kittaeyeon

Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”

Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.

You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”

Clark glanced down.

The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”

The bullpen erupted.

Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.

Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.

And weirdly adorable.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”

He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”

“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”

Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.

Clark shot him a betrayed look.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.

Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.

It hit you like a truck.

Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.

Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.

Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.

Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.

He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.

“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.

-

Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.

Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.

You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.

Mostly because of Clark.

Which was ridiculous.

You barely knew him. Technically.

But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.

He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.

He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.

Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.

Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.

And his eyes.

Jesus Christ.

You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.

Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.

Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.

At first you thought you imagined it.

Then you noticed patterns.

Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.

It was honestly kind of endearing.

Today, however, was especially bad.

You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.

Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.

Clark stared down at it in horror.

You stared at him.

“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”

Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”

You pointed.

The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.

Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”

“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”

He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.

“It was slippery.”

“The mug exploded.”

“It’s a very slippery mug.”

You laughed again.

Clark visibly melted.

Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.

It was becoming a problem.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”

Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”

“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”

“They can interfere with technology.”

“Sure.”

“It’s science.”

“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”

Clark huffed out a laugh.

God.

That was dangerous too.

Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.

You liked making him do it.

Probably more than you should.

“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.

You blinked.

Shit.

“I am not.”

One dark eyebrow lifted.

You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Clark’s ears turned pink.

And for some reason, that made you bold.

“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”

Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”

“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”

“I really don’t think I do.”

“That’s actually insane.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”

The room went completely silent.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.

“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.

Then he physically walked into a cabinet.

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Never better.”

“You hit that cabinet really hard.”

“I’m durable.”

You snorted.

Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.

And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.

-

Lois Lane cornered you two days later.

“You like him.”

You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”

Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.

“You and Smallville.”

“We are coworkers.”

“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Lois smirked.

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”

You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Absolutely.”

“This is humiliating.”

“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”

Cute.

Right.

Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.

Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.

It was that he was good.

Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.

Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.

Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.

Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.

Who does that?

Who is actually like that?

“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”

“What?”

“With Clark.”

You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”

“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s accurate.”

Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.

You looked up instinctively.

Big mistake.

Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.

Which honestly was possible.

The man moved weirdly fast.

Clark smiled the second he saw you.

And there it was again.

That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.

Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.

“Worth it.”

Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.

Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”

Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

“Everything,” Lois corrected.

Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.

Clark looked adorably confused.

You looked anywhere except directly at him.

“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”

He handed them over carefully.

Your fingers brushed his.

Clark froze.

You felt him freeze.

The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.

It was ridiculous.

A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.

And yet.

Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”

“You’re asking me?”

A nervous laugh escaped him.

“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.

“What?”

Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”

“Clark.”

“It’s not important.”

“Clark.”

His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”

The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.

“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.

Clark blinked.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“But you seem so calm around me.”

You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”

For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.

Then he laughed.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not a soft huff.

An actual laugh.

Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.

Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.

“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.

Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.

“I think you’re incredible.”

Oh.

Oh, you were in serious trouble.

-

It started raining halfway through your walk home.

Not normal rain either.

The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.

You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”

“You forgot your umbrella too?”

You turned.

Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.

Of course he had an umbrella.

Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.

“You stalking me, Kent?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”

He lifted a paper bag slightly.

You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”

Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”

You narrowed your eyes.

Clark smiled innocently.

Suspicious.

Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.

Warmth immediately surrounded you.

Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.

You tried not to notice.

Failed horribly.

“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”

Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.

Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.

Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.

Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.

“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.

Clark blinked. “I am?”

“You’re getting rained on.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, move over.”

You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.

Clark immediately went completely still beside you.

Your arm brushed his.

Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.

Clark looked down at you slowly.

And there it was again.

That look.

Like you were something precious.

Something worth handling carefully.

It made your chest ache.

“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”

“Is that what this is?”

“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”

Rain hammered softly overhead.

Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.

And suddenly the space between you felt very small.

Very warm.

Very dangerous.

A car horn blared somewhere nearby.

Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”

“Yep.”

“That was—”

“Definitely something.”

Clark laughed nervously.

You smiled despite yourself.

Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.

Clark went silent.

His fingers instinctively curled around yours.

Warm.

Careful.

Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.

You looked up at him.

Clark looked completely undone.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”

Clark stared at you for one long second.

Then he smiled softly.

“I might argue you did.”

Your heart was never recovering from this man.

Ever.

-

By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.

Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.

You were trying not to look equally affected.

Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.

Neither of you moved.

“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”

Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”

Neither of you let go.

A smile tugged at your mouth.

Clark noticed instantly.

“What?”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.

“Oh.”

But he still didn’t let go.

Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

The movement was absentminded.

Gentle.

Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.

Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.

His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.

“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Clark stared at you.

You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.

“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”

Clark still looked frozen.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”

“No.”

Your eyes snapped back to his.

Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”

The rain suddenly felt very far away.

Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.

Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.

You leaned into his touch before he could ask.

Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.

Then he kissed you.

And—

Oh.

That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.

There was nothing uncertain about it.

Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.

Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.

Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.

Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.

And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.

Sweet.

Tender.

Like he was trying to memorize you.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.

Clark looked completely wrecked.

His glasses were crooked.

His hair was damp from the rain.

And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.

“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.

You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”

“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”

You smiled so hard your face hurt.

Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”

“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”

You stared at him.

Then burst into laughter.

Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”

“You walked into a wall?”

“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.

“That is somehow worse.”

Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.

“I’m trying to be romantic.”

“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”

The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.

You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”

His ears turned pink again.

“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”

Clark looked away innocently.

“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”

A soft smile spread slowly across his face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Softer this time.

Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”

Clark considered that seriously.

“…Probably not.”

You laughed.

So that’s why you don’t even blink when you notice him leaning across the counter talking to a pediatrics nurse from upstairs, his pearly teeth glittering beneath the fluorescent lights as he lets out a soft laugh. He looks unfairly handsome, especially at this time of night. His dark scrubs fit him a touch too well, and it is a bit hard for you to focus when he moves in your peripheral because your eyes are drawn to the fabric stretching around his forearms. You’ve definitely reached crazy girlfriend status, you think, standing just feet away, trying to look focused on the empty patient chart in front of you but quietly listening into their conversation.

The nurse from pedes lets out a high-pitched, nasally laugh at that very moment and you swear your ears are ringing from the assault. You bring your eyes up to see if you could figure out what was so funny, but her hand’s on his forearm and you suddenly feel dizzyingly sick.

Jack is a good attending, there’s no doubt about that. You started working for him a year ago. He would casually flirt with you in a way that he didn’t with other women. The path to dating followed after that quickly. Soon, you and Jack were spending almost every hour outside of work together. When things got serious–and they did, quickly–some ground rules had to be set.

A year ago, you thought that keeping your relationship a secret would be the best option for you. You thought that it would alleviate any issues involved with HR or people thinking you had slept your way through your residency. You were beginning to think, though, that you would rather have the rumors over having to watch every woman within a quarter mile flock to him.

“If you stare any harder, your eyes might pop out of your skull.”

You flinch when Dr. Parker Ellis’s voice interrupts your train of thought. You turn around to see the woman standing behind you, smacking a piece of gum in her mouth.

“What are you, a ninja? I thought you were with a patient?”  

“I was with a patient,” she replies with a mischievous smile, “but as I was leaving, I couldn’t help wondering why you weren’t with one”--she lowers her voice conspiratorially–“could it have something to do with the new pedes nurse hanging out with Dr. Abbot?”

You wrinkle your nose in your best attempt at seeming disgusted by the notion. “I’ve told you before…” you chide the woman, “I’m not into Jack.”

“Sureee,” Dr. Ellis says. “That’s why you’re hiding behind that empty chart in the middle of rush hour. Because you don’t like Abbot.”

“Maybe I’m actually trying to get work done,” you tell her, “like, maybe it’s actually good I’m not playing around when I should be working.”

Dr. Ellis smirks like she knows something you don’t. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone this far in denial before.”

You roll your eyes at your friend’s comment. Dr. Ellis seems amused by your irritation and that only makes you more annoyed.

She looks like she’s going to say something else, but then her eyes get caught at something behind you. She ducks her head down as if trying to seem busy and her lips barely move as she mumbles: “incoming.”

“--And here are some of my wonderful residents.” 

You turn your head so fast toward the voice that you worry you’ve gotten whiplash. You immediately cringe at your overenthusiasm when you remember you’re trying to play it coy. Jack and the nurse stand there, wearing near-identical smiles on their faces.

Jack’s eyes linger on you for a moment too long. They soften and trail down your face. You clench your tablet so hard you’re afraid it will crack under the pressure.

Ellis shoots a nonchalant nod toward them. You just smile, hoping it doesn’t come across as robotically as you think it does.

Jack grins proudly as he gestures to you both. “Julia, meet Dr. Ellis and—“

“Hey, sorry, I’ve got a patient I have to check on,” you interrupt with your best attempt at a pleasant smile, “nice to meet you, though, Jackie.”

The new nurse frowns. “It’s Julia.”

You look over at your boyfriend, who stares at you like you’ve got two heads. You grit your teeth and give the nurse a closed-mouth smile before you duck your head and step away.

Good job playing it cool, you think to yourself as you head toward Central 11. Why are you such a bitch? It’s not Nurse Jolene’s fault Jack is so… himself. 

“Hey, wait up—“ Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

You stop and look back at Jack as he lightly jogs toward you. Behind him, Nurse Joy looks around confusedly, probably wondering what soap opera she’d mistakenly stumbled into.

“I was just about to see how my scarlet fever patient is doing,” you tell him even though you know that is not why he stopped you. Perhaps a small part of you hoped that was what he’d ask.

“What was that back there?” Jack says, his light eyes sweeping over your face as if trying to read it like a book. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine… how are you doing?” 

“Fine…” he trails off, eyebrows furrowed. You notice, peculiarly, that his eyes seem wider than normal. They dart in between the two of yours like a tennis ball jumping a net.

“Well I’m glad that’s settled.” You turn to walk away when he doesn’t immediately say anything else. “And if that’s all you needed…”

He grabs your arm before you can turn your back and turn tail, and you jolt at the pressure. When he’s got your attention, he immediately lets go. You automatically look to see if anyone noticed the transgression, swallowing nervously.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I just… I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You feel yourself soften at the admission. You step closer, but not too close in fear someone might think it improper. You offer him a smile.

“I should be the one that’s sorry,” you say, “I’m just a little on-edge, that's all.” You decide not to tell him that when you saw that nurse put her hand on his arm, you had wanted to kiss him in front of the entire ER staff. Now is not the time for grand admissions like that.

Jack looks relieved. A quick smile flits across his face. “Well, the ER will do that to you.”

“You would think four years in, I’d be used to it,” your words are closely followed by a small laugh. 

“Sorry to say, love, but it never gets easier,” he says with a coy grin and your chest flutters at the nickname, “unless you somehow figure out how to turn your empathy off.”

“I hope I never do that.”

There’s a lapse in conversation for a moment too long. You furrow your brows when you notice him looking at you, studying you like you’re a puzzle. 

You touch your hair subconsciously. “Something wrong?” 

His response is immediate. “No, no, there never is with you,” he says. He leans forward and his voice lowers. “I just can’t get over how fucking hot you are.”

“Jack,” you groan. Despite your attempt at pretending to be annoyed, a small smile pulls at your lips.

“There’s something about you in your scrubs and work mode that really gets me going,” he tells you. “All studious and shit.”

“--I’m leaving,” you say, turning your back. A smile lingers on your lips as you turn away. “Bye, Jack.”

“Bye, love,” he says just loud enough for you to hear as you step away. “Have a good shift.”

12:00a.m.

You think the signs that your shift is about to go from bad to worse lies in the empty coffee maker in the break room. 

No good shift starts with an empty coffee maker. It’s just one of those superstitions that you believe in that inevitably and inexplicably ends up coming true. Tonight is no exception. 

Your scarlet fever patient barfed all over your scrubs when you shined your light down her throat. She’s only five, so you just have to force a smile and try not to combust. Right after you change your scrubs, an emergency comes in that you have to jump on. It's a stabbing victim. You can’t resectate her. You’re there when Shen tells her parents. Their cries ring in your ears for an hour afterward. Another young kid comes in with a nose bleed that turns into hemorrhaging that you have to seal up–unfortunately, blood gets all over your arms and you have to clean all that off and get tested for Hep B, C, and HIV. 

An hour later, you’re clued into the bet.

You’ve just gotten the blood cleaned off, a bandage wrapped around the crook of your elbow where the nurse had drawn your blood. You’re shuffling from room to room, staying on top of patient charts on your quick breaks and updating diagnosis and treatment plans. 

You let out a heavy sigh when you feel the back of your neck begin to cramp, the telltale signs of overwork pulling at your muscles. 

It’s safe to say that the very last thing you need to hear is what you do next.

You bump into the security guard on shift, Ahmad, when you’re walking. You immediately apologise, but he just shrugs. 

“I didn’t know you were on the night shift tonight,” you say to him.

He shrugs. “Yeah, been trying to get some extra hours.”

You give him a pat on the arm. “Just make sure not to overwork yourself, okay? I’d hate to have you end up as a patient.”

“Okay, mom,” Ahmad laughs. “Maybe you should take your own advice sometime, huh?”

You hadn’t realized your overtime had been noticed by anyone other than Jack, who always complained about your absences. You offer a smile and go to walk around him when you notice him going to say something else.

“Have you gotten in on it yet?” he asks. He gestures to a whiteboard in his little office behind him, a teasing grin pulling at his lips.

You can’t help the reciprocal delight that comes across your face. Ahmad’s gambling pools have been a thing since you first started as a resident at PTMC. They weren’t often, but whenever they started up you were always happy to participate. It provided a fun distraction to an extremely bleak work environment.

“What’s it about?” You suddenly grin as you remember something you saw on the way into work that morning. “Oh, is it about what caused that powerline to fall outside the park?”

“Nah,” Ahmad tells you, “it’s about Abbot.”

You freeze. You hug your tablet to your chest in an attempt to keep your hands from fidgeting. Abbot? What could that be about? Do they know…

“Abbot?” you echo. You put on your best attempt at a genuine smile. “What’s he done now?”

“It’s not so much what he’s done, as what he might do,” Ahmad says. You cock a curious brow. “We’re betting on what woman in the PTMC will ask him out first.”

Your blood runs cold. You try to force yourself to smile, but you think it might come off as a grimace instead. You caused this, you try to tell yourself, you were the one that made it a secret.

“Surely there aren’t that many women to list.”

“Eh, you’d probably be surprised,” Ahmad continues, “we have at least twelve right now. People keep adding candidates.”

Twelve. Twelve women that people in this ER think would make a better partner to Abbot. You tug at your stethoscope and your eyes subconsciously dart to your feet. You don’t want to know more, you don’t think you can take more, but Ahmad continues.

“I think most people are voting for Dr. Mohan, but there have been quite a few for… hey, you okay?”

You hadn’t realized your eyes had gotten foggy with tears. You force a smile on your face.

“Sorry, uh, I’m not going to participate,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, “it’s not like I have a bunch of extra cash laying around.” (That part is technically true, but it’s definitely not the reason you’re crying.)

Ahmad continues to look at you like he knows you’re hiding something. He doesn’t press on it, and he nods slowly. You take that as permission enough to leave.

You weave around Ahmad and pretend you don’t feel his eyes staring holes into the back of your head as you do. Nurses and doctors move around you like schools of fish navigating deep oceanic waters, and you’re a shark that they automatically go to avoid. You set your expression as you head over to Ahmad’s office. You glance up and down the busy hallways before you stop completely, peering in through the slats of the blinds to the board.

You see the names Doctor Mohan, Nurse Julia, Doctor Al-Hashimi–it goes on. Your name is the very last addition. There’s only a few dollars under you. Your heart sinks and you feel disappointment roll over you like a tidal wave.

You mull in the feeling for a moment too long, then you force it away. You remind yourself that at the end of the day, you were the one that asked for this. Jack has no role to play in your own self-imposed misery. You, and only you, had been the one afraid of what others might think. You made your bed, now you have to sleep in it.

You don’t want to face this fact, so you instead open up your tablet to check for any new updates on your patients. 

4:00a.m.

You stare at the red numbers flashing on the microwave in front of you with bleary eyes. It lets out a high pitched chiiiirp when the meal you’d packed is done being reheated. You grab the container and take a seat near the back of the breakroom. 

You put your forehead into your hand and begin to fork through the food you’d packed with a heavy sigh. 

The scarlet fever patient was in the ICU now. Her fever had spiked and after the emergency ice bath, she still hadn’t fully woken up from it despite her temperature being lower. A teenage boy had been shot in the shoulder and had waited an hour before coming in. He ended up being fine, but it was so stressful your hands still trembled for thirty minutes after. An older woman woke up with chest pain and rushed to the hospital. She died on your emergency table.

You force another bite of your food into your mouth.

Suddenly, the door to the breakroom opens and Jack waltzes in with that same nurse–Julia–-on his heels. You stab a piece of food particularly hard with your plastic fork at the sight.

“Isn’t that crazy? I mean, I wonder what it is that is making people think we’d be good together,” she says, a huge smile pulling at her lips. 

Jack looks over at you immediately as he walks in. You meet his eyes and flinch at the concern on his face. He twists his lips and turns to pull his lunch out of the fridge. You had packed it for him. Jack always insisted you didn’t have to, but you liked doing it, so you always did. 

“I think the whole thing is silly,” he tells her. She doesn’t get the hint he’s giving her and lets out another giggle.

You know what they’re talking about–it has to be the betting board. You had checked it at least three times over the past hour. Pure curiosity, of course. It’s not like you were secretly a masochist or anything.

The last you’d checked, Julia’s pool had officially surpassed the lead’s. Yours still hovered around the same amount. A part of you had wanted to put some money down on your name just to get in the running, but you thought it’d probably look weird to see you betting on yourself.

Instead of taking a seat at the other table, Jack walks over to you. “Hey, got room here?”

You look over at Julia and cock a brow. You shrug a shoulder lazily. “Sure, I’m just about to wrap up.”

They take the seats across from you, and you shoot a small smile toward your boyfriend. He rolls his eyes and gestures slyly to Julia, who’s currently discussing all the cases she’s had today to nobody but herself. You laugh under your breath at his annoyance. Knowing Julia now, you wonder if the ER staff’s hypothesis that pedes makes you go crazy was true after all.

He pops open his lunch and you notice him pick up the note you’d carefully written. He smiles lovingly down at it, stroking the creases from where it had been folded. You bite your lip to hide your smile and look down at your food.

“Who’s that from?”

Julia reminds you of her presence by asking the question. You flinch and your eyes shoot up to look at her. She’s staring at the note in Jack’s hands with furrowed brows. 

You stop eating mid chew, staring at Jack’s reaction. He hesitates, eyes darting up to meet yours. His lips part, then close, then part again. Julia looks between the two of you confusedly, jealously. The anger at her audacity to feel jealousy roars up out of you before you can control it.

“It’s from me.”

Jack’s eyes widen to an almost comical size. Julia’s mouth drops open.

“You two are…?”

“Yep,” you supply, standing up from the table with a sharp jolt. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept that information to yourself. Oh, and if you could, please stop flirting with my boyfriend.”

Julia nods slowly. 

You grab your lunch and dump the rest into the trash. As you put the empty container back in the fridge, you hear him standing, giving apologies to Julia about your behavior before slipping up behind you. You notice Julia leaving the break room as you turn around.

“I need to go,” you say, trying to weave around him.

He just steps in front of you. His arms are crossed in that delightfully sinful way he knows you like, a cocky grin on his face.

“So was I going to be told we are telling people about our relationship now or…?”

You look up at Jack and try to smile but it just feels as stretched thin as you do. You notice him deflate when you pinch your nose bridge in between your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, “I should have told you. It was more of an in-the-moment type of thing.”

“You got jealous, didn’t you?” he continues grinning at you like he’s won the lottery. He stretches his hand out to softly stroke your upper arm. You feel your skin tingle where he touches.

“I mean, what girl wouldn’t, seeing her boyfriend get treated like a piece of meat all day?” you scoff, frustration flaring up with your words but falling away with the gentle strokes on your arm. “I think I should be rewarded for lasting as long as I have.”

He tilts his head. “Really?” a grin pulls at his lips. “How would you like to be rewarded, love?” A mischievous flirtation pulls at his words, his strokes now leaving hot imprints on your skin.

You duck your head, a smile pulling at your lips despite yourself. “Jack.”

He lets out a laugh and pulls his hand away. You mourn the touch the second it leaves your skin.

“I still think we should wait,” you tell him softly, “at least until the shift is over. Anything that comes after that can be handled, but I don’t need to have any more distractions today. It’s been bad enough having to see Joanna hanging off your arm all day.”

“Julia,” Jack corrects. You shoot him a faux glare. He chuckles. 

“Well, it might be hard…” Jack says, “I mean, I’ve already waited 12 months to tell people you’re mine.”

You pat his arm unsympathetically. “Well, that means you can wait a few more hours, can’t you?”

“You’re really going to make me put up with those flirty EMTs the rest of the night,” Jack deadpans.

“I’m sorry?” you really don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Being in a secret relationship works both ways, love,” he tells you, walking backwards to the door, “you have to be jealous about nurses, I have to be jealous about hot first responders. We both got it bad.”

6:45a.m.

“Waaait, where aaam I?” the young, blonde, completely shitface-drunk college girl asks, her eyes wide and bloodshot to all Hell.

“You are in a H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L, hospital. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center,” Nurse Mateo says from where he adjusts the blood pressure cuff on her forearm.

You stifle a laugh. Sure, Mateo’s a bit grumpy with the girl, but she had tried to throw a chair at him when she was first admitted. She missed by about two feet, but the intent was there enough that Ahmad insisted on putting a pair of handcuffs around one of her wrists to her bed.

The girl just frowns. “Why’m in a h-o-sss…”

You lean over and pull up one of her eyelids, flashing your pin light into her left eye. It retracts normally, but she hisses like a vampire and pulls away with all her strength.

“You fell and hit your head,” you tell her, “almost got run over by a car. You’re lucky some friendly samaritans stopped to help you.”

She doesn’t reply. She stares at something over your shoulder. You take her distraction as an opportunity to look closely at the cut along her hairline. 

It’s got quite a bit of dirt and gravel in it, and is certainly deep enough to require stitches. 

“Well, hon, I know you’re drunk out of your mind right now, but I'm still going to let you know what we have to do,” you tell her, trying to get her to meet your eyes, “we are going to have to clean and put some stitches in that laceration on your head so it doesn’t get infected.”

The girl just stares past you. You finally turn. You look through the window to see Jack there, reading a patient chart on his tablet.

Your eyes roll without you even meaning to. Of course, yet another woman is interested in your boyfriend. You’re starting to think you’ll need to get him a neon sign to hang around his neck that says taken.

“She might listen to him better,” Mateo offers, “or I can sedate her. I am not trying to get another code hoola-hoop.”

You look back at the girl who’s clearly very out of it–staring at your boyfriend, even though it’s unlikely she could fully make him out–and let out a heavy sigh. You shrug one shoulder and snap off your gloves in the same swift movement. You stand and leave the room, headed to where your boyfriend stands next to desks.

Once you reach his side, you don’t have to say anything to grab his attention because he suddenly looks up like he sensed your presence. You offer him a weary smile and he returns it in full, turning his body to offer his full attention.

“What’s up?” he asks.

He’s in Dr. Abbot the ER attending mode now, all professionalism and seriousness. You smile to yourself at the memory of your first few shifts as a resident, crushing furiously like half the other women on the night-shift.

“I have an incredibly drunk twenty-one-year-old, BAC of .16%, large forehead contusion,” you say, “and… she’s been making goo-goo eyes at you since she first came in. She’s been fairly combative, so maybe you could come in and ‘work your magic’?”

“What I’m hearing is you want to use me as eye candy?” Jack’s words end in a soft laugh. “Man, maybe I should go to HR…”

You laugh at how ridiculous it all sounds. Just a few hours ago, you’d been upset at the very idea of your boyfriend being looked at by another woman. Now, you were using his good looks to win patients over. Screw it, your shift’s almost over. Anyone who tries to take your boyfriend in the last hour of your shift will have hell to pay.

“All I need is for her to be distracted enough that I can put some stitches in her cut,” you tell him with a grin. “Shouldn’t be that hard for you to stand there and look appealing, right? I mean, that’s what you do all the time anyway.”

Jack lets out a chuckle, but he nods his head and gestures for you to lead the way. You grin and walk him to the patient’s room.

The girl’s eyes immediately widen as she sees Abbot step into the room, like she’s looking at a movie star or something. You can’t fault her. Jack in his form-fitting scrubs and hair all disheveled is really a sight to see. 

“I got your boyfriend,” you tell the girl, shooting an amused glance to Jack, “now how about I look at that cut on your forehead, hm?”

She continues to smile all dopey and lovestruck as you put on a new pair of gloves and Mateo wheels a cart near you. The spot’s been numbed for hours, so she won’t feel a thing.

As soon as you reach to probe it, though, she shoots away from you. 

“Wait, waaait,” the girl says urgently. You stop, eyebrows furrowed as you look at her. “Can’t he do it?”

You sigh and look over your shoulder at your boyfriend. Jack shoots you a smile and a shrug as if to say “I don’t mind” and you can’t say you’re opposed to the idea. Anything you can do to get this girl treated and gone is what you’re going to do.

“Sure,” you tell her, “but play nicely.”

You stand and move toward where Jack stands, gesturing with a slightly annoyed smile toward the girl. “She’s all yours.”

Jack settles down in the rolling stool you abandoned and the girl immediately lets out a high-pitched, excited giggle. 

You watch Jack and the girl quietly talking together; him asking her what she was celebrating, her replying that it was her birthday, him asking what she’s studying, her telling him she’s in law school. All through the applying of the cleaning of the wound, the sutures, and then the bandage, the girl is calm and patient. Watching Jack work so nicely, so empathetically toward the girl reminds you why you fell for him in the first place. You stifle the fond smile pulling at your lips. You look over at Mateo and he gives you a shrug. 

Your eyes get drawn back to your boyfriend as he stands from the chair and walks your way. 

He stops in front of you and crosses his arms. “She’s all patched up.”

You nod. “I’m thinking I might order a head CT just to rule out any head injury.”

Jack smirks like he’d been hoping you’d say that. “Attagirl.”

You follow him out of the patient’s room and into the main foyer. You look around at all the doctors standing by desks and mentally prepare yourself for switching shifts. Dana’s already catching up with Lena, Javadi and Mohan are chatting and updating patient charts from their previous shifts.

You look over at Jack, whose body is angled toward you next to desks.

“You hungry?” he asks you. He’s looking at his tablet to give the impression to any nosey Nancys that he’s not talking to you. You bite back your smile.

You nod, thinking back to the small meal you’d had a few hours ago. “I could eat.”

“Chinese or Italian?”

You angle your body toward him. You draw a hand to rest upon his bicep. He turns his head toward you, surprised.

“I could eat an entire gallon of fried rice right now,” you tell him, a small smile curling on your lips. “How about you?”

Jack’s too preoccupied with the hand on his arm to answer immediately. “Uh, I guess I could get a stir fry.” As he speaks, his eyes draw up to meet your own. You squeeze his arm gently and he leans forward. “Are you coming onto me, Doctor?”

“If I was?” you say with a small smile curling at your lips.

“I’d tell you we still have ten minutes left on our shift,” he says teasingly, “I thought you didn’t want any distractions?”

You pull your hand away from his arm to rest back on the desk in front of you. “I don’t know about you,” you say, filling out the order form for the CT scan as you do, “but I'm tired of hiding.”

Your boyfriend chuckles softly from beside you.

You put the completed form into the outtake area. You go to turn toward Jack when your eyes get caught on a gathering of people near the front of desks. You pat his shoulder to get his attention and then follow the crowd forming near the front.

Ahmad’s at the center of the formation, and he has a big grin on his face. You watch confusedly as Jack weaves through bodies to get to Ahmad.

Your heart drops, now realizing the cause of the big commotion. Ahmad wraps an arm around Jack’s shoulder as he looks around the crowd. “And I’m happy to announce that the person with the highest bids is none other than our wonderful—“

You catch a glimpse of the paper in Ahmad’s hand as he gesticulates to the crowd and the words come tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “It’s me?” you say, surprised. 

Pleased cheers go around the room. You look between Ahmad and Jack confusedly. Who’d put you in the lead? Last you checked an hour ago, Mohan was still the highest.

“In a stunning turn of events, an anonymous donor broke the tie and put her in the lead,” he continues.

You frown for just a moment as you look around the gathered faces, wondering who would do that, before realization strikes you like lightning. You grin as your eyes dart to Jack who innocently shrugs when your gaze lands on him. 

Something comes over you in that instance that has you moving through the crowd to your boyfriend. You gently grasp his face in your palm and place a chaste kiss on his lips. You don’t have a chance to savor it before a few more cheers ring out and you pull away, embarrassed by the display. Jack wraps an arm around your shoulders and gives you a side hug, leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek.

“Okay, okay,” Lena says as she breaks through the crowd, “this isn’t an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. You all have patients to see.”

The crowd disperses quickly after that. People give each of you thumbs up and congratulations as they leave, Ellis tells you to ‘find her later’ — obviously displeased about not being the first to know, and soon you and Jack are left alone.

“Well that didn’t go as bad as I expected,” Jack says, squeezing your shoulder once more before releasing you.

You cock a brow. “If you think that’s the last of it, you’re sorely mistaken. Robby hasn’t even found out yet and I think Ellis is going to brawl me in the parking lot.”

Jack lets out a soft laugh.

You look up at him with soft eyes, a small, flirtatious grin curling on your lips. “I’ll see you after rounds are shifted over. Want to order the food so we can have it back at my place?”

“If I ever say no to coming over to your place,” Jack says, “you can just shoot me, okay?”

You let out a barking laugh as you go to leave. Before you get more than a few steps, you look back at him over your shoulder.

“Oh, and tell any women who flirt with you that you’re off the market,” you say, “I’d hate to be fired because I assaulted a patient.”

Six months. It took you six months to feel somewhat comfortable in your role at the front of the emergency department. Lupe had been a godsend—patient, yet stern—in your training. She commanded the entire front of the house with such ease that you wondered sometimes how she did it. 

How could she separate her own thoughts and feelings for the sake of this stressful job? Even when the waiting room was packed, she kept her resolve and continued to check people in, ask the necessary questions, and even had to get into plenty of disputes for those who had been waiting too long. 

You didn’t know how she (or others) did it. Everyday you thought about quitting, that maybe this wasn’t what you were meant to do. You hated seeing so many people in pain and not being able to do anything about it but tell them that you’ve got them checked in and they’ll be called as soon as it was their turn. 

You couldn’t even ignore the sounds coming from the emergency floor either. 

You hated the hospital, hated what you associated it with, hated what it meant to you, but for some reason, you found yourself in this role. 

In this job. 

In this field. 

And despite the nerves and anxiety you felt everyday you went into work, there were a handful of positive moments that you tried to hold onto when your thoughts got dark. 

How you managed to calm down a young boy and his sister while Lupe tried to reason with their father, seeing their childlike wonder in a place like this was rewarding enough. 

Or how you helped an elderly woman to the back of the emergency floor once she was called in, thanking you for listening to her when no one else in her life was around anymore. 

Or how you watched the doctors and nurses do their best everyday to try and save lives. 

To make a difference. 

In this fucked up world. 

“Are you all set for your first night shift?” Lupe asked. 

“Yes,” you laughed quietly. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“Not worried.” 

“Seems like you are.” 

She scoffed and pulled her bag over her shoulder. “Just don’t let anyone walk over you, okay? I won’t be here to help.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself, Lupe.” 

“I know you can…” 

“Then what?” 

“You can’t save everyone,” she muttered. 

Your jaw tightened. 

“I can try.” 

“The doctors save lives,” she reasoned yet again. “We’re just here to make sure they get seen.” 

“I think it’s more than that,” you whispered. “When they’re scared, sitting in this packed waiting room, the least we could do is lend an ear or offer a bit of understanding—”

“Until they get impatient and the first person they’ll want to take it out on is you,” she interjected. 

“I’ll be fine, Lupe,” you sighed. 

“Okay,” she nodded. “Then, I’ll see you later.” 

“Have a good night, Lupe.” 

“Gonna try to.” Then, she was off. Stepping out from behind the glass doors and into the main waiting room to walk towards the entrance of the emergency department. 

As she walked out, you noticed a man step inside. He gave her a hug and his lips curled into a small smile. He had a camo backpack draped over one of his shoulders, dressed in black scrubs. 

Doctor, you assumed. 

But then, your eyes moved across his frame. He was built, the sleeves around his biceps flexing with each movement of his arms. You noticed the color of his hair and the stubble on his face—a complete silver fox if you’d ever seen one. 

You saw Lupe point at you. 

Then, you watched this man’s eyes move over to you. 

And you immediately felt hot under his intense, yet piercing gaze. If you thought Dr. Robby was cute, this man was fucking breathtaking. 

Lupe waved at you once more and you forced a smile. The man started walking in your direction, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack. 

Luckily, someone approached the desk and started to ramble about what was going on and what they were experiencing. You finally pulled your gaze away from this new, mysterious man to the woman in front of you, giving her your undivided attention. 

You entered her information into the computer, typed down the symptoms she was experiencing, gathered her insurance information, and then told her that she was all checked in. You noticed the look on her face—uncertainty and fear. So, you pulled your eyes away from your computer and looked at her. 

“We’ll get you seen as soon as we can, okay? If your symptoms worsen, just come back up here and let me know,” you said softly. 

“What if—what if it’s too late?” She stammered. 

Your lips parted and you felt your breath hitch in your throat as thoughts of your husband lingered in the back of your head. You took a deep breath as your eyes softened up at her. “If you feel a change at all, let me know, okay? I’ll let the doctors know right away. For now, how about we get you some water and take a seat?” 

She nodded, feeling slightly relaxed now. “Sure, yeah, that’s—that’s a good idea.” 

You gave her a small smile and stood from your chair, walking from behind the glass windows to meet with her. You led her to carefully to one of the vending machines, paying for her water and a snack if she wanted. 

“Like I said, anything changes, you let me know,” you repeated, helping her into a vacant seat. 

She looked up at you and nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Really.” She squeezed your hand and then let go, allowing you to walk towards the back again. 

And just as you approached the door to scan your badge, the same mysterious man reached out and scanned his instead. 

You looked up at him. 

He was already looking at you with the same intense gaze. Then, he nodded for you to step through the doors first. 

You couldn’t say anything. You felt your throat go dry at the sight of him this up close. His lips were still curled upwards into an amused smile and you noticed the crow’s feet at his eyes. 

If Dr. Robby was twenty years older than you, then this man had to have been the same. It made you wonder why older men managed to grab your attention than most men your age. 

“Hello,” he finally said. 

“Hi,” you whispered. “Are you—are you a new doctor?” 

He chuckled, but shook his head. “Was on a sabbatical, but I’m back now. I’m the night shift attending.”

“Oh! You’re Dr. Abbot,” you pointed out, feeling the warmth in your cheeks. 

And no one fucking told you how hot he was. 

“The one and only,” he grinned. The wrinkles near his eyes becoming that much more prominent. “But you can call me Jack.” 

“Jack…” you repeated with a nod. 

He kept his eyes on you. You felt very shy and nervous under his gaze, biting your lower lip once you realized he was accompanying you back to your desk. 

“And your name?” He asked. 

“Oh, right,” you laughed nervously and told him your name. Though, you were sure that he had already noticed it from your badge that was attached to your coat. 

That caused you to look at the badge clipped onto his scrubs.

Jack Abbot, MD

Attending Physician

Emergency Medicine

DOCTOR

“Will you be covering the night shifts from now on?” Jack asked, shifting the bag over his other shoulder now. 

You watched the muscles flex in his forearms, noticing the veins along it as you cleared your throat. When you looked back up at him, he was already fucking grinning like he knew what you were doing. 

“For now,” you finally answered. “Guess I impressed Lupe enough that she wants me to eventually manage the night shifts.” 

“That’s hard to do,” he said. “Lupe has high expectations.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

Jack chuckled. He finally tore his gaze away from you to look down at watch. “Well, welcome to the night shift,” he said. “I’m glad to have you here and I’m sure you’re going to do great work.”

“You don’t know me—”

“I know enough from what I just saw you do,” he interrupted softly. “Not many people in your role would go out of their way to do that. Not even Lupe.” 

You bit your lip. “Yeah… that’s one of the things we disagree on, actually.” 

“Well, keep it up,” Jack complimented. “Their experience out here is just as important as their experience once they get to us.” 

“T—Thanks, Jack,” you smiled. “Means a lot.” 

“I better head on back. I’m sure that Robby’s still here, so I should probably convince him to go home.” 

You laughed quietly. “It was nice meeting you.” 

“You too,” he said. 

Jack’s gaze lingered for a few seconds longer before he finally turned on his heel. 

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding in until one of your coworkers finally burst into laughter. 

“Jeez! I was here all along and he didn’t even notice me,” your coworker, Milo, said, rolling his eyes playfully with a knowing grin on his lips. 

“I’m just new,” you shrugged. “He’s just trying to be nice.” 

“Sure,” Milo chuckled. “I’ve been here a year and Dr. Abbot’s never told me I could call him Jack.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you sighed. 

“You think he’s cute.” 

“Well, obviously,” you laughed. “But that’s it. He’s cute and that’s that. Besides, he had a wedding ring on. I’m all for a bit of fun, but not at the expense of someone else.” 

Milo’s smile dropped. “H—his wife passed about a year ago, I heard,” he whispered. “I don’t think he’s taken the ring off yet.” 

Your eyes widened slightly. 

Suddenly, you wondered how Jack could work at a place like this after losing someone he loved. 

And maybe it was because of the same reason why you showed up to work everyday despite the hospital being one of the last places you ever wanted to be at. 

“You should talk to him…” 

“Milo,” you shook your head. 

“What? You have that in common.” 

“Don’t think that’s a reason to try and talk to him,” you whispered. “What am I supposed to say? Oh hey, Jack, we’re both widows. Wanna grab a drink? I’d love to hear how you get through it.” 

Milo shook his head. “You know what I mean.”

“He’s a doctor. I’m just patient rep, that’s all.” 

“Hey,” Milo said. “Our roles matter too, you know.” 

“I know,” you sighed. “I know.” 

“Besides… what do you have to lose anyway?” 

You were about to respond until a few more people trickled in to check in as your mind drifted momentarily. 

Maybe talking with Jack wouldn’t be such a bad idea. 

After being gone for a few months, Jack wasn’t sure how he’d do coming back. He spent a lot of time processing all of the dark thoughts that lingered—he saw his therapist once a week, even started journaling too because she said it could help. 

And it did. 

He didn’t feel the need to just… end it all anymore. 

Sure, he still had shitty days where he just wanted to spend it at home—alone and maybe with a bottle of alcohol, but he was doing better. 

When things did become too dark for him, he’d make an appointment with his therapist the following day. Who knew that just talking about it could actually help? 

So, when he stepped foot into work that night, the sight wasn’t all that unfamiliar to him. Packed waiting rooms, frustration and impatient looks on their faces. 

And it felt like coming home. Jack felt relief because his therapist had told him that while the sabbatical was a good idea to “work through some of the things” he’s dealing with, she knew (and he knew) that Jack needed a sense of purpose. 

It was why he kept coming back to work, even months after his wife died. He needed to keep busy, needed to occupy his mind, but that was the thing, wasn’t it? 

How could you occupy dark thoughts with dark shit you see every night? 

But he was doing better now. In fact, Jack was excited to finally come back to work. 

And when Lupe pointed at you, something simmered in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in quite a long time. Something he was sure that he’d never feel again. 

Then, he watched you leave your post to help a woman in need. Walking with her to the vending machine, buying her a bottle of water and a snack before helping her to a vacant seat. There was a certain kind of grace and kindness that you carried that Jack wanted more of. 

So, when he saw you approach the doors to go back, he picked up his speed. Jack limped just a bit, knowing that he would need to readjust his prosthetic before starting his 12-hour shift. 

But when he was finally standing next to you, Jack couldn’t take his eyes off of you. He scanned his badge and held the door open, nodding for you to step through first—all the while, keeping his gaze completely on you. 

He spent the next five minutes talking to you, eyes scanning your entire face, his own eyes lighting up when you smiled or laughed. 

Jack suddenly felt the need to know more about you. 

And he knew just the person to ask. 

“Robby,” he called out, clasping a strong hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Still here, huh?” 

Robby smiled, looking down at Jack from the rim of his glasses before removing it entirely. “Heard you were coming back tonight, guess I wanted to see you before I leave.” 

“How sweet of you,” he chuckled. “How’s it been today?” 

“Surprisingly, not that busy. We have a couple of beds open, which I’m sure will be filled up in the next hour or two,” Robby explained. 

“Calm before the storm,” Jack said. “Can’t wait.” 

“How was your sabbatical?” Robby asked, following Jack to the back where the lockers were placed. The last time they had spoken, Jack was standing on the roof of the hospital after a very particularly tough night shift. 

“It was good,” Jack said, entering his code. “I feel… better. Processed a lot of shit. I’m not cured or anything,” he scoffed, putting his bag into the locker once it opened. “But I’m better than before.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Robby said, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’ve been thinking of doing a sabbatical myself.” 

“Oh yeah? You?” Jack grinned. 

“Yeah, me,” Robby rolled his eyes. “Me and the open road for three months.” 

Jack shut his locker and crossed his arms over his chest to look up at the man. He tilted his head. “A motorcycle, huh?” 

Robby nodded. “Got a buddy of mine fixing up my bike right now.” 

“Maybe the time away from this place could be good for you,” Jack pointed out. “It was for me… made me miss it.” 

“Well, that’s what they say, don’t they? Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” Robby chuckled. 

Jack and Robby walked back to the central area of the Pitt when both men saw you approach them with a nervous look on your face. 

Jack glanced at Robby, noticed the way the man’s grin spread along his lips. 

Made sense, he thought. You and Robby knew each other already. 

“Hey,” Robby said. 

“Hi, Dr. Robby,” you smiled. “Guess I’m not surprised to see that you’re still here.” 

He chuckled. 

Jack kept his eyes on you. 

“What’s up?” He finally asked. 

“There’s a woman in the waiting room, wailing that she’s in pain. She’s got a severe headache and was able to speak just fine about ten minutes ago, but her speech is slurring and—”

Robby and Jack looked at each other. “Let’s get her on back here.” 

They both followed you out into the waiting room, Jack pushing a wheelchair over to where the woman was sitting. 

“Hello, ma’am,” Jack said, helping her onto the wheelchair. “I’m Dr. Abbot and this is Dr. Robby, we’re gonna get you some help, okay?” 

She nodded, but shut her eyes immediately. Jack noticed some facial drooping on one side and then continued. “Hey, can you repeat after me? The sky is blue.” 

She tried, but it slurred. Jack looked over at you as you held the doors open for them. You watched them wheel her into one of the bays, helping her onto a gurney. 

But you caught the tail end of what Jack and Robby were discussing. 

All you heard was she’s having a stroke. 

You tightened your jaw and watched them work. Robby had always impressed you, but Jack… he was a different story entirely. Watching him move with ease and confidence, without any sign of panic or fear, did something to you. Jack knew what he was doing and he carried a knowing confidence to it too. He wasn’t cocky about it. He was just so sure of himself… and you liked it. 

He met your eyes briefly. 

Your eyes softened—filled with concern and worry for the other woman. 

But Jack just gave you a simple nod. A silent reassurance that everything was going to be okay. 

Then, you heard your name being called. You turned on your heel and walked back to your desk to continue the rest of your shift. 

After the patient was stabled, Jack and Robby left the bay and tossed their gloves into the trash before applying hand sanitizer. 

Robby looked at him and arched a brow when he caught Jack’s gaze in the direction of where your desk was. 

“What?” He asked. 

“She’s new,” Jack said. 

“Well, not quite. You just haven’t been around.” 

“I would’ve noticed her,” he muttered. “If I was around, I mean.” 

Robby grinned and tilted his head. “Dr. Abbot have a crush?” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Tell me about her?” 

“Can’t,” Robby said, glancing at his watch. “Gotta head out.” 

“Come on, just… one thing.” 

Robby chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest, running a hand over his face. “She’s nice… sometimes too nice for this place.” 

His eyes narrowed. 

“And she lost her husband,” he continued. 

Jack blinked. He caught a glimpse of you going to the back again. 

“She—”

“They married young. Killed in action. Overseas,” Robby explained. 

Jack sighed. “Oh. Military?” 

He nodded. “Marines.” 

“Shit.” 

Robby reached up and gently slapped his hand on the back of Jack’s shoulder. “You sure you wanna get to know her? After all the shit you’ve seen?” 

“I lost my wife,” he muttered, mainly talking to himself. 

“Could be something to talk about,” Robby said. “Anyway, I’m outta here.” 

Jack nodded. “See you later, man.” 

He looked around and bit his lower lip. It wasn’t particularly busy at the moment, so he walked back towards where you had gone off to—the shared break room. 

He took a deep breath before opening the door. 

There you were. Pouring yourself a cup of coffee. 

Jack shut the door and watched you look up at him in surprise. 

“Is she doing okay?” 

He nodded. “You made the right call. You trusted your instincts, that’s good.” 

“Will she recover?” 

“If she waited any longer, maybe not. She’s going in for some scans, but… we caught it early.” 

You sighed and sat down at the table. Jack followed you and sat across, eyes never leaving yours. 

“I don’t know how you guys do it,” you sighed, stirring the wooden stick in your coffee to mix your milk into the dark liquid. 

“Lots of practice… and well, me and Robby have been doing it a long time,” he reasoned. 

You just nodded. You felt shy under his gaze again and he was just… staring at you still. You bit your lower lip and took a careful sip of the coffee, making a face at the taste. 

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, coffee’s shit.” 

“Should’ve brought my own,” you said, biting back a smile. “Was in a rush to get to my shift.” 

“How long have you been working here?” 

“About six months,” you shrugged. 

His eyes widened slightly. “Six months and Lupe just let you be on your own, huh?” 

“She called me a natural,” you laughed. “Whatever that means.” 

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t usually this shy or nervous around women. In fact, conversations would usually come easy to him. 

“You like structure,” he pointed out. “Makes it a good skill to have for your role.” 

“Or maybe I just want to help as many people as I can,” you whispered. 

Jack’s lips curled upwards in amusement. “Yeah, or that.” He reached down and felt the ache in his limb, a sign that he needed to readjust his prosthetic.

You watched his hands move to his leg, bit your lower lip at the sight of his muscles flexing and the veins along his forearms and up to his biceps. You hadn’t been with anyone since your husband and even before then, he had ever only been the one. 

Sensing Jack’s hesitation, you stood up from the table and looked down at him. “Well, I better get going. Milo’s probably losing his shit,” you teased. 

“Milo can handle himself,” Jack chuckled. 

“Yeah, maybe, but I guess like I being needed,” you smiled. “I’ll see you later, Dr. Abbot.” 

“Jack,” he corrected. 

“Right… Jack,” you smiled, taking your cup and leaving the break room. 

He watched you leave before letting out a heavy sigh. Jack lifted the end of his pant leg over his prosthetic and adjusted it accordingly. He sighed quietly to himself, stood back up and walked out of the break room to continue his rounds. 

But in the back of his mind, all he could think about was when he could talk to you next.

“Milo, his gaze is just… it’s so intense,” you sighed, leaning back against your chair. You were halfway through your shift already and hadn’t seen Jack since you left the break room. 

“You had like two conversations with him and now you can’t get your mind off of him?” He teased.

“Oh, shut up,” you rolled your eyes. 

“What did you two talk about? All of those two conversations?” 

“Nothing,” you said. “They were short, brief.”

“But his gaze,” Milo continued playfully.

“Have you seen him? The man can keep direct eye contact like it’s nothing,” you answered. “And to see him just in his element?” 

“You have a competency kink,” Milo grinned. “What else you interested in, hm?” 

You glanced at the clock. “I don’t know why I talk to you about these things,” you sighed, standing up from your desk. “I’m gonna go and take my lunch. I’ll be back.”

Milo chuckled. “If you happen to see Dr. Abbot, try and see if you can hold his eye contact too.”

“I won’t see him.”

“But if you do—”

“I won’t,” you interjected. “Need me to get you anything?”

“I’m good. Have a nice lunch.” 

You walked towards the back and into the break out room again. Opening the fridge, you grabbed your packaged lunch (leftover spaghetti) and removed the lid from the Tupperware to heat up in the microwave. You leaned against the counter and pulled your phone out to busy yourself. The coffee you had earlier was doing just enough to keep you going, but with this being your first night shift, you needed to figure something else out to keep the energy up until you had to leave. 

There was another lull in the shift tonight, which Milo and the other doctors had mentioned was unusual but welcomed nonetheless. 

Once your food was finished heating up, you turned around to grab your food when Jack walked in with Dr. Chen. You bit your lower lip, not turning to meet their gaze but Dr. Chen, as usual, was the first to speak.

“Hey,” he said. “So interesting seeing you during the night shift,” he commented.

You smiled and looked over at him, eyes briefly glancing at Jack who was already staring at you.

Again, with the same intense gaze. 

"Milo and everyone else keeps saying it’s too—”

“Nuh uh,” he interrupted. “Don’t say anything. Don’t jinx it.”

You closed your mouth immediately and nodded. “Oh, right, got it. Lips are sealed.” 

“That smells amazing,” Jack said, pointing to your food before he pocketed his hands into his pants. “Do you cook?”

“I try to,” you smiled. 

Dr. Chen looked between the two of you. 

Then, he cleared his throat and motioned over his shoulder. “Got a patient to see. It was nice seeing you,” he said before turning on his heel. He spared Jack a quick glance who gave him a knowing grin.

Once it was just the two of you in the break room, you couldn’t help but feel the walls closing in on the both of you. He was closer now—closer than you were used to, at least. Still, Jack kept a respectable distance, but you could see the lines on his face from this view, could see the stubble too.

“Do you want some?” You finally asked.

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay.”

“Did you eat?”

“Well, no—”

You smiled. 

Reached for another fork from the drawer and handed it to him. 

“It’d hurt my feelings if you didn’t try it, Jack.”

Jack bit his lip and took the fork from you, his fingers brushing over yours. “Well, we can’t have your feelings hurt, can we?” He stepped closer to you now. You could feel the warmth of his body next to you, felt his arm brush against your own before he reached down to twirl some pasta onto his fork. 

Then, he lifted the fork to his lips and smiled down at you, nodding in approval. “It’s good.”

You smiled to yourself and then reached for a plate, scooping half of the spaghetti onto it and handing it over to Jack. “Eat.” 

“What?”

“Eat,” you repeated. 

“Oh, but this is your lunch and—”

“I can always get something from the vending machine at any time,” you interjected softly. “You, on the other hand, don’t have that luxury, so… eat.”

“Hm,” he said. “I see why Lupe likes you.”

“Why’s that?” 

“You’re bossy.”

Your mouth opened in surprise. “I am not.”

Jack chuckled and took the plate from your hands, leaning against the counter as he looked down at you. “I disagree.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully and watched him take another couple of mouthfuls of your spaghetti, gaze lowering to his lips before you met his eyes again. “Just looking out for you,” you reasoned. “You guys are doing all the hard work back here. It’s the least I can do.”

Jack smiled to himself and watched you move to sit at the table instead, twirling the spaghetti around your fork as he thought back to what Robby had said. You lost your husband and you weren’t wearing your wedding ring. Here he was, still wearing his.

“Hey, uh,” he said nervously. “What are you doing after your shift?” 

“Go home and get some sleep,” you answered with a quiet laugh. 

“Do you wanna grab breakfast?” Jack asked, setting the empty plate now on the counter. 

“Oh,” you bit your lower lip. “Just me and you?”

He nodded. “Maybe get you an actual good cup of coffee… and let me repay you for sharing your lunch with me.”

You smiled and grabbed your empty Tupperware to walk towards the sink where he was standing. He moved to give you enough space before watching you turn the water on to begin washing his plate and your dish. 

“Okay,” you answered, glancing over at him. “Breakfast it is.”

Jack couldn’t help the excitement that settled in the pit of his stomach. “Great. Looking forward to it.” He glanced at you once more before nodding towards the door. “I gotta head back now. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later, Jack.”

“Breakfast date with Dr. Abbot,” Milo grinned, grabbing his bag to drape over his shoulder. “I mean, who knew you joining the night shift would lead to this?” 

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like he’s my boss,” you answered. 

“Sure, but you two work together and he has a higher position than you.” 

“It’s just breakfast,” you said, grabbing your own bag. It was time for the “changing of the guards”, the day shift now coming in to relieve both you and Milo. 

“Oh, right, because you shared your lunch with him.” 

“He looked hungry.” 

“Maybe hungry for something else…” Milo suggested. 

“Oh my god, don’t be weird,” you said, gently shoving him as you both walked out from behind the glass windows. “We’re both widows. It’s not like you can just hook up with someone after losing you lost your partner.” 

“Yeah,” Milo said softly. “You’re right. Sorry.” 

“Besides, I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. Literally, it’s just breakfast.” 

“Mhm,” Milo said, unconvinced. “Well, let me know all about it later tonight.” 

“I’m sure it won’t be exciting.” Though, you couldn’t wait to spend more one on one time with Jack. 

As you both left from behind the glass doors, you spotted Jack already making his way over to you. His hair was a bit more messy and he looked more tired than when he first came in, but still, he was smiling. 

“You want to carpool?” Jack asked. 

“That’d be nice,” you answered. “Considering I don’t drive to work.” 

Milo grinned. “See you later. Bye, Dr. Abbot.” 

“See ya, Milo.” 

Then, it was just you and Jack, side by side as he led you towards the exit of the hospital. 

“You don’t drive?” 

“I don’t live far, so I take the bus.” 

Jack narrowed his eyes down at you briefly before he held the door open for you, the sky much brighter than when you both came in for your shifts last night. 

He led you to his truck and opened the passenger door for you, watching you carefully as he kept his bag draped over his shoulder casually. “After you.” 

You smiled and climbed into his truck, seeing him shut the door gently once he made sure you were in safely. You looked around and bit your lower lip, noticing a small photograph on the dashboard of him and his wife. As you were about to lean over to get a better glimpse, he opened the driver’s side door which caused you to sit back against your seat. 

“I know this diner,” he said, setting his bag in the backseat. “They have great pancakes.” 

“Go there often?” You asked. 

“Only when I’m craving something sweet,” he smiled. “Besides, I’m celebrating.” 

“Celebrating?” 

Jack nodded and started the truck, glancing over at you with a grin while one hand rested on the steering wheel. “Yeah, it was my first day back since my sabbatical and I met you.” 

Your breath hitched and you pulled your gaze away from him to look straight ahead. Milo had told you that Jack was naturally a flirt, so you tried not to think too much of it, but you couldn’t help the way it made you feel. 

“Charmer,” you pointed out. 

Jack chuckled. “Hey, I like making friends. What can I say?” 

“You take all your new friends to this diner?” 

He smiled and pulled out of the parking spot, eyes staring at you for a minute longer once you held his gaze. “Only the pretty ones.” 

You scoffed and let out a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes playfully as you looked away. “So, is Dr. Robby on that list?”

“Oh, obviously,” he grinned. 

You laughed to yourself and then looked out the window, surprisingly feeling at ease with him next to you. 

The drive to the diner took about fifteen minutes and when he pulled into a handicapped spot, you were about to say something when he shifted his seat back to readjust his prosthetic. He glanced over at you and watched how your eyes softened. 

“I’m a one-legged doctor,” he joked. 

You bit your lower lip, though you didn’t smile. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It can get hard when you’re on your feet for hours, but it’s okay. I’m okay.” 

You nodded before pulling your eyes away from him. Seeing him remove the prosthetic to massage his leg felt too intimate, at least for someone you just met. 

After a couple of minutes, he put the prosthetic back on and climbed out of the truck, carefully walking around to open your door with a smile. 

“Ready for some pancakes?” 

“I don’t know… you’re hyping it up. I don’t want to be disappointed.” 

He laughed and helped you out of his truck before leading you towards the entrance. “If you’re disappointed, then I guess I’ll just have to make up for it with dinner.” 

“We work the night shifts,” you pointed out. 

“Sure… but we have days off too, you know,” he let you walk inside first before leading you to the booth that he would normally sit at when he was alone. 

When you slid into the booth, Jack sat across from you, his leg extending outwards. 

“Get whatever you want,” he said. “I got it.” 

“Oh, Jack, it’s fine—”

“It’s my treat. I asked you to join me this morning, so I’ll pay for it.” He said it so casually too as he grabbed the menu to look down at it. 

“I think I’ll just get the pancakes like you mentioned,” you said. “And a coffee.” 

Jack smiled. “Attagirl.” 

You clasped your hands together on your lap underneath the table and bit your lip. There had to be some kind of mutual attraction, right? There was no way he was like this with everyone… right? 

“Okay, so, tell me how you got to working at the Pitt,” Jack said, sipping on his coffee after he ordered for the both of you. 

“Oh,” you looked down at your mug nervously. “It wasn’t my plan, to be honest. Just found myself there, I guess.” 

His head tilted again. His eyes narrowed just a bit as he looked at you. “I suppose that place tends to gravitate towards people who need it the most.” 

“I hate hospitals,” you said. “I want to quit everyday,” you admitted. 

Jack’s eyes softened. “Why don’t you? There’s a reason you keep coming back.” 

“The people,” you answered. “I know I’m not doing life saving stuff like you, but… I don’t know. Being in that waiting room is scary as hell, especially when you don’t know when you’ll be called.” 

“The people…” he repeated. 

“The ones who are there for help,” you explained. 

Jack smiled. “A natural caregiver.” 

“I just know what it’s like,” you whispered. “Being in that position, not knowing what’s gonna happen, losing someone you love,” you trailed. 

“Robby said—”

You looked up at him. Jack shut his mouth at the sight of your eyes filling with unshed tears. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not appropriate. You don’t have to—”

“Lost my husband in action,” you interrupted. “He was overseas, in the marines.” 

Jack sighed. “I’m sorry.” 

You shrugged. “And you were in the military too, right?” 

He nodded. “Combat medic, lost my leg in the battlefield.”

“Figured,” you said. 

“I lost my wife too,” he whispered, thumb brushing over his wedding ring. “About a year ago.” 

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “It also took me a while before I could remove my wedding ring,” you pointed out. “But I still feel like guilty for being here while he isn’t.”

“That’s how I feel too,” he said. “I know she’d want me to move on, to be happy, but some days are harder than others.” 

“Grief isn’t linear,” you replied. “It doesn’t get easier, but you do learn to live with it.”

“And dating?” Jack asked abruptly. 

“What about dating?” 

“Do you ever…” he cleared his throat nervously. “Feel guilty when you find someone else attractive or… when you’re interested in getting to know somebody?” 

“Don’t think I’ve had that feeling,” you said honestly. “At least not until recently.” 

Jack nodded, sipping his coffee once more. “Me too,” he whispered. “And just so we’re clear… I—I don’t normally do this.” 

“I figured,” you smiled, turning your attention to the waiter who set down the pancakes and the rest of your food on the table. You looked across the table at Jack, who was already staring at you. 

“Be honest,” he said. “If pancakes are no good, then I’ll take you out for dinner.” 

You nodded and poured a reasonable amount of syrup onto it before taking a forkful of it. “What if the pancakes are good?” 

“Then, you’re welcome,” he chuckled. 

“Could you still take me out for dinner?” You asked. 

Jack grinned. “Yeah, I was gonna ask you out on a formal date once I dropped you off home.” 

You bit your lip, biting back a smile. 

His eyes glimmered against the sun that shone through the window as his head tilted to look at you before continuing, “Was gonna do the whole: drop you off at your place, walk you to your front door step, tell you that I enjoyed breakfast, and then ask you out to dinner, but I guess we’ll skip a few steps.” 

You felt the warmth flood your cheeks. 

“You’re a flirt, Dr. Abbot,” you laughed quietly. 

He shrugged nonchalantly, a smile creeping up on his lips. “I’d argue and say I’m naturally charismatic.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, but couldn’t help the smile that lined your lips. “Let’s just have breakfast. We still both have to go home and get some sleep.” 

Parker scoffed a chuckle at that, the rest of the crew seemed to be thinking the same, furrowed brows as you stood out under the harsh fluorescent hospital lights .

“Team, just wanted to introduce our newest recruit with legal. She’ll be working closely with the ER—handling complaints, risk management, patient disputes,” Gloria said, as the early morning day shift hovered around the nurses’ station. “She’ll be reviewing incident reports, advising on liability, and stepping in when anything escalates.”

A couple of them groaned quietly at that. Gloria ignored it.

“She’s your first point of contact for anything legal or ethical. Reports to the head office, but she’s based upstairs. Available during the day—and on nights if needed.”

You stood beside her, posture straight, hands clasped neatly in front of you—fingers fidgeting just slightly against each other, like you’re holding them there on purpose. Hair slightly messy in a way that felt unintentional, Mary Jane heels, peppered with pink and off-whites, skirt and all. Bright eyes. A smile that was just a touch too careful.

“Really nice to meet you all,” you said, well rehearsed, polite as ever. “I’ve interned at VA hospitals, children’s hospitals, so I’ve dealt with a... diverse range of people” You paused, a small, self-aware breath. “I’m just, you know, here to help keep things from turning into lawsuits, basically.”

That got a few more looks.

Gloria continued—something about OFIs—but most of them had checked out. Some nodded politely, some looked half-dead from night shift, others clung to their coffee like it was life support.

PTMC has a... somewhat sliming legal team. The budget is already parsed through to not be given to nurses and other staff.

Your eyes moved across the group, taking them in, assessing.

They landed on Jack. Just a second longer. Then moved on.

He frowned faintly, not thinking much of it as he leaned toward Ellis.

“Think she’ll last?” he murmured.

Parker shrugged, zipping her bag. “Maybe. Looks a bit uptight.”

“Probably why Gloria likes her,” he muttered.

He glanced back—caught you looking again.

You looked away quickly this time, your smile slipping for half a second before it reset, a little tighter.

★★★

He didn’t see you again for a few weeks.

He heard about you, though.

From both shifts. Little things.

You’d diffused a situation with a patient’s family threatening legal action. Sat in on a complaint review and apparently tore apart the timeline in ten minutes. Got someone to rewrite an incident report because, according to a nurse, “it read like a drunk text.”

He heard about you, though.

From both shifts. Little things.

You, in fact, had not been eaten alive. Despite the carefully put-together, polite, slightly squirrelly exterior, you were apparently… well-suited for PTMC.

Robby had filled him in one morning, leaning back in his chair with his coffee, eyes wide as if he were still in disbelief. “It’s ridiculous,” he said. “Some guy comes in complaining I nearly got his wife killed over the flu. He wants to sue for millions. I go up to her office—he’s there, she’s there—and twenty minutes later, it’s sorted. I even get to go back with time off because she noticed I’d been on sixteen hours. Nothing to hold against me, nothing to hold against the hospital.”

Jack furrowed his brows, amused, impressed, confused all at once. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Robby said, leaning back further. “All my years here, I don’t think I’ve worked with a lawyer this young who can actually handle the shit we put up with without even cracking. Gotten used to... ambulance chasers and Gloria's pitbulls.”

Parker quickly changed her attitude on you when she'd come right up to your shared office, solely with the intent of trying to figure out where she could change her contract. You managed to negotiate her a pay rise with Gloria after a figuring out she'd had a particularly rough shift.

You existed somewhere in the building. Just not in the Pitt, not usually.

Until one night.

Sometime past 3AM, he's finishing a report when he hears you before he sees you. The soft, precise tap of heels against linoleum.

“Hey, sorry—um, I’m looking for Doctor Abbot?”

A nurse pointed across the floor. “Right over there, sweets.”

“Thanks!" You say quickly, already heading his way.

He straightened slightly as you approached.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, closing out his tab.

You smile, a little breathless but contained. “Hi—sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met.” 

You hold your hand out.

He hesitates—not long, just enough to take you in properly this time.

Your hair’s come a little loose now—flyaways catching the light, a hint of frizz where it’s fallen out of whatever you did to tame it hours ago. There’s pen ink smudged across your fingers, even faintly along your forearm, like you’ve been working faster than you can keep up with.

Still neat. Still put-together. Maybe not quite holding as the night ticked away.

Your skirt sits just right, tailored and careful, and your button-up—something soft, a little too pretty for this place—has its sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Practical, but not by design. Like you didn’t plan to be here this long.

He shakes your hand. You give your full name, your title, crisp and practiced.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Know who you are.” He stepped around you, already moving. You followed immediately, hot on his heels. “Heard plenty.”

“Great,” you say, a small laugh. “Good things, I hope.”

“Bit late for you, isn’t it?” he mentions, stopping at a screen.

You nearly walk into him.

He glances down as you caught yourself, just a fraction too close before you stepped neatly to his side, smoothing your skirt like it didn’t happen.

“Right, uh—” you mutter, then recover. “Well. Sleep’s for losers.”

“That’s what I keep telling the day shift,” he remarks.

That got a real smile out of you. He couldn’t help but think of it as a win. This close, he can smell your perfume. It's far from the smell of sanitiser and every kind of bodily fluid of the ER. It's sweet, something with strawberries maybe. Whatever it is, it's made him want you around longer.

“Anyway,” you continue, reining yourself back in, “I realised we hadn’t actually met. You know, properly. I’ve been working mostly with Dr. Robinvatich—reviewing incident reports, flagging potential liability issues, sitting in on complaint escalations—so I thought it made sense to acquaint myself with the night attending as well. I've heard a lot about you as well.”

“Good things, I hope,” he echoes, scanning the screen, arms crossed over his chest.

Then he looks at you. You're already looking at him—open, curious, intent. He holds your gaze a second longer than necessary. A precise beat passes as his own curiosity gets the best of him. Bright eyed, seemingly angelic young lawyer... at PTMC.

“How old are you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“You mentioned you interned around. Don’t know many lawyers who do that unless they’re fresh out.”

“Right—yeah. I’m 24,” you answer. “I went straight into law school, then did about a year of hospital placements. I do want to specialise further—medical law, likely. I actually enjoy working with doctors, mostly, they can be… an acquired taste, but—” you gave a quick, self-conscious smile, remembering who you were speaking too. “—I think I’ve got the stomach for it.”

You stop, eventually, maybe a beat too late. "I didn't... I'm 24, is the point. Qualified, I swear it."

"I don't doubt it." He nods.

He watches it happen again—the shift. The way your confidence dips when you realise you’ve said too much.

Amused, he bites back a smile.

“You?” you add quickly. “I mean—how old are you? I heard you were military, so—”

“Guess.”

You let out a small laugh. “Older than me.”

“By a bit.”

"...40?" You try.

"Flattery will get you far, kid. 45." He corrects, chuckling at that. "But I'm not qualified for this. Just put on gloves and they let me at it."

You grin and nod. "'Course. You've got the look down. Could've convinced me."

He tilts his head a bit at that. He opens his mouth to respond, before he's interrupted.

“Abbot! Need you over here. Kid’s got some… centipede or some shit in his ear,” Parker calls out from Central 4.

Parker's face relaxes when she sees you, she calls your name out and gives a small wave. You give a polite wave back.

He exhales through his nose, already halfway moving. “Alright, be right there.”

He looks back at you, like a kid he’s been stuck with supervising.

“You’re welcome to… hang around,” he adds, a little rough around the edges. “Nurses won’t bite. Unless you ask ‘em to.”

There’s the faintest hint of something in his tone—dry, but not entirely joking.

You nod, a little too quickly. “Cool. Yep. I’ll just be… around here. I did actually need to speak to you about something, so, whenever you have the chance."

He gives you a once-over—quick, but not careless—then heads off, already scrubbing sanitiser into his hands. "I wouldn't wait up, sweetheart." He tells over his shoulder to you.

Your hand tightens slightly around the notebook in your hands at the petname.

It takes a while till you get the chance to chat with him again.

A call comes in, barely minutes later—car accident, five people, a few blocks out—and suddenly the whole floor shifts. People moving faster, voices sharper, stretchers rolling in before you’ve even fully registered what’s happening.

You stay. You tell yourself it’s observational. Useful. Context for your job. You probably should've just ditched for your own office at some point, leave the doctors to do their work. But it’s quiet in your office. You share it with two other people, and they aren’t exactly staying back till 3AM. 

You keep out of the way, mostly. Hover near the station, ask the occasional question, get a few curious looks in return.

At one point Shen ends up next to you, mid-charting, clearly thinking out loud.

“So if a patient refuses treatment but they’re being, like… objectively stupid about it—”

“That would not legally be discrimination,” you tell him, glancing up from the notes you’re pretending to read. “But it would be rude to tell them that they're being stupid... even if they are.”

He snorts. “Great. Good to know.”

“Also,” you add, a little primly, “document this. You’d be shocked how often ‘we told them’ doesn’t actually appear anywhere.”

“Got it, thanks,” he mutters, typing faster.

Across the room, Jack catches that.

Just a flash of it—your posture, the way you tilt your head when you’re explaining something, hands clasped like you’re holding yourself in place. Eventually, once the worst has passed, as it reaches 5AM, he manages to find his way back over to you.

Inbetween the flashes of bodies around you, people quickly going between patients, bandages, surgeons coming down to move patients.

"What did you wanna talk to me about, again?" He recalls to you as he's filling out a chart.

"Patient, three days, Ronny Jones. Remember him?" You ask quickly with this second of spare time he seems to have, notebook out.

"...Broken arm?" he tries.

"Yes. And..." You trail off as you try to translate your own handwriting.

He looks over at your notebook, squinting at your scrawl. You might not be a doctor but you have the handwriting of one, he notes. “...Compound fracture of the distal radius, open reduction internal fixation yesterday. Why? Something off with the chart?”

“Yep,” you say, flipping a few pages. “I was reviewing the incident report. It says he was discharged yesterday afternoon, but the orthopedic note says he needs post-op neurovascular checks every four hours. The discharge paperwork doesn’t reflect that. Liability risk if he comes back with... compartment syndrome or some sort of nerve compromise. I just need clarification—was the follow-up actually ordered, or did someone skip it?”

Jack straightens his back slightly, clearing his throat, tapping his pen onto his palm quickly. “Uh, the ortho team documented it in their EMR, but it didn’t make it onto the discharge instructions for nursing. That’s on me for not double-checking before signing out... Not ideal.”

You scribble quickly, biting your lip. “Right, okay. So legally, if Ronny returns with a preventable complication and the discharge instructions didn’t match the physician orders… technically, that’s a risk. Could be framed as a deviation from standard of care. I just want to make sure we document the corrective steps. Maybe an addendum or clarification note?”

Jack pauses, glancing at you, then back at the chart. He can’t really argue with that.

“Yeah, that’ll—” he nods once. “Sounds right. You need me to… sign anything, or—?”

“Yeah, once I draft it,” you say, already halfway through another note. “I’ll bring it down. I just—” you hesitate for a second, then add, almost as an afterthought, “I use my favourite printer. The formatting comes out cleaner.”

There’s a beat.

“…You have a favourite printer?”

You pause, pen hovering, like you’ve just realised how that sounds.

“…Mhm.”

Another beat. Jack exhales a quiet, amused breath, shaking his head. “Yeah. ‘Course you do," He says. "Good catch on the Ronny guy. Slipped my mind entirely."

You smile at that. "Thanks"

He shakes his head slightly, looking around the ER, seeing he is very much needed away from this conversation, as Emery calls out a code for their stroke patient past Central Six.

“Alright. I’ll put in the clarification note, and send an updated discharge instruction to nursing. That way, if he comes back with any problems, documentation's all straight.” He tells.

You relax a fraction, but only a fraction. “Perfect. Thanks, Doctor Abbot. I… I just want to make sure nobody gets blindsided.”

Jack smirks, stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve got that covered, kid.”

You watch him move through the chaos, sharp and efficient, and scribble a few more notes. Even in the middle of an ER storm, he’s methodical. Impressive. And exhausting.

You end up just finishing your work in a space set up for you at the nurses' station, making conversation whilst you write up documentation templates. You had to keep your head down at points to stop seeing people be brought in with their leg half off, crying and panic from people. Hearing doctors call out a million different solutions.

By the time it slows, it’s morning.

Not properly morning—grey light bleeding through the windows, fluorescent lights still doing most of the work—but enough that the edge comes off everything.

7AM creeps in quietly, Day Shift enters with ease.

People start peeling off.

Handovers. Half-finished coffees abandoned. The kind of tiredness that settles into bones.

Jack finishes his last chart, shoulders heavier now that he’s standing still. When he finally steps away from the computer, he spots you again. Still here.

Perched on the edge of a chair, one leg crossed over the other, heels dangling slightly off your foot now like you’ve given up on pretending to be fully put together. Your hair’s loose in places. There’s a crease in your skirt you probably don’t know about. You’ve managed to move most of your work down here, laptop out as you scramble something in your notebook.

You look… exhausted.

He walks over.

“You always stay this early,” he asks, voice low, “or am I just lucky?”

You look up, a second slower than before, like your brain has to catch up.

“Oh—hi.” A small blink. Then you straighten a bit, reflexively. “No, I—this is not standard practice. I promise I don’t just linger.”

“Shame,” he says.

If you had another brain cell available after being up for too long, you’d think that was a flirt. You hesitate, then huff a quiet laugh, rubbing at your eye before you remember you’re wearing makeup and stop halfway through.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I got a bit sidetracked.”

He nods, glancing out over the floor.

“You saw the fun part.”

“That’s one word for it,” you say. Your voice is softer now, a little less tightly wound. “I think I prefer reading about it, actually.”

“Give it time,” he replies. “You’ll start missing it.”

You look at him like he’s insane. “I sincerely hope not. That looked stressful as fuck. Excuse my language.”

That gets a faint smile out of him.

A beat passes.

You shift slightly, slipping your heels back on properly, smoothing your skirt like you’re putting yourself back together piece by piece.

“I should probably head out,” you say. “Before I fall asleep on one of these chairs and become a liability issue.”

“Mhm,” he nods. “Paperwork on that’d be a nightmare.”

You smile—small, but sincere. “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for letting me… you know. Linger.”

“Any time,” he shrugs. “You alright to get home?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, standing, gathering your things. “Bus is always late, so.”

He nods, slowly. Watches you for a second too long—hair a little out of place now, smudged ink still on your wrist.

He speaks before he can overthink it.

“I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “No, really, I don’t—”

“—It’s no trouble. I insist,” he cuts in, not harsh, just firm. “Grab your things. I’ll be right outside.”

You hesitate.

It’s subtle—just a second. Fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook, your teeth catching your lower lip like you’re weighing it properly.

He notices that. Of course he does.

“…Fine,” you say finally, a little quieter. “Sure. Thank you, I mean.”

He gives a short nod, like it’s already settled, and turns to head out.

★★★

The morning air is colder than it looks.

He waits outside, sitting on a bench, arms folded, watching the automatic doors slide open and shut. Staff trickling out. Shift changes. The usual.

Then you.

You step out, messenger bag slung over your shoulder, pausing for half a second when you spot him—like you weren’t entirely convinced he’d actually be there.

He stays seated on the bench..

“You always take this long,” he asks, “or just keeping me waiting for fun?”

You huff a quiet laugh, walking over. “I was considering making a run for it, actually.” 

“Yeah?” he pushes himself up, a slight hitch in the movement, subtle, but there.

You notice it without really thinking, hand coming out instinctively, light on his arm for a second. “Oh—sorry, I—”

He steadies, more out of habit than need, glancing down at your hand briefly before looking back at you. “You wouldn’t get far in those shoes anyway.”

You pull your hand back, smoothing it over your skirt like you didn’t just do that. The two of you start toward his truck.

You glance down at your heels, then back at him.

“Watch it. These are Louboutin,” you point out as he opens the passenger door for you.

“My point stands.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile as you slide into the seat. He shuts the door behind you, walks around, gets in.

The car’s quiet when it starts. Low hum of the engine, early morning stillness bleeding in through the windows.

You give him your address—quick, efficient. He nods, pulls out.

The car’s quiet when it starts. Low hum of the engine, early morning stillness bleeding in through the windows.

A few minutes pass. You aren’t too far from the hospital. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… new. All your time working around doctors, and not one of them has ever offered to drive you home.

You sit a little straighter than you need to. Hands folded in your lap, then not, then back again—like you can’t quite decide how you’re meant to exist in this space.

"You don't seem forty five." You remark, seemingly out of nowhere.

He glances at you briefly, then back to the road, slowing at a red light.

“Is that right?” he hums.

“My dad hit fifty the other day,” you add. “He’s way grumpier.”

A beat.

“You’re a ray of sunshine in comparison.”

That gets something out of him—barely there, but real. The corner of his mouth pulls, just slightly.

He hums. “Give it time.”

You smile faintly at that, glancing over.

Up close like this, it’s different. You notice things you didn’t before—grey through his hair, not just at the sides. The lines around his eyes. The way he sits, solid, like he’s used to holding himself together through long hours. His arms. Just... he has nice arms, you note.

Your gaze drops—brief, unintentional—to his hands on the wheel.

You look back out the window quickly.

“You don’t act like it either,” you add, a little softer, like you’re correcting yourself.

“Act like what?”

“Forty five,” you say. “I mean—” you huff a small breath, already backtracking, “not that forty five is old, obviously, I just—”

He glances at you again, something almost amused there.

“No, really, go 'head,” he insists.

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. “I’m saying that… you know, you’re… I don’t know, a person. I’ve met a lot of doctors your age, they lose a lot of that humanity as they…”

“Get old as shit?” He finished as you trailed off.

“Yeah, that,” You sigh.

He nods, actually appreciative of that. “Never a met a lawyer who hangs around the Pitt willingly.”

You shrug. “It's lonely upstairs.” You say simply.

The light turns green. He pulls forward.

You shift slightly in your seat, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, then immediately smoothing your skirt again like you’ve remembered yourself.

You go on, a little stiff. “Besides, it’s part of the job. I should understand what actually happens down there. Not just what ends up in reports.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, if I’m going to defend you people,” you add, a little more animated now, “I should probably know what I’m defending.”

“You people,” he repeats.

You wince slightly. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

You look over at him, trying to read if he’s serious. He’s not giving you much.

“I just mean—doctors,” you say. “Not… you specifically.”

“You don't wanna defend me?” he wonders, teasing.

You snicker at that. You look at him properly this time. There’s something in your expression, curious, a little thrown, interested.

“Are you always this charming at seven in the morning?” You ask, sarcastic.

“Only when I haven’t slept,” he says.

“Ah. So this is you at your worst.”

“Pretty much.”

You nod, like you’re filing that away. “Good to know.”

A small silence settles again, but it’s lighter now. Easier.

The car slows as he pulls up outside your place. You unbuckle, but linger for half a second, fingers still on the seatbelt.

“Thank you,” you say. “Really, Doctor Abbot, I appreciate it. The lift, I mean.”

He nods. “Get some sleep. And just… Jack’s fine, sweetheart.”

“Alright. Thanks, Jack.”

You step out, shutting the door behind you.

He watches you briefly, making sure you get into the apartment building before driving off, your perfume lingering around his car.

a/n: omg hi first the pitt fic… girls i truly finna be in the pitt, like put me in coach !! okay so havent seen season 2 yet. ANY of yall spoil shit for me i'm throwing a fit. i'm rewatching s1 now w my friend who hasnt seen, then we doing s2 together. i dont know much except that robby got a motorbike for whatever reason. anyway. this is just a lil cute thing, workshopping this. def wanna do like a little series of this or somethin like. idk. if yall are feeling it cool, if not.. im probably gonna do it regardless. i def wanna make a little moodboard for this lawyer girly reader, i fuck w her vibe heavy. im also in law school so manifesting this. except i dont wanna do health law that shit is messy. ok anyway ! have a good day/night :3

That night I was supposed to meet up with a girl, and I can’t even remember who.  All I remember is you.

You were dancing with Buck. You were both so drunk, stumbling into each other and laughing. But Buck must have been worse off because he threw up all over your shoes. I was only a pledge at the time, but I remember all the guys around me tensing up, getting ready for you to lay into him. Apparently this was a common thing with Buck—he'd get too drunk and puke on people, and they'd lose it on him.

So it was a surprise to all of us when you didn't even yell at him. You only took off your shoes and gave him some water. Told him to sit down and breathe. I got stuck cleaning up the mess because that's what pledges do, and I heard you jump up and pull Robin to the floor when "Hot Stuff" came on.

As you were dancing with Robin, both of you screaming the lyrics, I thought: who the hell is she rooming with? You were only wearing your socks and dancing, and now that I think about our conversation at the lake, you really don't know how to dance. You were all arms and no rhythm, and somehow that made it better.

So then I decided you were pretty and weird.

I like that you're weird, apparently, because I was pathetically asking Robin about you nonstop after that night. Where were you from? What were you studying? Did you have a boyfriend? (You didn't, thank god.) Were you always that nice to people who threw up on your shoes?

I like that you're kind too. And god, you're so selfless. I beat myself up every day about how I took advantage of that. How I let you think you weren't good enough when really I was the one who wasn't good enough for you.

If you haven't noticed by now... I miss you.

I’m going to try my hardest not to call and check in every hour this weekend. I hope you enjoy the cookies I sent with Robin. My mom made them. I helped, so they might be extra sweet. Max says I’m too corny… I guess maybe I’m the weird one. 

I told my mom about you, and she said, “The pretty one, right?” 

Maybe one day I can be lucky enough to be weird with you. Where we can badly dance in our socks together. 

Sincerely,

Your handsome weird friend 

.-.-.-.

6 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

I don’t have much to say. Again, not a whole lot going on besides Family Video. Today, however, I tried to teach Max how to drive. Maybe the next time I see you I can tell you how this punk once drove my car when she was thirteen. I should have known better. 

At least I survived. 

Mrs. Henderson’s petunias not so much. 

How was Boston? Robin won’t tell me a whole lot. I'm trying not to be jealous that you're hanging out with everyone except me, but I'm doing a terrible job of it.

Sincerely, 

Steve

P.S. Max found this mixtape I had made for you months ago, made fun of me, and then convinced me to send it to you or she would. Never thought I’d be blackmailed by a seventeen-year-old who doesn’t know how to drive. 

.-.-.-.

8 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Robin told me you’ve been reading my letters. 

I feel... I don't know what to feel. A part of me wishes they got lost in the mail and you never saw them, that I could take back everything I've said because it's too much, too honest, too pathetic. Then there's the other part of me—the bigger part—imagining you reading them. I wonder if it's the same way you read your books.

I think it's cute how your eyes move across the pages when you're reading, completely engrossed in whatever story you're in. How your nose scrunches when you're focused on whatever's happening in the plot. Sometimes your lips move, reading whatever out loud to yourself without realizing you're doing it.

Not that I'm staring at your lips.

OK, I look at your lips an appropriate amount of time. Can you blame me? I mean, they killed me constantly. Every time you'd bite your bottom lip when you were thinking, or smile that smile that made your whole face light up, or—

Yeah, I'm not going to finish that thought.

I always had a hard time studying when I was around you and you were like that, lost in whatever you were reading. Because then I wanted to know what was going on in your book too, wanted to understand what had you so captivated. And because I wanted to kiss you. Still do, if I'm being honest. Which I guess I am, since that's kind of the whole point of these letters.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

9 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

You know when things changed for me? The moment I knew I really didn’t want anyone else? 

Valentines Day. 

I couldn't stop thinking about you that day. From the moment I woke up to the moment I fell asleep and even after, in my dreams.

You were so sick, and I remember thinking... can she get any prettier? Which is insane because you had a runny nose and messy hair and you kept sniffling. But you were wrapped up in a blanket, curled against me on your bed, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

I don't know what did it for me specifically. Your runny nose or your messy hair or the way you kept apologizing for being gross when you weren't gross at all. I do know that when you laid your head on my chest and fell asleep, I felt my stomach tie into knots. The good kind. The kind that made me think: oh no, this is it, I'm done for.

Nothing was the same for me after that moment. Every time I hooked up with someone after that, I felt guilty. Like I was cheating on you even though we weren't together. Like I was looking for you in other people and obviously never finding you because you're you and they weren't.

Maybe it had never been the same. Maybe from that first night when you danced in your socks, I was already gone. Maybe I was always meant to meet you.

God, I hope so.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

12 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Did Eddie tell you Polly dumped him? He's been OK, I think. Or he says he's OK, which probably means he's not OK but doesn't want to talk about it.

Last night we went to Hawkins' finest establishment—The Hideout. It's this dive bar that smells like stale beer and cigarettes, but Eddie and his band play there a lot. Except since his breakup, he's been kind of in a rut. He says he has "inspiration constipation." I call it sulking.

Then I thought… is this how Eddie and Jonathan thought about me all those months? When I was moping around about you? They both can smell my "bullshit" a mile away... ha. Guess I wasn't as subtle as I thought I was being.

Besides Eddie being a downer, I had a good night. It would have been better if you'd been there. Nancy came too, and even though her and Robin are still careful in public, I feel happy they can look at each other freely now. No more hiding. No more pretending.

The news of the "break-up" here in Hawkins was gossip for weeks. Apparently the whole town had an opinion about it. My mom's friends kept calling to check on me, asking if I was OK, if I needed anything. It's fizzled out by now, though. People found other things to talk about.

Kind of humiliating how much of a big deal we made it out to be. All that stress and lying, when we could have just been honest from the start. 

The Hideout has billiard tables. If you ever decide to grace us… me… with a visit to Hawkins, maybe I can take you to play. Can you hear the desperation in my handwriting? That I kind of really want to see you?

 I’m not sure how I can be more patient when the others… even Dustin? Have heard from you. 

But I’m trying. I really am. 

I guess I’m sulking too. 

Sincerely, 

A desperate man 

.-.-.-.

15 June, 1988

Dear Steve, 

Thank you for the letters. As for billiards. Do you remember what happened the last time we played? I don’t think you’re ready for round two. 

And thank you for the cookies. That was sweet of you and they were delicious. 

-Your friend

P.S. I am glad to hear about your glasses. 

.-.-.-.

20 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Is it true you're coming to Hawkins for Independence Day? Robin mentioned it, but I wanted to make sure before I got my hopes up.

I can't deny that I cannot wait to see you, but I want to make sure you're OK with me being around. If you're not, I will literally chain myself to my bed until you leave town. Lock myself in my room. Avoid all public spaces. Whatever you need.

For my sake, not yours. I don't think I could handle seeing you and not being able to talk to you.

I'll be OK though. I promise.

I don’t really like fireworks, if I’m being honest. They’re too loud. When I was a kid I used to cry everytime they went off. Eventually my parents just started leaving me home with a babysitter on the Fourth of July so they didn't have to deal with it.

Remember that story Max told you about me accidentally popping a Hopper in the ass with a firework? It’s because I jumped at the noise. 

Anyway, I'm also trying to act cool about the fact that you wrote back and that I haven't totally read your letter over and over again... or memorized your handwriting... or folded it up and put it in my wallet so I can take it out whenever I'm missing you most.

To paint the picture… it's a lot. I take it out a lot.

Robin caught me reading it at work yesterday and made fun of me for another twenty minutes. I'm never going to hear the end of this.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

24 June, 1988

Dear Steve, 

Yes, I'm coming to Hawkins for Independence Day. It didn't take much for Robin to convince me. She says there's a huge carnival with rides and games and apparently the best funnel cake in Indiana? It sounds like a lot of fun.

I’d hate for you to miss something fun. 

I can’t wait to properly catch up! 

-Your friend

.-.-.-.

Steve has never been this nervous since he kissed you in the tent back in March.

Back then, he kept thinking over and over about how long it had been since he had really kissed someone—not counting that makeout session at the Mardi Gras party, which barely counts anyway. Sure, he'd kissed you then, but after confessing he only wanted you, after everything that's happened since, it had felt like his first kiss all over again. Like he was thirteen and terrified and has no idea what he's doing.

Now, his stomach is tied in knots, twisting and clenching every time he so much as glances in your direction.

You're sitting across the pool at his parents' house, and he can't stop staring.

Everyone is here to swim—the kids are running around screaming, cannonballing into the deep end and playing chicken in the shallow end. Max and Lucas are floating on inner tubes, holding hands when they think no one's looking. Dustin keeps trying to dunk Mike, who's protesting loudly. Jane is sitting on the pool steps with Will, both of them talking quietly and watching the chaos. Jonathan and Nancy even came in for the weekend, lying on lounge chairs and looking more relaxed than Steve's seen them in months.

Everyone is here, but to Steve, he's forgotten they exist.

He feels like a schoolboy with a crush. Like Tommy H. in eighth grade when he got obsessed with Carol, following her around like a puppy and blushing every time she talked to him. Steve had made fun of him for it then. Karma's a bitch.

You're trying to be polite, making an effort to talk to him. But every time you do, he stumbles over his words like an idiot, then walks away to grab another beer from the cooler just to have an excuse to escape. He's on his third beer and it's only two in the afternoon.

It's the day before the Independence Day carnival, and all Steve can think about is how much he loves you.

He was terrified you'd come to Hawkins and tell him you'd gotten over it. That the distance helped you realize you don't actually want him, that you're better off without him, that being friends is all you can manage. But the moment you walked in the door with Robin yesterday—his heart already racing because Dustin had warned him over the walkie-talkie that you'd been spotted at Benny's Burgers with Robin and Nancy—he met your eyes, and he could see it.

The flash of softness. The way your lips upturned at the sight of him. The slight hitch in your breath that he caught even from across the room.

He felt himself blush, felt his hands start to sweat like he was back in high school asking someone to prom.

But then there was another flash—recollection, memory, pain. Letting him know there's still hurt there, still wounds that haven't fully healed.

You look like nothing but sunshine right now. Feet dangling in the pool, sitting next to Max on the pool deck, talking about something that keeps making both of you laugh. Steve can't help but look at the tattoo on your hip—"Hot Shot" in slightly crooked letters, visible when your swimsuit shifts. And god, why is it the sexiest thing in the world to know that his nickname is permanently marked on your skin? His girl. Even if you're not his girl yet. Even if you might never be his girl again.

He can't help but notice how your thighs press against the pool deck, how the flesh of your ass mushes slightly on the concrete, how your shoulders are changing color from the sun despite the sunscreen you applied. He hopes his sunglasses hide the way his eyes are glued to your every move, the way he's cataloging each smile and laugh and gesture like he's studying for a test.

He wants to make you laugh again, wants your hand to fall carelessly on his shoulder like it used to. Wants to see your eyes twinkle the way they do when you're really happy—like the stars themselves, bright enough that there's no need for the sun or moon or artificial light. Like you contain all the illumination the world needs right there in your irises.

He's been a little lonely since he came home for summer, if he's being honest with himself.

His dad has begrudgingly talked to him—short, clipped conversations about Steve's GPA and his major and whether teaching is "really what you want to do with your life, son." The disappointment hangs heavy in every word his father speaks, and Steve's stopped trying to defend his choices. There's no point. Not to mention the whole lying about his long-term relationship with Robin. 

He doesn't go over to Robin's house as often anymore. Her parents are accepting and understanding, they really are, they've been great about everything, but it's still a fresh wound for everyone. The revelation, the lies, the year-plus of deception. Robin doesn't come over to Steve's as often either, only showing up when everyone else is there too, when it's a group thing and not just the two of them.

It's weird. In a sense, it does feel like a real breakup. Without all the awkwardness and tension that comes with romantic breakups, but with the same sense of loss, of figuring out who they are beyond the roles they played. Trying to remember how to be just friends when they've been "dating" for so long.

It's been ages since Steve's been actually single. Technically single and not sleeping with anyone. He can admit there have been a few girls from high school who stuck around Hawkins—girls who come into Family Video and flirt with him, twirling their hair and asking for movie recommendations in voices that suggest they're not really interested in movies at all.

But he doesn't know how to reciprocate anymore. Doesn't know how to flirt back when he's not interested, doesn't know how to let them down easy without being an asshole about it.

Least to say, Keith says Steve's the worst at customer service now and makes Robin handle most of the customers. Which is probably fair.

Back at college, it was easy to fall into the confidence that comes with flirting fueled by lust. By knowing you're going to hook up with someone and that's all it is—bodies and pleasure and nothing deeper. But when he discovered the part of him that loves someone, really loves them, it rewired every bit of his brain. There's something more dangerous about approaching a girl—approaching you—with the heavy feeling of aching and longing to be something more. It rattles him, makes him nervous and awkward in ways he hasn't been since middle school.

Steve tries not to be jealous when Eddie pulls you into the pool, both of you splashing and laughing, Eddie picking you up and threatening to dunk you under. Steve knows Eddie wouldn't do anything— Eddie knows how Steve feels. Eddie's a good friend even when Steve hadn’t been for the past few years. 

But Steve can't help the tightness in his chest. The same tightness he felt when you kissed Eddie as a dare in the basement of the Pike house, even though he had no right to feel jealous then either. It was just another moment to catalog— Steve Harrington being a dingus and not seeing the truth of his feelings. 

Steve gets up from his pool chair, his thighs slick with sweat, the hair there clinging to his skin. He walks inside to cool down from the summer heat, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on top of his overgrown, messy hair that badly needs a cut.

He knows he's sulking. He knows it would be unfair to pout in front of you, to make you think he wants to rush you into forgiving him before you're ready. But he can't stop thinking that maybe there's hope. That maybe the way you looked at him yesterday when you first walked in means something.

He goes to his mom's tea room—a small sitting area off the kitchen with floral wallpaper and too many decorative plates—and sits on the piano bench, pulling the blind aside slightly to see the view of the backyard through the window.

He notices you're not out there anymore. And he's annoyed with himself that he's relieved to see Eddie is still in the pool, now terrorizing the kids by threatening to throw Dustin's hat into the deep end.

"Thought you told Nancy you were getting another drink?"

Your soft voice filters in from the doorway, and Steve's heart nearly stops.

He twists around awkwardly on the bench, already smiling before he can stop himself. He's not sure what to do with his hands—they move around uselessly before he finally settles them between his legs, gripping the edge of the bench, looking up at you.

You're wearing denim shorts now, cut-offs that are frayed at the hem, and an oversized t-shirt over your swimsuit. Your hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends from the pool water. He can smell the sun on your skin, that particular scent of sunblock mixed with chlorine and something underneath that's purely you. The smell gets stronger as you walk into the room, looking around at all the different collections his mom has accumulated—teacups on shelves, decorative plates on the walls, a shelf of crystal figurines that Steve's been terrified of breaking since childhood.

You smile at him again, and his stomach flips. You point at the spinet piano against the wall. "That's cool. Does your mom play?"

Steve looks over his shoulder at the ivory keys, yellowed slightly with age. He smirks, quirking an eyebrow. "Why do you assume my mom?"

You laugh—that beautiful laugh that makes his chest expand, that makes him feel like he could float right off this piano bench. You tilt your head, crossing your arms. "Your dad doesn't really strike me as someone who could tell what a musical note is if it hit him in the face." You pause, probably thinking about that disastrous dinner. "And I only met your mom once, but... I feel like even though she likes nice things, she wants to enjoy them. Not just own them."

Steve smiles, genuinely pleased that you saw that in his mom. "She used to play. Not much anymore. It's probably out of tune by now." He pauses, choosing his words more carefully. "Robin and her would do duets when we started..." He trails off. Being friends, he finally settles on. Not dating. Not in a relationship. Because it wasn't real, and he doesn't want to treat it as such now.

He thinks for a moment, then adds, "But I took lessons when I was seven. For about six months. Never practiced, though, so it was okay because then my dad said it was a useless talent for a boy to have anyway."

Your eyebrows furrow, and Steve wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth the crease with his thumb. He clasps his hands tighter between his legs to stop himself.

"Do you remember any songs?" you ask.

He cracks a smile, falling back into the safety of humor. "You kidding? In high school I'd bring chicks over and play them a few chords of 'Chopsticks' and they'd think I was Mozart."

You throw your head back laughing, corners of your eyes crinkling, and Steve thinks he's won at life just being able to hear it. Probably the prettiest sound in the world, better than any music the best piano player could make.

Then you say, walking closer, "Okay. Show me."

Steve's mouth falls open. He rubs the back of his neck, closing one eye nervously. "I was kidding. I don't actually remember anything."

You giggle, that softer laugh, more intimate, and walk over to the bench. He watches your eyes fall on his bare chest, then down to his stomach. The way he's sitting, the soft skin spills over the top of his swim trunks slightly, creating a small roll.

In most cases, he'd feel self-conscious. Most girls he's been with, he's always turned off the lights or kept his shirt on or made sure there was minimal interaction with his body. Billy used to call him soft, would poke at his stomach in the locker room, and even though Steve knows Billy was an asshole, the words stuck.

But with you, he wants to be seen. Wants you to look at all of him—the parts he's proud of and the parts he's not. He watches how your pupils dilate slightly, how your breathing changes when you look at how his stomach flexes as he adjusts his position. You notice. And he always wants you to notice him, wants your eyes on him like this.

You look shy now, a flush creeping up your neck as you walk to the other side of the bench and slide in, facing the piano. Steve follows suit quickly, turning to face the keys.

He's patient, or trying to be, but he still scoots a little closer, making his thigh touch yours. If you move away, he won't try again. Won't push.

He feels you tense for a moment, but you don't make an effort to move. That has to mean something, right?

"Okay," you say softly, and he can hear the slight tremor in your voice. "Put your two fingers here."

Steve looks at you instead of the piano, taking in the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the way your eyelashes cast shadows. Then he does as you said, placing his pointer and middle finger on the keys you indicated.

He hears you take a deep breath in, and then you grab his wrist.

His brain stops working at the touch. It's been so long since your soft hands have met his skin—not since that night on the swings, and even then it was brief, careful. He remembers when you slapped his cheek in Miami, then a few weeks later put your hand on the same cheek in comfort at the bonfire, telling him you love him. It still burns, both memories. The sting and the tenderness.

You start pressing his fingers down on the keys, creating a simple melody he vaguely recognizes. Maybe "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" or something equally basic. But he starts laughing because he keeps slipping his fingers on purpose so the note comes out wrong, and you have to start over.

"Steve," you say, trying to sound annoyed, but you're laughing too. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Am not," he lies, grinning.

"Are too."

"Prove it."

You laugh again and grab his wrist tighter, repositioning his fingers with exaggerated care. He's finding every excuse to be held by you, to have your skin on his, even if it'll be gone in a moment. Even if this is all he gets.

He really is a dingus.

When the song is over—played correctly this time because you wouldn't let him sabotage it again—you let out a happy sigh. Slowly, carefully, you take your hands away from his wrist. You scoot over slightly, just an inch or two, so his bare thigh is no longer pressed against yours.

The loss of contact feels like a physical blow.

You're looking at the keys, not at him, and Steve makes no effort to hide that he's staring right at you. Drinking in your profile, memorizing the way the afternoon light comes through the window and illuminates your face.

He could do what he really wants to do. Could ask if you've forgiven him yet, if you're ready to give him another chance. Could reach out and tilt your chin up with his finger, lean in and kiss your lips the way he's been dreaming about for months. He’s trying not to be selfish. 

But instead, he forces himself to look straight ahead at the piano keys too. Swallows hard. "We should, uh... head back out, you know? Before they wonder where we went."

There's a flicker of disappointment in your eyes—he sees it, brief but real—but there's mutual agreement in the way you say, "Yeah. We should."

So you both stand up, and Steve steps to the side, offering an awkward half-hearted smile. He extends his arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly gesture, motioning for you to go through the door first.

As you walk past him, he gets a full breath of your shampoo—something floral and sweet—and the smell of chlorine and sunscreen that clings to your skin. His other hand hovers over your lower back, not quite touching but miming the gesture he wants to make, the way he used to when he wanted an excuse to touch you. But he can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So he waits for you to walk completely out of the room, nearly back toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, before he follows several feet behind.

Dingus, he thinks to himself, shaking his head.

Max looks up when you both emerge outside, her eyebrows raised knowingly. Eddie glances over from the pool, treading water, and gives Steve a look that clearly says smooth move, lover boy.

Steve ignores them both and goes back to his lounge chair, grabbing his fourth beer of the day, and trying very hard not to watch you sit back down next to Max.

He fails miserably.

.-.-.-.

6 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

You left today. I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye to you properly.

Stupid Keith scheduled me for a double shift and wouldn't let me leave early even though I told him it was important. He said, and I quote, "Your personal life is not my problem, Harrington." So that was fun.

I hope you enjoyed your stay. It felt like it had gone by too fast. 

I know I didn't come hang out with everyone yesterday at the lake. I wanted to. I really did. But I guess I'm still figuring things out too. Figuring out how to be around you without wanting to pull you aside and kiss you senseless. Figuring out how to be patient when all I want is to be with you.

Can you blame me after the carnival? I mean, if you saw what I saw, you’d be in the same pathetic boat that I’m sailing right now. 

I’m sorry I got all grumpy towards the end of the night, but I didn’t have the guts to ask to ride at least one ride with you, and then the closer we got to the time for fireworks, I was feeling anxious. I was even about to leave but then I looked up at the Ferris Wheel, and saw your smile. 

I can always see your smile from a mile away, and it never fails to make my heart race and calm me down in equal measure. You looked like you were having so much fun up there with Max, both of you laughing, your hair whipping in the wind. Even though I wanted to be part of that fun, wanted to be the one sitting next to you in that cart, I felt my entire mood lift just watching you.

At that moment, my heart burst like the fireworks in the sky. 

Hot Shot, I just want you to be happy. Even if it isn't with me. Even if you decide us being friends is all we can be after everything, I'd be okay watching you rise above me, smiling like that. I'd be okay knowing I at least got to see it, got to know you, got to love you even if you don't love me back the same way anymore.

Seeing you laugh with Max… I wish I hadn’t been so nervous. I wish I had asked you to ride the Ferris Wheel with me. 

I hope next time I see you, I can see that smile again, up close, like it’s meant only for me. Your smile where it reaches all the way into your eyes and I don’t see the glimpse of how I’ve hurt you. 

Can summer go by any faster? 

Sincerely,

Steve

.-.-.-.

11 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot,

I think my dad is really coming around about me being a teacher. He's still upset about the whole lying-to-him-for-two-years thing—brings it up at least once a week, usually over dinner when my mom tells him to drop it. But he's been asking more questions about what my new life timeline will look like. What schools I might want to teach at. What age group I'm thinking. 

He even helped me get some volunteer hours at the Boys and Girls Club for summer baseball. Which is huge for him. He’s actually making phone calls on my behalf instead of just criticizing my choices.

You'd get a kick out of these kids, Hot Shot. They're hilarious. They call me "Coach Steve," and they take it very seriously. One girl, Via, brought me a dandelion from the outfield yesterday and made me wear it tucked behind my ear for the rest of the game. All the other kids thought it was hilarious. I looked like an idiot, but it made her so happy I couldn't take it off. 

I can’t believe you were right that I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m glad you were right. 

It led me to think about what my mom said about girls. “Make sure you know if your girl likes flowers or chocolates. It makes a difference.” 

So, are you a flower or chocolate type of girl? 

I’d round up the moon for you, Hot Shot. 

Anything you want. I’ll give it to you. 

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

18 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

I received my class schedule for this upcoming semester today. Looks like I've got Intro to Kinesiology on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Educational Psychology on Mondays and Wednesdays, and some other classes I'm already dreading.

I know I haven't written in a week. I’m sorry about that. Work's been crazy and I've been helping my mom with some stuff around the house. But I wanted to remind you to buy your textbooks if you haven't already. 

Sincerely,

Steve

.-.-.-.

27 July, 1988

Dear Steve, 

I finally got around to reading your last few letters. I've been working a lot. Extra shifts to save up money for textbooks, which I have now ordered. Thank you for the reminder.

I have been thinking a lot since my visit to Hawkins. Mostly thinking about you. About us. 

I must admit something, the day I left Hawkins, I went to Family Video to come see you. I never liked goodbyes, but I really wanted to say bye to you. I never went inside, but like the weirdo I am, I sat in my car across the street and watched you through the window. You were helping some woman find a movie, and then you were at the counter ringing someone up, and then you were restocking shelves.

I thought you looked handsome in that green vest. 

I also thought how badly I wished you had asked me to go on the Ferris Wheel with you. I had asked Max instead because I knew you hated the fireworks and I didn’t want you to be miserable. 

When my mom saw me reading the letters, she asked what I was smiling so big about. She said she had never seen me like that before. So, I told her sort of the truth. 

I told her the boy I like has been writing to me all summer. I also told her you like me too.  

She got very excited and started asking a million questions. What's his name? What's he studying? When can she meet him? I answered what I could, and then she insisted on making you a care package.

So there might be no going back now, Steve. My mom knows about you. She's sent you Boppers and Sour Patch Kids and probably some other stuff I don't know about because she sealed the box before I could see everything.

-Yours truly

P.S. I listened to the mixtape, finally. Careless Whisper? Really, Steve? 

P.P.S. Chocolate. Definitely chocolate. 

.-.-.-.

31 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot,

I first and foremost need to clarify something, sweetheart. I do not like you. 

I love you. 

Yes, there is a difference. So the moment you read this, you tell your mom I love you. Better yet, call me, and let me talk to her, and tell her that I love her daughter. I know you asked Robin for my phone number a few days ago. 

If you don't want me to call and talk to your mom, maybe I can drive to your house and stand outside your window and yell it loud enough for her to hear. Or for you to hear. Or for the whole neighborhood to hear. I don't care who knows anymore.

You invented love for me, Hot Shot. Before you, I thought I knew what it was. I thought I loved people. But it was nothing compared to this. If I could, I'd write this entire page with nothing but "I love you" over and over until the words lost meaning and then kept going until they gained new meaning.

Better yet….

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

I’ll learn it in all the languages of the world so you know I don’t get tired of saying it. 

Love,

Steve

.-.-.-.

It's the middle of a September evening, and campus is slowly buzzing back to life after summer break.

It's been two weeks since school started, but three weeks of Steve getting the Pike house back in order, organizing rush week, managing a new pack of pledges who don't know the difference between a keg and a trash can.

But finally, finally, the rest of his evening is free. And the moment he has the chance, he gets in his car and drives the short distance to Hall 11.

He slips through the open door, catching it just as some girls are leaving, laughing about something and not paying attention to him. Even though it's past curfew, past nine on a weeknight, technically against dorm rules, he sees Tessa at the RA desk.

During his fake relationship with Robin, Steve became acquainted with all the RAs. They all thought he was the perfect boyfriend, always bringing Robin food and flowers and showing up for study sessions. Tessa always looked the other way when he snuck in after hours, probably thinking it was romantic.

She waves at him now, phone pressed to her ear, mid-conversation with someone. She mouths go ahead and turns her attention back to her call.

Steve rushes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and nearly skips down the hallway to the door he's been waiting to get to for what feels like forever. He's whistling, actually whistling like an idiot, because he's been waiting all day for this moment.

After his last letter, a few days later when he got home from work, his mom told him a girl had left a message for him. She'd had this knowing smile on her face, the one she gets when she thinks she's figured something out. "Sounds like the cookies worked," his mom had said, handing him a piece of paper with a phone number written in her neat handwriting.

Steve had rushed to his room, not even bothering to get out of his work clothes. He was still wearing the stupid green Family Video vest and his polo shirt and jeans that smelled like plastic and VHS tape dust. He picked up his phone with shaking hands and dialed the number.

When he heard your soft, familiar voice say "Hello?" his tongue went completely dry.

He panicked and hung up.

What the fuck was he going to say? He hadn't had a proper conversation with you in weeks beyond the letters. And the last thing you'd heard from him was his undying love written out thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. He'd exhaled heavily, stared at the phone like it had personally wronged him, then dialed again.

"Hello... again?" you'd said, and he could hear the smile in your voice, the amusement.

"H-hey." He'd cleared his throat, trying to sound normal and not like he'd just hung up on you like a creep. "Hey, Hot Shot."

And suddenly he'd heard your grin widen over the line, heard you adjusting, hopefully laying in bed, hopefully thinking about him the way he was thinking about you. "Are you home?" you'd asked. "I mean, wait... I guess you're home since you're calling me. I meant are you home from work?"

Steve had chuckled, looking down at his green vest, at the name tag pinned crooked to his chest. He'd kicked off his shoes somewhere in his room, not caring where they landed. He adjusted himself on his bed, sitting up against the headboard. "Yeah. What about you?"

"I worked earlier today." He could hear you wrapping the phone cord around your finger, that nervous habit you have. "Got off around three."

"Cool," Steve had said, then immediately cringed at himself. "Cool, yeah. Did you have a good day?"

He'd taken a deep breath, settling in, and said, "I want to hear all about it. Everything."

And you'd smiled—he could hear it in your voice when you said, "Everything?"

"Everything."

So you did. You told him about your shift at work, about a rude customer who yelled at you over nothing, about your coworker who covered for you when you took an extra-long lunch break. You told him about the book you were reading, about calling Max earlier that day, about how you'd burned dinner and had to eat cereal instead.

You talked for two hours about everything under the sun, and Steve listened to every word like you were reciting scripture.

He heard you yawn around midnight, heard the shift of your body against sheets. He could imagine you curling up with the phone still pressed to your ear, eyes fighting to stay open. "Are you sleepy?" Steve looked at his clock and winced. "Shit, it's almost midnight. Didn't you say you have to wake up early?"

You hummed sleepily. "Yeah. I should probably sleep."

"Yeah, okay." Steve bit his bottom lip, cringing at his awkwardness. This used to be so easy, talking to girls, flirting, knowing what to say. "So... goodnight. Yeah."

"Steve?" you'd mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

"Mhm?"

"Call me tomorrow?"

And he did. He called you every single day after that.

Some nights it would be the two of you talking about your days—the mundane details that somehow felt important when you were sharing them. Sometimes you'd tell each other stories from childhood, from high school, from the year you'd spent navigating this complicated thing between you. Some nights you'd both tune in to watch ALF at the same time, phones pressed to your ears, listening to each other laugh at whatever you found funny. Sometimes Steve would bite back his own laughter because he liked the sound of yours better.

Some nights Steve would keep you talking until you finally gave out, your words getting slower and slower until soft snores came through the line. He could never bring himself to hang up. He'd lay the phone down on his pillow and close his eyes and imagine you were lying next to him, breathing in sync, sharing the same space.

There was one night— a week before Steve would leave to go campus early for rush week— when you were both sleepy and Steve had been the one to say he needed to go to bed or Keith would kill him if he was late again. By kill, he meant make him do something humiliating like clean the staff bathroom floors with a toothbrush.

"Steve, wait," you'd said, and something in your voice made him pause.

"Mhm?"

He'd heard you laugh softly to yourself, a gentle exhale. And then you'd said, so gently it made his heart stop: "I love you, Steve."

And he knew then that you'd forgiven him. He knew then that you were his, and he'd always been yours, even when you weren't ready to admit it.

He'd smiled so wide his face hurt. "Hot Shot, I love you. Always." He'd grinned, gripping the phone tighter. "How about I come see you this weekend? Let me take you on a date. A real one."

"Okay," you'd said, and he could hear your smile matching his.

And now he stands outside your dorm, knocking on the oak door with barely contained excitement.

Robin opens it, toothbrush in her mouth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her lips. "What?" she mumbles around the toothbrush, looking annoyed at the interruption.

Steve leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms so his henley rides up slightly, exposing a strip of stomach. He smirks. "I'm here to see my girlfriend."

Robin rolls her eyes so hard he's surprised they don't fall out of her head, but she kicks the door open wider to reveal the room.

You're on your bed with a book in your hand, and when you see Steve standing there, you smile. Wide and genuine and so beautiful it knocks the breath from his lungs. You're still in your regular clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, almost like you've been waiting for him.

He knows you've been waiting for him.

Your eyes land on his glasses immediately, then fall to his midriff, to the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up, and Steve catches it. So he lifts his arm higher, resting it against the doorframe, giving you a better view. Let you look your fill.

You jump off the bed immediately, going to grab your shoes from under your desk. But Steve's inside the room before you can put them on, making you sit down in your desk chair. He kneels in front of you and slips them on your feet himself—first the left, then the right—tying the laces carefully with steady hands.

"You never did that for me," Robin says, but she's smiling as she climbs into her own bed.

Steve gives Robin a look of pure attitude, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, because you don't—" He looks up at you, his girlfriend, and god, he's never going to get tired of that word. Girlfriend. You're his girlfriend, and he's your boyfriend. Steve Harrington is an actual boyfriend in an actual relationship that's real. So real he has the hickey on his bicep from last night's makeout to prove it.

You're looking down at him with amusement, but your eyes are narrowed and one eyebrow is raised in warning. Steve has never been studious or all that smart, but he knows not to finish that sentence.

It doesn't matter anyway because Robin throws a pillow at him. "Will you take your girlfriend and leave already?" She's smiling, though, settling into her bed. "Some of us have eight a.m. classes tomorrow."

You have your fingers tangled in Steve's hair already, and his hands find your waist naturally, like they belong there. He's still kneeling in front of you, looking up like you're something sacred. "Don't worry, I'll bring her back at a reasonable hour."

"Mhm, like last night and the night before? Right." Robin pulls her blanket up, getting comfortable. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Steve chuckles, pressing his glasses up his nose, leans up and makes a soft peck against your lips. It’s brief, chaste, a promise of more later, before standing and walking over to Robin's bed.

Robin looks up at him, cautious, her expression turning warning. "Steve, don't you dare—"

He grins from ear to ear, then leans down and grabs her, planting a wet kiss on top of her short hair. "C'mon, Rob. You know I still love you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, dingus." She waves him off, but her smile is fond, genuine. "Go be gross and in love somewhere that isn't my room."

Steve notices how the freckles on her face seem to glow, sun-kissed from summer. Her eyes are a little brighter blue lately, less weighed down. All things he knows because she's in love. And it's not with him.

At one point in his life, Steve thought Robin's love was enough. That he could handle being known only in a platonic sense, that it made no difference whether someone loved him romantically or as a friend. Robin could see him and know things about him, and he wouldn't be lonely. That was enough.

He never thought he'd be so happy to discover how wrong he was.

He feels your arm loop through his, casual and comfortable. You lean against him, your head falling naturally to rest on his shoulder. "Come on," you say, pulling at him gently. "Let's go."

"Night, Rob," Steve says.

As you pull him toward the door, he reaches over and flicks off the overhead light. The lamp on Robin's nightstand stays on. It’s the one he'd gifted her one Christmas, green-shaded and casting soft shadows against the wall. The girl who was there for him when his life literally burned to the ground. The one who carries a different piece of his heart, a piece that will always belong to her no matter what.

She smiles at him knowingly, and he understands. She loves him too. Even though things are different now, even though they're not pretending anymore, even though she has Nancy and he has you—she will always love him.

"Goodnight, dingus," she says softly.

You and Steve don't get in his car. There's no need for that anymore. No need to hide behind trees or meet in secret or make out in the backseat where no one can see. Not that you don't still do that sometimes, because you definitely do, but nights like tonight, Steve thinks, why waste a chance to show off his girl?

His girl.

Your arm drops slowly from around his, hand running down his forearm—soft touch, deliberate—until finally your fingers lace with his. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, exactly where they belong.

And like every time you hold hands, you giggle. You look up at him, smiling that goddamn smile that makes his knees weak and his heart race and his entire world feel right. You don't say anything, but you don't need to. He knows what the smile means.

They continue walking in comfortable silence, passing other students on the sidewalk. Some wave at both of you—people from classes, from parties, from Pike events. A few girls from your classes call out "cute couple!" and you wave back, not embarrassed or shy about it.

It was hard not to announce you as his girlfriend the second he got back on campus. He'd wanted to shout it from the Pike house roof, wanted to tell every single person he passed. But he'd needed to make sure people understood the real story first— or a version of it—that he and Robin weren't happy together, that their families wanted the relationship more than they did, that sometimes people pretend because it's easier than being honest.

Most people shrugged and didn't care. Some were supportive, understanding. But sometimes you still get one or two judgmental looks, whispered comments about Steve moving on too fast or you being the reason for the breakup.

Steve tries not to let it bother him.

With his free hand, Steve runs his fingers through his hair and looks down at you. You're already looking up at him, and when your eyes meet, a grin breaks out across his face. He can't help it. He leans down and kisses your cheek, right there in the middle of the sidewalk with people around, then continues walking like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Because it is.

This is his life now. Holding your hand, kissing you whenever he wants, being allowed to love you out loud.

And he's never been happier.

There's no surprise that even though Steve's car is parked all the way back at your dorm, you've managed to walk to the Pike house instead.

Subconscious or not, neither of you made an effort to turn around and head back so he could get you to the dorm at a reasonable hour like he'd promised Robin. Your feet just carried you here, following the familiar path Steve's walked a thousand times, and he didn't stop you. Didn't suggest going somewhere else.

You've only been dating a little less than a month, but it feels longer. Maybe it's because you did everything backward—had sex before dating, said "I love you" before being together, knew each other's bodies before you really knew each other's hearts. He's not sure. But he's okay with not trying to figure it out, because all that matters is that when you walk into the Pike house now, you can walk hand in hand.

His brothers are scattered throughout the common room—some getting ready for bed in their pajama pants and t-shirts, some having late-night snacks like cereal eaten straight from the box, standing at the kitchen counter. They all wave when they see you both come in.

"Hey, Harrington!"

"What's up, man?"

"Hey, Hot Shot!"

Steve rubs his thumb across your knuckles, admiring the way you light up and ask his brothers about their day. Unlike Robin—who was always polite but never truly invested in Pike life—you genuinely want to know his brothers. You ask Buck about his Econ exam, congratulate AJ on making the intramural basketball team, laugh at George’s terrible joke about their philosophy professor.

You're still not afraid to make a face at Steve whenever they say or do something stupid. Once you whacked Buck upside the head for a sexist comment about a girl from Delta Zeta. But his brothers love you for it. They respect that you don't take their shit, that you can give it back as good as you get it.

Eddie is out with god knows who, but Steve's pretty sure it might be Polly again. They've been on-and-off since the breakup.

There's no stopping Steve from leading you upstairs, gently breaking you away from your conversation mid-sentence. "Sorry, guys, stealing her now," he says, pulling you toward the stairs.

That's one thing he's learned about you—you love to be chatty, even if it's about nothing important. You could talk for hours about the weather, about a weird dream you had, about the pattern on someone's shirt. He loves that about you.

You go inside his room and he closes the door behind you, the click of the lock loud in the quiet space.

Before you were together—back when this was still secret and forbidden and temporary—it was always rushed. Clothes removed frantically, lips on skin desperately, because it was meant to only last a few hours. To get Steve's fix and your fix and then part ways, pretending nothing happened.

But now he can't get enough of you. Wants to take his time, memorize every detail, make it last.

To be fair, the first time he slept with you he couldn't get enough either. He'd replayed that night over and over in his head for weeks—the sounds you made, the way you looked underneath him, the feeling of being inside you. In his dresser, tucked all the way behind his socks, he still has your panties from that first night. He's kept them like a talisman.

And he'd admittedly brought them out on occasion.

Like when he tried to sleep with Polly for the first time after you. He was lousy—barely present, only half harde, had to pretend he even finished. He'd faked enthusiasm while getting her off with his fingers, and afterward Polly had patted his head sympathetically and said, "Not everyone is perfect all the time, Steve. It's okay."

But his mind had immediately settled on you. The dip of your lower back, the swell of your ass and breasts, the curve of your hip. The way your plush lips say his name when he's inside you, the way your nails dig into his skin hard enough that he imagines part of his DNA living under your fingernails permanently.

When Polly left, he'd taken your panties out of their hiding place, holding them with one hand while pumping his cock with the other. So fast, eyes squeezed shut, imagining it was your soft hands instead of his own rough ones. He'd come so hard—thick white ropes shooting against his stomach, sticking to his happy trail—and he'd imagined you licking it off him, cleaning him up with your tongue.

He'd panted your name into the empty room, still gripping your panties.

Fuck, he'd really been such an idiot back then, huh?

Steve watches as you let go of his hand and immediately go to his record player. He'd finally gotten around to showing you his full collection last week, spreading albums across his floor and letting you flip through them all. Now you know exactly where everything is.

He takes off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door. Yours go right next to them. They’re side by side, like they belong there.

You're already putting a record on It’s his Queen "A Day at the Races" album. It's not even his favorite Queen album, but you love it. You always place the needle exactly where "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" starts, have the position memorized by now.

When he'd driven to see you for your first official date a few weeks ago, when he'd had to leave that night and drive back to Hawkins, you'd kissed him on the cheek and handed him a mixtape you'd made. "For the drive," you'd said shyly. This song was the first one on it. He'd listened to the entire tape three times on repeat during the drive home, grinning like an idiot the whole way.

You're humming along now, turning around to face him, but he's already close. His hands finding your hips like they're magnetized. "I have something for you."

Your eyes brighten immediately, and you reach up, adjusting his glasses that have slipped slightly down his nose. Your fingers are gentle, careful, and you smile at him before saying,"Oh yeah?"

He nods, melting when you run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He clears his throat, reaching behind you to grab something from his desk. He picks up a small black box. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple jewelry box he got from the store in town.

He knew if he'd wrapped it, he would've been bouncing on his feet watching you peel the paper off. He's already doing that now anyway, shifting his weight nervously as you carefully take the lid off.

Your eyes look at the contents, squinting slightly, then look up at him. He crosses his arms, thumb pressed against his bottom lip, downturned eyes staring at you hopefully.

Inside is a sterling silver chain with a charm. ΠΚΑ—Pike's Greek letters in delicate sterling silver, dainty and shimmering in the lamplight.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, so... it's kind of a thing. That a member's girlfriend wears the letters." The words tumble out faster. "It's like a whole tradition, and it means I'm serious about us. I guess it'd make you like an unofficial sweetheart even though you're not in a sorority, and you can totally not wear it if you don't want to, or—"

You giggle, smiling wide, reaching up to kiss him gently on the lips. "Steve. Shut up." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Will you put it on for me?"

Steve blushes, smiling dopily, nodding too enthusiastically. He takes the necklace out of the box with careful fingers, and you turn around, lifting your hair up and exposing the nape of your neck.

Steve's breath hitches at the sight—the delicate skin there, the small birthmark he's never noticed before, the soft baby hairs that curl slightly. He carefully drapes the chain around the front of your neck and clasps it at the back, his thumb brushing over the clasp to make sure it's secure. His fingers trail down—over your shoulder blades, down to you ribs, dangerous close to the sides of your breasts.

He steps closer, pressing his body against yours, and kisses the clasp. His lips find skin, warm and soft, and he can't stop himself from kissing lower.

You tilt your head to give him better access, and he takes over holding your hair to the side, kissing down your neck with increasing intent.

His breath catches when he sees your fingers come up to brush the letters resting against your collarbone. You're his. Really, truly his.

You've made out plenty since you've been back together. Done a lot of heavy petting, put your lips in all kinds of places, brought each other to the edge with hands and mouths. But Steve had suggested waiting to have sex again. He wanted to show you that this part meant something different to him now. Wanted to prove that it wasn't the sex that made him fall in love with you. It was simply you.

And he never thought you'd be struggling more than him with this agreement.

Like now when he feels you arch backward, pressing your ass against him deliberately, but then you quickly realize what that does to him and start to put distance between you again.

This time, Steve grabs your hips firmly, fingers digging into flesh, and pulls you back against him. He sighs at how you feel—perfect, right, his.

"Steve?" you whisper, voice breathy. "Are you sure?"

Steve hums against your neck, kissing the skin softly, reverently. "I love you," is all he says.

He can hear your smile. He can feel it in the way your body relaxes against him. It makes him smile too, teeth grazing your skin.

You turn to face him, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him toward the bed. You're the one to kiss him this time, and he closes his eyes as your mouths slot together in a slow, agonizing kiss.

You always kiss pretty. Soft and thorough, like kissing him is something you want to savor.

And there you go again. Your hands immediately on his stomach under his henley, palms warm against his skin, wasting no time. You squeeze the plush skin, massaging, it sends chills up his spine and his blood moves southward.

He wastes no time either, slipping his own hand under your shirt, the other squeezing your ass, then trailing up your back to feel bare skin. Up to your breasts, squeezing and massaging through your bra. Down to your belly, caressing.

You walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down heavily. You're standing between his spread legs, and you drop to your knees without hesitation.

"Hot Shot," he breathes, watching as you work open his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.

You unbutton his jeans, unzip them, and he lifts his hips so you can pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, already hard, and you lean forward immediately.

But instead of taking him in your mouth, you press your face into the soft flesh of his lower stomach. You kiss his happy trail—that line of dark hair leading down from his navel—then lick it. Suck at it. Your tongue traces patterns against his skin, and Steve's head falls back, eyes closing.

"Fuck," he whispers.

You look up at him through your lashes, still pressing kisses to his stomach, and the sight nearly kills him. Your eyes are dark with want, lips wet and swollen, and you're worshipping the part of him he's always been most self-conscious about.

He leans down, kissing you. 

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips. "Every part of you."

You bat your eyes, “Show me?” 

When he calls you meek, he doesn’t mean for it to sound like you’re below him, or weak even. There’s just no other word to describe the gentleness of your voice, how shy you get. And your shyness only belongs to him. No one else sees you like this, but him. It nearly makes him come undone right there, thinking about it. 

Steve's heart clenches. He reaches down and cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Come here."

You stand, and he pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, more urgent. His hands find the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. Your bra follows. Then your jeans and underwear until you're standing naked in front of him.

He takes a moment to look at you. All of you. The curve of your hips, the softness of your thighs, your breasts, the tattoo on your hip that belongs to him, the necklace resting against your collarbone that marks you as his.

"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you closer until you're standing between his spread legs again.

His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms against soft skin, until his fingers reach your center. You're already wet—have been since he first touched you—and when his fingers brush against you, you gasp and grip his shoulders for balance.

"Steve," you breathe.

He circles your clit slowly, watching your face as pleasure flickers across your features. Then he slides one finger inside you, groaning at how warm and tight you are. "Christ, baby."

You whimper, hips rolling into his hand, seeking more. He adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, remembering how it's been months since you've done this. 

He crooks his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle, and you cry out softly. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in.

"God, you're so wet," he says, voice rough. He can feel you clenching around his fingers, can feel how ready you are for him. "So beautiful."

He pumps his fingers slowly, trying to be patient, trying to take his time preparing you properly. But it's been so long—too long—and the feel of you, the sounds you're making, the way you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes...

"I can't wait," Steve says suddenly, withdrawing his fingers. He looks up at you, desperate and needy. "I'm sorry, I know I should—but I can't. I need you now."

You nod immediately, breathlessly. "Yes. Please, Steve. I need you too."

Relief floods through him. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you say firmly, pushing him back on the bed. "Now."

And he's never loved you more than in this moment—understanding what he needs, wanting it as much as he does.

"Lie down," he says softly, his voice rough with want.

You do, crawling onto his bed and sprawling out underneath him, hair fanning across his pillow. Steve kicks off his jeans the rest of the way and pulls his henley over his head, then climbs over you. His glasses slip down his nose slightly, and you reach up with a smile, pushing them back into place with gentle fingers.

He kisses down your body—your neck, your collarbone where the necklace rests, between your breasts. When he gets to your stomach, he presses soft, quick kisses all over. Little pecks that make you giggle and squirm beneath him.

"Steve," you laugh, trying to push his head away. "That tickles."

"Good," he says, grinning against your skin. He kisses your hip bone, then lower, but you pull him back up to you.

"I need you," you whisper. "Now. Please."

Steve nods, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him, and the sight of you like that—sprawled out on his bed, chest heaving, necklace glinting in the lamplight, eyes dark with want—makes his cock throb.

He wraps his hand around himself, pumping slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans at the sight.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper, eyes still fixed on his hand moving over his length.

Steve throws his head back, eyes rolling behind his glasses, whimpering. He pumps himself a few more times, thumb swiping over the head where precum is already beading. Then he leans forward, positioning himself over you, he spreads your legs wider and spits directly onto your pussy, a string of saliva dripping wet from his tongue, glistening as it falls.

You gasp at the sensation. It’s warm and wet and filthy in the best way. He uses his fingers to spread it around, mixing with your own wetness, making sure you're slick and ready for him.

"Fuck. Baby," you breathe, head falling back.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pauses for just a moment. Your eyes meet his, and there's understanding there—this is different, more intimate, nothing between you.

"I love you," he says, looking into your eyes.

"I love you too," you breathe.

He pushes in slowly—so slowly, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, back arching slightly, neck elongating as your head presses back into the pillow. You let out a high-pitched moan that goes straight to his cock.

"God," Steve groans when he's fully seated inside you. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, savoring the feeling of being this close to you. "Baby you feel perfect."

He starts to move. It’s slow, deep rolls of his hips that make you gasp beneath him. This isn't fucking. This isn't even having sex, not really.

This is lovemaking, and he knows you or Robin would probably make fun of him for calling it that, for being so sappy and romantic. But that's what it is to him. He's not trying to get off or make himself feel good. He's worshipping you, showing you with his body what his words can't fully express.

He buries his face in your neck, pressing kisses there, breathing you in. "I love you," he whispers against your skin. "I love you so much."

"Steve," you moan, hands clutching at his back. "I love you."

He keeps whispering it. Over and over like a prayer, like if he says it enough times you'll feel exactly how much he means it. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

The room fills with sounds—skin against skin, the creak of his bed frame, your breathy moans, his low groans, the wet slide of him moving inside you. How his hips slap against your ass.The music still plays from his record player, Freddie Mercury's voice a soundtrack to this moment.

After a while, Steve sits up, pulling you with him. You end up in his lap, straddling him, and he guides you up and down on his cock with his hands on your hips. One hand braces on the bed next to him for leverage so he can thrust up into you, meeting your movements.

Your arms are around his neck, holding him close, and you're clutched together so tightly there's no space between your bodies. Sweat makes your skin stick together, and Steve can feel your heart beating against his chest—fast and hard, matching his own rhythm. Your pants and moans mixing together in harmony. 

You're looking at him, mouth parted, breathing heavily. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, tender and gentle even as pleasure builds between you.

"I love you, Steve," you say clearly, deliberately, holding his gaze.

Steve falters, his rhythm stuttering.He kisses you fiercely, possessively, his glasses bumping against your face. He starts moving more intensely—faster, harder, deeper.

"Say it again," he demands against your lips.

"I love you," you gasp.

He uses his large hand to cup your chin, tilting your face so you have to look at him. You can see yourself reflected in his lenses. "I love you," he says back, and it comes out rough, wrecked. "I love you so fucking much."

The intensity makes you lean back slightly, back arching, and Steve groans at the sight. Your breasts bounce with each thrust, nipples hard and begging for his mouth. Your eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from kissing. You look completely gone, lost in pleasure, and he knows he looks the same. It’s desperate and needy and so in love it hurts.

He leans forward and kisses the charm of your necklace where it rests against your skin, then your collarbone, sucking a mark there that will bloom purple by morning.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close again, burying his face between your breasts. He can feel the way you pant and whine into his hair, can feel your body starting to tighten around him. He can hear himself whimpering your name against your sweaty skin. 

"Baby, I'm—I'm close," you gasp. 

"Me too, baby. Me too."

He reaches between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. That's all it takes—you cry out his name, clenching around him, and the feeling of you coming sends him over the edge too.

He comes with a groan muffled against your chest, hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. You ride it out together, holding each other through the aftershocks, foreheads pressed together and noses nudging.

When you can both breathe again, you press soft pecks to his lips. Once, twice, three times. Sweet and unhurried.

Steve smiles, tucking your hair back behind your ear with gentle fingers. "I'm happy," he says genuinely, searching your face. "Are you happy, Hot Shot?"

"Yes, Steve. I'm more than happy."

And he believes you. He sees it in your eyes, in the way you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. He grabs your hand and places it over his heart, wanting you to feel what he’s thinking without saying it. 

He loves you. 

You kiss his lips again, soft and lingering. When you pull back, your irises are glimmering, searching into his own. He sees stars twinkling in them—actual constellations reflected in the depths of your eyes. He kisses your nose, then your forehead.

And like the sun itself rising, splitting across your face, you smile. Wide and genuine and so full of love it makes his chest ache.

It doesn't matter anymore how it all led up to here—all the lies and hurt and confusion and heartbreak. None of it matters because you're here now, in his arms, wearing his letters, saying you love him.

Finally.

Finally, Steve Harrington gets to keep something good.

All you asked them for was earplugs. The industrial kind, the ones construction workers use.

They gave you questioning looks—brows furrowed, mouths turned down—but you claimed it was too loud outside. The music from the beach parties, the people in the hallways, the general chaos of spring break. You couldn't sleep.

They seemed to accept this explanation, returning an hour later with a plastic package of foam earplugs from the lobby store.

But Monday night, it happened again.

Polly didn't come back to the room at all, telling you around ten that she'd give you space since you were feeling sick, that she didn't want to disturb you. Sweet, considerate Polly.

At midnight, you smelled the stench of weed—thick and skunky, seeping through the thin wall that separates your room from Steve's. You could hear the mixture of laughter, low voices, the clink of glass bottles.

And then the bed. Hitting the wall. Again and again and again.

You shoved the earplugs in so hard it hurt, foam compressing then expanding to fill your ear canals, muffling sound but not eliminating it entirely. You could still hear it—feel it, really. The rhythmic thumping transmitted through the wall, through the bed frame, through your bones.

You could see the ugly decorative paintings hanging on your wall rattling with each impact. A sailboat at sunset, trembling. A palm tree, shaking like it was in a hurricane.

As you finally drift toward sleep—exhausted, defeated—you wonder if Steve decided to break the rules with Polly too. Or is it different because it's spring break, because what happens in Miami stays in Miami, because she's not you and therefore doesn't count?

You grab your pillow and scream into it, the sound muffled by fabric and foam earplugs and the knowledge that no one can hear you anyway.

It's Tuesday when you finally decide to come out of your room. Tuesday morning, you decide to keep your head up.

You wake up early—six-thirty, before the sun is fully up, the sky that pale gray-blue of impending dawn. You brush your teeth aggressively, scrubbing until your gums bleed slightly, the taste of mint and copper mixing. You put on your bikini under your regular clothes—denim shorts and a loose tank top, nothing special. And you head down to the hotel bar before most people are even awake.

You down three mimosas before eight a.m., the champagne and orange juice going down easy, bubbles popping on your tongue. The bartender—a guy in his early twenties with sun-bleached hair and a name tag that says "Tyler"—gives you a look after the third one, but he doesn't say anything. It's spring break. Everyone's drinking at inappropriate hours.

By the time you make it to the breakfast buffet, sunglasses firmly in place to hide your slightly glazed eyes, you're pleasantly buzzed. The edges of everything are softer, less sharp. You load a plate with eggs and toast and sit at a table near the window overlooking the ocean.

Robin and Nancy come down first, both looking sleepy but happy, fingers intertwined as they walk. They separate before reaching the buffet line, muscle memory, hiding even here— where they don't have to— but you can see them stealing glances at each other.

Eddie arrives next, looking like he rolled directly out of bed and down the stairs. He's yawning constantly, scratching his bare stomach under his Metallica t-shirt, eyes half-closed as he piles food onto his plate without really looking at what he's grabbing.

Robin slides into the chair next to you, immediately putting her head on your shoulder like a cat seeking warmth. "Does this mean you feel better?" Her voice is muffled against your shirt. "It was totally boring without you yesterday."

Nancy laughs from across the table, but there's an edge to it. "Wow. Thank you, babe. Really feeling the love."

Robin rolls her eyes, reaching under the table to tap Nancy's knee—a touch meant to be private, apologetic. "You know what I mean! Steve's still in a mood, and I don't think I can take another day of Munson nearly getting us kicked out of the hotel again."

"Buckley," Eddie interjects, dropping into the seat across from you and shoving a spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth, "if someone triple-dog-dares me, I gotta do it. That's the law. And I didn't get caught, so technically it never happened."

Nancy leans forward conspiratorially, eyes dancing with amusement. "He went skinny-dipping in the hotel pool last night. Around midnight. Jonathan got a picture—he can show you later."

"Mmm... I think I'm okay," you manage to laugh, though the thought of midnight makes your stomach twist. 

"So sad you weren't there, Hot Shot." Eddie's faux pout is exaggerated, theatrical. "You feeling better?"

You shrug, thinking about the past two nights, your stomach souring even as you try to maintain the smile. You push your plate away, appetite completely gone despite having barely touched anything. "Yeah. I'm ready to get out and get in the water today."

Robin perks up immediately, lifting her head from your shoulder. "Oh yeah! Jonathan gave us the word—they're filming a few miles from here on the beach, and if we show up in time, we might get chosen as extras. We're thinking about leaving in an hour."

Suddenly, Polly walks in, and the energy at the table shifts in a way you can't quite name. She's wearing a big floppy hat that looks like it belongs on a 1950s movie star and a flowing sundress in pale yellow. She looks fresh and rested and beautiful, and you hate her for it.

You notice how Eddie's mouth twitches when he sees her, how the spoon in his hand stops halfway to his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl in fat drops. He's staring at her with an expression you recognize.

When Polly sees you, her face lights up. "I was wondering if you were feeling better! I didn't see you in our room when I went in to change."

You smile politely, that tight feeling returning to your chest, squeezing your lungs until breathing feels like work. You can't help but look at her, cataloging details. Is her hair mussed from Steve's fingers? Is that a hickey barely visible under the edge of her dress? Did he kiss her the way he kissed you?

"Yeah! Much better."

Polly claps her hands together, genuine excitement radiating from her. "Great! So you're coming with us today? Wouldn't it be so fun if we were in a movie?"

Eddie snorts, reaching up to flick the rim of her enormous hat. "Might be trying too hard there, Penelope. A seagull might mistake it for a nest and try to lay eggs in it."

But he's smirking as he says it, looking up at her with soft eyes, interest written plainly across his features.

You feel a pang of sadness for him. Here's someone else caught in a cycle with someone who will never like them out loud, never claim them publicly. Eddie and Polly, you and Steve—variations on the same painful theme.

Polly's eyes shine looking down at Eddie, and you catch the way she scans him, gaze traveling from his face down to his chest, his arms, then back up. She bites her bottom lip, fighting a smile. "You'll be too pale to show up on camera, Edward. Like Nosferatu. They'll have to use special lighting just for you."

Nancy and Robin groan in unison, and Robin leans into you. "They've been flirting like this since yesterday morning. Walk away now before they start eating each other's faces."

You give them a questioning look, glancing back at Eddie and Polly, Eddie now stood, dramatically offering his seat to her, but she doesn’t go to move. They're standing too close, close enough that they must be able to feel each other's breath, close enough that the air between them feels charged.

They finally break apart when Steve walks in.

He's wearing sunglasses despite being indoors, and his plate is loaded with bacon and eggs and hash browns—more food than you've ever seen him eat at once. You can tell his gaze flicks to you even through the dark lenses, can see his jaw twitch, muscle jumping under skin.

He sits across from you without a word, slouching low in his chair and immediately shoveling food into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in days. He's wearing a striped button-up shirt—vertical blue and white stripes—and black swim trunks, sandals on his feet.

You notice how the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open enough that you can see chest hair and—

Your stomach drops.

A bruise. On his pec. Dark purple and roughly circular, with what looks like teeth marks at the center.

The bruise you left. Friday night in his room, when you bit him while riding him, when he'd whimpered and let you mark him, when everything still felt possible.

Your body betrays you—thighs tightening together involuntarily, heat pooling low in your belly at the memory. But then you force yourself to relax, to remember that you're mad at him. Sad and confused and so fucking angry.

You don't have time to examine the feeling too closely because everyone's standing up, gathering their things, ready to head to where Jonathan said the movie is filming.

Sure enough, you arrive early enough to have a chance.

The beach is sectioned off with ropes and barriers, keeping pedestrians away from the filming area. Camera crews swarm everywhere. There are massive cameras on dollies, boom microphones on long poles, lights on stands creating artificial sun. Makeup artists hover around different actors and actresses, touching up hair and powder, consulting with each other in hushed tones.

Nancy leans over to tell you it's not a huge movie. No A-list stars like Tom Cruise or Harrison Ford. 

A casting person makes her way down the line of gathered onlookers. She’s a stout woman with cat-eye glasses and a clipboard, surveying everyone with a critical eye. She walks slowly, deliberately, pointing at random people.

"You. Mmm, yes, you too... you, come on."

She gets to Nancy and Robin, looks them up and down, and nods. "Yes. And yes."

She looks at Eddie, pauses, then says, "Lift up your shirt."

Eddie does as she asks without hesitation, pulling his Metallica shirt up to expose his stomach.

The woman immediately grimaces, face twisting in disgust.

You see why. His entire torso is covered in bruised hickies—purple and red marks scattered across his pale skin like he got attacked by an octopus. They're everywhere, overlapping, some fading to yellow at the edges while others look fresh and angry.

Polly laughs in genuine amusement, reaching past Steve to poke at one of the bruises. Eddie flinches but grins.

"Got carried away," he sighs, directing the comment to either Steve or Polly—you're not sure which.

The casting woman shakes her head firmly at Eddie, moving past him. But she points to Steve. "Yes."

Eddie protests immediately. "Hey! You're not gonna make him take his shirt off? That's discrimination. I demand equal treatment."

"Pervert," Steve mumbles, but there's a smirk tugging at his lips as he flips Eddie off.

The casting director looks at Polly, smiling at first, but then her eyes land on the enormous floppy hat. Her smile drops. She shakes her head and moves on.

Then she stops in front of you, looks you over once, and nods. "Yes."

She continues down the line, and you're left standing there feeling awkward.

Polly and Eddie look genuinely disappointed, matching pouts on their faces.

"I'm sorry," you offer. "I can stay with you guys if you want. I don't need to—"

Polly and Eddie look at each other, some silent communication passing between them, and then Polly smiles at you warmly. She reaches up and takes off her sunglasses—expensive-looking Ray-Bans—and swaps them with yours.

"No, you go have fun! Me and Edward will be... fine. We'll find something to do." She draws out the last words, voice going low and suggestive.

Eddie's grin widens.

"Have fun, Hot Shot." Polly winks.

You hate that even though Polly is sleeping with Steve—the boy you have feelings for, the boy who's been inside you, the boy who broke your heart—she's still so genuinely kind. It would be easier if she were awful, if you could hate her without guilt.

You join your friends—Nancy and Robin bouncing excitedly, Steve standing off to the side with his hands in his pockets—when Jonathan runs up. He's holding a walkie-talkie, wearing a headset, looking official and slightly frazzled.

"Hey guys! Is it everyone?"

"Yeah, just us four," Nancy answers.

Jonathan nods. "Okay, great. Stick together and they'll know to keep you guys in the same scenes. Might take a few hours. Go over there for waivers and releases." He gestures toward a tent with a folding table. "Are we still good for seafood tonight?"

"Yep! Thanks, Jonathan!" Robin shrieks, grabbing Nancy's arm. "Oh my god, Nancy, we're going to be in a movie!"

Nancy laughs, letting Robin pull her toward the waiver tent.

You and Steve walk behind them, very far apart but somehow still awkwardly side by side. Neither of you speaks. Not when you're filling out the small stack of paperwork, not when you're being herded with other extras toward the filming location, not when you're standing in the hot sun waiting for instructions.

The four of you listen to Jonathan's advice and stick together. But when the assistant director starts placing people, he separates you—Nancy and Robin are instructed to go into the water, to play and splash and look like they're having fun.

You and Steve are told to sit on two beach towels under a striped umbrella.

You look at each other. Neither of you protests. There's no time—other extras are being positioned, the AD is moving quickly, and you could get dismissed for arguing. You're getting paid $200 for this. You need to cooperate.

So you listen, and Steve listens, and the two of you awkwardly sit down on the towels that have been laid out in the sand.

You pull off your shorts first, then your tank top, very aware of Steve's eyes on you. You're wearing a baby blue bikini—simple, modest by spring break standards, but it still feels vulnerable sitting here next to him.

You catch Steve's eyes peeking over the top of his sunglasses, see them land on the tattoo on your hip. "Hot Shot" in slightly wobbly script. His jaw tightens, and you see him shift on the towel, adjusting his position.

But he doesn't take off his button-up shirt. Doesn't even unbutton it further. He keeps it on, and you think, probably hiding evidence from Polly. More hickies, more marks, more proof.

"Camera rolling!" someone shouts.

The scene plays out—the main actors doing whatever they're supposed to be doing in the foreground while you and Steve sit stiffly on your towels in the background, barely moving, barely breathing.

"Cut!" The director's voice booms across the beach. "Let's go again. And background actors—you need to look natural. You're at the beach. Relax."

You see the director's eyes land on you and Steve briefly before he turns back to the main actors.

Steve sighs, leaning back and propping himself up on one elbow. His sunglasses are pushed up on top of his head now, but he's not looking at you. Staring at the sand, at the ocean, at anything else.

You awkwardly mirror his position, laying back, and your stomach twists at being this close to him for the first time since Friday night. Since he told you he was bored of you, since everything fell apart.

You swallow hard, eyes tracing his profile. He looks like he hasn't slept—dark circles under his eyes, deeper than they should be after just a few days. His facial hair is growing back in, that patchy stubble you remember from before he shaved it all off. And he's still wearing that shirt, fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeve, fidgeting.

Steve mumbles, so quiet you almost miss it, "I'm glad you're feeling better."

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth hurt. "Yep. I think it was probably lack of sleep." The words come out bitter, sharp-edged.

Steve looks at you through the hood of his lashes, hazel eyes briefly meeting yours. "Oh."

That's all he says. Just "oh."

"Yeah," you continue, unable to stop yourself. "If it continues tonight, I'm calling in a noise complaint to the front desk."

You're dead serious. You're not above sabotaging another night of their obnoxiously loud sex if it means you might actually sleep.

Steve's brows crease together, confusion clear on his face. "Uh. Okay?" He says it like he's asking why are you telling me this, but he doesn't say the words out loud.

"Cut!" the director yells again. "Reset!"

Another hour ticks by. You and Steve continue to pretend to relax, laying fully on your backs now, staring up at the striped umbrella fabric flapping in the ocean breeze.

You turn your head and can see Robin and Nancy in the water, not entirely pretending to be playful. They're splashing each other, laughing, fingers probably getting pruned from the salt water. Their joy is real. Their love is real.

Steve and you were never real.

After another reset, you prop yourself up on one elbow to face him. Your eyes finally meet properly, and you feel that tightness in your chest again—that feeling like someone's squeezing your heart with a fist.

Steve's brows furrow, then relax. With one hand, he cautiously reaches over and takes your sunglasses off, fingers gentle as they slide the frames away from your face.

He's searching your eyes, and you don't understand him. Don't understand how he could say he was bored of you, could sleep with Polly practically in front of you, but then do this. Look at you like you still matter.

And why do you let him? You're so angry, so hurt, but your body is on fire with the memory of him, aching and burning for something you can't have anymore.

"I'm sorry," Steve murmurs, voice low enough that no one else can hear. "About not telling you Polly was coming."

It pisses you off even more. Because if he was actually sorry, he wouldn't be fucking her. Wouldn't be touching her. Wouldn't be making you listen to it through thin walls.

"It wasn't your job to tell me," you manage. "You all blindsided me. Robin, Nancy, Eddie—none of them warned me either."

"That's my fault," Steve says quickly. "I told them I would tell you. And I didn't. I didn't want you to think—" He stops himself. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever." You sit up fully, hugging your legs to your chest. "I don't really care."

"Yeah." Steve's voice goes hard, bitter. "I know you don't."

He sits up too, pulling a flask out of the pocket of his shirt. But he doesn't take a sip—he tilts his head back and chugs, throat working as he swallows. Once, twice, three times.

You watch him, jaw tight, teeth grinding together. "Maybe slow down, yeah?"

Part of you says it bitterly, angry at him for everything. But part of you says it because you care. You care that Polly joined the trip. You care that she knows secrets you thought were sacred. You care that you haven't seen Steve sober once on this trip—not Sunday on the plane, not Monday, not now. He's always drinking, always chasing something, and it reminds you of stories you've heard about him and Billy, about the accident, about things you don't fully understand.

"Get off my back—" Steve stops himself before he can say "Hot Shot," and the absence of the nickname feels like another loss. He says your name instead, sour and sharp. "Relax a little, will you?"

"Why is she here?" The question comes out before you can stop it, jealousy dripping from every word.

You've never wanted to be this person. Never wanted to show it, especially not when you see the hopeful glimmer that appears in Steve's eyes, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.

"Cut!" the director yells. "Reset!"

Steve takes another swig from his flask, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. You can smell it now—rum, cheap and strong.

"She had nowhere else to go," Steve says, not looking at you. "She was seeing this douchebag, and he left her hanging. Decided to go backpacking through Europe instead of spending spring break with her like they'd planned."

"Right." Your words are hot on your tongue, burning. "And because you're so loyal, you felt like you needed to take care of her?"

Steve's face twists, eyes rolling. He holds out the flask to you. "Here. You need this more than I do."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Because you're acting like a fucking bitch right now."

The director calls cut, and it's a good thing he does, because you were about to do serious damage to Steve's pretty face.

A crewmember approaches—young guy with a headset and a nervous expression. "Hey, so... the director wants to know if you two are a couple. If you’d be okay with you making out for the next shot. He feels like something's missing from the scene and wants to try it."

You and Steve both look up at him, dumbfounded.

You glance past the crewmember's shoulder and see Jonathan, who must know what's happening. He's holding a water bottle out to the director with an apologetic look on his face, clearly trying to do damage control.

You're ready to say no—absolutely not, no way in hell—but then Steve speaks.

"Sure."

Your head snaps toward him, but he's not looking at you. He's staring straight ahead, jaw set, expression unreadable.

The crewmember doesn't wait for your agreement. He jogs back to the director, giving a thumbs up.

"Camera rolling!"

The tension between you and Steve settles like a physical thing—thick and suffocating and electric all at once. You grab his flask without asking and take a long drink, the rum burning down your throat, because you know you're not getting out of this.

And maybe a part of you doesn't want to.

You hope Polly is watching from somewhere on the beach. Fuck, you hope Robin sees. You're tired of the secrets and lies and wishful thinking. You're tired of this not being real, tired of Steve not knowing how much he's hurt you, tired of wanting him to regret everything he said.

"Action!"

Steve's hands find your waist, pulling you closer. Your hands go to his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the muscle underneath.

Your lips connect.

It's slow at first—softer than you expected, gentler than the anger between you should allow. His mouth tastes like rum and something underneath that's purely Steve, and the familiarity of it breaks something open in your chest.

His hands slide to the small of your back, settling where they belong, where they've been a hundred times before. You sigh into his mouth without meaning to, and he responds by deepening the kiss, tongue tracing the seam of your lips.

Sand is everywhere—in your hair, on your skin, gritty between your toes. The ocean crashes in the background. People are watching, cameras are rolling, and none of it matters because Steve is kissing you like he means it.

But then you remember.

The moans through the wall. The bed hitting plaster. Steve's voice saying Polly's name, or maybe not saying anything at all, just the sounds of pleasure that you recognize, that you know intimately.

A sob catches in your throat, tears stinging behind your closed eyelids. You feel them start to fall—hot and unwelcome, tracking down your cheeks.

You push at his shoulders, breaking the kiss, and Steve pulls back immediately. His pupils are blown wide, brows furrowed in confusion and concern. His eyes are searching your face, landing on your tears, and they go even wider with something that looks like panic.

Your hand moves before you can think about it—hot against his cheek, the slap echoing across the beach. Not hard enough to really hurt him, but hard enough to make a point.

Then you're standing up and running, sand kicking up behind you as you flee the set, the cameras, Steve's shocked expression, all of it.

Behind you, you hear the director shout, "Cut! That's a wrap on scene forty-two! Great work, everyone!"

Eddie and Polly are nowhere to be seen when you stumble back toward the hotel. Your vision is blurred with tears, and you're planning on hiding in your room for the rest of this godforsaken trip.

But when you walk through the lobby, you see them—Eddie and Polly sitting close together at the bar, laughing about something, shoulders touching, completely absorbed in each other.

You go straight to them, sliding onto the barstool next to Polly.

You flash your fake ID at the bartender, who barely glances at it. "Tequila sunrise, please."

You reach for your keycard to give him so he can charge it to your room, but Eddie's hand shoots across you, stopping your movement.

"Nuh-uh." He flashes you a smile, pulling out a different keycard and handing it to the bartender. "Put it on this one."

"Eds, I can't let you pay for my sorrows," you drone, but there's no energy behind the protest.

Eddie laughs, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Love you, Hot Shot, but this is the key to Steve's room. Big boy is paying for us tonight." He winks.

An hour later, you and Polly are drunkenly hanging off each other as you stumble up to your room, Eddie having guided you through the lobby and into the elevator. Another hour after that, Eddie finally leaves, but not before sharing a joint between you three.

Now you're on the bed, staring at the swirling ceiling, watching the fan blades rotate slowly. Polly is sprawled out on the floor like a starfish, arms and legs spread wide, staring up at the same ceiling from a different angle.

Neither of you is talking. You should probably start getting ready for dinner—Jonathan made reservations at some seafood place for six-thirty—but moving feels impossible.

Then Polly speaks, her voice cutting through the comfortable silence. "You're why Steve ended it with everyone, aren't you?"

You swallow hard, the burnt taste of leftover weed bitter on your tongue. You could say yes. Could tell her the truth, get back at her somehow, make her feel guilty.

But why would you be mad at her? She's not the one who wronged you. Steve is. Polly is allowed to enjoy sex just like you do. She didn't know what was between you and Steve—probably still doesn't know, not really.

And even if it was the case that you were the reason Steve ended things, he's taken it all back now. He doesn't want only you like he said he did.

"Does it matter?" you ask, but not harshly. Genuinely asking.

Maybe Polly understands that you know. That you've figured out she and Steve are hooking up, breaking his once-a-month rule the same way you did.

But instead of looking guilty or defensive, Polly giggles. She raises up off the floor and puts her head on the bed next to yours, looking at you with sparkling eyes. You realize you look like teenagers at a sleepover, sharing secrets about boys.

She's biting her bottom lip, grinning wide. "Is he a good kisser?"

Your brows furrow. "You saw that? On set?"

Polly laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "Before Eddie and I left to go back to the hotel," She pauses, then adds more quietly, "But also, I saw you two in his car last week. Outside the library. I'm not a creep or anything! I was just walking by and happened to see—"

Your heart drops. Everyone saw it. The kiss on set, the desperate way you grabbed at each other, the tears.

But then your brain catches up to the rest of what Polly said, and more confusion floods in.

Polly really doesn't care that you and Steve have history, does she? Or is this some weird way of pretending not to care before she eventually sabotages you?

No. Looking at her face—open, earnest, genuinely curious—you don't think so.

No one else knows what Steve's lips taste like. No one else you can talk to about boys like this, giggle about stupid things that feel important when you're young and drunk and heartbroken.

You're tired of lying about simple things.

"Yeah," you admit, a half-hearted smile tugging at your lips. "He's a really good kisser."

"I knew it," Polly breathes, and then her demeanor changes. Goes more sheepish, shy. She's picking at the threads in the carpet, not meeting your eyes. "Do you think... do you think he's a better kisser than Munson?"

You might fucking hate Steve Harrington. But he doesn't have to know your honest answer to this question.

"Yes," you tell Polly, heat rising in your cheeks. "Steve's a better kisser."

Polly grins, then asks softly, shyly, "So you don't like him?"

"Steve?"

"No." Polly's voice drops even lower. "Eddie. You don't like Eddie, right?"

You tilt your head to look at her properly, reading the hope and fear written plainly across her face.

"No," you say firmly. "He's like my brother. I think. I don't have a brother, so I can't say for sure, but—" You laugh. "No. Definitely not."

Polly doesn't laugh with you this time. Instead, her face slowly breaks into the biggest grin you've seen from her yet, and she bites her bottom lip like she's trying to contain pure joy and failing completely.

.-.-.-.

The restaurant sits directly on the beach, built on a weathered wooden deck that extends out over the sand like it's trying to reach the water. String lights are draped overhead, crisscrossing in lazy patterns, casting warm yellow light that competes with the sunset painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and pink and deep purple. The air smells like salt and grilled fish and lime, mixed with the sweet smoke from tiki torches placed at intervals along the railing.

The waves crash rhythmic and steady beneath you, loud enough that you have to raise your voice slightly to be heard. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in circles, probably hoping someone will drop food. In the distance, you can hear music from one of the beach parties—something with a heavy bass line that thumps faintly like a second heartbeat.

You're three margaritas in, seated between Steve and Polly at a long table that's been pushed together from two smaller ones. You're not sure how Steve ended up next to you—whether it was intentional or just bad luck, some cosmic joke at your expense.

You know you're being loud. Annoying. Laughing too hard at jokes that aren't that funny, your voice carrying over the general din of conversation. Your words are starting to jumble together, consonants sliding into each other, and your face feels hot—from the alcohol, from the weed you smoked earlier, from the way Steve's thigh keeps brushing against yours under the table.

Your eyes are red and glassy, and you can feel them getting heavier with each blink.

Polly was laughing along with you at first, matching you, but as the night has worn on her concern has started to show. She keeps glancing at you with worried eyes, touching your arm gently when you sway in your seat.

Your brain starts moving in slow motion, thoughts sticky and hard to grasp. You watch as Eddie, who's sitting on Polly's other side, leans close to say something in her ear. She laughs, blushing, and touches his arm—a gesture that would be casual if not for the way her fingers linger.

You know—or at least you suspect after your conversation in the hotel room—that Polly is interested in Eddie. That she wants him the way you want Steve, with that desperate aching need that makes everything else feel small and insignificant.

But she's sleeping with Steve, isn't she? Or you thought she was. Your head is starting to hurt, a dull throb behind your eyes that pulses in time with your heartbeat.

You wonder if Eddie feels like Sammy felt. Being around the girl he likes while she doesn't know what she wants, or knows but thinks she can't have it, stuck in limbo and hoping for scraps of attention.

Or maybe Polly does know what she wants but doesn't think she can have it. Doesn't think she deserves it. Doesn't think it's allowed.

Maybe you know what you want too.

You take another long drink from your margarita, the salt on the rim stinging your lips, tequila burning down your throat.

Steve is next to you, equally drunk. Maybe more drunk. His face is flushed red, a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the ocean breeze. He hasn't touched his food—grilled mahi-mahi sitting untouched on his plate, going cold. He hasn't talked either, not really. Just mumbled responses when directly addressed, otherwise silent and staring at nothing.

You can tell he's slipping into that state—the one where the world goes soft around the edges, where gravity feels different, where you're floating and sinking at the same time. His eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide and black, and he keeps blinking slowly like he's trying to reset his vision.

Robin notices when Steve's fork slips from his hand, clattering against his plate with a loud metallic sound that makes several people at nearby tables glance over.

"Shit," Steve mutters, fumbling to pick it up, his movements uncoordinated.

Robin laughs, but there's an edge to it—worry masked as amusement. She leans across Nancy to look at him. "Steve. No more, okay? You're done."

And you don't know why it pisses you off.

Why this, of all things, is what makes it all come crashing in—the weight of the past few days, the confusion and hurt and jealousy and love and loss all hitting you at once like a riptide you didn't see coming. It pulls you under, fills your lungs, and suddenly you're drowning in feeling, gasping for air that won't come.

"Geez, Robin," you hear yourself say, voice sharp and unfiltered. "Stop acting like he's actually your boyfriend."

You stab at the food on your plate casually, like you didn't say something explosive, and bring it to your mouth. Chew. Swallow. The food tastes like nothing.

You feel Steve tense next to you—his whole body going rigid, muscles locking. Actually, you can feel everyone tense around the table. The conversation dies mid-sentence. They're all looking at you now, mouths slightly agape, frozen in various states of shock.

Robin's eyes flash with hurt first, then confusion, her face cycling through emotions too fast to track. "I know that," she says slowly, carefully. "But he's been like this every night since we got here, and I'm tired of dragging his ass to bed when he passes out in random places."

Your mind is too jumbled to connect the dots, to understand what she's actually saying. You're still seeing red, vision tinged with anger and tequila and heartbreak. "Stop treating him like a kid."

"Maybe I will when he stops acting like one," Robin snaps back, and her voice has an edge now too, sharp enough to cut.

"Are we..." Steve finally speaks, his words thick and slow. "Are we going to talk about me like I'm not here?"

Robin ignores him completely. She looks you up and down, assessing, and you can see her putting pieces together that you didn't mean to reveal. "And what's it to you? You're not his girlfriend either."

Nancy kicks Robin under the table—you hear the thump of shoe against shin, see Nancy's face twist in alarm. "Robin!" she hisses, low and urgent.

Eddie and Jonathan look at each other awkwardly, having one of those silent conversations that happens when you've witnessed something you weren't supposed to see. Jonathan shifts in his seat, looking like he wants to disappear. Eddie takes a long drink of his beer.

Polly's hand suddenly grabs yours under the table, squeezing tight in what you think is meant to be comforting. But your mind is too slow and too single-minded to figure out who you want to be pissed off at.

Maybe everyone. Yes. Everyone.

"Robin," you say, pulling your hand away from Polly's. "I'm not really in the mood, okay? So let's drop it."

You reach for your margarita glass, fingers closing around the stem, but someone's larger hand wraps around your wrist. You look up and catch Steve's hazel eyes—clouded with alcohol but clearer than they've been in days, focused entirely on you. He's subtly shaking his head, a small movement that says please don't, please stop, please.

"You know what..." You snap your wrist away from his grip, and your words come out slow and drawling, heavy with alcohol and something darker. "You guys are all fucking bullshit, you know that?"

The word—bullshit—gives Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve a visceral reaction. You see them all flinch like you've physically struck them.

You point at Robin, your finger wavering slightly. "You don't even see that your own fucking girlfriend is miserable." Your head lolls to the side, mouth hanging open slightly, wet from the alcohol. "Actually... we're all miserable because our lives have to go according to the Steve and Robin show."

You can see Nancy out of the corner of your eye, her face crumpling slightly, tears threatening.

"I might like attention, Robin," you continue, and your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. "But at least I'm not selfish."

Robin scowls, and when she speaks her voice is tight with barely controlled anger. "If I was selfish, I would be pissed off that you kissed Steve today. Even though my parents could see that movie, and if they see him kissing some random girl—"

"I'm not some random girl, Robin," you snap, leaning forward.

"Oh, you know what I mean." Robin waves her hand dismissively. "If they saw him kissing someone that isn't me, they're going to lose their shit. But no, I haven't brought it up because Jonathan reminded me it's a movie and the scene might get scrapped anyway. And I'm the selfish one?" She pauses, and you can see her winding up for the kill shot. "What about Sammy? He asks you to be your boyfriend, and the moment you're away from him, you're playing tonsil hockey with someone else."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Polly looks at you with wide eyes. You look away, unable to meet her gaze. You glance at Eddie, who has his elbows on the table, both hands covering his mouth, impossible to tell what expression he's making behind them. Jonathan is leaned all the way back in his chair, hands rubbing his face like he can erase this entire conversation through sheer force of will.

But Nancy gives you a look—her eyes wide, eyebrows lifting, something in her expression that looks almost like encouragement. Like she's saying do it, tell the truth, blow it all up. Or maybe you're imagining it because you're too drunk to read people properly anymore.

You look up at Steve. His eyes are glassing over with tears, but his expression stays carefully neutral, locked down and giving nothing away.

"We were doing the job, Robin," Steve says, and his voice is cold, flat, empty of emotion. "It didn't even mean anything."

Your chair scrapes against the wooden deck floor—loud, violent, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of waves and music and conversation. Your knees are wobbly from the alcohol, and you have to brace yourself on the table for a second before you can stand fully.

You're looking directly at Steve now. He's staring down at his plate, jaw clenched, like he can feel your eyes boring into his skull but refuses to meet them.

"Bullshit," you say again, and the word comes out quiet this time but no less devastating.

Then you turn and walk out of the restaurant, leaving your half-finished margarita and untouched food and the stunned silence in your wake.e

You walk the beach for what feels like hours but is probably only thirty or forty minutes. The sky has gone fully dark now, stars appearing overhead in clusters and constellations you don't know the names of. The moon is nearly full, hanging fat and bright, painting a silver path across the water.

Your feet sink into the sand with each step, making walking harder than it should be. You kick off your sandals at some point and carry them, letting the cool sand squeeze between your toes.

You pass parties—bonfires surrounded by college students, music blaring from boom boxes, the smell of weed and cheap beer thick in the air. Couples walk past you, arms around each other, whispering and laughing, and each one feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

Finally, you find an empty spot—a stretch of beach far enough from the parties that the music is just a distant thump, close enough to the water that the waves are loud, rhythmic, hypnotic.

Your stomach sinks as you stand there, toes in the wet sand where the waves reach, and tears fill your eyes. You're a little less drunk now—the walk and the ocean air have burned off some of the tequila fog—but your head is still heavy, pounding in time with your heart.

You feel like you're breaking apart. Like all the pieces you've been holding together through sheer force of will are finally coming loose, scattering, and you don't know how to gather them back up.

Behind you, a voice says, "We've been looking everywhere for you."

You jump, spinning around, and see Steve standing a few feet away.

His shirt is flapping in the breeze, the striped fabric snapping like a flag. His hair is mussed—more than usual, like he's been running his fingers through it compulsively. He's breathing hard like he's been running, searching, frantic.

You roll your eyes, anger blazing hot and immediate again. You turn back to look at the ocean, crossing your arms over your chest.

Steve's hand touches your shoulder—gentle, tentative, warm even through your shirt. "Come on," he says your name softly, like you're something precious and breakable. "Please. Let's go back to the hotel."

You jerk away from him, spinning around, your hair whipping across your face in the wind. Your eyes are already brimming with tears that threaten to spill over. "Go away, Steve. Like you even care."

"But I do care," Steve's voice cracks, breaking on the words. "I always care about you. I've always—"

"Why?" Your voice raises, carried away on the wind. "So I can go back and listen to you and Polly again? Is that what you want?"

"W-what?" Confusion crosses his face, brows furrowing. "What are you—"

"Every night!" The words tear out of you, raw and painful. "Every night I've had to hear you two together through the wall, and I can't do it anymore. I can't—"

"No." Steve adjusts his feet, tilting his face to look at you fully, eyes widening. He's shaking his head frantically. "No, no, you have it wrong. I—"

"Oh, please, Steve. Give me a break. I don't have time for this." You step back, but he grabs your wrist, holding you in place.

"Polly came on this trip for Eddie," Steve says, words tumbling out fast and desperate. "You have to believe me. When I ended things with her, I told her she should give Eddie a chance. But she said she was talking to someone already, and then Friday after the party, they—" He takes a breath, steadying himself. "Please," he says your name like a prayer. "You have to believe me. It wasn't me. It was never me and her."

Your lips quiver as you think, as the dots finally start connecting through the haze. Eddie's hickies covering his entire stomach. The constant flirting between him and Polly. The way you saw her hand squeeze his knee at dinner. Them being okay alone together for hours while you all went to the movie set. Eddie having Steve's keycard, charging drinks to his room.

And the voice—you thought it was Steve's voice humming in the shower, but earlier when Eddie was smoking the joint with you and Polly, he was humming too. That same tuneless, happy sound. The same toothy grin.

"I believe you," you say quietly, and you do. But your voice hardens. "But it doesn't make a difference. It doesn't change anything. Leave me alone."

You shake your head, pulling your wrist from his grip. You start walking away from him, not toward the hotel but further down the beach, into the darkness.

You hear him swallow hard, hear him curse under his breath. Then your name again, gentle and broken. "Is it true?"

You stop. Turn around. "Is what true?"

"Did Sammy really ask you to be your boyfriend?" Steve's expression is shattered, pieces of it scattered across his face—hope and fear and desperate need all warring for dominance. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

"Why do you want to know?" you challenge, even though you already know the answer.

And then he breaks. His voice is gone, reduced to barely a whisper. "You know why, Hot Shot."

The nickname feels like a wave crashing over you—sharp and painful and overwhelming. You're shaking your head again, looking away because you can't bear to see his face. Your lips purse together, trying to hold back the sob building in your throat.

"No, Steve. No, I don't." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "How could I when you said those things to me?"

"I know." He's quick, frantic, stepping toward you. "Please, I know. I messed up." Then quieter, voice cracking completely. "I messed up so bad."

He steps forward again, closer now, and his face catches the moonlight. You can see tears on his cheeks, silvered tracks running down to his jaw.

"Please don't," Steve begs, and he sounds wrecked, destroyed. "Don't do it. Don't be his girlfriend. Please say no when you go back. Please."

Your breath hitches. You're crying harder now, chest heaving with sobs you can't contain anymore. "And why not? Sammy's nice. He's good. He's—"

"But I can be good too." Steve's voice is desperate, pleading. "I've been trying. I've been trying to change, to be better. I have changed." He says the last part with slightly more confidence, but it's still broken at the edges, like he's not entirely sure he believes it himself.

"Okay? And what?" You take a step back, needing distance, needing space to breathe. "Are you trying to say I should be with you? Join you and Robin in your miserable lie?" Another step back. "Because I would never be happy. You love Robin. And that's not going to change. You're always going to pick her."

"But I don't love her." The words come out soft, broken, honest. He lifts his hand like he wants to touch your face, but instead it comes to his own chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt over his heart. "Not like—not in the way I love you."

Your eyes widen. You feel yourself step forward involuntarily, pulled toward him like gravity, but then you shake your head and force yourself to step backward instead.

"I thought maybe you didn't feel what I was feeling," Steve continues, looking out at the ocean now. His profile in the moonlight is beautiful and heartbreaking—the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the way tears catch the light as they roll down his cheeks. He closes his eyes, swallows hard, his throat working. "That you didn't want more. But then today, when we kissed—"

He looks back at you, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart stop. Like he's seeing you again for the first time. Like he's doing what he says he feels—loving you, wanting you, needing you more than air.

And that's what makes it hurt the worst.

"I didn't mean it," Steve says your name like it's sacred. "When I told you I was bored of you, I didn't mean any of it. It's the opposite. I could never be bored of you." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I think I became alive when I met you. That there was this missing piece of me I didn't know was missing until I realized it was you."

Your face softens despite yourself, tears flowing freely now. "What about Robin?"

Steve ducks his head, looking at his feet, and his whole body radiates pain—shoulders curving in, back bowing like he's trying to make himself smaller.

You take a moment to watch him. To really see him—Steve Harrington, golden boy, heartbreaker, your best friend's fake boyfriend, the boy who showed you the stars. You sniffle, wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

"Steve," you say carefully. "I can't deny that I've been feeling things for you. And I do want more. I—"

He looks up at you immediately, hopeful, searching for confirmation, trying to grasp onto the possibility. He steps forward, reaching for you.

But you take a step back, hands coming up between you like a barrier. You swallow hard, tilt your head, bite your lip. Let out a shaky breath that tastes like salt and tears and regret.

"But I don't love you," you force yourself to say. "Not like that."

The lie tastes like poison on your tongue.

There's that weird feeling in your chest again—guilt, heavy and suffocating, mixed with something that might be self-preservation or might be cowardice.

Steve's mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out. He's crying openly now, face crumbling, and he pinches the corners of his eyes like it will stop the tears, like this moment will end if he can reset his vision.

"I should've said something at dinner," he manages to get out through the sobs. "I should've—" His shoulders shake, his whole body trembling. He looks away, unable to meet your eyes anymore.

You steady yourself, planting your feet in the sand, forcing yourself to stay upright when everything in you wants to collapse. You look at him one last time—really look, memorizing him like this. Broken and beautiful and more honest than he's ever been.

"Goodnight, Steve."

And you turn and walk away.

You can't stay. Don't trust yourself to stay. Because you want to ask him to run away with you, to let the tides carry you both far from Robin and Nancy and expectations and futures that have already been decided. You want to give yourself a chance to see if there's a possibility of knowing what loving Steve Harrington could feel like.

But you can't.

So you walk away from the boy you might love, leaving him crying on an empty beach in Miami, and you tell yourself it's the right thing to do.

You tell yourself the pain in your chest will fade eventually.

You tell yourself you made the right choice.