough carpet, he wastes no time ripping off his clothes. When he does so your met with his toned, tan body which makes you clench your thighs even tighter to try and release any tension that’s built up— it’s not effective

He tears his sweatpants off, briefs falling down too. That sight has your mouth watering. His cock springs free before his trousers even hit the floor, hot and heavy against his stomach. It’s big, bigger than you thought (Because you have thought about it) Must be at least seven inches of thick flesh, the tip is a pretty colour with a bead of pre sliding out. Yeah holy fuck.

“Like what you see?”

He smirks, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth

“Does that not hurt?”

You ask, sliding off your shorts before he tsks, stopping you to take them off instead

“Kinda but you’re gonna help me out with it no?”

His voice is deep, laced with something you’ve never heard before, something deeper, lustful. You can feel his warm breath against your cunt when he pulls down your shorts to see your lacy black panties

He moans at the sight, kissing forward on the fabric that lays just above your clit. 

“you always this wet for me?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as he pulls your panties aside. He groans at your bare pussy, sliding his fingers through your puffy folds to gather as much of your arousal as he can before he’s pressing his middle finger inside

You moan at the stretch, body instinctively trying to run away from Elliot’s calloused hands

“I know, I know baby but we gotta get you stretched out ‘kay?”

“Mm”

you hum back when he manhandles your body back in to place, one hand rubbing vigorous circles on your clit while the other pumps in and out of you

“Fuck Elliot, put ‘nother one”

You mutter, hips bucking forward 

“Shit yeah? Want my fingers to fill up this tight pussy?” 

His ring finger easily slides in after, he hooks them at an angle that hits right against the spongy spot inside you that has your vision going white. 

His fingers senselessly thrust in and out of you while his thumb rubs tightly on your pounding bundle of nerves. He feels the way your gummy walls clench around him so perfectly

“Fuck y’ gonna cum? I got you”

His pace increases which has the coil that has wounded tight inside you snapping almost immediately, your a moaning mess as he works you through your orgasm. You whine when he releases his fingers, moving up to rub your oversensitive clit once more before he’s reaching in the drawer next to his bed.

He pulls out a foil wrapper, holding it in his mouth as he takes a pillow from the bed, slotting it just below your hips to keep you raised up— just enough 

Elliot swears he could come right then and there at the sight of you waiting for him, so perfect and so exposed in a way he’s always wanted to see, arousal dripping down the sides of your thighs justfor him, only for him. 

“Let me do it”

You breathe out, taking the foil out of his mouth and tearing it with your teeth instead. You chuck it off to the side and move to stroke his thick cock. It feels hot and heavy in your palm, and your hands can barely wrap around it- but you still try, giving a few soft strokes. 

Elliot grunts in response to your soft hands— courtesy of all that nice hand cream you keep stashed in your bag he thinks. You then slowly place the rubber over his flushed cock, essentially suffocating it in a way that feels brutally good.

You spit in your hand, lubing up his cock inch by inch before settling back into your space. 

Elliot kneels there for a second, just looking, eyes dark and full of want. And you swear that the build up is going to kill you, but just as quickly as the second is over, he’s slowly pushing his tip into your sopping hole

The burn is immense but so good at the same time, you disassociate from everything else in the room apart from where your two bodies meet, watching as his thick cock is slowly enveloped by your tight heat.

“Fuck your so tight, almost halfway there baby— i gottchu”

Your eyes widen

“Only halfway? Jesus Elliot”

You moan as he pushes further in you

“I know, I know, jus’ relax f’me”

His hand moves towards your clit, rubbing soft circles to relax your pulsing cunt, from the sensation of his thick dick filling you up and the rough pad of his finger against you, already has you on edge— and he’s not even started thrusting into you yet

“There you go, almost there— your doing so well, pussy sucking me up so good”

He fully bottoms out with a sound that inches close to a moan, and he just stills, forehead dipping down to kiss at the bulge in your stomach 

“Your so gorgeous like this, full of my cock, this pussy of yours was made for me fuck”

He begins to shallowly thrust in and out, only slightly pulling back before breaching his way back in to your aching hole. 

The sound of your pornographic moans and skin slapping against skin fills the room. Elliot starts to piston into you harder, clearly getting into a flow that feels just as good for you as it does him. He lifts your legs up over his shoulders, pressing into a deeper part of you that makes you see stars

“Holy fuck— Elly m’ so close”

You breath out, words cut off by a loud moan. Elliot’s hands reach below your hips to knead at your ass 

“Yeah? Me too”

He roughy slaps the plush skin of your ass before his lips conjoin back with yours. 

His pace is brutal and rough, which pushes you right over the edge. Your walls clench against Elliot’s cock, flooding it with your release. He greedily swallows up every moan that comes out your mouth before he follows shortly after.

His thrusts messily shift from straight to uneven before he fully stills, spilling into the condom that surrounds him. 

He presses another short kiss to your lips before moving to pull his softening cock out. The room is filled with the two of your pants along with the sharp hiss you let out when Elliot’s cock leaves your aching cunt.

It’s quiet in a different way now.

Not heavy, not uncertain anymore, the air just feels soft and settled. Like your finally silently admitting to something youve been carrying for years 

You watch him as he moves around the room, a little slower than usual, he’s still half caught in everything that just happened. He tosses the condom, shuts the drawer, glances back at you like he needs to make sure you’re still there.

“M’ gonna go to the bathroom, okay? I’ll be right back.”

You nod, too relaxed to say much, and he’s gone for barely a moment before he’s back again— glass of water in one hand, washcloth in the other.

You’re leaning back on your elbows when he kneels in front of you, his touch gentle, almost shy again as he cleans the leftover slick on your thighs, careful not to press against you too hard. It’s quieter than before, more careful. Intimate in a completely different way.

Somewhere along the line, the haze has worn off. You’re not high anymore— not even a little. Everything feels clear, sharp. Making this feel even realer than before 

“What do we do now?” 

You ask, your voice barely there.

Elliot pauses, his hands stilling for a second before he looks up at you. There’s something vulnerable in his expression again, something he’s not even trying to hide anymore. 

“I meant what I said about me loving—”

“-yeah, I figured.”

You cut him off gently, quickly. Not because you don’t feel it— you do, it’s sitting there heavy in your chest but because saying it out loud feels like stepping over a line you can’t uncross. Like once it’s fully spoken, everything changes in a way you can’t control. Thirteen years is a long time to risk. but fuck it

“I love you too.”

The words come out quieter than you expect, but they land just the same.

And Elliot— he lights up.

It’s instant, uncontrollable. His arms come around you, pulling you forward like he can’t help himself.

“You do?” 

He asks, almost disbelieving, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. This one’s different.

Slower. Gentle. No rush, there’s no urgency in the way his lips press against yours, it’s just warmth. Like he’s learning you all over again in this new space you’ve made together.

“Yeah” 

You murmur against his mouth. 

“Like… a lot.”

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, grinning like he doesn’t know what to do with all of it.

“Okay, good” 

He breathes. 

“’cus I love you— like a lot too.”

You huff out a small laugh at that, but it softens into something quieter as his fingers drift through your hair, absent and fond.

“Why didn’t we just fuck on the bed?”

 You mumble, glancing over at it, barely a foot away. 

“My back’s killing me.”

He snorts, the sound breaking through the softness.

“Was the cramp worth it?” 

He asks, leaning in to steal another quick kiss.

You pretend to think about it, squinting at him.

“I’d go through a zillion more cramps if it meant having sex like that again with you.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you cringe hard, groaning as you pull away and flop face-first onto his mattress.

“Jesus— sorry I’ll shut up”

Elliot’s already laughing, following you without hesitation, dropping beside you like he’s been pulled there.

“A zillion isn’t even a number” 

He says, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder 

“It is ‘cause I said so” 

You mumble into the sheets.

“Oh, alright. My bad.”

He’s still smiling when he pulls the covers over both of you, tucking you in like it’s second nature. Like this fits just as easily as everything else always has.

You end up curled into him without really deciding to, your head tucked against his shoulder, his arm draped loosely around you. It’s quiet again.

But this time there’s no overthinking. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you and the absent way his fingers trace along your arm

Tomorrow might be complicated. Things might shift, or get messy, or feel too big to handle all at once.

But Right now, you’re here. He’s here.

—————————————————————————

me trying to convince you guys to get into blonde dominic fike era bcos i swear him and blonde keery are literally sisters!! please listennn (also because i will probably be writing more elliot fics but dw i would never leave my homeboy steve waiting, im just broadening my horizons)

Cons like how he spends most of his Saturdays out on the pitch, crouched in the dirt and squinting into the sun, trying his best to convince a group of kids that, yes, they can hold a bat properly and maybe, maybe, hit the ball this time. Or how he’s up way too late most nights, sleeves pushed up and red pen in hand, squinting at papers on the female reproductive system and everything else that comes with trying to teach a bunch of twelve year olds something they only half listen to.

But it’s not all bad. There are perks, too. Like the way all the middle aged moms seem to think they’ve got even a sliver of a chance with him— lingering a little too long at pick up, smiling a little too sweet. Right up until you show up to get him, or when they spot the sweet note you tucked into his freshly made lunch that morning. And then there’s Steve himself, sat at the kitchen dining table late at night, rubbing at his eyes before reaching for the one thing he actually can’t do without when it comes to deciphering that kind of handwriting— his reading glasses— perched low on his nose while he tries to make sense of it all.

Every time you catch even the smallest glimpse of the furrow between his brows and how the glasses catch and glint in the low lamplight, you’re practically a river, knees turning to putty as you watch him scribble tiny notes in the margins of each answer.

Like just now.

You’d barely thought when you pulled your robe over your silk pyjamas, tying it loose, walking mindlessly towards the kitchen until you catch the sight of your beautiful husband and the glasses that are pressed right up against his face. You practically freeze in your tracks, thighs pressing tightly together as you linger in the doorway. Your lower lip catches between your teeth while you watch him, completely absorbed, head tilted slightly as he works through yet another stack of papers.

He hasn’t even noticed you. Currently too focused on whatever wildly incorrect answer one of his students has come up with this time.

“You want to come to bed?”

Your voice breaks through the quiet, soft but enough to make him jolt upright, pen pausing mid sentence. He blinks, a little dazed, before finally looking up, his honey eyes finding yours across the room.

And then dropping toward your frame 

His jaw slackens just slightly at the sight of your bare legs, the robe doing very little to hide them, before reality catches up with him. The papers that sit in front of him and how the deadline is tomorrow.

A dramatic groan leaves him as he leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face.

“I know— I’m sorry, I need to get these finished.”

“Can’t you do them tomorrow?”

You pout, already moving toward him, slow and deliberate.

“They’re due tomorrow, honey” 

He sighs, softer now, apologetic as he glances back at the stack. 

“I’m sorry— promise I’ll be done soon?”

“Hmph… okay. Can I watch you do them?”

You ask, leaning against the hardwood table, the cool surface pressing against the warmth of your bare skin.

“Of course you can, baby.”

He answers easily,  already turning back to the paper in front of him, attention slipping from you almost as soon as he’s said it.

Oh. Okay.

That’s how it is.

Your eyes narrow just slightly, watching the way his pen starts moving again like you didn’t just walk in here, like you aren’t standing right there. Like he didn’t just look at you like that a second ago.

You shift your weight, deliberately slow, the floor creaking softly beneath you as you inch a little closer. Close enough now to see the way his brows knit together again, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he focuses. Still not looking at you.

“Steve.”

You say it softer this time, almost sweet— but there’s something deeper underneath it. He doesn’t look up

Another con you forgot to mention is how much Steve cares about his work— almost too much. To the point where he overworks himself without even realising it, runs himself into the ground over a stack of papers and a red pen, gets so caught up in doing everything right that he forgets to take care of himself at all. He stresses and he overthinks, he stays up too late telling himself just one more paper until it turns into twenty.

And the thing is, you know him.

You know exactly how he gets, the little tells, the way his shoulders start to tense, how his brows pull together tighter and tighter the longer he goes on. You see it happening before he even does. But more importantly, you know exactly how to fix it.

Your hands move toward the fabric of your robe, untying the little bow at your waist and letting it slowly drop off your shoulders as if your a present ready to be unwrapped. 

It could be taken as a mistake, or an invitation. 

Steve is still focused on the papers, not even hearing the light thud of the heavy garment hitting the floor. So…you continue. 

Your hand slowly snakes down your body to your pulsing heat, and you quietly gasp at the feeling of your arousal seeping through the fabric of your sleep shorts. Your fingers begin to slowly rub at the swollen nub between your legs, rolling it between your fingers before reverting back to pressing tight circles against your clothed skin. The friction of the silk atop of your pulsing clit is  delivering an unimaginable sensation. 

The moment you let a moan slip past your lips, Steve finally looks up. His gaze takes the sight of you in and he exhales through his nose. There you are, infront of him, pleasing yourself because he’s too busy to do it for you, hair stuck against your forehead, breaths uneven and short, what type of husband is he? To not at least help out— but fuck…the papers. He still has six more to mark. 

“Baby, cmon— I told you, I’ll be done soon, then I’ll help okay?”

He grunts, eyes still glued to you, and your soft hands against your body

“That’s fine—”

You pant, other hand reaching your breast— pressing and pulling your pebbled nipple eliciting another sweet moan out of your pinkish red lips

“-I can do it myself”

Your hand stops and your body almost jolts at the loss. You begin to shed yourself of your pjs, taking off the top first as Steve eyes hungrily rake over you. Then painfully you remove the tiny shorts, raising your body up to sit atop the table— avoiding the papers of course because why would you get in the way of his work?

Your feet hit the seat next to Steve, and you spread your thighs open, hand quickly moving back down to your sopping cunt. 

Steve lets out a breath through his nose as he watches your fingers slide between your folds. You whine as you slip your middle finger into your tight hole, the pressure not enough— nothing like Steve’s rough calloused fingers at all. But to keep up the show, you continue.

The room is filled with the sound of your finger plunging in and out of your wet heat and your loud moans. Steve’s mouth is practically watering, the papers entirely forgotten as he watches you try your hardest to reach your peak, even though it doesn’t seem to be happening. If it were Steve’s hands, he would have had you coming around him in seconds. So he takes this as his in. Screw the papers he can do them tomorrow morning

Steve’s shifts out of his seat, hands reaching towards your thighs. When you hit them away, he stops immediately.

“Baby wha— let me help you okay?”

“No Steve”

You moan, your fingers pulling out of you and reaching towards your swollen clit to rub two tight circles before plunging back into you

“Please? Please just let me touch you.”

Bingo. You have Steve exactly where you want him. You shake your head at his please, your gaze hazed and heavy lidded

“I promise I’ll make it worth your while. Please honey—“

Steve breathes out, hands resting just between your thighs

“-Let me make you feel good mkay?”

With a loud groan, you give him what he so desperately wants. Shifting your body forward till you’re practically off the table.

Steve jumps at the opportunity, hands immediately grasping your breasts. You whine under his touch, his methodical fingers rolling your stubborn peaks. 

Steve’s lips ghost over your pulsing nub once, then twice. Before he stops, hands reaching towards the glasses that sit on his nose

“No—“

You breathe out, hips involuntarily jerking up towards him

“Keep them on”

Steve’s eyes widen at the request, and then he’s diving in towards your pussy like a man starved. His tongue rotates between sliding through your puffy folds and sucking and tonguing at your clit. 

His satisfied moans vibrate against your heat, and you swear you can hear church bells just from his tongue alone. 

You already got yourself worked up enough, so it’s only merely a couple minutes before your falling apart one his tongue, body rolling against his face as you finally reach your peak. Gushing all over Steve’s mouth as he works you through it. Tongue still pushing in and out of your heat until he knows you’ve calmed down. 

When Steve pulls back, he’s smiling. Lips red and swollen— glossy and drenched in your slick. He shuffles back to sit on the hardwood chair— an in for you to straddle him. 

He works quickly on his jeans, unbuttoning himself and sliding his briefs down along with the rough fabric of the denim. He lets an out sigh of relief when his cock springs free. Achingly hard and red, pressing against his blue button up.

“Take your shirt off too”

You say, finally sliding off the table to sit on top of him, legs swinging around either side of Steve’s thighs. 

He lets out a shaky breath, fingers fumbling to unbutton his shirt. You don’t help him. Instead your hand traces the vein on the underside of his shaft. Then you wrap your hand around his heavy base, slowly inching up. 

Steve’s hips buck into yours and his head falls back, the shirt sliding off his shoulders to reveal the thick hair that adorns his chest. 

Your hand speeds up, still wrapped around his thick cock, slowly circling around until he’s writhing below you

“Yeah— shit that’s it— mm”

Steve moans, head falling back against the chair

Once you feel him twitching below you, you halt your movements. Steve’s head has never whipped up faster

“Fuck— why— please”

He mutters out, nodding towards your hand stilled around his pulsing cock

“Please move again”

He fucking whimpers when your hand starts to rotate against him again 

“You like that?”

Your voice is deep, laced with something he’s never seen before

“Oh— oh yeah, I like it, please keep going fuck—“

You continue to pump his cock, feeling him get closer and closer, your fingers rub over the slit on his tip before moving back down again

“I’m gonna cum”

Steve’s a moaning mess under you, squirming and bucking up in your hand. Once you’re sure he’s going to come, you stop. 

Steve groans, eyes blowing wide. Before he can speak or bitch about, you quickly sink down on him. Your warm pussy envelops Steve, welcoming him in to your tight hole

“Fuck baby— oh my god”

You still for a second, feeling the way he fits into you almost perfectly. like His cock was made to be inside you, and you only. Your hands wrap around his neck, finally you press your lips to his.

The kiss is hot and messy, tongues gliding against eachotehr. Your moans are swallowed up eagerly by Steve’s mouth as you begin to move. 

Steve pistons his hips to meet your movements, hitting the spot deep within you. 

You moan against his lips, quickening your pace. The rough pad of Steve’s finger rubs against your clit, simultaneously pushing you over edge. Your whole body convulses against his cock as you reach your peak.

Steve quickly follows after, still built up from your teasing before. His cum fills you in white hot,short spurts. 

The room is sweaty, humid air clinging between your bodies. The only sound being your uneven breaths and the slick noise of Steve’s cock leaving your pussy. You hiss at the loss, feeling Steve’s cum drip down your inner thigh. 

“Same time tomorrow night?”

Steve’s voice comes out rough, breath still uneven, forehead resting against your shoulder as he tries to steady himself.

You hum softly in response, nodding as your fingers find his hair, gently pulling him back into you.

“Yeah” 

You whisper, he exhales something close to a laugh, tired and fond all at once, and you catch the way his grip tightens just slightly around you— like he’s not quite ready to let go yet.

So instead of moving away, you just kiss him again. It’s much slower this time, softer. No urgency left in it, just warmth, just him, just the quiet aftermath of everything settling into something familiar again.

When you finally pull back, it’s only far enough to rest your forehead against his.

⭑

Gator was nervous… no, actually, he wasn’t.

Because Gator doesn’t get nervous. He is never nervous. He’s a winner.

At least that’s what he tells himself as the hinges of his truck door creak open, loud in the quiet. The neon pink sign spills over the parking lot, painting everything a dull, sickly rose. The lot itself, sits mostly empty, a few cars scattered like they’ve been left there too long. The air feels thick— fog settling low, heavy in his lungs. Only sounds are his boots on snow and the muffled thump of music bleeding through the walls.

Snow crunches under each step as he makes his way to the door, slower than he’d like. His hand hovers over the cold steel handle for a second too long before he pulls in a breath and steps inside.

It’s empty at first glance. Just a room with black painted walls and glossy pictures of girls with little to nothing on, all frozen mid pose. Gator keeps his eyes forward.

A pair of thick hands lands on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m gonna have to see your ID—”

The bouncer cuts himself off, words tripping over each other the second he gets a good look.

“-Mr. Tillman— I’m— uh, go right ahead.”

Gator doesn’t acknowledge him, just scoffs under his breath and keeps moving. A curtain of plastic beads brushes over his shoulders, clicking softly, before he steps into the main room.

Neon light floods everything— pink, blue and something in between— making it hard to tell what anything really looks like. The speakers blast some old, warped song Gator doesn’t recognize, bass low and humming through the floor. Girls drift around the room, laughing too loud, leaning too close, talking circles around the handful of drunks scattered across the place.

Their outfits barely count as such. A string thong here, a micro bikini there. Some of them topless, some holding onto the illusion of modesty by a thread.

Gator ignores them. Walks straight to the bar.

“Whiskey.”

He doesn’t look at the bartender when he says it. Just sits, shoulders squared, staring straight ahead as he takes slow sips, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The girls clock him quick.

They’re not stupid. They know who he is. Everyone knows who Gator Tillman is and if they don’t, they learn.

“Hiya”

A voice cuts in from his left. A girl taps her nails against the bar to get his attention.

Red hair, split into two braids. Glitter dusted across her cheeks, her collarbones, catching the neon like frost. She’s topless— Gator notices that part immediately.

“I’m Lola.”

Sure you are.

“Gator.”

He says it flat, barely sparing her a glance. Not like she needs the introduction.

“You wanna go to the back?”

She tilts her head toward a dim corner past the poles, where the light fades into something softer, more private.

“Will it cost me?”

She shakes her head, slow, toying with a loose strand of hair between her fingers.

“Free of charge.”

A pause. Then a heavy heavy-lidded look.

“Only for you.”

Her voice drops, something practiced in it, something a little too smooth.

She stands, already reaching for his hand before he agrees, guiding him toward the back like it’s a done deal.

The air shifts the second they step in. It feels stuffy, it’s warmer, thicker. A row of half sectioned booths lines the wall, each one hidden behind curtains that don’t quite close all the way. An idea of privacy, but not really. 

Gator can clearly make out what’s happening in each corner of the booth. Dances and blowjobs— all transactional. 

She pulls him into one.

Gator sits on the bench, the vinyl sticking faintly through his jeans.

Lola doesn’t waste any time. Her hands press flat against Gator’s police vest, fingers splayed against the rough f fabric.

He just sits there— doesn’t touch, doesn’t dare to. He watches. That’s what Gator does. Always watching.

She rolls her hips, slow and practiced, moving to straddle him like it’s muscle memory, like she’s done this a hundred times before tonight.

Gator’s gaze drifts.

It slips past her shoulder, catching on the thin gap where the curtain doesn’t quite meet. Just enough space to see into the booth across. There’s glitter there.

Not on Lola but on the other girl. Threaded through her hair like tinsel, catching the low light, flashing every time she moves. And she moves different.

Loose, unbothered. Like the music belongs to her, like the room bends around her instead of the other way around. There’s something careless in it, something almost holy. Like this is the only place she gets to exist right. It’s art, really 

Her body rolls over the man in her lap, slow and deliberate, but her face, oh her face is somewhere else entirely.

Then she turns.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Her eyes catch his through the slit in the curtain. And it hits him all at once.

Gator’s eyes go wide.

Immediate. Sharp. Like a gunshot going off in his chest.

No way……is that?

The receptionist?

The girl from the station.

The one behind the desk every morning, hair twisted up in a loose, falling-apart bun. Glasses sliding down her nose, always pushing them back up with the side of her finger. Quiet. Plain. Easy to overlook if you weren’t paying attention. The girl who comes in juggling the coffee orders between her hands. Wearing cardigans that don’t fit quite right. Soft colors. Nothing like—

This.

Here, she’s all shimmer and skin and heat. No glasses. Hair undone, falling around her shoulders with strands stuck to glitter and sweat. Her mouth parted just slightly, breath visible in the way her chest rises and falls.

Your eyes go wide at the same moment you recognize him. Your boss. Here. At your job. The one they don’t know about. The one no one knows about.

It knocks the breath clean out of you. Your body goes still mid motion, like something’s cut the wire. Everything slows, goes distant and loud all at once. The man beneath you notices.

Because of course he does.

His hands come up, impatient, grabbing at your hips like he’s trying to set you back into place, something to be adjusted

“Don’t touch me.”

Your voice cuts through quick. Sharp. Not part of the act anymore.

You look away from Gator’s piercing stare to look at the man below you, to really look at him for the first time in the hour.

“Excuse me?”

His voice is rough

“I said don’t touch me” 

You repeat, steadier now, even if your pulse is still kicking hard under your skin. 

“I didn’t give you permission to.”

A beat. Then—

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

His voice rises, echoing ugly against the thin walls, louder than it needs to be. His grip tightens instead of loosens.

“I’m paying you, do your job properly”

Lola pauses, head turning toward the sound, brows pulling just slightly. The rhythm of the room stutters, just for a second. 

Gator’s already watching. He hasn’t looked away. Not once. Not since he realized it was you.

Something in his jaw sets, slow and hard. His eyes track every second of it. He looks over your face, the man’s hands, the way your body’s gone stiff instead of soft.

The man’s voice keeps going, louder now, meaner, filling the small space like it owns it.

“Start moving bitch! Do you think you’re better than me? Because I’m here and you’re on top? Because let me tell you one thing little miss, your just a slut— getting payed to sell your dignity”

The man’s words slur, tilting forward, sharp. You hate to admit it, hate to admit that his words sting. 

Gator moves.

He pushes Lola off him without so much as a glance, already standing, already stepping toward the curtain before it’s fully out of his way.

He’s moving faster now.

Gator pushes into the space, yanking the curtain aside so hard the rings nearly snap clean off, clanging loud enough to turn heads across the room.

“Problem here?”

His voice is low. Even. The kind that doesn’t need to raise to be heard. Your head doesn’t turn towards him.

You don’t need to look— you feel him there. You pull in a breath, steadying yourself.

“Who the hell are you?”

The man looks past you, eyes catching on the vest first. Then the face.

“Gator”

A beat

“Tillman”

Gator’s head tilts, just slightly. 

The shift is immediate

The man’s hands drop off you like he’s been burned. He stumbles backward, scrambling to get out from under you before shoving you off in the process. Pathetic.

He doesn’t say another word. Just bolts, ducking past Gator and out of the booth quick as he can manage. Gone.

“Shit.”

Gator breathes your name under his breath, quiet, like he’s not sure he should be saying it at all. His eyes drag back to you.

You’re not naked. Not dressed either.

You’re embarrassed. Not from being seen but from everything that just happened. The way it happened.

Gator sees it. Maybe not all of it, but enough. The stiffness in your shoulders. The way you won’t quite look at him.

“Why did you do that?”

Your voice cuts through before he can say anything else. Sharp. Clean. It’s not forgiving, not like how Gator expected it to be.

It throws him.

“What’re ya talking about?” 

He spits back, brows pulling together. 

“I helped you.”

You scoff, quick and dry.

“That—” 

You gesture vaguely toward the curtain, the room, him, everything. 

“This was none of your business.”

The words land harder than he expects.

Before he can answer, before he can figure out what to say that won’t make it worse, you’re already moving.

You shove past him. Your shoulder clipping his arm just enough to make a point and you’re gone 

Gator turns, instinct kicking in, ready to follow, to chase. To force like he’s used to.

But he hesitates. Just for a second.

And in that second, you’re already swallowed back into the neon.

⭑

Your head pounds the morning after.

A dull, throb sitting right behind your eyes. You fall back into routine anyway, like muscle memory, like if you just keep moving it’ll blur out what happened. It doesn’t.

You sit in the station parking lot, engine off, the clock on the dash reading 7:48 a.m. The February sun peeks out from behind the building, weak and pale like it doesn’t want to be here either. At least you don’t want to be here. 

You finish writing out names on the coffee cups, neat, practiced handwriting. Your fingers stutter just slightly when you pick up Gator’s. Dark coffee. Just like his father.

No milk. No creamer. No sugar. Just raw. Bitter.

But every morning, you watch. You watch him take that first sip, face barely shifting, just a flicker— something sour. Then he drifts off toward the kitchen like it’s nothing, like no one’s paying attention.

Every time, he slips in three sugar cubes And two dashes of creamer. Quick. Quiet.

As if it’s something to be ashamed of. Because he’s not who he tries to be. Not really. Not the version he puts on. The versions of him that’s hard, untouchable, just like his father. You know that.

You’ve seen it. The way he folds in on himself when Roy’s around. The way his voice changes. The way he watches the floor instead of meeting his eyes. Strong isn’t the word for him. Not like he wants it to be.

You push through the glass doors, the cold biting for just a second before the warmth of the station swallows you whole.

“Morning.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

You echo it back. The good mornings, hello’s, a smile that never quite reaches your eyes. You weave between desks like second nature, setting cups down by name, not missing a beat.

Gator’s not in yet. Of course he’s not.

You place his coffee at the front desk— your desk— right where he always grabs it. Your fingers linger on the lid for just a second too long before you pull back.

With practiced poise, you make your way to Roy’s office. Two knocks. Controlled. Measured. Not too soft that he won’t hear it but not too loud, not irritating.

“Come in.”

His voice carries through the door— low, heavy. Something in it sits wrong, always has.

You push the door open slowly, slipping inside with a smile already in place.

“Good morning, Mr. Tillman.”

Your voice is sweet. Light. Not real.

“Sweetheart, how many times have I told you to call me Roy?”

“Sorry.”

You step closer, handing him his coffee along with a small stack of reports you collected on the way in. Your movements are careful, precise. Nothing wasted.

Roy takes a slow sip. His eyes don’t leave you.

“Gator in yet?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

His head tilts, familiar. An action Gator picked up.

“Roy— sorry, habit.”

You let out a small laugh, just enough to smooth it over. Your hands slip into the pockets of your blue cardigan, fingers curling into the fabric.

“What shenanigans have you been getting into?”

His tone shifts. The smile drops. The air in the room follows.

“I— um—”

Your stomach drops.

Fuck. What did Gator say?

Before you can scramble, before you can fix it, apologize, anything—

Roy speaks again.

“This coffee’s got milk in it, sugar.”

His voice is calm. You let out a breath that you didn’t even know you were holding, okay. It’s not the job, it’s the coffee

“Fetch me another one.”

Fetch.

Like you’re a dog. Like he owns you.

You move quick, grabbing the cup without arguing, without even letting your face change. Years of practice.

“Of course.”

You slip out of the office, door clicking shut behind you a little faster than usual. The air outside feels easier to breathe, but not by much. You don’t think.

You swap the cup for Gator’s sitting at your desk, fingers tight around it. Simple fix.

You’ll tell him it was a mix up. Names got switched. It happens.

“Sweetheart, that’s my coffee. Where’re ya going with that?”

You stop mid step.

Gator’s voice lands behind you, casual like always, but there’s something in it now—something that lingers.

“I got them mixed up, Gator.”

Gator. Not sir. Not Mr. Tillman. Not like his father. Not like everyone else.

“That one’s yours.”

You point toward the cup marked ‘Roy’ without turning fully, already moving again before he can say much else.

You don’t wait.

You hand Roy the coffee, apology soft and quick, practiced enough to sound real. He doesn’t question it this time. Doesn’t look at you the way he did before.

You don’t linger.

You make your way back out, back to the front desk. And he’s still there.

Gator leans against the wood like he owns it, elbows planted taking up more space than he needs.

He lifts the cup to his lips, takes a sip.

No reaction. No bitterness twisting his face like usual, theres no cough, no pause.

There’s milk in it.

He doesn’t say a word about it.

“Didn’t know you had hobbies.”

That grin spreads wide across his face, easy, like this is funny to him.

“As in?”

You sit down, smooth and controlled, logging into your computer like it’s just another morning.

“Oh, come on”

He pushes, voice lilting. 

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Right. You glance up at him, expression flat. Empty.

“You shouldn’t have seen that. Shouldn’t’ve been there.”

“What?” 

He scoffs, straightening just a little. 

“A man can’t enjoy a bit of a strip club?”

“Shh— keep your voice down.”

It comes out sharp, hushed, eyes flicking around the room. No one’s even looking.

“Why?” 

He leans in slightly, like he’s testing you. 

“You embarrassed?”

You don’t answer that.

“Does it pay the bills?” 

He asks instead. Not waiting for any answer 

“More than this job does.”

Your lips press tight after you say it, like you regret giving him even that much.

Gator hums, tilting his head, studying you in a way that feels a little too close. A little too knowing.

“Oh, but I bet it’s not just about that, is it?”

You don’t respond.

“Do ya like it?” 

He pushes, voice dipping lower.

 “Sellin’ yourself to old men?”

There it is. Mean. Degrading 

Exactly what you expect from Gator Tillman.

You don’t give him the satisfaction.

You push your chair back, the legs scraping just slightly against the floor, and stand in one clean motion. You walk away.

Leave him there— leaning against your desk, coffee in hand, watching you go like he’s trying to figure something out he doesn’t quite understand.

The fluorescent lights of the women’s bathroom hit brighter than usual. You stare at yourself in the mirror, the color of the lights washing you out, you look yellow, sick and if you stare hard enough, you can still see specks of glitter clinging to your cheeks. fuck

You splash your face with cool water. Once. Twice.

“Don’t cry”

It comes out under your breath, barely there.

Gator’s words hit harder than you wanted them to. They shouldn’t.

They’re cheap. Easy. The kind of thing men like him say without thinking twice.

Still those words wear on you, cutting into your skin deeper than it should. They sit heavy.

You grip the edge of the sink, fingers curling tight against the porcelain as you stare at your reflection. The lights hum overhead, loud in the quiet. Everything feels too exposed. Too clear.

You scrub at your cheek with the heel of your hand, rough, trying to get the glitter off. It doesn’t budge. Just smears and spreads further.

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t.”

You swallow it down fast, blinking hard, refusing to let it spill over. Not because of him.

You straighten, breathing out slow through your nose. Fix your cardigan. Smooth your hair back into place, fingers quick, practiced. Like you’re putting yourself back together.

By the time you step away from the sink, your face is blank again. Like nothing happened.

You push the door open.

 When you take steps out into the hallway it’s colder, quieter. You glance towards your desk.

Expecting him to be there, waiting for you, elbows still against the wood. He’s not.

You shame yourself for this but you look, instinctively you search for him. And there. 

He stands in the doorway of Roy’s office. Shoulders in, gaze down. 

You’ve seen this before. How Roy stands, sharp, unforgiving. Speaking in a tone that’s sharp, tilting his head in that same stupid diminishing way Gator does.

The way he talks at someone and not to them, the way he’s doing that now.

Gator’s still. Hands awkwardly by his side like he doesn’t know where to put them. His jaws set, grinding against his molars. Taking it. 

He’s not the same man from earlier, from last night. Not the one who stood over you, asking questions he had no right to ask. He looks smaller. 

Gator’s eyes drift. From the floor, up, not quite at Roy, then you. 

Like he felt you there, like he felt you staring. The moment stretches, seconds turning into hours. 

His gaze flickers, something deep within it, something you can’t name. Not now. Then he moves to shut the door. 

It clicks loudly through the silent corridor. You ignore whatever that was. Pushing yourself forward toward your desk like that didn’t happen entirely. 

⭑

The next few nights, Gator’s at the club again.

He walks in with that same attitude as before. His shoulders loose, expression set like he owns the place. Like nothing gets to him.

But this time be refuses No dances. No private rooms. No. Instead he watches.

Sits at the bar, glass full of whiskey in hand, taking slow sips like he’s in no rush. Like he plans on staying. His gaze stays hooded, heavy, always landing back on you. Without any fail or question. 

He watches you move around the room, weaving between bodies like it’s second nature. Like you belong here more than anywhere else.

He begins noticing things.

How you never take your top off— not like the other girls. You keep that small piece of yourself held back, untouchable.

But you don’t refuse. You never offer, never chase— but when someone asks, you nod. You take their hand. Lead them away like it’s just part of the routine. It means nothing.

He notices that too.

He watches you, night after night, disappear behind those curtains with man after man. Watches the fabric sway shut behind you, cutting you off from view.

Something in his chest twists every time.

Gator hates that part of himself. The one that doesn’t like it.

The one that gets tight, mean, restless, something ugly sitting just under his skin. Jealous. He’d never say it. Wouldn’t even think the word all the way through. But it creeps in anyway.

Sometimes, as he sits and watches his mind drifts.

He imagines it’s him you’re leading back there. Him you’re pulling through those curtains. That it’s him you’re straddling— moving the way you do, slow and easy, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

He wants to see it. He would beg to see it.

Up close. Wants to know if it looks different when it’s just for him. Only for him. 

He doesn’t push away that thought. He lets it sit there, lets it bloom till it’s all he can think about. Till he’s thinking about it in bed, hand tight over his flushed cock. A part of him is embarrassed about it, another part stays strong. 

Gator figures you don’t know he’s there.

Thinks he’s just another face in the crowd, another set of eyes passing over you. He watches the way you talk, the way you laugh. How he can tell the difference now.

He can tell when your smile is real, when it’s fake and practiced.

He thinks he’s figured you out.

But you know. You’ve known.

Every night, at least once, your eyes drift toward the bar. And every night you catch him. 

⭑

“What’s wrong with that Tillman guy?”

Your colleague, Amy— sugar blonde, loud, always chewing gum— asks as she plops into a chair.

The dressing room is the only room in the bar that isn’t neon pink or blue. Dim light, scattered bikinis and eye glitter catching tiny flashes. You’re already seated, perfecting your wing, listening but not speaking.

“I know, right?” 

Sophie’s voice rings through the small room.

 “Like, why does he just sit there? He only let Sasha dance with him.”

“Which is so annoying ‘cause he’s, like… really hot.”

“He’s a cunt” 

You mutter under your breath. They all hear you anyway.

“He is? How do you know?” 

Amy gasps.

“Did you dance with him? Wait! Did you guys date?”

“Oh, they totally dated with the way he practically eye-fucks her every night,” 

Sasha squeals.

“Also, not to mention how he got sooooooo overprotective when that guy shouted at you” 

Sophie adds, rolling her eyes.

You freeze for a beat, carefully applying liner. Then, you sigh, almost to yourself.

“Oh… god no. We didn’t date” 

You say slowly. 

“We used to work together.”

The room goes quiet for half a second…then buzzes with curiosity.

“Wait, what? Like… where?” 

Amy leans forward, elbows on her knees.

“uhh…..tech startup” you lie, voice low. 

“You did tech?”

“Yeah, not for me.. anyways. He… thinks he’s better than he is. Always acting bigger, louder. He’s… overrated.”

There’s a pause as they digest this.

Then the reactions flood in.

“He’s a Tillman though, can you expect more?”

Amy pushes her boobs together as she speaks, tilting her head towards the mirror 

“I like the whole authority thing anyways, it’s hot. Dominating vibe”

“So he’s, like… actually hot and kind of an asshole?” 

Sasha’s grin spreads.

“Yeah, but so weird, right? Coming here every night, just… drinking and watching?” 

Sophie shakes her head.

Amy’s already giggling. “

I’m definitely going to try and ask for a private dance tonight.”

“Try talk him into a blowjob instead” 

Sasha laughs, and you practically choke on air.

“Sexy” 

Amy chuckles, eyes glittering with mischief. 

“He looks like he wouldn’t even know what to do. Could be fun.”

You smirk slightly at that, though you don’t say anything.

“If anything, he’d probably ask to suck you off, not the other way around”

Sophie grins, pressing glitter to her eyes

“You really think he’s a giver?”

“Oh I know he is.”

Sasha laughs

“Want to confirm that for us?”

She says your name and you grimace. 

“I would rather have sex with every guy in that bar right now than do anything with Gator Tillman.”

⭑

“We’re leaving.”

Gator rounds your desk, hand patting against the polished wood, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly with the motion.

“Who’s we?”

You press your glasses further up your nose, before turning to look at him.

“You and me. Dad asked me to bring someone out to the range today.”

“Gator, I can’t leave— I’m the receptionist.”

“Don’t care. You’re coming with me.”

“Does he know?”

“Who?”

“Roy. Does he know you’re bringing me?”

“No— but he will when you’re not here. I’ll wait in the truck.”

He walks off without another word, dragging a deep pull from his fruity vape once he reaches the door. The vapor curls in the air behind him.

You scoff, unsure whether you should go or not.

Annoyingly, a part of you wants to. Wants to ask him what the hell he’s been doing for the past week, why he’s been watching.

You shut off your computer, the click of the power button loud in the quiet office, and push yourself out of the chair.

The air outside bites at your cheeks, frosting the edges of your hair, and the dry smell of early February hits you all at once. Gator’s car is already running, engine low and steady, a dark hum vibrating through the tires against the asphalt.

When you open the front door, he smirks, the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“See? That was easy.”

“Don’t get too proud of yourself, Gator.”

The car smells like him, leather seats warming under his weight, faint pine from the air freshener he never bothers to hide.

He pulls out of the lot and drives down the sleepy town roads, headlights cutting through the thin evening fog. Streetlights glint off wet patches on the asphalt, the quiet only broken by the soft purr of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires.

“So… what do you do on these things anyway? Play pretend? Pretend you’re doing something?”

“I am doing something” 

He mutters, jaw twitching slightly, the muscles taut under his skin.

“Are you? Or did your daddy tell you that?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares forward, hands tight on the wheel, knuckles pale.

Soon, you’re pulled up on the side of the motorway. “Watching cars,” he said.

It’s a bullshit job, just like you guessed. Cold air leaks in from the cracked window, carrying the faint smell of the asphalt.

You don’t know where you get the courage to speak, but maybe it’s because, deep down, you’re not scared of Gator. He really just… is harmless.

“Enjoy your nights recently, Gator?”

He stiffens, jaw tightening.

“D’ya see me?” 

He asks, voice low, hands tapping against the wheel like he needs something to do with them.

“Everyone sees you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… a bit weird, that’s all.”

“Hows it weird?”

He glances at you, and you notice the heat creeping onto his face under your gaze. The low hum of the engine and the occasional rush of passing tires fills the silence.

“You just… watch. Don’t dance with anyone. You don’t tip. You just watch.”

“I only watch you.”

You scoff, leaning back in your seat, arms crossed.

“I know.”

There’s a pause, thick with the kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavier, warmer. 

You glance at him sideways. His profile is sharp in the dim dashboard light, eyes fixed somewhere past the motorway, but you can feel him seeing you too.

“Don’t be scared.”

He laughs at that, low and quiet, like he’s trying not to let it show that he might be.

“I’m not— M’not scared” 

He says, voice tight, almost defensive.

“To ask for a dance, I mean” 

You tease, eyes narrowing just a little, catching the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

⭑

He’s there that night, like you knew he would.

And maybe you did your makeup a little nicer this time. Your eyeliner sharper, shimmer sitting heavier on your lids. Wore a better bikini too— one that catches the light just right. Just maybe.

The club is busier tonight. Packed in a way that makes the air feel thick, heavy with perfume, sweat and something sweet rotting underneath it all. The bass pounds through the floor, vibrating up your legs with every step. Neon pink and blue lights flash over bodies, over faces, over glitter that sticks to skin like it belongs there.

It’s loud. Messy. Alive. It’s how you like it, fast paced and bright

A guy gets to you first.

Older, he’s in his late forties, maybe early fifties. Hair greying at the sides, wedding band still sitting on his finger. He leans in too close when he talks, breath warm, smile lazy.

You play along anyway. It’s your job to.

You laugh softly at something he says, nodding, letting your hand brush his arm just enough to keep him interested.

Then—

“Excuse me, miss.”

A hand brushes your bare shoulder.

The pads of his fingers are calloused, warm, familiar

You don’t even have to turn to know who it is.

The man in front of you does though. His expression shifts immediately, lips pressing tight, posture stiffening just slightly.

You turn anyway, slow, composed.

“Hi,” 

You say, voice saccharine sweet

“I’m Ginger.”

“Oh, really?”

Gator’s head tilts, that smirk creeping up like he’s in on something no one else is.

“Well, Ginger.”

His hand reaches for yours, fingers curling around it before you can pull away.

“May I have a dance?”

There’s a beat.

The older man looks between the two of you, clearly weighing whether or not to say something he then decides against it. Smart.

You glance at Gator, just for a second.

“Sure” 

you say.

You let him take your hand.

Let him lead, even.

The music swells as you move through the crowd, bodies brushing past, lights flickering over the two of you in quick flashes. Up close, he smells like well, Gator.  Smoke and something sweet— his vape, probably. Overpowered by cologne, sharp— as if he’d drenched himself in it on the way out of his truck.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just holds your hand a little tighter than necessary.

You pass the curtained booths. Gator notices.

“Thought it was back there” 

He mutters, voice low, just for you.

“Not tonight.”

You don’t look at him when you say it.

You lead him down the narrower hallway tucked behind the main floor, where the music dulls into a distant thud. The air is warmer, quieter. The walls close in a little.

At the end, there’s a door. Not a curtain this time but a door.

You stop in front of it, pulling your hand from his to reach for the handle.

Gator watches you now. Really watches.

“Fancy” 

He drawls, something unreadable sitting behind it.

You push the door open.

“Private” 

You nod.

Inside, the room is dim, just a low red light casting everything in a soft, hazy glow. A small couch is pressed against the wall. No mirrors. No audience.

The music barely reaches in here.

You step inside, turning back to look at him.

And for a second, neither of you moves.

“You just gonna stand there? Or do you want a dance?”

Gator scrambles to sit on the couch. You didn’t think he’d be that easily moldable.

He rests his hands on his knees, before shifting them to his side, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. 

You don’t say anything, don’t react. You just start moving.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in your weight, your hips following naturally like your body already knows what to do without thinking. There’s no real music in here, just the faint bass bleeding through the walls, but you don’t need it. You’ve never needed it.

Your hands slide up along your sides, slow and deliberate, not rushed, not exaggerated. It doesn’t feel like a performance, not like it does out there. There’s no crowd to play to, no noise to hide behind. Just the quiet, and him.

Gator leans forward without realizing he’s doing it, elbows resting on his knees now, his attention locked. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t make it into a joke like he usually would. He just watches— likes always, eyes tracking every movement, jaw set tight, eyes heavy-lidded

Your body moves easy, fluid, each motion slipping into the next without effort. There’s something slower about it, something more controlled. You let your hand drag over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, feeling your own breath rise and fall under your touch.

You step towards him

“Mind if I touch?”

“Please”

He quickly replies, sitting back. Bingo.

You move to straddle him, hips rolling forward, still moving fluidly. He’s hard. Achingly so. You smirk 

“Am I turning you on, Tillman?”

Gator lets out a huff, then nods

Your hands slowly shift down towards his, then you drag them up towards the string of your bikini. 

“‘R ya sure?”

He asks, fingers playing with the elastic. You don’t reply, just nod

He undoes the string, letting the fabric that rests on your boobs fall off until you’re uncovered. You don’t ever do this. Not with your normal customers anyways, but Gator isn’t your normal customer. 

Gator lets out a sharp breath as if he’s been waiting to see you like this for years— a man starved. His eyes rake over your frame, hands moving to touch, but they stutter.

“You can touch me Gator”

You laugh, before he finally moves to grab at your tits. Hands splayed out, pulling and pressing. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, you let out a breath. Not a moan, more like a sigh of relief. A sigh of the built up maybes, now that this is finally happening.

“Is this real?” 

He asks, movement stopping

“What my tits?”

You chuckle

“Yes Gator, yes they are real—“

“No.”

He cuts through your words, sharp enough to make you pause.

“This—” 

His hand gestures between the two of you, quick, frustrated

 “-I want this to be real, because I’ve wanted something like this— us to be real fer, fuck a while. I don’t want this to be work.”

“Well, we’re at my work”

You say back, breath uneven. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“So it’s not.”

It lands flat. Final.

His hands drop from you, and you feel it immediately—the absence of him, the sudden cold where there was heat a second ago. You pull away slightly, your body reacting before your mind catches up.

“Gator, I—”

“Get off of me.”

The words come out harsher than they need to be.

You freeze for half a second, then shuffle back. An embarrassed heat crawls up your neck now, you let him see you. You’re topless, exposed in a way you don’t let others see, in a way that didn’t feel like an issue 30 seconds ago like it does now.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” 

You snap, standing as he moves for the door.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just reaches for the handle like he needs out.

“Oh, right” 

You laugh, sharp, hands planted on your hips. 

“Because I’m the one showing up every single night just to stare.”

That makes him turn.

“Yeah” 

He mutters. 

“Stare at what? You grindin’ on every guy in there like it don’t mean a thing?”

“It doesn’t.”

He scoffs.

 “Could’ve fooled me.”

“It’s my job, Gator.”

“I know what it is” 

He cuts in, something harsher creeping in. 

“Don’t gotta dress it up for me.”

The words sting, but you hold your ground.

“You don’t get to come in here, watch me every night, and then act like you’re above it.”

“I’m not above it” 

He snaps. 

“M’ in it, ain’t I?”

“Then why act like you hate it so much?”

That stops him.

Something cracks through his expression— confusion, frustration, something he can’t name. 

“‘Cus I don’t know what the hell it is” 

He says, voice lower now. 

“One second you’re— this, this version of you— Ginger.”

He gestures at you

 “-and the next you’re sittin’ behind that desk like none of it’s real.”

“This is real.”

You gesture between the two of you

That, more than anything sets him off.

“Really? Cos two seconds ago you were saying it’s only work. So which one is it.”

He scoffs

“Gator—”

“M’ not shocked, that your like this. Ya know?  You say it’s all an act but— ” 

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, something ugly rising up fast, uncontrolled 

“- I think maybe you just like it.”

You frown. 

“Like what?”

His eyes snap to yours, and whatever restraint he had left slips.

“This, the attention, the feeling of being wanted cus no one else wants to,” 

He gestures at you. His words are sharp, cruel. 

“All of this. Actin’ like that, shaking yer ass for money, touching old men and lettin’ them—” 

He shakes his head, breath uneven 

“- Like yer just some— some—”

He stops. But it’s too late.

Because he says it anyway.

“Slut.”

The word hangs there.

The second it leaves his mouth, something shifts in his face— like he didn’t mean to say it, like he didn’t mean to say any of that. Like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how.

You don’t hesitate.

Your hand comes up and cracks across his face, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

The slap echoes in the empty room.

Gator’s head snaps to the side, more from shock than force. He goes still, completely still, a faint red mark already blooming across his cheek.

Your chest rises and falls, fast now, your hand still half- raised like you’re not sure what you just did.

“Don’t” 

You say, voice low, shaking just slightly. 

“You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

He doesn’t look at you.

Just stands there, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past you like he’s trying to hold himself together. His eyes are red, tears threatening to fall. But he won’t cry.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter.

“I didn’t—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t know how.

So instead, he just nods once, like he’s agreeing with something you didn’t say.

Then he turns, grabbing the door and yanking it open. And he doesn’t look back.

The door slams shut behind him.

And it’s like something in you snaps with it.

You don’t move at first. You just stand there, staring at the door like he might come back, like maybe you imagined it, like maybe everything he said was a lie.

Your breath catches. It wasn’t, there was a part of it that was true. A part that cut scars that were deeper than you wanted them to be.

“Fuck—”

It breaks out of you, loud, strangled, your hand flying up to your mouth like you can shove it back in. Like you can stop it. But you can’t.

Your chest tightens so hard it hurts, like you can’t get enough air in, like something’s crushing you from the inside out. Your hands start shaking, bad now, uncontrollable, fingers curling into nothing.

“No— no, no, no—”

You pace once, twice, nowhere to go, your body too full of it, too much all at once. Your vision blurs completely now, tears spilling over faster than you can blink them back. You choke on a breath, then another.

And then it’s just

Gone. Whatever control you had.

Your knees give out and you hit the floor hard, barely catching yourself, hands bracing against the ground. A sob rips out of you, ugly and loud echoing off the walls, bouncing right back at you.

Your voice cracks and splinters, your whole body folding in on itself as you cry. Not quiet, not controlled, instead it’s loud, gasping, desperate sobs that you can’t stop, no matter how hard you try.

Your fingers dig into your hair, pulling, grounding, anything to stop the way your chest heaves like it’s trying to tear itself apart.

It’s not just him. God it’s not just about him. It’s everything piling up onto itself. Every night, Every man, every time Gator entered the bar to watch you. 

Every fake smile, every touch you pretend doesn’t linger, every time you leave a room and feel nothing.

The station. Roy.

The way you have to shrink yourself there, soften your voice, play sweet.

The way Gator looks at you like he sees through it— but then turns around and calls you that.

“Slut” 

You choke out, voice breaking completely.

It sounds worse in your own voice.

Your stomach twists hard, and another sob tears out of you, louder this time, your body shaking with it. You press your forehead to the floor, arms wrapping around yourself like you can hold yourself together.

You can’t.

“I’m not—” 

You try, but it falls apart halfway through, dissolving into another broken cry.

Because what are you, then?

What is this?

Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, your whole body trembling, every inch of you overwhelmed, raw, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being topless anymore. Your done. 

With it all. With this. With Gator

Completely finished.

⭑

You don’t go back to that club.

You won’t. Ever again.

You ignore the texts. The calls. Let them pile up until they stop coming altogether.

And the station, well. You call in sick. Once. Then again. Then it turns into a week. Then two.

By the time you even think about going back, the idea of it makes your stomach turn.

Facing Roy. Seeing Gator.

Sitting behind that desk like nothing happened, like you’re still that same girl with the soft voice and the neat handwriting and the polite little smiles.

You can’t do it. You’re sick of it. Sick of pretending. That your someone else entirely

Sick of splitting yourself into pieces just so other people can swallow you easier. 

So you quit.

No big speech. No explanation. Just a short call, voice flat, and then it’s done.

You pack up what little you have and move back in with your mom.

Your old room still smells the same. Laundry detergent and something faintly sweet. The walls are the same color— a shade of pink. The carpet is still worn in the same places.

It feels smaller now though, it’s quieter, safer even.

You tell yourself you’re starting over. You try to forget everything.

Forget every touch that lingered longer than it should have. Every fake laugh. Every smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Every coffee cup you wrote on so carefully, making sure the letters were just right.

Now, you work at a diner just off the highway. It’s nothing special. Never was.

The kind of place that smells like burnt coffee and grease, where the floors are always just a little sticky and the bell above the door rings too loud every time someone walks in.

You wear a uniform now. And you have a name tag that doesn’t say Ginger.

You take orders, refill cups, wipe down tables.

“Hun,” “sweetheart,” “thanks, darlin’.”

All of the same words, with a different tone. 

You keep your head down. Keep moving.

Normal.

You tell yourself it’s normal.

But sometimes, when it’s slow— when the afternoon drags and the sunlight comes in through the windows all dull and gray— you catch yourself staring off, hand still wrapped around a coffee pot, not really seeing anything in front of you.

And for a second, just a second—

You think about it.

The noise. The heat, and the container of glitter that caught the light illuminating the room like a disco ball.

The way it felt to be looked at like that.

The way he looked at you.

Gator expected you to be at the station the morning after. Of course he did. Routine. Like always.

So when he walked in and saw a girl sitting at your desk, with straight blonde hair and sharp eyes, something a little too eager in the way she looked at him— he almost choked. You were that easy to replace? Well to Roy, maybe. But not to him. Never to him.

He wouldn’t have admitted that back then, but he can now.

Her names Sherry

And she was annoying, more so than you.  She talks too much, smiles too wide, flirts so openly with Gator in a way that makes his shoulder tense, makes his hands shove deeper into the pits of his jean pockets.

Sherry was pretty— simple beauty, conventional. But she’s not you. Not even close

She’s missing that edge, that bluntness that you carried. The way you’d look at him like you already knew what he was going to say. He misses that, more than he should. 

He went to the club that night. you weren’t there.

He tells himself it’s an off day, people take days off. 

So he goes again the next night, again the night after, and again. And again.  Same seat, same drink. There’s no you, no Ginger.

The girls notice, because of course they do. 

One of them laughs when he finally asks where you are, like he’s part of some joke he doesn’t understand 

She tells him you stopped showing to work.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

No explanation. No real answer. Just gone.

He tries to let it go, he really does. But he doesn’t work like that.

Gator’s not used to this— whatever this is. He keeps things simple. Keeps them quiet. Pushes everything down until it stays there.

But this feeling doesn’t stay down like he wants it to. It’ builds, constantly growing. Until it’s everywhere 

He thinks about you more than he wants to. More than makes sense. The way the glitter tinsel caught in your hair under those lights. The sound of your laugh—real or fake, he’s not even sure anymore. The way you moved, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t mean anything 

It takes up every waking minute. Gets stuck in his head, repeating over and over and over. That night, what he said. 

And then one day, out on the range, he takes a detour.

There’s a diner he likes just off the highway.  It’s not great, but it’s good enough. He’s been there a hundred times before. Coffee’s cheap, tastes like it’s been sitting too long. But it does the job. 

He pulls in without thinking much of it, gravel crunching under his tires. The place looks the same as always. Fogged-up windows, faded sign, the hum of something old and tired 

But then, he sees you through the glass 

It’s like seeing a ghost, he cant tell if he’s imagining it. It stops him cold

You’re inside, sunlight hitting your hair just right, soft instead of neon. No glitter. No stage. Just you. Smiling, except this time it’s real. Not the smile he’s used to, not the smile you wore like armour. 

Gator doesn’t go in, instead he sits back in his truck. He watches. Again, like he’s used to.  Like he always does

He watches you talk to people, how easily you do it. How it doesn’t look like you’re slipping into a character— rather just being yourself. He watches you pour coffee, slide plates across tables, laugh at something some guy says

And he hates it because he wishes it was him. 

Time passes without him noticing. The sun dips lower, light fading into something softer, duller.

And he’s still there. Still watching.

By the time you untie your apron, he feels like he’s missed something he wasn’t even part of. You say your goodbyes, grab your things, and step outside.

Gator straightens in his seat without meaning to.

And he’s ashamed for what he does next. Because he’s not a stalker. He tells himself it’s coincidence, but he doesn’t pull away

He follows your car, down the highway. It’s obvious really. You noticed, you know. He knows you know because there’s no way you didn’t recognise his truck. He keeps going right up until you pull into your driveway. 

He doesnt leave straight away, he waits 

Waits till you’ve settled, till the lights inside your house flick on, until you’ve changed out of your uniform into something comfier. Settled back into normalcy. Waits until enough time passes that it almost feels normal. Like he didn’t just follow you. Like he just happened to be here. Like it’s an accident.

Even though It’s not.

Gator exhales, dragging a hand down his face, jaw tight.

“Fuck…”

He sits there for another minute. Then another.

Before finally, he opens the door and steps out into the cold. The gravel crunches loud under his boots as he makes his way up the path.

He hesitates at the door. Then knocks.

“One second!”

You call out, voice light— lighter than he’s ever heard it. It almost throws him off.

There’s the sound of movement behind the door, something clattering faintly, footsteps quick against the floor.

Then it opens. And the second you see him your expression drops.

You move to shut it immediately, instinct, fast— but Gator’s hand catches the door before it can close, holding it there with ease.

“You don’t make yerself easy to find”

He says, a low chuckle under it, like this is something casual. Like he didn’t just follow you home.

You don’t laugh. Your face stays still. Blank.

“Your dad’s the sheriff of everyone’s lives,” You reply, sharp. 

“You could’ve checked. You just didn’t try.”

“I tried. Went to the club every night.”

“I don’t work there anymore.”

You cut through him clean, not giving him room to sit in it.

“I noticed”

He snaps back, something defensive slipping through.

A beat.

His eyes flick over you— really look at you. You look unguarded, soft, in a domestic way. A way Gator wants to wake up to every morning.  Hair loose, face bare.

It does something to him.

“Workin’ at the diner now?”

He asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your eyes narrow slightly.

“Are you following me?”

There’s no humor in it. No softness. 

Gator exhales through his nose, shifting his weight on the porch.

“No”

He lies, too quick.

 “Saw you through the window.”

“That’s not better, pretty stalk-ery actually.”

“I wasn’t—” 

He stops, jaw tightening, restarting.

 “I just needed to talk to you.”

You shake your head immediately.

“You don’t get to just show up here and try to save whatever victim complex you have going on”

“I know.”

“Do you?” 

Your voice sharpens, stepping closer to the door like you might actually slam it this time. 

“Because it really doesn’t seem like it.”

His hand tightens slightly on the edge of the door, not pushing in, but not letting go either.

“I didn’t know where else to go, I wasn’t gonna just show up at yer work”

He says, quieter now.

That makes you pause.

“That’s not my problem, Gator.”

“I know”

He repeats, and this time it sounds more like he means it.

There’s a beat.

Cold air slipping in between you.

“I shouldn’t have said that, any of it” 

He adds, voice rougher now, like the words don’t sit right coming out of him. 

“Back there.”

You don’t respond.

Just look at him. Waiting.

His jaw ticks, eyes flicking away for a second before landing back on you.

“I didn’t mean it.”

You let out a small, humorless breath.

“But you said it anyway.”

He nods once.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“And you still think it”

You add, quieter now, but it hits harder.

“I don’t, I nev’r did” 

He says immediately.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“Then why’d you say it?”

That one lands.

Gator doesn’t answer right away.

His grip on the door loosens just a fraction, like the question knocked something out of him.

“Because I didn’t know what else to call it,” 

He admits finally, voice low. 

“Didn’t know what else to call… any of it.”

Your face hardens again.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Yeah”

He huffs, a bitter edge creeping in.

 “Yeah, it is.”

There’s something restless in him now, like he’s too big for the space, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself standing on your porch.

“But that doesn’t mean I meant it”

He adds. You don’t soften.

“It meant something to me when you said it.”

That shuts him up.

He looks at you like he’s trying to figure something out, something he’s already too late on.

“I know”

hH says again, quieter. And this time, there’s no fight in it.

Just that same uncertainty you saw in him before

His hands grip the edge of the doorframe now, knuckles white. He looks away for a second, like he’s weighing the options in his mind. Then he turns back, eyes meeting yours. 

“I— God, I should’ve never… I shouldn’t have gone to that club the night you… I shouldn’t have… I fucked it up, didn’t I? I always fuck up everything. I just— I keep seeing you, every time I close my eyes, it’s you. And I… I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it.”

He swallows hard, like it physically hurts. His next words are almost a growl, half anger, half desperation.

“I love you. I think I’ve been… I’ve been in love with you the whole goddamn time. Every morning i saw you in that office, and every night. And I know it’s crazy. I know I shouldn’t say it, I shouldn’t even think it, but I can’t— fuck, I can’t help it. I’ve been holding it down, trying to be… someone else. But it’s been you.”

He steps closer, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him, hear his ragged breathing. 

“And I know I don’t deserve you. Not after everything i’ve done. Maybe I shouldn’t even get a chance. But I’m done holding it in. Done pretending like I don’t care, like you’re not— like you’re not the one I… the one I’ve been losing sleep over, the one I keep chasing in my head because everything else doesn’t matter if it’s not you.”

He stops, hands dropping, shaking slightly. His chest heaves.

 “I’m sorry. I’m— it’s pathetic. I know this is too much. I know I shouldn’t even be standing here saying it. But I had to. I had to tell you. I can’t… I can’t keep it inside anymore.”

And now there’s just silence. The air between you crackling, thick, impossible, and he’s staring at you like he’s waiting for some kind of forgiveness— or maybe just for you to leave, because he knows he’s probably lost any right to stay. You stare at him, chest tight, eyes burning. His words hit harder than they should, and you feel every beat of your heart arguing with your brain.

“I—” 

You start, then stop. Shake your head.

 “I fucking hate you, Gator Tillman.”

The words tear out of you, sharp, venomous, and heavy with everything you’ve been holding back. But your smiling

He freezes, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expecting the force of it. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he never expected you to call him out, to lay it all bare.

Without thinking, almost like the force of your own feelings pushes you forward, you close the gap. Your hands find his chest, fingers digging in just enough to make him feel the weight of your anger, your desire, your frustration.

Your lips finally crash against his.

It’s chaotic and desperate and messy— no grace, no elegance. Just pure fire. His hands go to your waist, gripping, anchoring himself, and for a moment the world narrows until there’s nothing but you and him, pressed together, the air between you charged and heavy.

He groans low, a sound that makes your stomach flip. And somewhere between the heat, the tension, and the anger, you realize— you don’t hate him. Not really. Not ever.

But you need him to know how much you’ve been holding back. And right now, there’s no room for anything but this.

“I love you too idiot”

You mutter against his lips, pressing yourself closer, hands trying to tug at his gelled back strands. 

When you pull back his eyes are wide, lips swollen.

“You want to come in?”

You ask, fingers already laced with his, like you’ve already planned that he’s coming in

Gator doesn’t say anything, just nods and follows you into the house. 

You lead him down the hallway, silence stretching heavy. Filled with everything he’s just said.

You open the door to your bedroom.

“Eager”

He hums

“Shut up”

You say before your lips are back against his. Tongue brushing its way in before it’s dancing with his. The air was thick with anticipation, all this pent up longing. 

You clawed at his shirt.

“Take this off”

You mutter, muffled with your lips still pressed to his

“Only if you do”

The two of you waste no time to get undressed, left just in your underwear. 

Gator is painfully hard beneath his boxers, a wet patch, similar to the one in the middle of your panties adorns his. He lies down as you paw the waistband 

Slowly pulling down the elastic until Gator’s cock springs out. He’s pretty, all pink and flushed, beads of pre spilling endlessly out of his tip. And he’s huge, bigger than anyone you’ve seen

“Sumth’n to say doll?”

He smirks at your wide eyes

“I’m not inflating your ego Gator”

He chuckles low at that, before it’s mixed with a groan as you reach towards his dick.

Hands moving slowly near the base. You don’t put it in your mouth, not yet. 

You sit there playing at it until Gator is practically squirming under you. All let out breaths and moans.

You kiss the tip of him, before enveloping your mouth around his cock. Sucking slowly, tounging around his tip. He tastes salty, heady, like Gator. You bob your head down, not to the base, but far enough that you can feel him twitch

“Yeh, just like that baby— oh, taking me so good”

His words and noises hit straight to your core. As you feel him more with your mouth, your hand snakes down to play with your swollen bud. Rubbing tight circles against your aching clit through the fabric, trying to release some of the built up tension

You suck harder, bobbing your throat further down, rubbing yourself faster. You and Gator let out a moan at the same time, yours muffled against him

“Suckin’ my cock turn you on that badly huh?”

Gator breaths

“Keep rubbing yerself fuck, let me move okay?”

His hands smooth over your cheeks, you nod as best as you can, still full of him. 

Your hand below wounds tighter, Gator’s hands tighten against your face and he starts thrusting up, tip kissing the back of your throat with each movement

“Shit— yer so hot— you, you know that?”

He whimpers, like actually whimpers. His sharp thrusts loosening as he nears his edge. He looks down, at your eyes, wide mixed with pleasure, the tears rolling down your cheeks. The way his cock disappears in and out of his mouth, and fuck he’s not gonna last any longer

“Ya got me, m’— m’ gunna come”

He pulls out, a string of saliva tying his cock to your swollen lips. 

“What Gator? You gonna give me a facial?”

Your voice is rough from sucking him not even seconds before, your hands now by your side. 

Gator’s eyes widen, he groans 

“Would ya— would ya want that?”

He asks before you nod, mouth opening. 

Gator strokes himself once, then twice. Before he’s groaning and spilling his white hot seed all over your face, tongue and some on your tits. He’s a moaning mess, chest rising and falling even moments after his bliss.

“That was— holy fuck”

You chuckle, wiping your face off with the corner of your comforter. 

“You gonna fuck me or was that it for you?”

Gator wastes no time with your request, flipping your body over till your back hits the mattress. You giggle when he struggles to take off your bra, eventually slipping it off with ease. This time, rather than his hands, his lips reach down to your tits, latching onto your nipple in one quick, fluid motion.  

You moan as he sucks your tits, hands pressing the other before moving to the next. 

He pulls down your panties and sighs at the sight of your wet mound.

“She’s that ready for me huh?”

His hand rubs your clit once, twice, fingers coating themselves with your slick has he slides them through your puffy folds. His digits press into your tight hole

“Holy— fuck Gator”

You moan loudly, Gator smirks to himself, pushing in and out before curling right onto that sweet spongy spot inside of you

“Shit yer so tight, yeah just like that honey, let’s get you stretched out— hmm”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, vision blurring around the edges. 

“F-fuck Gator oh my god”

You moan as he continues to press his thick fingers in and out of you.

He moves in a way that makes you see stars, the coil in your stomach snapping entirely as you moan. The sound reverberates around your walls, it’s pornographic really. 

Your body practically shakes as you come down from your shattering orgasm. Gator pulls his fingers out of you, soothing your stomach down before bringing his hands up to his mouth and sucking, and moaning against the taste of your release. 

“Yer so pretty, I don’t deserve this.”

He kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss is deep, not needy but intimate. Thousands of words into one press of lips. 

He flips you over, tip rubbing between your folds, teasing— lubing himself up before he pushes his way in. The stretch burns in the best way possible.

His hand pushes your body up against his, fingers wrapping around your neck, not tight enough that he’s choking, but grounding you. 

You moan as he presses himself in then out. His cock perfectly fits inside you, like you were made for him and only him

“Fuck— taking me so good baby”

Gator drawls, you moan against him.

His movements get faster, his hips snapping harder against your ass. 

His fingers reach down toward your clit, rubbing fast circles. 

You let out a noise, head falling to his shoulder

“Let go for me baby— come on”

He thrusts rougher now, more urgent. Chasing his own release as well as yours. His finger presses rougher against your swollen bundle of nerves. You moan loudly before coming. Your fleshy walls tighten against his cock as you cum. That’s what pushes Gator over the edge too, his thrusts now uneven and sharp before he releases into you, white hot ribbons spurting inside your pussy. 

It takes a second for you to come down from your release. Gator’s hands brush up and down your body, like he’s testing as if you’re real, as if this was real. His lips press against your shoulder, heat blooms against your skin as he kisses a mark onto you, then your neck. Then he reaches towards your face, tilting you toward him before his lips meet yours. 

“Gator”

You pull back

“Don’t go, stay for the night. please?”

You shift your body— slowly, in fear of waking him up. And when you finally shrug free you can’t help but turn to his semi-conscious body. 

And there he is. Steve. Looking godforsakingly and unfairly beautiful as he sleeps. It makes your chest ache in a way that feels too dangerous. Too close to… something that you’re not at all ready to name yet. 

You ease yourself up, holding your breath at every small sound. A second of silence passes, and you internally sigh that you haven’t woken him up.

“Morning” 

His voice ruins the emptiness of noise, rough and low. Steve rubs at his eyes before dragging a hand through his hair.

You groan loudly— now that you’re able to make noise. Finally trying to soothe the way your legs are throbbing from the awkward lying position you were in just moments before.

“Okay, Jesus. You didn’t sleep well, did you?”

He says, softly laughing at how your currently doubled over, clutching the ache in your thighs 

“No. Did you?” 

You murmur back, unable to hide the flush that reaches your cheeks when you meet his eyes. Fuck 

“Slept like a baby, actually.”

That makes your eyes roll until he stands and immediately groans at the stiffness that hits him, his hand pressing into his lower back as if he was an old man.

“You take it back?” 

You ask, carrying the cups from last night to the sink, trying to hide your grin.

“I take it back” 

When you glance over, he’s already looking at you. Not smirking this time. Just watching with that soft, unreadable look that you’ve been catching a lot more often for it to be considered normal. 

It feels like you’re both holding something back, something heavier than the small talk that spilled between you last night.

Last night. 

You can barely even remember the last few moments of your conversation as you were clinging tight onto the last threads of consciousness.

Was it something about thinking? Or losing? You don’t remember— nor do you know what Steve could exactly be losing. Alas if it was important he would tell you, and you’re certain of that.

“Do you think we should wake Dustin up, or just go to the butcher together?”

Together. Your brain unforgivingly repeats Steve’s words

“Don’t you think Dustin would kill us?”

“I think he’ll thank us. Saves him from carrying ten pounds of meat at-“ 

Steve says, glancing at the clock.

 “-5:56 in the morning.”

You silently agree with a nod in Steve’s direction and retreat from the kitchen to grab your jacket, ignoring that little twist in your stomach and pretending it doesn’t mean anything.

▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭

The drive to the butcher’s is short- six minutes at most. But it stretches on, it feels like thirty. The car is wrapped in silence, not awkward, just thick. Heavy with things unsaid. Words press at the back of your throat, but like always, you swallow them down. 

You don’t know if Steve feels it too, or if he just thinks you’re quiet because it’s way too damn early.

“So what exactly are we gonna ask?”

You say finally, breaking the silence as you shove the car door open. The early morning air bites at your skin. Its daggers of cold air make you shiver on instinct.

Steve shrugs, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

 “Uh— ‘Hi Larry, can we have four pounds of your scrapped meat?’”

You stare at him, deadpan. His composure cracks almost instantly and he bursts into laughter, the sound warm enough to melt the chill.

“He’s going to look at us like we’re insane Steve” 

You emphasise, trying to keep your face blank and serious but your lips are tugging upward anyway.

“We’ll say it’s for a neighborhood barbecue.”

You raise a brow. 

“At six in the morning?”

He grins, full of mischief, and for a second you almost forget why you’re even here— almost forget about monsters, danger, or anything else. It’s just Steve. Just the two of you.

The bell above the door jingles as you step inside, the shop colder than the morning air. 

The smell of raw meat hits immediately—sharply metallic and you wrinkle your nose, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets.

Behind the counter, a man in a grease stained apron pops his head out, grinning wide enough to show a gold tooth. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the early birds, eh?” 

He chuckles at his own joke as he comes forward, wiping his hands on a rag that doesn’t look much cleaner than the apron.  

He’s around 46, hair slightly graying underneath the net and he seems way too jolly for it being this early. 

“What can I do for you two at this hour?”

Steve clears his throat, all fake confidence. 

“Uh… we need scraps. Four pounds of ‘em.”

Larry tilts his head, eyes narrowing though his smile never falters.

“Scraps? For breakfast? Interesting choice.”

“It’s for a barbecue” 

Steve adds quickly, nodding like it’s obvious. You only side eye him. 

Larry snorts. 

“At six in the morning? Is the barbecue for a pack of wolves?”

Your nervous laugh bursts out before you can swallow it. A response to the awkward silence in the space. Steve shoots you a look sharp enough to cut, but Larry’s grin only widens, delighted.

“Tell you what” 

The man says, leaning on the counter, 

“I’ll get your scraps. But first, Harrington, how’s your mother these days? Still as radiant as I remember?” 

His tone is sly, dripping with mock flirtation. 

“-She ever mention me?”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing again. Steve’s face goes scarlet. 

“Uh— she’s… fine. And no. No, she hasn’t.”

“Shame” 

Larry says, shaking his head with theatrical disappointment. 

“A woman like that shouldn’t be forgotten.” 

Then, with a wink that makes Steve visibly squirm, he disappears into the back.

The second he’s gone, you turn on Steve, whispering through a laugh, 

“Radiant as I remember? He’s in love with your mom.”

Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face. 

“Don’t. Please. Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” 

You grin, poking him in the ribs. 

“He was practically batting his eyelashes. To be fair, your mom is a fine lady.”

“I really don’t want to talk about my parents. Not now. Not ever.”

Steve shoots back immediately, his voice nearing a shout; sounding sharp and defensive, his playful demeanour fleeting in seconds. 

You can’t help but sulk at the change of tone, confused on why such a casual topic riled him up. 

Larry broke your thoughts though, hefting three heavy buckets of meat and plopping them on the counter with a flourish. 

“Here you go, lovebirds. Four pounds, just like you asked.”

You cough. Lovebirds. Then reach for one of the buckets, that Steve conveniently reaches for too. Of course.

Your hands brush and for one dizzy second, neither of you move, the weight of his skin against yours louder than anything Larry just said.

“Thank you!”

You blurt out, eyes fixed on the bucket rather than Larry or Steve. Reaching for the other one, you ignore the brush of skin against yours, clutch it tight, and push through the door without looking back.

Steve follows slowly, carefully placing the second and third bucket in the back of his burgundy bmw. The air between you is stiff, thick and quiet, only the soft shuffle of his shoes breaking it.

The silence is deafening and so painstakingly awkward.

You don’t mention the way that he snapped at you in the butcher. You don’t mention how it felt like it was laced with a deeper meaning. How it felt like he was taking out other frustrations on you. Things he knew couldn’t be shared between the two of you— even though he really wished they could. 

▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭

“I knew you guys left without me!”

Dustin’s voice hits you the second you push open the front door. He’s standing there like he’s been waiting on guard duty, arms crossed, foot tapping like he’s counting every minute you were gone.

“You want to take a smell of this meat? Imagine it ten times stronger and a man cheering and shouting in your ears at six am.”

You chuckle, carrying the white bucket, dropping it on your kitchen counter with a thud.

“Little Henderson we were up before you and didn’t want to wake you up, it’s empathy I promise”

You laugh at his words, mocking him in a dramatic tone 

“‘It’s empathy I promise’-“

You laugh at your own joke, Steve just  scoffs at you, coming up to playfully jab you in the side.

“She’s jealous that I have better vocabulary than her”

He says, fake whispering towards Dustin. And suddenly everything else from this morning passes. All the tension and confusion, pity and probably just tiredness eases and the two of you fall back into that playful rhythm that you are so used to, and even though you might bring it up later, your happy that for now the two of you can just act like kids— even when the world might be ending.

“Okay Mr ‘been failing english for 2 years’.”

Steve mock gasps, clutching at his heart 

“Low blow even for you.”

“Even for me?”

You reply going to playfully shove him before your cut with the noise of Dustin’s gagging

“This is actually repulsive to watch. Take it to the bedroom already.”

Your gasp fills the room, it sounds almost fake and dramatic but is one hundred percent real. You look at Steve with disbelief in your eyes.

“Okay don’t act like you don’t know what i’m talking about— “

Dustin shouts back covering his eyes. 

“-just hurry up and get ready if we weren’t caught up we would already be laying this meat on the train tracks”

▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭

You’re on the train tracks not even an hour later, chucking pieces of meat over your shoulder as you walk.

Bags are strapped tight against your back, straps digging into your shoulders. Yellow gloves snap at your wrists, buckets swinging low in your hands, sloshing softly with every step.

Pressed to your side is the axe— solid and familiar, never once failing you. steve walks, bat resting against his shoulder 

You stay a few steps ahead of Steve and Dustin, who’ve lagged behind for what Steve called a “manly chat”— which immediately makes you scoff and pick up the pace. God forbid you subject yourself to whatever that means.

The air carries that early November bite. Just enough to sting your cheeks pink without sinking into your bones. You’ve always liked that about Hawkins winters, how they seem to flirt with cold instead of committing to it.

The sun still peeks through the bare oak branches, light breaking into long stripes across the tracks.

You can hear them behind you.

You pretend you can’t.

You absolutely can.

“The key with girls is just—” 

Steve says, shrugging. 

“-acting like you don’t care.”

You inwardly groan.

Fantastic. Harrington is raising Dustin into a mini version of himself. God help everyone.

“Even if you do?” 

Dustin asks, tossing another clump of meat onto the metal rails.

“Yeah. Especially if you do,” 

Steve replies. 

“Drives them nuts.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

“Then what?” 

Dustin presses.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, glancing around before tossing another piece of meat. You narrow your eyes, slowing just enough to listen harder.

“Then you just wait till… uh—”

“Till you feel it.”

“Feel what?”

Oh your brother is too pure for this world

“It’s like… before a storm,” 

Steve says slowly. 

“You can’t see it yet, but you feel it. Like this electricity.”

“Oh! Like electromagnetic fields— when the clouds in the atmos—”

“No, no, no.”

Steve cuts him off.

 “Like… sexual electricity.”

You cough. Loud. On purpose. Catching Steve out 

And he freezes mid-step.

You turn just enough to shoot him a look, mouthing;

He’s thirteen.

Steve only shrugs.

You glare harder, then speed up so you actually can’t hear them anymore.

You focus on the wind instead— the way it rushes through the trees, the way the tracks hum faintly under your boots. How the world feels peaceful even when you know it isn’t.

Behind you, their voices drift again.

“So that’s when you kiss her?” 

Dustin asks, still painfully unaware.

“Whoa, slow down, Romeo.”

Steve laughs.

 “I mean— yeah. Some girls like that. They want you to be… aggressive, you know?”

Dustin does not, in fact, know.

“Strong. Hot. Heavy”

Steve continues. 

“Like— I don’t know. A lion.”

Dustin hums thoughtfully.

“But others”

Steve adds, chucking the meat from his hand

“You gotta be slow. Stealthy. Like a ninja.”

“What type is Nancy?”

The name lands strangely— distant. Like it belongs to another lifetime. Steve hasn’t really thought about Nancy since Tina’s party… and even then, his head had been elsewhere.

“Uh…” 

Steve hesitates. 

“She’s different. Different from other girls.”

“Yeah”

Dustin nods.

 “She seems special.”

He pauses.

“And Y/N?”

Steve chokes on absolutely nothing, the tips of his ears tinting the same colour as the meat he’s currently dropping out his palm

“What— what do you mean?”

Dustin squints at him. 

“Come on, man. I’m not stupid. You totally have a thing for her.”

“I don’t—”

“Give it up. It’s not just friendliness. It’s fondness.”

Steve goes quiet.

“She’s just…” 

He exhales.

 “She’s different. Way different from anyone I’ve met. From Nancy too. But in a good way.”

Dustin nods along, like this makes perfect sense.

“She’s built all these walls without even trying” 

Steve continues, softer now. 

“And I just— I wanna be someone she lets through.”

“Okay, don’t get all sappy on me, god.”

Dustin groans. 

“The girl I like is special too. There’s just something about her.”

Steve stops walking.

“Whoa, whoa— you’re not falling in love with her, are you?”

They face each other now.

“Uh— no.”

“Good”

Steve says quickly.

 “Don’t. That stuff just messes you up. And you’re way too young for heartbreak.”

That’s when you stop.

You turn around, hands on your hips.

“You guys wanna hurry up—“

You call,

 “-Or do you wanna keep having your little girl gossip?”

Dustin smirks at Steve, eyebrows waggling, before jogging ahead to fall into step beside you.

The hours blur after that. Meat thrown. Steps taken. Mindless chatter stretched thin.

By the time you reach the junkyard, the sky has dulled to gray, shadows pooling between rusted cars. Evening creeps in slow and heavy.

And somehow, Steve is wearing those stupid Ray-Bans— which should not be allowed, because he looks unfairly good in them.

You dump the last of the meat into a pile when a voice rings out

“I said medium well!”

Lucas waves from across the yard, standing beside a red-haired girl you vaguely recognize but can’t quite place.

Then Dustin is commanding you all to ‘bullet proof’ the schoolbus, and you’re suddenly lugging pieces of scrap metal, muscles burning in that dull, persistent way that doesn’t let you forget your body for even a second. Rust flakes off beneath your fingers, staining your palms and orangey brown.

Your brother and Lucas are a few feet ahead, crouching behind a rusted car, heads bent together like they’re guarding state secrets. Another manly chat. Or whatever version of that exists when you’re thirteen and terrified.

You grunt as you lift your end higher, the metal groaning in protest.

“What do you think they’re even talking about?”

Steve’s on the other side, hands locked around the steel, veins standing out as he adjusts his grip. He doesn’t even hesitate.

“I think it has something to do with her being here.”

He tips his chin toward the redhead, who looks just as out of place as the rest of you felt an hour ago. She’s copying your movements almost exactly, jaw clenched in concentration as she helps shove another slab of scrap up against the violently yellow side of the school bus.

You huff.

“What’s that about? Who is she?”

Steve shrugs, lips quirking.

“My guess? Dustin’s lady friend.”

He wiggles his eyebrows like he’s proud of himself.

You scoff, shifting your weight as the metal clanks into place.

“You’re such a kid. Seriously.”

“Only when the situation calls for it.”

“Oh yeah?” 

You glance at him, incredulous. 

“ Situations like when we’re about to get ripped open by demogorgons?”

“Precisely.” 

He grins, breath a little uneven. 

“Plus, if not me, who’s gonna lighten the mood?”

You let the metal drop with a sharp clang and step back, dusting your hands on your jeans.

“No one”

you say flatly. 

“The mood can’t be lightened. It’s already a very dark, sad, deathly mood.”

Steve snorts, shaking his head as he nudges the scrap a little tighter into place.

“Alright, Henderson. Whatever you say.”

He says it with that stupidly soft grin.  Then his expression shifts— focus snapping into place as his shoes pad across the rocky ground and he’s suddenly shouting something unintelligible at Dustin and Lucas .

Or at least it’s unintelligible to you.

Because the small redheaded girl has drifted to your side.

“Your Dustin’s sister, right?”

She asks it carefully, like she’s testing the words before letting them go.

“The one and only”

You smile at her, quick and easy.

“And you are?”

“Max”

She says. 

“Lucas’ friend from school.”

“Nice to meet you, Max.”

She nods, then watches Steve for a second— him barking orders, waving his arms like he’s in charge of a construction crew instead of middle-schoolers.

“Did they also drag you into their bullshit plan to defeat monsters?”

Her sneakers scud against the gravel as she speaks, kicking a small rock forward.

You huff a quiet laugh.

“Pretty much. I tried to say no once. But didn’t stick.”

She smirks at that, the corner of her mouth twitching like she finds the whole thing ridiculous— but nonetheless she’s still here. Still hauling metal. Still not running.

“Figures.”

She snorts, glancing back at the bus barricades, at Lucas arguing with your brother over where a piece of scrap should go.

“They always like this?”

You follow her gaze, watching them for a second longer than necessary.

“Only when they’re scared”

You admit. 

“Which is… a lot more than not.”

Max hums, considering that.

“At least they’re doing something”

She says. 

“Even if it’s dumb.”

You nod slowly, your mind is conflicted on whether you tell her to get the hell out of here— or let her keep thinking the naive idea that this is all a game

“Yeah. That’s kind of their thing.”

From across the lot, Steve shouts your name, sharp and impatient, like he needs you right now— even though he clearly doesn’t.

You glance back at Max.

“Guess we’re being summoned.”

She laughs and the two of you clad towards the rest of the boys.

▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭-▭

The night turns dark, its once pale blue sky bruising into shades of navy and black. Fog creeping  into every corner, thick and damp, clinging low to the ground like it has something to hide. And there the bus sits armored in warped sheets of metal, rust biting at your nose as gasoline fumes drift lazily toward the stockpile of red flesh waiting in the center of the yard.

The five of you sit in it all. In waiting.

Lucas climbs the ladder, binoculars glued to his face, his movements are sharp and jittery like he expects the dark to blink back at him. 

Beside you, Steve is flicking his lighter on and off. The soft click is too loud in the quiet, obnoxiously repetitive. It’s sparks briefly lighting his knuckles before the flame dies again.

“So you really fought one of these things before?”

Max’s voice cuts through the fog, disbelief clinging to every word. Steve glances at her and nods, jaw set like he doesn’t feel like unpacking that particular nightmare right now.

“And you’re like totally, one hundred percent sure it wasn’t a bear?”

“Shit— don’t be an idiot, okay? It wasn’t a bear.”

Dustin snaps so fast it makes your eyes go wide. The tension in the bus tightens like a coil.

“Why are you even here if you don’t believe us? Just go home.”

“Geez, someone’s cranky”

Max shoots back, already climbing the ladder. 

“-Past your bedtime?”

Her feet pad upward to join Lucas. Oh, you like her.

You and Steve share a look, a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipping out between you.

“That’s good”

He mutters. 

“Just show her you don’t care.”

You scoff immediately.

“Don’t listen to him”

You say softly toward Dustin, fingers twisting together in your lap. Nervous habit. 

“I don’t— stop winking, Steve.”

He doesn’t.

“Is that what the chat was about?” 

You laugh under your breath. 

“’Cause god Harrington, your dating advice is terrible.”

The lighter stops. Steve sits up straighter, brows pulling together.

“What? No it’s not.”

“That King Steve flair is really fading, isn’t it?” 

You tease, then gentler

“Dustin, you don’t get a girl by being mean to her.”

“Hey— I didn’t say be mean” 

Steve protests. 

“I just said he shouldn’t care.”

“Which is equally as worse, I think—”

A roar tears through the night.

Your words shatter as instinct takes over. Your hand shoots out, gripping Steve’s thigh like a lifeline, heart slamming hard enough you swear he can feel it. The sound crawls under your skin. All too familiar, too wrong.

Steve’s head whips toward the noise. Yours doesn’t.

You close your eyes, fingers already finding the wooden handle of the axe, grounding yourself in its weight, its promise.

“You see him?” 

Dustin asks, voice tight, scanning the field.

“No.”

Steve’s answer is steady, but your mind snags on the silence afterward. You pull your hand back from his thigh. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move away either.

“Lucas, what’s going on?” 

Dustin calls.

“Hold on!”

Lucas’s voice floats down, muffled, rushed. A heavy pause follows— long enough to make your pulse bead at your wrist.

“I’ve got eyes! Ten o’clock— ten”

His words trip over each other.

“Ten o’clock!”

“There”

Steve says, pointing.

You suck in a breath and turn, fog blurring the yard until your eyes adjust. And then..

There it is.

The demodog stands still, too still, its low chittering vibrating through the air like something breathing behind your ear. It watches. It waits.

“He’s not taking the bait”

Steve mutters. 

“Why’s he not taking the bait?”

“Maybe he’s not hungry”

Your brother offers.

You don’t answer. You just stare, body locked in a stuttered silence, every instinct screaming.

“Maybe he’s sick of cow.”

Steve leans back, fully upright now, fingers tightening around his nail-studded bat as if daring the dog to blink first.

“Steve? Steve, what are you doing?”

Dustin’s voice spikes beside you, but Steve barely reacts. He’s already moving, already halfway toward the door, like the decision has been made somewhere deep in his bones.

You grab the axe and stand.

“Hey— hey, hey,” 

Steve says immediately, turning on you. His hand comes up, instinctive, stopping you short. 

“You’re not coming with me.”

His eyes lock onto yours, sharper now, all the joking gone.

“The more the merrier, right?”

 You say, aiming for humor and missing by like a mile. It’s more breath than joke, but you lift the axe anyway, like proof. Like punctuation.

“No.”

Steve says, firmer. 

“No. Absolutely not.”

Dustin makes a strangled noise. 

“New idea, What if we all stay in the bus.”

You shoot Dustin a look

“I’m not staying behind”

You say quietly.

Steve shakes his head, already frustrated. 

“You don’t have to prove anything. I’ve got this.”

“You don’t”

You reply, just as calm. 

“Not by yourself.”

Steve exhales sharply through his nose. 

“This isn’t the same as the byers house. You could get hurt.”

“So could you.”

You say. 

“And I don’t see you sitting this out.”

For a second, his gaze flickers— protective instinct warring with the fact that you’re right. That you’re steady. That you’re not shaking the way he expects.

Steve drags a hand through his hair. 

“I’m serious. If something happens—”

“-It won’t” 

You cut in.

 “Because I’ll be watching your back.”

You clap your hands together, bracing yourself

“Now let’s go— we’re wasting time.”

Silence stretches between you, thick as the fog outside. Steve searches your face like he’s looking for fear. He doesn’t find enough of it.

“…Damn it” 

He mutters.

Dustin groans hands coming to cradle his head.

Steve finally steps aside, just enough to let you pass. His voice drops. 

“You stay close to me.”

You nod once. 

“Always.”

Steve chucks the lighter to Dustin before clambering off the bus. You follow a second later, boots hitting dirt too loud in the quiet.

The night air slaps your face, cold and unforgiving. Every sound sharpens— each footstep turns into a crash, every breath feels like it echoes.

“Don’t be a hero, Harrington,” 

You whisper.

“No promises.”

His head ticks toward the low grumbling, subtle but there. You strain too, ears ringing with it, the sound crawling under your skin.

You move through the fog like it’s an ocean, slow and deliberate. Each step parts the air ahead of you, like the dark is announcing your arrival. Like it wants to be sure the thing hears.

Steve whistles.

Actually whistles.

You almost huff out a laugh, short and hysterical. Of course he does. Of course that’s his plan. Treating the inter dimensional monster like an actual dog

“Come on, buddy” 

He calls, tone light, careless in a way that makes your chest ache.

He whistles again.

You join in— not because it’s smart, not because you think it’ll work, but because the silence feels worse. Because if you don’t make noise, the fear curls tighter in your ribs, thick and suffocating.

Your whistle comes out uneven. Human. Fragile.

The fog shifts.

“Come on— dinner time” 

Steve calls, bat swinging low as he approaches.

Your grip tightens on the axe, the wooden handle biting, splintering into your palms.

“Human tastes better than cat, I promise.”

When the demodog finally steps into view, your heart lurches. You think Steve’s does too.

This isn’t the same animal that ripped open your cat….well. It is.

Only bigger.

Its flesh is darker now, aged and stretched, like a single day was enough for it to grow into something full-grown.

Steve takes a step back, his shoulder bumping into your chest before he mutters a quick, distracted sorry.

“Stay behind me, yeah?”

“I’ll do what I need to”

You say. Feet scuffing into place against the fog covered gravel.

Lucas’s voice shrieks from above. 

“Watch out!”

“A little busy here!” 

Steve shouts back.

But you’re already turning— and fuck, why did you do that?

“Steve—” 

You breathe.

He doesn’t move. Still facing the first one.

“Steve— turn around. Like now.”

You grab his shoulder and force him around, and you swear you can hear him physically swallow at the sight.

Three demodogs crawl out of the fog.

They fan out slowly, deliberate. Predator to prey. Sharks to blooded water.

Metal clangs somewhere behind you, Dustin yelling your name, tangled with Steve’s

“Abort! Abort!”

Dustin motions wildly toward the bus, but it’s already too late.

They lunge.

Everything fractures. The plan shatters. You and Steve scramble, boots slipping, fog tearing apart as axes and bats swing with blind hope of catching demogorgon flesh.

One of them veers hard toward Steve, jaws splitting wide— and he doesn’t see it, too focused on driving his bat into another.

“Steve! To your right!”

Instinct takes over.

You run.

Your axe swings wild and reckless, body moving before your mind can catch up. Somewhere in the haze, Steve notices at the last second, his bat already coming around

And then you’re there.

You shove yourself in front of him.

Your axe connects with wet resistance at the exact same moment Steve’s bat slams into you instead.

Pain explodes. It’s sharp, metallic, blinding ache ripping straight through you as the world whites out.

The demodogs’ shrieks bleed together with your own, a horrible chorus that rattles in your skull. Your knees buckle, vision stuttering, and you barely manage to stay upright. The world tilts, fog and shadows smearing together.

Somewhere— far away the kids are yelling, it comes out as a muffle of calls. 

Your ears ring so loudly it swallows everything else.

Blood pours from the puncture wounds, hot and slick. You can feel it, soaking, slipping, too much.

“Fuck— fuck— fuck— Y/N?”

Steve’s voice cracks straight through the noise.

His hands are on you before you realize you’re falling, gripping your arms, your shoulders, like he can physically hold you together. His face is pale, eyes wide and frantic, locked onto the blood like he can’t stop looking at it.

“Oh my God—no, no, no”

He mutters, breath coming too fast. His head darting all ways in search for incoming demodogs 

 “Hey—hey, stay with me, okay? Look at me.”

You try. It’s hard.

Another demodog screeches, too close, and Steve jerks, instinctively pulling you into his chest like he can shield you with his body alone.  

Steve looks back once, wild, like he’s forgotten where he is. Then something in him snaps into place.

“Okay we have to move.”

He says, too loud, too fast. 

“Okay— okay, I’ve got you.”

He ducks, scooping you up without asking, one arm under your legs, the other tight around your back. You barely feel the ground leave you, just the jolt of movement and the way his grip refuses to loosen. 

“Hold on”

He pants, already moving. 

“Just— just hold on.”

He runs.

Boots pound dirt, fog tearing open as the kids scream, overlapping and frantic—

“Steve, hurry!”

“Get in the bus!”

“Steve run!”

A demodog lunges behind you and Steve swerves hard, nearly losing his footing, but he doesn’t slow. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.

The bus looms closer, metal and safety and chaos all at once. Hands reach out, grabbing at you, at Steve, dragging you both inside as the doors slam behind you.

“Fuck.”

Steve breathes it out, his back slamming into the metal door, shoulder braced hard as he keeps it shut.

“Henderson—get your sister!”

“Shit, is she okay? What-”

Dustin scrambles toward you, hands grabbing anywhere they can, everywhere it hurts. You groan, the sound thin and distant, like it doesn’t fully belong to you. Everything feels light. Too light.

“Fuck—Y/N?” 

Dustin’s voice wobbles. 

“Steve, what the fuck happened?!”

“It was a lot, okay? I’m sorry— shit!”

The demodogs slam into the bus again. And again.

“They can’t get in! They can’t!” 

Lucas shouts, frantic.

The bus lurches violently, metal screaming as claws rake across it from all sides. You slide an inch, vision swimming, and Steve’s hand shoots out, gripping your shoulder to keep you upright.

“Fuck— Lucas,Dustin, take Y/N and put pressure on the wound!”

A shriek pierces the metal as something punches through. The bus erupts into screams.

“Steve there’s so many wounds!”

“-Hold ’em all!”

Dustin and Lucas drop beside you, hands pressing down hard against your stomach. Their fingers slip, slick and hot, and you gasp as pain flares— bright and nauseating.

There’s so much blood.

You can feel it pooling, warm and wrong, soaking through your clothes, your skin buzzing like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. Your ears ring, the world narrowing to pressure and noise and the awful wet sound of hands trying to help.

Everything muffles into screams and growls— Steve moving everywhere at once, bat slamming into metal wherever claws try to break through. The bus shakes. Your vision swims. Noise piles on noise until it all blurs together

And then it stops.

The silence hits harder than the sound ever did.

The demodogs retreat, their shrieks fading into the fog like they’ve been pulled away by something bigger. Something calling them back.

“Shit— shit, shit!”

Your brother’s voice cracks.

“Y/N?” 

Dustin pleads, hands still pressed to you.

“You still there?— please, just—”

You cut him off with a groan, breath hitching painfully.

“Okay thank god—Steve!”

Steve is at your side in a second. He shrugs off his jacket and slides it under your head, movements fast but careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he rushes wrong.

“Lay her down there”

He says, voice firm. Commanding. The kind of calm that takes all the effort in him.

Don’t scare Dustin, he thinks. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches.

He pulls at your jumper, then freezes when he sees the blood-soaked tank top beneath it.

“Steve, just take it fucking off”

You groan.

 “Do whatever you need to—”

“Yes— yes, sorry. Sorry,” 

He mutters, like a mantra, hands finally moving.

The fabric peels away and there they are— five puncture wounds blooming angry and red across your skin. Each one actively bleeding, no slowing, no mercy.

Beside you, Dustin gags, turning his head, eyes glossy and wrecked.

“Fuck”

Lucas says softly. 

“That looks bad.”

“We don’t have any bandages”

Dustin panics.

 “What are we going to do for bandages?”

“Dustin— shut up for a second” 

Steve snaps, sharp and immediate.

 “Let me think!”

He doesn’t wait. His hands tear at what’s left of your tank top until it’s barely hanging on, ripping the khaki-green fabric into rough strips.

“This is going to hurt”

He says, quieter now, eyes finally meeting yours. 

“Just stay with me, okay?”

You manage a nod, small and shaky. Your body feels wrong, it’s too heavy and too light at the same time, like it’s lagging behind itself.

Steve wraps the fabric around your waist, tightening it hard. The pressure burns, white hot and dizzying, and a sharp hiss claws out of you.

“I know”

He murmurs instantly. 

“I know. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

His hands don’t shake, even if the rest of him wants to.

“Those will get infected if she doesn’t get them cleaned”

 Max says, her voice a low drone cutting through the aftermath.

 “She’ll need stitches too.”

“So we better get the hell out of here,” 

Lucas adds.

Max nods, still shaky from the fight, adrenaline clinging to her words. 

“Can you stand? I’ll help you walk—”

“I’ve got her”

Steve says immediately.

His hands slide under your arms before you can even try on your own.

“I think” 

You rasp, the sound tearing out of you as you shift your weight. Pain flares hot and dizzying, your legs protesting like they might fold. You let out a whimper from the pain.

“Hey— hey”

Steve murmurs. 

“I’ve got you. Your gonna be fine”

His hands are solid, anchoring, holding you upright as the bus door creaks open and cold night air spills back in.

Dustin hovers uselessly at your other side, hands flapping.

“Holy shit”

He breathes. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit.”

“We’re moving”

Steve says, steering you forward.

You stumble down onto the gravel, knees wobbling, and Steve lets out a sharp exhale of relief when your feet actually hold.

“Tell me if anything hurts”

Steve says, thumb pressing lightly at your side as he steadies you. 

“We can take a break or tighten the bandage— anything you need.”

“Steve.”

Your voice comes out gravelly, scraped raw from pain and shouting, but your lips are somehow shifting upward at his overbearing-ness

“Yeah?”

He answers instantly, like he’s been waiting for it. Guilt flickers across his face, heavy and unearned, even if part of him knows it wasn’t his fault. That you chose to step in.

“I’ll be okay.”

The words land harder than you expect.

Steve swallows, jaw working like he wants to argue— like he doesn’t believe you but he nods anyway, slow and careful. His grip on you doesn’t loosen at all.

“Okay” 

He says quietly. 

“Okay.”

And he keeps walking, veering the two of you forward , like if he stops, the weight of it might catch up to him.

Dustin is still going. 

“Holy shit”

He repeats, like it’s the only phrase left functioning in his brain. 

“I can’t believe any of that just happened— Y/N i thought you were dying— holy shit”

“Dustin”

Max snaps.

“Sorry— sorry” 

He blurts, immediately softer. 

“I just— holy shit.”

You manage to shrug free from Steve’s grip, your stance wobbling at the edges, you begin walking— well trying to towards wherever those fuckers were headed.

“Hey— hey— where are you going?”

Steve catches up to you, his hand trying to keep you upright again, even though you resist it.

“The way they ran” 

You say, voice thin but certain. 

“That’s not happening”

He says, firmer now. 

“You’re hurt”

“I can walk”

You insist, even as the ground tilts under you. 

“I’m not leaving this half-finished.”

The fog ahead still churns, restless, like it hasn’t settled yet.

Steve exhales through his nose, jaw tight. He looks at the blood on his hands. At the way you’re swaying. Then back into the dark.

“Stay close to me”

He says finally. Not an argument. A condition.

“And that goes for everyone okay? You all stay close to me.”

He mutters toward the kids, 

The group moves forward, slower now, quieter. Every step pulls at your wounds, a sharp reminder of what just happened. Your vision blurs at the edges, but you force it back into focus.

You liked the way time moved slower now— not because it dragged, but because nothing was chasing it.

Steve was in the other room, close enough that you could hear him moving around, the soft scuff of socks against the floor. Normal sounds. Safe ones. The kind that anchored you without trying.

But when you said this was like every other day… you were partly lying.

Because wedged between your fingers was a pregnancy test.

One you’d taken five minutes ago.

Recently, you’d been feeling off. Not the unsettling kind, not the something is wrong kind, but the why am I throwing up every morning kind of off. The kind that lingered in your throat and followed you into the bathroom before you were fully awake.

And, not to mention, your period was eight days late.

It was no question that you and Steve fucked like rabbits and you’d always wanted kids. 

Someday. In the near future. Not at this very moment. When everything felt settled and solid and planned. But now? Now it felt like your life had only just begun again and you were already being shoved headfirst into the deep end. The big, terrifying adult deep end.

You’d only just gotten your job. How were they supposed to feel about you asking for a leave of absence so soon? Before you’d even learned everyone’s coffee orders. Before your name felt permanent on the schedule.

And your family— your brother, your mom. How were you supposed to explain this to them without sounding like you were drowning? Like there was too much going on right now for you to be calm— how were they not going to worry?

But most importantly how the fuck were you going to tell Steve?

You already knew he’d be excited. He always was, heart-first, consequences later. He’d smile too fast, pull you into his arms, start talking about names and cribs and someday before thinking about the reality of it. about today

The apartment only had one bedroom. And even calling it a bedroom felt generous. Because it was barely bigger than a broom closet. There was no space for a baby here. No room for a crib, or late night pacing, or anything small and human that cried. You couldn’t even get a dog because Steve said there was no space. 

Which means moving. Again. Another change stacked on top of all the others.

Your pulse starts to pound, loud enough that it fills your ears.

Deep breaths.

Everything will work out in the end.

Will it?

You turn the test over in your hands, plastic warm from your grip. Your thumb hovers over the little window, hesitant. Like if you don’t look, this doesn’t become real.

You hear Steve shift somewhere in the other room. The world keeps going.

You look.

For a split second, your brain refuses to process it. The lines blur, your vision swimming as your heart stutters in your chest.

Then it clicks.

Two lines.

Not faint. Not questionable. Not something you can dismiss as a trick of the light.

Two solid, unmistakable crimson lines.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale, your hands flying to your stomach. It’s still as flat as it was ten minutes ago, still familiar. Still unchanged.

And yet… everything feels different.

The room feels smaller. The air heavier. Like something someone invisible has shifted its weight inside you.

You’re not just holding a test anymore.

You’re holding the proof that nothing will ever be the same again.

“Hey, baby— you okay? You’ve been in there for ages.”

Steve’s knuckles tap gently against the door, his voice warm in the way it always is. Familiar. Safe. Worried.

“Uh— yeah”

You say quickly. Too quickly.

“m’ fine. Just… feeling a little faint. One second.”

Your voice cracks anyway. Tears sting behind your eyes and you tilt your head up, staring at the popcorn ceiling like it might rearrange itself into something that makes sense.

Steve hums on the other side of the door.

“Really? Maybe we should get that checked out”

He says. 

“You’ve been really sick recently.”

He notices. He always does.

Your chest tightens.

You shove the test behind the shampoo bottle on the shower shelf, plastic clacking softly against tile, then turn on the sink and splash cold water onto your face. You breathe. Once. Twice. You unlock the door then step back.

Steve slips inside, his expression caught somewhere between concern and routine as if he’s trying not to alarm you but failing anyway.

And then there’s his outfit.

A white button-down, sleeves rolled just enough. Beige suit trousers. Too put together. Not at all normal for a regular sunday morning 

“I was gonna shave real quick”

He says. 

“Thought I’d clean up a little. You sure you’ll be okay for today?”

Today.

Dustin’s graduation.

Fuck. Of all days— why did you take the test today?

Steve steps closer, his hand settling at your lower back. You flinch before you can stop yourself it’s barely there, barely noticeable but enough.

His thumb starts rubbing slow circles anyway.

You hope he doesn’t notice.

He notices.

His hand stills. His brows knit together. 

“Hey” 

He murmurs barely over a whisper. 

“What’s wrong?”

You shake your head too fast. 

“Nothing. I’m just a bit tired.”

He studies you, eyes flicking over your face, your posture, the way you won’t quite meet his gaze. He doesn’t push, not yet. But his concern doesn’t fade.

“We don’t have to stay the whole time”

He says gently. 

“We can leave early if you need to. Dustin will understand.”

You nod, even though your stomach twists.

“Okay” 

You say. 

“I’ll be fine.”

Steve leans in, presses a soft kiss to your temple— lingering like he’s grounding himself as much as you. Then he reaches for his razor and the can of shaving cream, turning toward the sink. 

“Anyways, Robin wanted us to escape a bit earlier too so that we could have that little catch up— remember, like we did last month”

You nod

“Shit” 

He mutters, giving the can a little shake. It answers with a pathetic hiss of air.

“Did we run out of shaving cream?” 

He asks, already half-looking toward the shower.

“Uh—” 

Your voice sticks. 

“I think so?”

He hums, thoughtful. 

“It’s fine. I’ll just use conditioner.”

No.

No, no, no.

He steps toward the shower, curtain already sliding back with that familiar shhk of plastic rings on metal. Your pulse spikes so hard it makes you dizzy.

“Steve—” 

You start, but he’s already reaching.

His hand goes straight to the shelf.

Right past the soap.

Right past the loofah.

His fingers brush the conditioner bottle.

Right next to it.

The shampoo.

The shampoo bottle you shoved the test behind.

Time stretches thin.

You watch his knuckles nudge the shampoo as he grabs the conditioner, the bottle wobbling slightly on the slick tile. Your lungs forget how to work. You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your teeth.

The test shifts.

Just a little.

Steve freezes.

“…Did you move stuff around in here?”

Fuck.

You swallow hard.

 “I— no. Why?”

He turns his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the shelf. The conditioner is in his hand now, but his attention isn’t on it anymore.

It’s on the sliver of white plastic peeking out from behind the shampoo. 

He places the conditioner on the sink top and reaches back. For the test. 

Your vision blurs and you move.

Immediately.

You grab him, spin him around by the front of his shirt and crash your mouth into his.

It’s clumsy. Too fast. Teeth knock, lips miss before finding each other again. The kiss tastes like panic and mint and the desperate hope that this will buy you time— just a second, enough to keep his mind on something else.

Steve makes a surprised sound into your mouth before instinct takes over, his hands finding your waist, grounding, familiar.

You pull back just as quickly.

He barely lets you.

Steve lingers there, lips still brushing yours, breath warm against your face. You can feel the curve of his smirk before you even open your eyes.

“You feelin’ better?” 

He asks softly, amusement threading through his voice like nothing in the world is wrong.

He laughs under his breath, stealing one more quick kiss before finally stepping back.

And just like that, the moment slips.

But the test is still in his hand.

The smile fades.

Slowly.

His gaze drops— to the white plastic, to the two unmistakable lines. He then lifts back to you, searching. Careful now. Serious in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Steve, I swear I was going to tell you— I just—”

Your words tangle over each other. 

“I took it ten minutes ago. I didn’t— I didn’t even have time to—”

Your voice fractures completely.

The sob comes out of nowhere, ripping through your chest before you can stop it. Your knees give and you slump down onto the closed toilet seat, hands coming up to cover your face like that might hold you together.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

“Hey— hey”

Steve says immediately, crossing the space between you in two steps. 

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You’re okay.” 

His voice is steady, grounding. 

“I’m not mad. I swear to you, I’m not mad.”

He crouches in front of you, his hands finding your arms, rubbing slow, familiar paths up and down your sleeves— the exact way he does when he knows you’re spiraling.

You finally look up at him.

His eyes are glassy. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… full. His jaw is tight, his expression caught somewhere between worry and something softer. Something almost stunned.

“Are you actually—“

He starts, then stops himself, breath hitching.

You nod.

Once.

That’s all it takes.

Steve lets out a shaky laugh that sounds like it was pulled straight from his chest. His hands slide to your knees, grounding himself now too.

“Oh”

He breathes. 

“Oh my god.”

He runs a hand through his hair, then laughs again— quieter this time, disbelieving.

 “We’re— we’re having a baby?”

The word baby makes your stomach twist.

Your doubt rushes back in all at once.

“Steve, I don’t know if we can—” 

You start.

 “The apartment, our jobs, we barely—”

He shakes his head, not dismissive, just sure.

“Hey. Hey.” 

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours. 

“Not all at once. You don’t get to do that to yourself.”

Your breath stutters.

“I’m scared.”

“I know” 

He says immediately.

 “I am too.” 

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright, smile small but real. 

“But I’m also… really happy right now.”

You swallow hard.

“You are?”

“We made a baby.”

He nods as he says it, like he needs the motion to make the words real. His voice is threaded with disbelief, wonder creeping in around the edges.

“We made a baby”

He repeats, softer this time. Then he’s moving.

Steve pulls you up from the toilet seat before you can argue, before your legs can remember how shaky they are, and wraps you in his arms. Tight. Protective. Like he’s anchoring you to the ground.

Your face presses into his chest, his heartbeat loud beneath your ear.

“I know you’re scared”

He murmurs into your hair. 

“I know this is a lot. And you don’t have to feel how I feel yet. You don’t even have to feel happy.”

You stiffen slightly at that— like you’re bracing for the but.

It never comes.

Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, hands firm at your waist, thumbs warm where they press into your sides.

“You don’t get to be alone in this” 

He says instead. 

“Not for even a second. I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not letting your brain convince you this is the end of something.”

His hand slides gently to your stomach— tentative, like he’s asking permission without words.

“This is just the start”

He whispers.

 “And yeah, it’s terrifying. But it’s also… kind of incredible.”

Steve’s hand stays at your stomach, warm and careful, like he’s memorizing something he hasn’t even met yet.

You look at him, really look; at the way his smile wobbles at the edges, at how his eyes are still shining like he’s holding onto something fragile and precious all at once.

“Hey”

He murmurs, like he’s afraid to startle the moment away.

You don’t answer.

You just lean in.

The kiss is slow. Not rushed. Not desperate. His lips are warm and sure against yours, grounding and hopeful all at once. 

It doesn’t taste like panic this time. It tastes like possibility. Like something unfolding instead of collapsing.

Steve’s hands cradle your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if to remind you you’re here. That you’re real. That this is happening.

When he pulls back, just barely, his forehead rests against yours.

“We’ll figure it out”

His house was physical proof of it. Not a single corner was left untouched. Every surface or countertop sparkled with some kind of plastic LED bulb, a ceramic snowman or an aggressively cheerful nutcracker.

There were gingerbread scented candles everywhere. His bedroom. The kitchen. The coffee table. The bathroom shelves. Honestly, you weren’t even sure how you could still smell anything else at this point.

And then there was the mistletoe.

Steve carried a miniature mistletoe keychain in his jacket pocket at all times, ready to whip it out whenever the moment seemed fitting— which, according to him, was practically always. 

When you were out, he’d let it dangle between his fingers with that stupid, knowing grin. When you were alone, it would hang lower, to which you never protested against 

And sure, as the resident grinch, you should find it corny.

But you didn’t.

You found it… cute.

Just as long as he didn’t rub all of his Christmas cheer all over you.

Which is exactly what’s happening right now.

“Okay”

Steve says, clapping his hands together once, excitement practically vibrating off him. 

“I need your opinion.”

That alone is suspicious.

You stand a few feet back, arms crossed loosely over your chest, eyes flicking toward the monstrosity in question.

His plastic Christmas tree— that he’s had for the 4 years you’ve been together. — standing proudly in the corner of his living room. It’s tall, perfectly symmetrical, and so aggressively artificial

Steve beams beside it.

“I spent two hours fluffing the branches”

He says, holding up the number two and practically shoving it in your face. 

“Two.”

You squint, tilting your head.

“It’s… very green?” 

You offer.

He gives you a look. 

“Be serious.”

You sigh, stepping closer despite yourself. The lights are already on, glowing softly, reflecting off the ornaments he’s arranged with surgical precision. It’s not bad. It’s actually kind of nice. In a way that makes your chest feel tight, like you’re standing somewhere you don’t quite belong.

Your gaze drifts.

“Maybe”

You say slowly, pointing 

“That branch could be shifted a bit? It’s sticking out weird.”

Steve hums, already mid-sentence about how the lights look better warm-toned than white.

You reach for it.

The second your fingers touch plastic, the bestowed upon tree betrays him.

It doesn’t just tilt slightly. It goes. The stand gives in with a sharp crack, and suddenly there’s nothing holding it upright. The tree slams into the floor with a violent thud, lights snapping dark as the cord yanks from the wall.

Ornaments scatter.

Glass hits hardwood and shatters— too many times. it’s sharp sound echoing through the room. One rolls clean under the couch. Another bursts completely, glitter and fake snow spreading like a crime scene.

You suck in a breath, frozen. You’ve just broken a relic.

A tree he’s had for more christmas’s’ than you could count, it had been there for all of your christmas’s and probably all of Steve’s.

This is where it ends. His jolly cheeriness and your relationship

“Oh my god” 

Your voice is low, but loud enough to not be considered a whisper. 

“Steve, I’m so—”

He’s staring at it. Kneeling slowly like he’s afraid the tree might jump him if he moves too fast. 

He reaches out and lifts one of the broken ornaments between his fingers. It’s split clean in half, the little painted snowman smiling despite it all.

For a second, your stomach drops.

But then Steve lets out a laugh.

Not loud. Just breathy. A little disbelieving.

“Well”

He says, shaking his head.

“That’s… not ideal two days before Christmas.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“I know baby.”

He cuts in gently, glancing up at you.

“I shouldn’t have cheaped out on the stand. Or the ornaments.” 

He looks back at the mess. 

“And I guess the tree was getting too old for its own good.“

You kneel beside him, carefully nudging shards away with your sleeve. 

“I’ll replace them.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. 

“Hey. It’s okay.”

You look at him. Waiting for disappointment. For that flicker of frustration you’re so used to bracing for.

It never comes.

Instead, his eyes light up like something just clicked into place.

“…You know what?” 

He says suddenly, standing. 

“This is fine. It’s perfect actually”

“That’s a bold take.”

“No, seriously”

He says, already grabbing his jacket. 

“This is fate. The universe is telling me— us something.”

You blink. 

“That it hates us?”

He turns around with a grin that reaches his eyes.

“Tree farm time.”

“Steve.”

You say, gesturing at the calendar on the wall. 

“It’s two days before Christmas, there will be nothing left”

“It’s the prime time.”

“That is absolutely not—”

He’s already pulling on his shoes.

“C’mon, baby. Worst case scenario, we come back with a lopsided little thing and a good story.”

You sigh, tugging your coat on anyway.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆𖢔❆⋆꙳

The tree farm is… bleak.

Every decent looking tree near the front is already tagged and gone, sad little stumps left behind like gravestones. What’s left are the rejects. Trees with sparse branches, crooked tops, ones that look like they gave up halfway through growing.

Steve stands there, hands on his hips, scanning the rows like a man on a mission.

“Okay”

He says. 

“We’re gonna have to go deeper.”

You snort

“That’s what she said.”

He doesn’t have a flicker of amusement, eyes still scanning

“Focus.”

He says before pointing ahead

You stare past the fence line, where the trees stretch on and on, thinning the farther back they go. 

“Steve. That’s literally miles.”

“Perfect trees don’t live near parking lots,” 

He says, already heading off.

So you trek.

And trek.

Cold seeps into your boots. The snow crunching and framing your shoe every time you move.

Your fingers go numb. You complain. He doesn’t listen. He keeps stopping, circling trees, squinting up at them like they might reveal their secrets if he stares hard enough.

“Nope.”

“Too skinny.”

“That one’s judging me.”

It feels like years of  searching and sharp air biting against your cheeks.

At one point, you trip over a stump, barely catching yourself before you’re falling down hard. 

Snow crunches beneath you, and for a split second the glittering ice scattered across the ground looks like shattered glass, it casting a sharp, blinding reflection everywhere. Your face stings as you hit the cold, breath knocked clean from your chest.

Before you can even swear, Steve’s hands are on you.

He hauls you upright with surprising ease, steadying you by the shoulders, eyes scanning your face like he’s counting freckles. He stutters out a light laugh

“Hey— you good?”

You nod, still a little dazed.

“Careful” 

He mutters, half under his breath as he brushes snow from your coat.

“Gotta have some willpower if we’re gonna survive this walk.”

You scoff, but you let him pull you along anyway.

And then — finally — it happens.

“This one.”

The tree stands slightly apart from the others, like it wandered too far and never found its way back. 

One side is full and lush, branches heavy and dark. The other is thinner, uneven, like it grew leaning toward the light and never quite corrected itself.

Steve steps closer, reverent.

He lifts a branch and brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“Oh my god” 

He breathes.

 “It smells incredible. Baby, get over here — it might put some jolly in you.”

He’s such a dork 

You approach carefully, every step deliberate, eyes glued to the ground like it might trip you again. Your cheeks burn pink from the cold, from the effort, from the lingering embarrassment.

“Are you sure?” 

you ask quietly.

Steve turns to you, practically glowing. 

“Are you joking? Look at her.” 

He gestures proudly.

 “She’s a beaut. Perfectly imperfect.”

Your gaze drops to the snow.

“You used to talk about me like that.”

He barely has time to blink before he’s charging at you.

You laugh before he even reaches you.  A startled and unguarded sound and then he’s got his arms around you, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you in a messy circle.

“You’re in first place,” 

He declares, breathless, burying his face into your coat. 

“Don’t you worry.”

Then he’s picking up the saw off the ground 

And well cutting the tree turns out to be… harder than it looks.

But Steve insists you help.

“No, no”

He says, placing the saw into your gloved hands, guiding them into position.

 “You gotta be part of the process. It’s tradition.”

“It’s manual labour”

You grumble.

“Same thing.”

His hands stay over yours as you start sawing, slow and uneven at first. He adjusts your grip, pressing closer, his chest warm against your back as he murmurs encouragement like you’re doing something heroic instead of attacking a tree.

“That’s it”

He says. 

“You’ve got it.”

Your arms ache. Your nose is numb. The saw finally breaks through with a dull snap, and the tree tips slightly before Steve catches it, laughing as it falls into his arms.

You stare at the plane, its floppy branches and uneven leaves. It’s stupid really but something about it feels… earned.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆𖢔❆⋆꙳

By the time you get home, you’re exhausted.

Steve wrestles the tree into the stand, pine needles scattering across the floor, the scent of it instantly filling the house. It smells cleaner than the candles ever did. Real. Sharp. Alive.

Decorating is slower than you expect.

You hang a few ornaments. He rearranges them. You pretend not to care. He pretends not to notice when you fix one of his broken ornaments from earlier— glueing the pieces together with a focused concentration, tongue sticking out with precision. Steve smiles at that, a heat reaching his cheeks. 

When the lights finally flick on, the room softens.

You both step back.

Like you noted before it isn’t the perfect tree— it’s far from that. The branches don’t all match. The top leans just slightly to the left.

But it’s yours. And maybe that’s what christmas is about 

Steve pulls out his Polaroid from the top drawer of the console table, lifting it with a grin. 

“Wait quick— Hold still.”

Before you can protest, the camera clicks.

He waits for it to develop, watching the image slowly bloom before smiling to himself. 

“Wow”

He says. 

“The first time I actually got you in a festive mood.”

You glance at the tree. At the photo. At him.

“You wish.”

He laughs, slipping an arm around your waist anyway, pressing a kiss into your hairline like it’s already settled— like this, right here, is exactly where he wanted you all along. Then he tilts your chin up and kisses you properly, slow and warm, tasting faintly of candy canes and him, and annoyingly you think that maybe this is how Christmas gets you, maybe you understand what it is

Maybe the holiday is finally bearable if it’s more years of warm kisses and Steve’s arms around you

but you would never admit that to him.

But it always seemed to repeat itself: the waiting, The distance that crept in quietly, something not needed to be announced until it consumed everything 

And now, Steve stands a little farther away. He watches more than he touches. 

Hands you weapons like it’s safer to keep you at arm’s length, like loving you too openly might tempt the universe into taking something else.

You’d like to think that this is just how things get when the world starts ending again. 

That there will be time later— after everything, after Vecna, after whatever comes next.

Still, the words sit heavy in your chest. 

Waiting. Expectant. Ready for the passion to flicker again, for the i love yous to be spread like bible . Sacred, and worn thin from overuse, but believed in all the same. Just like how it once was.

You almost say it when he tells you to be careful, voice low, like the words might carry too far if he lets them.

Almost say it when his eyes linger on you, slow and searching, like he’s memorizing your face in case he doesn’t get the chance to again.

He pulls you into a hug before you can think better of it. Arms wrapped tight around your waist, grounding, familiar. Holding on for long enough that it stops feeling like habit and starts feeling like fear.

Your forehead presses against his as he pulls back, noses brushing, breath shared. 

For a second, everything stills. The noise, the plan, the urgency of it all fading into something small and fragile between the two of you.

You think he might say it then.

You think you might.

Neither of you do.

Steve exhales, slow and shaky, like he’s bracing himself. His hands linger at your sides before he finally lets go, stepping back just far enough to hurt.

“I’ll be back”

he says instead.

You nod. You trust your voice even less than his.

He turns away after that, axe hung across his back, shoulders squared like he knows how to carry the weight of what’s coming. 

Ash drifts through the air as he walks off, clinging to his hair, framing him in gray and shadow.

You watch until he disappears from sight.

“Alright.”

Eddie claps his hands once, sharp and loud, a signal to get ready. A signal to brace yourself for whatever comes next.

The wood of the bat is rough beneath your grip. Every shift of it in your hands pulls your thoughts back to Steve. It’s his bat, after all. The dents, the nails, the weight of it— is all him.

Eddie’s fingers find the strings of his prized guitar and the first notes ring out, low and ominous. Then he’s shredding, sound ripping through the night, loud enough to split the sky open.

The demobats come fast. Faster than you expect. small black shapes slicing through the air, shrieks piling on top of the music, on top of the thunder rolling overhead.

Dustin stands next to you, binoculars pressed to his face, scanning the thick, churning air.

“Eddie— we need to lock up in T-minus thirty seconds!”

His voice barely cuts through the noise.

“T-twenty!”

A bat swoops low, close enough that you feel the rush of air against your face.

“Ten!”

Your heart is in your throat now.

“One!”

You’re running before the word fully leaves his mouth.

You clamber off the roof of Eddie’s trailer, boots slipping, hands scrambling for purchase as the bats swarm from every direction. Their shrieks flood the air, sharp and piercing, like they’re inside your head.

The door slams shut behind you.

Eddie and Dustin whoop, jumping and yelling something about the whole thing being metal as hell.

You’re pressed to the wall, trying not to collapse. Trying not to panic. Your breaths come too fast, too shallow, turning into wheezes that won’t seem to stop.

Your lungs burn. Then tighten. Then burn again.

You can’t tell if it’s fear or something worse. Maybe both. Because everything that happens next comes in sharp and disconnected flashes

One moment you’re dragging air into your chest, vision tunneling.

The next, demobats burst through the gate and into the trailer, your bodies slamming against metal and wood, giving your all to keep them out. You, Eddie, and Dustin swinging your weapons wildly.

Steve’s bat is clenched in your hands so tight your knuckles ache, fingers screaming. You swing it like you’ve seen him do, as if muscle memory can be borrowed, like holding onto something of his might keep you upright.

Then you’re on a bike. Then you’re not.

You and Eddie pedal hard, your legs burning, the night tearing past as you try to lead the bats away from Dustin, away from the trailer, away from anyone else.

Your chest seizes halfway through. Your vision blurs. The world tilts.

You hit the ground hard.

Bats tear into you from all angles, claws and teeth and sound, too much sound. You scream or maybe you don’t. You can’t hear it over the rush and pound in your ears.

And then they’re gone.

Because everything is gone.

Darkness swallows you whole for eight minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Steve is running before he understands why.

Something in his chest has gone tight, sharp, like a wire pulled too far. Like instinct yanking him forward without explanation. 

His mind hasn’t fully caught up yet, he doesn’t know who he’s running toward— but if he can save someone, that’s what he’s bound to do.

He’s spent to many restless nights with guilt creeping under his skin to let something like this happen again.

He skids to a stop when he sees the body on the ground. Torn jacket, blood dark against the dirt.

“Eddie—”

The name breaks apart in his mouth.

Because it’s not Eddie.

It’s you.

His world narrows to a pinpoint.  And the bats, the noise, the plan; all dissolves. Steve drops to his knees so hard it hurts, hands shaking as he reaches for your limp body, then he stops himself like touching you wrong might finish the job.

“No, no, no” 

he’s muttering under his breath, the words tumbling over each other, frantic. 

“Hey— hey, c’mon. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You don’t move.

There’s blood everywhere. Too much of it. His throat tightens, vision blurring as he presses his ear to your chest, fingers hovering, terrified of what he won’t feel.

“Please” 

He whispers, the word wrecked.

 “Please, please, please.”

“Steve—”

Robin’s voice breaks as she reaches for his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, trying to pull him back.

“Please, just—”

She stops.

Her hand flies to her mouth, a sob catching in her throat as her eyes land on your body 

Steve doesn’t remember calling your name. Doesn’t remember asking for help. 

Only the way his hands finally move, purposeful despite the shaking— checking your pulse, pressing down on wounds, doing something, anything, because standing still would kill him.

The party watch, hot tears silently rolling down their cheeks. 

“Stay with me— I can’t— please”

He says, over and over, like a prayer he’s afraid won’t be answered. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, okay? Just— just stay.”

When you gasp, it’s ugly and broken and perfect.

Steve lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh, crushing relief flooding his chest so fast it almost knocks him over.

“There you are” 

He breathes.

 “Jesus— there you are. You’re okay”

He gathers you up carefully, impossibly gentle for someone shaking this hard, arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he lets go. His face presses into your hair, forehead resting there for just a second.

“St—eve?”

Your voice is raw when it reaches him, torn, broken and rasped. 

Your throat burns, scratchy and hot, and your body feels distant, heavy. Like everything has drained out of you.

“Hey— hey, don’t talk”

Steve says quickly, breath hitching. 

“You’re— you’re fine. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t bother wiping his tears away. They fall freely, warm against your hair, soaking in.

“I’m sorry.”

He murmurs. 

“I’m sorry I left you. Never again, okay? Never again. I’ll always be here.”

His words vibrate against your scalp, low and broken and earnest.

And all you can do is cry, clutching at his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world.

Then finally you’re back in his house.

Back in his bathroom. Back somewhere safe.

Steve’s hands move slowly, carefully, cleaning your wounds like he’s afraid of hurting you again. Every other second there’s an apology, murmured and broken.

“I know— I’m sorry”

He says when you flinch.

You’re perched on the closed toilet seat, shirt hitched up to expose the deep cuts along your sides, skin angry and bruised beneath the harsh bathroom light. 

Steve kneels between your legs, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you can feel the tremor in him.

His forehead presses to yours as he pours more alcohol onto a cotton round.

“I shouldn’t have left you there”

He mutters, not really talking to you. 

“I should’ve— I should’ve stayed.”

“Steve, don’t.”

You rasp, voice thin. 

“It’s not your fault. At all.”

The cold pad touches your skin and you hiss, body jumping despite yourself. He freezes immediately, eyes snapping up to your face.

“I’m sorry— I’m sorry,” 

He whispers again, tears gathering.

 “I just— I thought you were dead.”

His voice cracks completely on the last word.

Your chest tightens. Slowly, carefully, you lift your hands and cradle his face, thumbs brushing under his eyes, wiping away tears that don’t stop falling.

“I’m here,”

You murmur. 

“I’m right here.”

He leans into your touch like he needs it to breathe.

When you kiss him, it’s hesitant at first. It’s slow and soft and almost unsure. Your lips move against his in a way that’s achingly familiar, muscle memory taking over where words and intimacy have failed you both lately.

It feels distant for half a second.

Then he melts.

Steve kisses you back like he’s been holding his breath for days— years even, hands hovering at your waist before settling there, careful, reverent. Like touching you is both grounding and terrifying.

He pulls back just enough for your foreheads to touch again, breath shaking.

“I almost thought I would never get to say it again before I—”

He admits quietly. Both of your tears merging into one as they drift down your faces.

“I almost—”

You don’t let him finish.

“I love you”

You say, voice steady despite everything. Soft, but certain.

His eyes squeeze shut as a sob slips out of him, shoulders sagging like something heavy has finally been set down.

“I love you too”

He whispers. 

“God, I love you. I never stopped. I just didn’t know how to say it anymore.”

You press your forehead to his, breathing him in, feeling the truth of it settle between you. It’s not loud, not dramatic. Just real.

Outside, the world is still broken.

But here, in the quiet of his bathroom, with his hands warm on your skin and his voice finally honest again, you choose each other.

Still. Always. You will always be certain that you will choose each other.