lula hoop

. . .

Henry let her in without fanfare, but his eyes lingered on her for half a second too long, as if he was still trying to convince himself she was real in his doorway.

“Come in,” he said quietly.

The apartment was warm compared to the hall, the radiator ticking with that steady old-building rhythm. The air smelled faintly of coffee and paper and whatever cologne he used sparingly enough that it never announced itself.

Y/N stepped inside, shrugged her pea coat off, and hung it on the same hook she’d used before. It felt strange how quickly a place could start to feel familiar, how a few nights and a few secrets could turn someone else’s home into something that tugged at you.

Henry shut the door, then hesitated as if he was about to say something and decided against it.

“I need you to wait here,” he said, voice controlled but not cold. “Just a moment.”

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Wait here?”

Henry’s gaze flicked away like he didn’t want her to read into it. “I’ll be right back.”

Before she could ask what he was doing, he disappeared down the hall, footsteps measured, quick but not rushed.

Y/N stood in the living room alone for a beat, her eyes tracking the hallway like she was trying to decide whether she was nervous or angry, or both.

The truth was, it still hurt.

Yesterday’s apology hadn’t glued her back together. It had just acknowledged the break.

She exhaled slowly and looked down at her boots.

Then she remembered.

Her dress.

The one she’d worn to his apartment, the one she’d left behind in the messy, rushed aftermath of a life that had suddenly become complicated.

She called softly down the hall, “I’m going to grab my dress.”

There was no immediate answer, but she heard him shift, like he’d heard her and wasn’t stopping her.

So she moved.

She walked down the hall and pushed open his bedroom door. The room was dimmer than the living room, curtains drawn against the winter light, the bed made with a precision that looked practiced. His dresser sat across from the bed, the mirror above it reflecting the quiet.

And there it was.

Her dress was folded neatly on the dresser, as if he’d handled it carefully. Not tossed on a chair. Not stuffed into a drawer. Folded with clean edges, like it mattered.

Y/N’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the fabric.

That’s when she saw it.

Tucked against the edge of the mirror, half-hidden where the wood met the glass, was a Polaroid.

Not the stack.

Not evidence. Not leverage.

One.

Her stomach flipped, sharp and sudden.

She leaned in.

The photo was framed oddly, taken from the cracked classroom door, just like Nancy had said. But this one wasn’t the worst of them. It wasn’t incriminating in a way that would ruin her. It was almost intimate in a different way.

The focus was on her.

Y/N, standing close to Henry’s desk, sweater soft, hair down. The line of her jaw. The curve of her mouth mid-sentence. A look in her eyes that was unguarded for once, like she belonged there, like she was bright and alive.

Henry’s presence was only a suggestion: a cut-off shadow at the edge of the frame, the hint of his shoulder, like he was there but not the point.

Like she was the point.

Y/N stared at it so long the room seemed to hush around her.

Her heart did something stupid, something hopeful.

So he’d gotten rid of the rest.

But he’d kept this.

Not to threaten. Not to control.

To remember.

The realization warmed her chest in a way that made her angry all over again, because if he still cared, if he cared enough to keep this, then what he’d done to her hadn’t been indifference. It had been fear.

And fear had made him cruel.

Y/N’s lips curved despite herself, small and private, almost involuntary.

Then she heard footsteps.

Quickly, she straightened. She slid her hand away from the dresser, forced her face back into something neutral, like she hadn’t just found proof of his softness hidden behind his control.

Henry appeared in the doorway a second later.

He stopped short when he saw her there, in his room, near his dresser. His gaze flicked, fast and assessing, then settled on her face like he was searching for any sign she’d seen what she shouldn’t have.

Y/N lifted her folded dress off the dresser and held it like it was the only reason she’d come in.

“I found it,” she said lightly.

Henry’s eyes stayed on her for a beat too long. Then he stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him with an odd quietness, as if he didn’t want sound to travel.

He was holding something.

A small paper bag, folded at the top, and a thin book tucked under his arm.

Y/N’s gaze dropped to them automatically.

Henry noticed. His mouth tightened, the faintest hint of discomfort.

“I,” he began, then stopped, as if he didn’t like how uncertain he sounded. He tried again, voice steadier. “I asked you here because you shouldn’t have had to hand me those photos yesterday.”

Y/N’s grip tightened on the dress. “But I did.”

Henry’s eyes darkened with something like regret. “Because I failed to handle it.”

The words were blunt. Honest. Very Henry. No poetry, no excuses.

He stepped closer, stopping a careful distance away like he didn’t know if she’d let him touch her.

“I owed you more than an apology,” he said. “And I know an apology doesn’t repair what I did. But I’m going to give you the truth anyway, because you deserved it the first time.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell slowly. She didn’t interrupt him.

Henry swallowed once, jaw flexing as if the admission irritated him.

“Daniel Taylor came to me with those photos,” he said. “He threatened to take them to the department chair, the principal, anyone who would listen. He said he would ruin you.”

A muscle jumped in Y/N’s cheek at the name.

Henry’s eyes stayed on hers, steady. “I panicked. Not for myself.” His voice tightened. “For you.”

Y/N’s throat burned. “So you decided ruining me yourself would be better?”

Henry flinched like she’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I did.” He held her gaze. “And it was wrong.”

Silence stretched between them.

Y/N’s fingers fidgeted against the dress fabric. “Why keep dragging me back here then,” she asked, voice low, “if you’re still so scared?”

Henry looked down for half a beat, like he hated the answer.

Then he lifted his eyes back to hers.

“Because,” he said, rougher now, “I tried to let you go and it didn’t work.”

Y/N’s heart kicked.

Henry exhaled slowly, as if forcing himself to be plain. “I thought if I cut you off harshly enough, you’d hate me and move on. I thought it would end the risk.” His mouth tightened. “And instead I spent a few weeks feeling like I’d amputated something and expected it not to bleed.”

Y/N didn’t know what to do with that. She hated that it softened something in her. She hated that it made her want to step closer.

Henry’s gaze dropped briefly to her hands, her dress, then lifted again.

“I bought you something,” he said, like it embarrassed him to say it out loud.

Y/N blinked. “Henry”

“It’s not jewelry,” he added quickly, like he didn’t want her to think he was trying to buy forgiveness. “I’m not that kind of man.”

She almost laughed.

He held out the thin book first. “This is for your writing.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the cover and her breath caught.

A Room of One’s Own.

Not a novel, but an essay disguised as a quiet weapon. Woolf’s argument that women don’t lack talent, they lack the conditions: space, money, freedom, the ability to write without being interrupted, dismissed, or swallowed by someone else’s life. A classic Henry had mentioned once in passing and she’d pushed back on in class, the kind of book he’d respect and she’d fight with. The margins were wide. The pages clean. A copy meant to be used, annotated, argued with, made hers.

“It’s a better edition than the one in the library,” Henry said, voice quiet. “And it’s yours. Not for class. Not for my syllabus. For you.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around her dress. “Why?”

Henry’s eyes held hers. “Because you said you came to Emerson to be taken seriously as a writer.” His voice softened. “I believe you are.”

The words landed heavy.

Then he lifted the paper bag slightly. “And this is an apology that’s practical.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds ominous.”

It made a corner of Henry’s mouth twitch, almost a smile.

He opened the bag and pulled out a small item, something wrapped carefully in tissue.

A scarf.

Soft wool. Dark, classic. Something warm enough for Boston winters, and subtle enough that it didn’t scream gift. It looked like something he’d chosen with restraint and thought.

“You’re always cold,” he said quietly, as if stating a fact he’d noticed too many times in class. “And you keep leaving your coat open like you want to prove you’re tougher than the weather.”

Y/N stared at it, throat tight.

Henry’s gaze flicked to her face again, careful, searching. “You don’t have to take it,” he added. “I’m not asking you to pretend I didn’t hurt you.”

Y/N’s voice came out small. “Then what are you asking?”

Henry stepped a fraction closer, stopping himself from closing the gap fully.

“I’m asking you to let me do this correctly,” he said. “If you still want me.” His jaw tightened. “And if you don’t, then tell me and I will leave you alone. For real.”

The room felt too quiet. The radiator ticked. Somewhere outside, a car passed with wet tires on winter pavement.

Y/N’s eyes drifted, without meaning to, to the mirror.

To the Polaroid tucked there.

Proof he hadn’t stopped caring. Proof he’d been lying when he said she meant nothing.

She didn’t call him out on it. Not yet.

Instead, she took a slow breath and looked back at him.

“I’m still upset,” she said, voice steady but raw. “That didn’t disappear.”

Henry nodded once. “I know.”

“And I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, hating the honesty, hating how vulnerable it sounded. “I don’t know if I should be here.”

Henry’s eyes softened. “Then don’t decide everything today,” he said. “Just be here.”

Y/N swallowed.

She reached out and took the book first, careful, like it mattered. Like he’d made it matter.

Then, after a beat, she took the scarf too.

Henry’s shoulders eased slightly, like he’d been bracing for rejection and had gotten something else: a chance.

Y/N held the items against her chest with her folded dress, a ridiculous bundle of her own life in his bedroom.

She looked at him, anger still there, hurt still there, yet threaded with something stubborn and warm.

“Don’t do that again,” she said quietly.

Henry’s reply was immediate, solemn. “I won’t.”

Y/N’s lips pressed together. “And if you’re scared, tell me you’re scared. Don’t punish me for it.”

Henry’s throat bobbed once, his gaze fixed on hers like a vow. “All right.”

They stood there for a moment, too close to the past, too close to the truth.

And Y/N, still holding her dress, still feeling the sting, still seeing that Polaroid in the mirror with the edge of her vision, realized something with a strange, quiet certainty:

He wasn’t letting her go again.

Not unless she forced him to.

Y/N turned to leave, and he was quick to follow on her heels.

Y/N made it all the way to the front door before she stopped.

She slipped her coat back on. Her bag was on her shoulder. One hand was already on the doorknob, fingers curled like she could simply turn it and be gone, back to campus, back to the version of herself who didn’t walk into a professor’s apartment like it was both a mistake and a habit.

But she didn’t turn it.

The apartment behind her was too quiet. Henry’s presence sat in the air like a low hum, steady and undeniable. She could feel him watching her from across the room, not moving, not trying to stop her, but also not pretending this was easy.

Y/N let out a slow breath and turned around.

Henry stood where she’d left him, shoulders squared, posture controlled. He looked composed in the way he always looked composed, but his eyes gave him away. There was a restraint there that didn’t feel like professionalism anymore.

It felt like effort.

“Henry,” she said.

He didn’t answer right away, like he didn’t trust himself to. Then, quietly: “Yes?”

Y/N swallowed. Her heart was beating too loud. She hated that the sound of his voice still did that to her, softly rearranging something in her chest.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

Henry’s gaze held hers, steady. “All right.”

Y/N’s mouth tightened. She glanced down for half a beat, then lifted her eyes again, braver than she felt.

“Last weekend,” she began carefully, “I met a guy.”

It was subtle, almost invisible, but something changed in Henry’s face. The muscles in his jaw tightened. His stillness sharpened.

Y/N noticed. Of course she did.

She continued anyway, because she wasn’t doing this to hurt him. Not exactly. She was doing it because she needed him to understand what he was asking her to risk every time he pulled her back into his orbit.

“He’s good,” she said, choosing the word like it mattered. “He’s close to my age. He’s…” She huffed a small laugh that wasn’t amused, more like disbelief at the simplicity of it. “He’s uncomplicated.”

Henry’s eyes didn’t move from her face. “And?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “And if I wanted to be smart about it, I could.”

Henry’s brows pulled together slightly. “Be smart?”

“Go out with him,” she said plainly. “Publicly. No consequences. No whispers. No doors closing behind me.”

The words hung between them like a threat and a confession at the same time.

Henry’s expression stayed controlled, but his eyes went darker, something protective, possessive, and quietly furious, all restrained beneath the surface.

He should’ve said something.

He should’ve corrected her, argued, insisted she should do exactly that, choose the safe option.

Instead, his voice came low. “Is that what you want?”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her hand slipped off the doorknob. She took a step away from the door without even realizing she was doing it.

“No,” she admitted, the word rough.

Henry’s gaze sharpened. “No?”

Y/N swallowed, pulse jumping. “I’m telling you because I need you to know I’m not trapped. I have choices.”

Henry’s jaw tightened, as if the word choices didn’t soothe him the way it should.

Y/N forced herself to keep going. “But the whole time I was with him,” she said quietly, “I thought about you.”

Henry didn’t move.

The apartment felt smaller suddenly. Warmer. Like the air had thickened.

Y/N’s voice went softer, honest in a way she hated being. “I thought about your hands. Your voice. The way you look at me when you stop pretending you don’t care.” Her cheeks heated, but she didn’t look away. “And I was so angry at myself for it.”

Henry’s breathing changed, barely, but Y/N felt it. The shift of control becoming something else.

“I don’t like what you did,” she said, voice shaking slightly now. “I don’t like how you hurt me. I don’t like that you thought you could decide what I could handle and call it protection.”

Henry’s eyes flickered with pain. He didn’t interrupt.

“But I didn’t stop liking you,” Y/N finished, and the sentence sounded like surrender and defiance all at once. “I tried. I did. And I didn’t.”

The silence that followed was so complete it felt loud.

Henry looked at her like he was fighting the urge to cross the room in two strides and pull her into him, like he was making himself stand still out of sheer will.

His voice came low, carefully even. “You shouldn’t be here if you think I’m going to hurt you again.”

Y/N’s mouth trembled, not with fear, but with the ache of wanting something she didn’t fully trust.

“I shouldn’t,” she agreed. Then she added, softer, “But I am.”

Henry’s gaze dropped to her mouth briefly, involuntarily, then lifted back to her eyes as if he was ashamed of how obvious it was.

Y/N felt her pulse stutter.

She took another step forward, then another, slow enough that either of them could stop it, slow enough to make it feel like choice every second.

Henry didn’t move toward her.

He also didn’t move away.

“Say something,” Y/N whispered, stopping a few feet from him.

Henry’s eyes held hers, dark and steady. “If you walk out that door,” he said quietly, “I won’t stop you.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “I know.”

“I won’t chase you,” he added, voice roughening slightly. “Not because I don’t want to. Because you deserve to leave if you want to.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I know.”

Henry’s jaw flexed. “And if you stay,” he said, the words controlled but heavy with meaning, “it can’t be because you’re trying to prove something. Not to me. Not to yourself.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, eyes burning. “I’m not proving anything.”

Henry’s gaze dipped again, her mouth, her throat, the collar of her sweater, and for a moment the restraint in him looked like it was going to snap.

Y/N saw it.

And she didn’t flinch.

She just whispered, “I’m choosing.”

Henry stared at her for a long beat. Then his voice came barely above a murmur.

“Then choose.”

Y/N’s heart hammered. The apartment felt like it was holding its breath with her.

She moved one step closer.

Henry’s hand lifted slightly, stopped, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right.

Y/N closed the final distance herself.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t give unless you meant it.

Henry froze for half a second, like his body didn’t believe it was allowed, then his hands came up to her face, palms warm and firm, and he kissed her back like something silent in him had finally been given permission to speak.

No words.

No explanations.

Just the sound of breathing and the soft, desperate press of mouths meeting again and again, like agreement, like apology, like inevitability.

Y/N’s fingers curled in his sweater, anchoring herself.

Henry’s hands slid from her cheeks to her waist, pulling her closer without rushing, holding her like he’d been starving and refusing to admit it.

They kissed until the air felt thin.

Until the world outside his apartment, rules, consequences, fear, fell away to a dull, distant thing.

And when they finally paused, foreheads nearly touching, neither of them moved toward the door.

Neither of them spoke.

Because they didn’t need to.

The kiss had already answered everything.

The kiss deepened for a moment, a silent, desperate sealing of their pact. 

Then, just as suddenly as she’d initiated it, Y/N pulled back. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving. She kept her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, her knuckles white, refusing to let him go.

Henry didn’t chase her mouth. He stayed still, his chest rising slowly, watching her like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face in case she vanished again.

“You don’t get to do that,” she said, voice low.

Henry’s throat moved. “Do what?”

Y/N’s grip tightened. She shook her head once, small and sharp. “You don’t get to kiss me like you didn’t break me open a week ago and then hide behind your principles.”

Henry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt. He looked like he deserved every word and was letting them land.

“I’m still upset with you,” she said, the confession rough. “I’m still furious. And if you think one kiss makes me forget what it felt like to walk out of your classroom—”

“It doesn’t,” Henry said quietly.

The softness of it almost made her angrier.

Y/N held his gaze. Her eyes blazed with a tumultuous mix of hurt and desire. “Good.”

For a second they just stood there, too close, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying. Henry’s hands hovered at her waist like a question he didn’t have the right to ask.

Y/N answered it without giving him time to.

She shoved him back, firm and decisive, until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he sat. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t in control. It was simply the force of her making him move.

She climbed onto his lap like she owned the space, straddling him, knees braced against the cushions on either side. Her coat was gone, her sweater warm and oversized, her hair falling around her face like a curtain she didn’t bother to push back.

Henry’s hands started to lift, instinctive to just hold her hips.

She grabbed his jaw, her fingers firm, forcing his head up and his eyes to meet hers. His surprise was quickly replaced by a dark, simmering heat as he looked up at her, at the fierce, commanding woman she had become in the wake of his cruelty.

His breath hitched, and it wasn’t fear. It was the shock of surrender, of being told, without cruelty but with absolute certainty, that he didn’t get to lead this.

“You won’t have control,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly with the intensity of it. “Not tonight.”

His lips parted slightly, a flicker of a challenge in his eyes, but he didn't argue. He just watched her, his body already responding to the dominance radiating from her.

He only asked, careful and quiet, “Is this what you want?”

Y/N stared at him, really stared, like she was checking that he was here, that he wasn’t going to disappear behind a mask the moment things got real.

“It’s what I need,” she said. “I need you to stop deciding things for me. I need you to stop thinking you can protect me by hurting me first.”

Henry’s gaze didn’t waver. “All right.”

The answer wasn’t dramatic. It was steady. It sounded like a promise.

Y/N’s grip on his jaw loosened, but she didn’t move away. She stayed right there, close enough that he could feel her breath, close enough that she could feel the way his body held tension like a confession.

“You don’t get to be the only one with rules,” she said. “You don’t get to be the one who ends things and starts them and sets the terms.”

Henry swallowed. “You’re right.”

The admission hit her harder than she expected.

Her expression flickered with anger, then relief, then something raw underneath. She leaned in until her forehead nearly touched his, her voice dropping to something dangerously intimate.

“Then prove it.”

Henry’s hands hovered again, waiting for permission.

Y/N caught one wrist and pinned it lightly against the couch cushion beside him. Not to hurt him. Not to scare him. Just to remind him she meant what she said.

His eyes shut for a brief second, like restraint was a physical thing he could feel. When he opened them again, he looked at her like she was the only truth in the room.

“I’m here,” he said. “Tell me.”

Y/N’s mouth parted, her breath unsteady. For a moment, she didn’t speak, because the truth was messy.

She wanted him. She hated him. She missed him. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t know which feeling would win if she stopped holding them all at once.

So she did the only thing she could do. She made him stay in the storm with her.

She leaned down and kissed him again, slower this time, deliberate. Not forgiving, but claiming space. Henry made a sound in his throat and kept his hands where they belonged, letting her set the pace, letting her decide how close was close enough.

When she pulled back, their breathing didn’t match.

“You’re still mine to be upset with,” Y/N murmured, like a warning.

Henry’s gaze held hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And the way he said it, quiet, obedient, unshakeable, felt like the first real surrender he’d given her in weeks.

Y/N’s hand slid from his jaw to the side of his neck, her thumb resting where his pulse jumped.

“Good,” she whispered.

Then she kissed him again, and this time he followed her lead like he’d been waiting for permission to stop pretending he could survive without her.

Her mouth crashed against his in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. It wasn't gentle; it was a punishment and a claim. She bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him hiss, before soothed it with her tongue. She kissed him like she was trying to erase the memory of his cold words, to replace them with the overwhelming reality of her need.

Then she began to move.

She rolled her hips, a slow, deliberate grind against his rapidly hardening cock trapped in his trousers. 

The friction was exquisite, a maddening tease through the layers of their clothes. She set a languid, torturous rhythm, her body moving against his with a practiced confidence that made his head spin. She wasn't seeking release; she was stoking a fire, building the pressure until he was squirming beneath her.

She broke the kiss, her lips trailing a hot, open path down his jaw to his neck. She wasn't gentle. She nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of possessive marks in her wake. She wanted him to see them tomorrow, to feel them, to be reminded of who was in charge now.

"Y/N," he groaned, his hands coming up to grip her hips, trying to guide her, to speed up her maddening pace.

She pulled back instantly, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the couch cushions on either side of his head. "No," she commanded, her voice sharp. "You don't touch unless I say so."

His eyes darkened with a primal lust as he surrendered to her command. She held his wrists down, her body pressed flush against his, and resumed her slow, torturous grind. 

The denim of her jeans rubbed against him in just the right way, the friction building a desperate ache deep in his core.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear. "Does that feel good, Professor?" she whispered, her voice a wicked, teasing purr. "Do you like being helpless? Do you like being at my mercy?"

He could only groan in response, his hips bucking up to meet hers, seeking more of the friction she was so cruelly denying him. 

She smiled against his skin, a triumphant, predatory smirk. She had him right where she wanted him, completely and utterly at her mercy. And she was just getting started.

Y/N continued her slow, agonizing grind, her body moving against his with a hypnotic rhythm that was driving him insane. The pressure built, a desperate, coiling ache in his groin, and his control began to fray. His hands, which had been clenched into fists at his sides, slowly uncurled. 

They moved up her body, sliding over the curve of her waist, his thumbs tracing the line of her ribs before reaching their destination. 

He cupped her breasts, his palms covering the soft weight of them, feeling the tight peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric of her sweater. 

At the reminder that wasn't wearing a bra.

The contact was electric, and a guttural groan rumbled in his chest.

But before he could savor the feeling, her movements stopped. She gripped his wrists, her grip surprisingly strong as she pulled his hands away from her body and pinned them firmly back to the couch cushions.

"What did I say?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous purr. Her eyes were dark, narrowed with displeasure. "I said no touching."

The loss of her warmth, the abrupt halt to the friction, was a physical blow. He was left panting, his cock straining painfully against his zipper, a desperate ache throbbing through him. 

He fought back the overwhelming urge to beg, to plead with her to keep going. His pride, his ingrained need for dominance, screamed at him to regain control, but his body betrayed him, trembling with need.

Just as he was steeling himself to endure her punishment, to wait for her to continue, she did the one thing he wasn't prepared for. She got up.

The sudden absence of her body was a cold, shocking void. She stood over him, her expression unreadable, a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she took in his disheveled state.

"You know," she said, her voice deceptively casual. "I'm just not in the mood anymore."

The words hit him like a slap in the face. He stared up at her, his mind reeling. She was punishing him. Denying him. The power dynamic had shifted so completely it left him breathless. He watched, frozen, as she began to slowly pace in front of the couch, her movements fluid and confident. She was enjoying this.

She stopped and crouched down in front of him, her fingers running through his hair, her touch a gentle, mocking caress. "Maybe," she mused, her voice soft and speculative, "you didn't miss me as much as I thought you did."

The lie was so outrageous, so contrary to the throbbing evidence of his desire, that it broke through his carefully constructed facade. "That's a lie," he blurted out, his voice rough and desperate.

"Is it?" she countered, her fingers still stroking his hair, her eyes searching his.

He saw the challenge in her gaze, the test she was laying before him. He could fight her, try to reassert his dominance, and risk losing her all over again. Or he could surrender.

He let out a shuddering breath, the fight draining out of him. "Don't say that," he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't ever say that."

A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a low, intimate confession. "I missed you," she whispered. "I missed your lips. I missed your hands. I missed your cock."

The raw, explicit admission shattered what was left of his resistance. The image of her wanting him, of her missing the very parts of him that ached for her, was his undoing. He closed his eyes, a low groan escaping his lips.

"Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with submission.

She pulled back, looking down at him, her expression softening slightly. She saw it in his eyes, the complete and total surrender. He was no longer fighting. He was hers.

Y/N looked down at him, at the raw, unguarded surrender in his eyes. A slow, predatory smile touched her lips. This was the man she wanted, the one who would give her everything.

"Stand up," she commanded, her voice a low, even purr.

He obeyed instantly, rising from the couch on unsteady legs. She stepped closer, her hands going to the hem of his sweater. She peeled it off him, her fingers grazing his skin, tossing it aside. Her eyes roamed over his chest, his stomach, appreciating the hard planes of muscle that tensed under her gaze.

"Your turn," she said, stepping back.

He reached for the hem of her sweater, but she stopped him with a single look. He froze, his hands hovering in the air.

"Slowly," she instructed.

He nodded, his jaw tight with restraint. He hooked his fingers under the fabric and slowly, inch by agonizing inch, lifted the sweater over her head. He tossed it aside, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her bare torso.

"You can touch me," she granted, her voice a soft permission. "But only where I tell you."

His hands trembled slightly as they came up to rest on her waist. His thumbs stroked her skin, his touch reverent, desperate.

"Kiss me," she ordered.

He leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was hesitant, questioning. She deepened it, her tongue delving into his mouth, claiming him. She kissed him until he was breathless, until he was leaning into her, seeking more.

She pulled back, a smirk playing on her lips. "Not so fast," she chided. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom, stopping him at the foot of the bed. "On your back. On the bed."

He complied, his movements fluid and graceful as he stretched out on the comforter, his eyes never leaving hers. 

She watched him with a hunger in her eyes, undoing the four buttons on her high waisted jeans, the rare sight of him so vulnerable made her incredibly wet. She slid the denim down her legs, kicking them off before she followed him, crawling onto the bed and straddling him again, but this time, she didn't start a rhythm. 

She just sat there, a tantalizing weight on his thighs, her body nearly bare beside the red lacy fabric of her panties clinging to her.

"You have no idea how many times I thought about this when I was away from you," she said, her voice a low, husky murmur. "Lying in my bed, alone, touching myself, and imagining you here. Imagining you underneath me, at my mercy."

A low groan rumbled in his chest, his hands coming up to grip her thighs.

"Did you think about me?" she asked, her voice a teasing purr. "Did you touch yourself, Henry? Did you think about my mouth on you? About my pussy?"

"God, yes," he breathed, his voice thick with lust.

"Show me," she commanded. "Take off your pants. I want to see you."

He fumbled with his belt, his hands clumsy with need. He shoved his trousers and his boxers down his hips, his cock springing free, hard and thick and already leaking with precum. It was a testament to his desire, a silent plea for her touch.

"Good boy," she praised, her eyes dark with satisfaction. She leaned down, her hair brushing against his stomach as she pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his hip. "You're so hard for me. So desperate. Do you want to be inside me?"

"Please," he begged, his voice a ragged whisper. "Y/N, please."

She chuckled, a low, wicked sound. She reached down, her fingers wrapping around his cock, giving him a slow, deliberate stroke. He bucked his hips, a desperate, involuntary movement.

"Stay still," she ordered, her voice sharp. He froze, his body trembling with the effort of obeying.

She continued to stroke him, her movements slow, torturous. She was in complete control, and she knew it. She was driving him to the brink of insanity, and she was enjoying every second of it.

"Please, it’s been too long…" he begged again, his voice breaking. "I need you."

"I know," she said, her voice soft, almost mocking. She released him, shifting her position. She lifted her body slightly to slip the wet material of her underwear, down her legs. She guided him to her entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against her slick, wet folds, teasing them both. "But you're going to have to wait."

She sank down on him, just an inch, just enough to make him gasp. She held there, her body a tantalizing promise, before pulling back up.

"Y/N," he groaned, his hands fisting in the sheets.

"Tell me what you want," she demanded, her voice a low, commanding growl. "Tell me how badly you need to fuck me."

"I need to be inside you," he breathed, his voice a desperate, broken plea. "I need to feel you. I need to make you come. Please, Y/N, let me fuck you."

She smiled, a slow, triumphant smile. She sank down on him, taking him in to the hilt, her body a warm, tight sheath around him. They both moaned, a shared, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

She began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm. She was in control of the pace, the depth, the angle. She was using him for her own pleasure, and the thought was a heady, intoxicating rush.

"You feel so good inside me," she moaned, her head falling back. "So big. So hard. You were made to be inside me, weren't you?"

"Yes," he groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Only you."

"Tell me," she demanded, her voice a low, breathless command. "Tell me I'm the only one."

"You're the only one," he breathed, his eyes locked on hers. "It's always been you."

She increased her pace, her movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. The pleasure was building, a tight, coiling heat in her belly. She was close, so close.

"Come with me," she commanded, her voice a ragged, desperate plea. "Come inside me. Now."

The command was his undoing. He thrust up into her, his body arching off the bed as he came, a hot, thick flood of release that triggered her own orgasm. She cried out, her body convulsing, her inner walls clamping down around him as a wave of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over her.

She collapsed on top of him, her body a boneless, sated weight. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his body still trembling with the aftershocks. For a long time, they just lay there, the only sound in the room their ragged, desperate attempts to catch their breath.

She had taken control, and in doing so, she had claimed him completely. And as he held her, his face buried in her hair, he knew he would never want it any other way.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged, shared breathing. Y/N lay draped over him, her body boneless and sated, his cock still buried deep inside her, a warm, pulsing reminder of their shared release. She could feel his heartbeat, a frantic drum against her, slowly steadying into a strong, steady rhythm.

She felt his gaze on her, a heavy, questioning weight. He was waiting, watching to see if the queen was done with her reign. 

She was. The anger had burned out, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. The control had been a means to an end, a way to reclaim what he had broken. Now, she just wanted him.

She shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. It was all the permission he needed.

In one smooth, powerful movement, he rolled them. His arms wrapped around her, flipping her onto her back without ever breaking their connection. The sudden shift in position made her gasp, his cock sinking even deeper inside her. 

He propped himself up on his elbows, his body blanketing hers, his eyes dark and intense as they stared down into hers.

"Did you enjoy your reign of freedom?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Did you enjoy having all the control?"

Before she could answer, he began to move. It wasn't the slow, sensual rhythm she had dictated. It was a series of short, sharp, deliberate thrusts of his hips, just enough to make her gasp, to stoke the embers of her fading desire back into a roaring flame.

"Henry," she breathed, her hands coming up to grip his biceps.

He ducked his head, his mouth closing over her breast. He wasn't gentle or worshipful now. He was possessive, his teeth scraping her sensitive skin before he sucked her nipple into his mouth, a hard, demanding pull that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to her core. He was reminding her who he was, taking back the control she had so thoroughly claimed.

Just as she was arching into him, her body responding to his renewed assault, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a shocking, cold void, and she cried out in protest. But he didn't give her time to process it. He grabbed her hips, his grip firm and unyielding, and flipped her onto her stomach.

He was behind her in an instant, his weight a delicious pressure on her back. He nudged her legs apart with his knee, his hands gripping her ass, spreading her open. He didn't enter her, not yet. He just watched her, his gaze a physical touch that made her skin burn.

She was panting into the pillow, her body trembling with anticipation. She could feel herself getting wetter, her arousal a slick, undeniable proof of her surrender. She had been in charge, she had dictated every touch, every kiss, every thrust. But this... this was what she craved. The feeling of being completely and utterly dominated, of being at the mercy of his strength, his desire. The power she had wielded moments before was nothing compared to the intoxicating rush of giving it all up to him.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice a low, triumphant rumble. "So eager. So ready to be fucked."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "You can pretend to be in charge all you want," he whispered, his voice a dark, possessive promise. "But we both know this is where you belong. Under me. Taking my cock like the good girl you are."

He entered her from behind in a single, brutal thrust, stealing her breath and her sanity. The pleasure was overwhelming, a searing, possessive claim that left her no room for thought. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into hers, each thrust a declaration of his ownership. She was no longer in control. She was his, completely and utterly, and she had never been more turned on in her life.

The sound that tore from her throat was raw and uninhibited, a loud, desperate cry that was half pleasure, half surrender. He was fucking her with a brutal, punishing rhythm, each powerful thrust of his hips driving her deeper into the mattress. The pleasure was blinding, a white-hot surge that obliterated thought, leaving only the primal, overwhelming sensation of him taking her, owning her.

Her moans grew louder, more frantic, filling the room with the echo of the headboard banging against the wall, the symphony of their carnal reunion. She was lost, completely consumed by the force of his desire, by the feeling of him claiming her so thoroughly. Instinctively, she reached back, her hand searching for him, needing to touch him, to anchor herself to the man who was wrecking her so completely.

Her fingers barely brushed against his hip before his hand shot out, catching her wrist in an iron grip. He pinned her arm behind her back, the angle forcing her shoulders down, arching her spine and presenting her ass to him in a way that was both vulnerable and obscene. The loss of her freedom, the sudden, effortless display of his control, sent a fresh jolt of arousal coursing through her.

"Oh god, yes," she whined, her face buried in the pillow.

His other hand moved from her hip, sliding up the curve of her spine to the back of her neck. His fingers wrapped around the delicate column of her throat, his grip firm and possessive, not cutting off her air but holding her in place, a silent, undeniable claim of ownership. She was completely pinned, utterly at his mercy.

"You wanted to be in charge?" he growled, his voice a low, guttural rasp against her ear. He punctuated the question with a particularly hard thrust that made her whole body tremble. "You wanted to control me? Look at you now. Pinned to my bed, taking my cock so fucking well."

His words were a dark, possessive litany that only fueled her desire. He was right. This was where she belonged. This was the intoxicating, terrifying, glorious surrender she had been craving.

He fucked her harder, his grip on her neck and wrist unyielding. The sound of skin slapping against skin was a loud, rhythmic percussion, a primal beat that matched the frantic pounding of her heart. She was so loud now, her cries and moans a constant, desperate stream of pleasure and submission. She couldn't hold back, couldn't control the sounds he was forcing from her body.

"Who do you belong to?" he snarled, his voice a raw, demanding command.

"You!" she screamed, the word torn from her throat, muffled by the pillow. "I belong to you!"

His grip tightened, his thrusts becoming erratic, more forceful. He was chasing his own release, using her body to find it, and the thought of him losing control inside her was enough to send her hurtling over the edge.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dominant roar. "Come on my cock. Now."

The command was her undoing. Her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, all-consuming wave that ripped a scream from her lungs. Her entire body convulsed, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vise as pleasure, sharp and blinding, seized every nerve ending.

He rode her through it, his thrusts becoming deep and irregular. With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself inside her, his body tensing as he poured himself into her, a hot, thick flood of release that filled her completely.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. For a long time, they just lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess, their bodies humming with the aftershocks. He slowly released his grip on her wrist and neck, his hands coming to rest gently on her back, his touch now tender, almost apologetic.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder, his lips a silent promise. He had taken back his control, but in doing so, he had given her something far more valuable: the undeniable proof that she was his, and he was never letting her go again.

. . . 

Morning came in slowly, pale winter light leaking through the curtains like it had to ask permission first.

Y/N woke up curled into warmth, sheets tangled around her legs, one of Henry’s pillows pressed against her cheek, the air in the room still carrying the faint, lived-in evidence of last night. Not perfume, not candles, just them: the soft scent of his soap, the clean cotton of the bedding, the quiet heaviness of a space that had held too many secrets. Her body a pleasant, satisfying ache, a tangible reminder of the night before. 

For a second she didn’t move.

She just listened.

The radiator ticked. Somewhere outside, a car passed on wet pavement. The building creaked like it always did in the cold. And beside her, Henry breathed, slow, even, the kind of sleep she hadn’t imagined he was capable of.

He looked different asleep.

Not “Professor Creel,” not the man with the controlled voice and the lecture notes and the steady stare that could slice a room in half. Just Henry—hair slightly out of place, glasses abandoned on the nightstand, one arm thrown across the pillow like he’d reached for her in his sleep and never let go.

Careful not to wake him, she slipped out of his embrace and reached over him to the nightstand. Her fingers found the heavy, plastic receiver of his touchtone phone. 

She lifted it, the dial tone a low, steady hum in the quiet room. She dialed the number for her dormitory from memory, her movements quiet and practiced.

"Hello, Hawkins Hall residence line," a bored voice answered.

“Hi, Nancy Wheeler please. It’s her roommate,” she whispered, glancing over at Henry. 

“One moment please.” 

Y/N glanced at the clock. 11:15. If she knew Nancy well enough, she knew that Nancy liked to come back to their dormitory during lunch to eat in peace, study or recollect her patience for the rest of the day. 

Soon enough, a new voice answered, “Hello? Y/N?”

"Nance? It's me.”

"No shit. Where are you? You weren’t back last night or this morning," Nancy said, her voice laced with irritation and concern.

Y/N took a breath, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. "I know, I'm so sorry. I meant to come back this morning…I woke up feeling really sick. Henry's taking care of me at his place."

Just as she said the words, she felt the bed shift. Henry had woken up. He rolled onto his side, his eyes blinking open, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face as he saw her on the phone. He didn't say a word, just leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss to the center of her chest.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

"Y/N? You still there?" Nancy’s voice crackled through the receiver.

"Yeah, I'm... I'm fine," Y/N said, her voice a little shaky. "Just a little weak. Could you, uh, could you maybe get today's makeup work from our classes for me?"

Henry’s mouth began to move lower, trailing a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. His tongue dipped down her navel, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. She tensed, her free hand flying to his hair, not to push him away, but to grip it tightly.

"Yeah, of course," Nancy said. "I can grab it after my last class. What's wrong? You sound weird."

Henry’s kisses continued their downward trajectory, disappearing under the blanket that covered her legs. 

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She knew exactly what he was doing. And she knew she was in trouble.

"No, I'm... I'm just tired," Y/N managed to say, her voice strained. "I think I'm just going to sleep for a while."

She felt his hands on her thighs, gently spreading them. Then, she felt the first, deliberate swipe of his tongue against her slick, sensitive folds. A soft gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it.

"Y/N? What was that? Are you sure you're okay? You’re starting to stress me out," Nancy said, her voice sharp with suspicion.

"I'm fine!" Y/N said, a little too loudly. She cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Just... a cramp. I'm fine."

Henry was relentless. His tongue moved with a slow, expert precision, circling her clit, teasing her, stoking a fire that was quickly becoming an inferno. 

She could feel the pleasure building, a tight, coiling heat in her belly. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to stifle the moans that were threatening to spill out.

"Okay, well... I'll let you rest then," Nancy said, her voice still laced with doubt. "Just call me if you need anything."

"I will," Y/N breathed, the words a desperate, rushed whisper. "Thanks, Nance. Bye."

She slammed the phone back into the cradle, the loud clatter echoing in the quiet room. The moment the call ended, the dam broke. A loud, unrestrained moan tore from her throat as Henry's tongue flicked against her clit, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding.

"God, Henry," she cried out, her back arching off the bed, her hand fisting in his hair. "Don't stop."

He didn't. He doubled his efforts, his mouth and his tongue working in a frantic, desperate rhythm to push her over the edge. 

The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation that washed over her, drowning out everything else. She was so close, so incredibly close.

With a final, expert flick of his tongue, he sent her flying. Her orgasm crashed over her, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pure, unadulterated bliss. She cried out his name, her body convulsing, her inner walls clenching around nothing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

He continued to lick her through her orgasm, his tongue gentle and soothing, drawing out her pleasure until she was a trembling, spent mess. He finally emerged from under the blanket, his face glistening with her arousal, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his lips.

"Feeling any better?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing purr.

She could only manage a weak, breathless laugh in response, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her release. She was definitely feeling better.

Her body was a boneless, satisfied weight against the mattress. A lazy, contented smile played on her lips as she watched 

Henry prop himself up on his elbow, his hair a mess and his face glistening with the evidence of his mischief. He looked smug, and she loved it.

She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before curling around the back of his neck. She pulled him down, her lips meeting his in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of her and of him. It was a languid, unhurried kiss, a silent conversation of gratitude and reconnection.

Y/N pulled back just enough to breathe, still close, nose brushing his. Her eyes were heavy, but there was a bright kind of happiness underneath, like the night before had taken something sharp out of her and left room for this.

She sighed, a soft, happy sound. "I should probably let myself out so you can get ready for work," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep and satisfaction. "I don't want to make you late."

There was something in the way she said it, like she was trying to be reasonable, like she was trying not to ask for more than she was allowed to have.

Henry’s gaze sharpened, not angry, decisive.

He shifted closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth like punctuation.

“No,” he said.

Y/N blinked. “No what?”

“No,” he repeated, firmer, and she felt his hand slide to the back of her neck, holding her there gently but undeniably. “You’re not leaving right now.”

Y/N stared at him, startled. “Henry—”

“And I’m not going,” he added.

The words landed in the room like something fragile breaking.

Y/N froze. “You’re… not going.”

Henry’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did—softer, darker, like he’d already made peace with the consequences.

“I’m not going,” he said again.

Y/N’s voice came out incredulous and almost breathless. “You’re calling out sick?”

Henry’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of amusement. “I’m not calling out sick.”

Y/N stared harder. “Then what are you doing?”

Henry brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, slow, almost absentminded, like he was grounding himself in the fact she was here.

“I’m staying,” he said simply. “With you.”

Y/N’s chest tightened in a way that wasn’t pain this time.

It was surprise.

It was warmth.

It was the sudden, disorienting feeling of being chosen.

“You can’t just—” Y/N started, then stopped because she didn’t actually want to argue him out of it. Her voice softened. “You never skip.”

Henry’s eyes held hers. “I know.”

Y/N’s brows pulled together, almost shy in her disbelief. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t want me to miss a day.”

Henry’s gaze drifted down her face—her lips, her nose, her eyes—then back up like he was making sure she understood him.

“Things are simpler here,” he said quietly. “When it’s just us.”

Y/N’s throat went tight.

Henry’s voice stayed calm, but there was something honest under it that felt dangerously intimate. “Outside of school, there’s no performance,” he continued. “No faculty. No students. No doors. No—” he exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening briefly, “—risk that someone is always listening.”

Y/N swallowed. “You like it like that.”

Henry nodded once. “Yes.”

He looked almost annoyed by how much he meant it.

“I like it,” he admitted, softer now, “because I don’t have to pretend with you.”

Her heart swelled in her chest, the last vestiges of her hurt and anger dissolving in the warmth of his confession. She tilted her head up, her eyes searching his. She saw the truth there, the sincerity, the quiet contentment that mirrored her own.

“You’re really staying,” she whispered, like she needed to hear it one more time.

Henry leaned in and kissed her again, slow, deliberate, making the answer physical so she couldn’t doubt it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

“I’m staying,” he murmured.

“Okay,” she said, a small smile on her lips.

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. He leaned down and kissed her, a soft, lingering kiss that was a promise of a day spent in their own private world, a world where the only thing that mattered was the two of them, tangled in the sheets, with nowhere else to be.

. . . 

The apartment smelled like coffee and something warm frying: eggs, butter, the faint bite of pepper. Morning light spilled across the kitchen floor in thin bands through the blinds, catching dust motes in the air like little drifting secrets.

Henry Creel was already dressed.

Not just dressed. Buttoned, structured, put together in the way he always was when he expected the world to see him. Sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, collar straight, hair still damp at the edges but combed back like he couldn’t stand the idea of looking undone for longer than necessary.

He stood at the stove with the quiet competence of a man who liked control in the small things: the pan centered, the heat just right, movements measured as he stirred and adjusted like he’d been doing it his whole life.

Y/N padded in behind him wearing one of his shirts, soft cotton, too big, falling to mid thigh, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Her hair was still damp, skin warmed from the shower. She looked like she belonged here in a way that would’ve terrified her if she let herself think about it too long.

Henry didn’t turn, but he knew she was there. His shoulders shifted subtly, as if the air changed when she entered.

Y/N took advantage of that certainty.

She walked past him, close enough that her hip brushed the counter, and as she passed behind him she gave him a light, playful smack on the ass, quick, not mean, a punctuation mark.

Henry’s hand stilled for half a second over the pan.

Then, calmly, he glanced over his shoulder with that controlled expression that never quite hid the fact he was affected.

Y/N’s mouth curved. “Why are you dressed,” she asked, breezy and shameless, “if I’m just going to end up pulling it all off later?”

Henry’s eyes flicked over her, slow and deliberate, then back to the stove like he was choosing not to be provoked.

“I’m dressed,” he said evenly, “because after I cook breakfast, I have to stop by Emerson College.”

Y/N’s smile faded into a pout. “Why?”

Henry stirred the pan, voice matter of fact. “To pick up student papers. I need to grade them.”

Y/N sighed like it physically pained her. “You’re really going?”

Henry’s jaw tightened, not irritation, something closer to reluctance that he didn’t want to admit.

“It won’t take long,” he said.

Y/N leaned her shoulder against the counter, watching him with a look that was half sulky, half hungry. “I like it better when you’re not being Professor Creel.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to hers. “And what am I being right now?”

Y/N’s gaze traced the line of his collar, the neatness of him, the way he still looked like he belonged behind a lectern even in his own kitchen.

“Still you,” she murmured. “Just with less pretending.”

Henry’s mouth tightened slightly, as if he disliked how true that was.

Y/N stepped close. She moved behind him again, not teasing this time, just seeking.

Henry was warm where the stove heat reached him, but there was that other thing too: the way he always ran cooler than most people, a quiet coldness that lived under his skin like a signature.

Y/N had noticed it from the beginning.

That cool, controlled presence. That distant, untouchable air.

Coldness that meant he was careful. Calculated. Not soft.

Not easy.

But when she pressed her front to his back anyway, cheek resting between his shoulder blades, Henry didn’t pull away.

He didn’t stiffen. He didn’t step out of reach.

He just let her.

And Y/N felt it like permission.

Like trust.

Like being chosen.

Her arms slid around his waist slowly, holding him there. “I like being close to you,” she admitted, voice quieter now, words muffled against his shirt.

Henry’s hand paused again. The spatula hovered.

Then he set it down carefully and reached back, covering one of her hands with his, grounding, steady.

“I know,” he said, voice low.

Y/N swallowed, tightening her grip. “I hate when you leave.”

Henry’s shoulders shifted, almost a sigh. “I’m not leaving,” he said, firm enough to matter. “I’m stepping out.”

Y/N’s eyes closed briefly. “That sounds like a technicality.”

Henry turned his head just slightly, enough that his voice brushed close to her. “It’s not,” he murmured. “I’ll come back. I won’t do that again.”

Y/N’s throat tightened at the unspoken meaning. I won’t cut you off. I won’t disappear. I won’t decide you’re better off without you having a say.

She lifted her head, looking at the side of his face. “You swear?”

Henry’s gaze met hers over his shoulder, dark, steady, serious. “I swear.”

It should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

Y/N shifted her grip, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt at his waist like she needed proof he was real and present, not just a promise in a neat voice.

“Okay,” she murmured, then tried to sound casual again, like the vulnerability hadn’t just exposed her ribs. “Then come back fast.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Demanding.”

Y/N’s mouth curved. “You like it.”

A brief pause.

Then, almost against his will, Henry’s mouth twitched like he did.

Y/N hummed, satisfied, and let her head rest on him again. “Also,” she added, voice brightening with the familiar spark she’d been missing all week, “you owe me conversation.”

Henry resumed stirring, but his attention was visibly split now, half on the pan, half on the girl clinging to him like she was trying to crawl under his skin.

“What kind of conversation?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

Y/N slid around to his side, leaning her hip against the counter so she could watch his face. “Literature,” she said sweetly. “Since you’re apparently incapable of being normal.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to her, faintly amused. “And what exactly do you want to argue about?”

Y/N stepped closer as she spoke, almost unconsciously closing the space between them. “Well,” she said, voice innocent, “for starters… Lord of the Flies.”

Henry’s brows lifted. “That’s your starter.”

Y/N nodded solemnly, edging closer. “I want your opinion. Like, real opinion. Not your classroom opinion.”

Henry angled his head. “You think I have two opinions.”

Y/N’s eyes gleamed. “I think you have a private one you don’t share.”

Henry’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up. “Dangerous assumption.”

Y/N leaned in closer anyway, voice lowering like it was a secret. “Is it because it makes you look soft?”

Henry’s jaw tightened.

Y/N smiled, pleased she’d hit something. She took another small step, tilting her head as if she were genuinely curious.

“And then,” she continued, “I want to know what you think about Dracula.”

Henry blinked once. “That’s quite a leap.”

Y/N shrugged, feigning nonchalance as she moved closer again. “I like vampires.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

Y/N’s smile turned wicked. “Maybe I like monsters.”

Something flashed in Henry’s gaze, quick and dark, like a cord had been pulled too tight.

He finally seemed to notice what she’d been doing: the way she’d inched closer with every book title, closing the distance like she was reeling him in by degrees.

His eyes dropped, her shirt, her bare legs, the way she looked entirely too comfortable in his space, then lifted back to her face.

“Y/N,” he said, warning threaded through her name.

Y/N tilted her head, innocent. “What?”

Henry’s grip tightened on the spatula.

For a second, he looked like he might try to keep pretending he was in control.

Then he exhaled through his nose, reached forward, and turned off the burner with a decisive click.

The silence after the flame died was loud.

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

Henry faced her fully now, no stove between them, no task to hide behind. His hands settled at her waist, firm and sure, and her breath caught as he moved her back, back, until she bumped lightly against the counter.

Y/N lifted her chin, eyes bright with that familiar challenge.

Henry’s gaze held hers, unreadable. Then, without rushing, he lifted her, guiding her up onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Y/N’s hands caught his shoulders for balance, her knees falling to either side of him.

Henry stepped in close enough that she could feel his breath.

“You want my opinion,” he murmured.

Y/N’s voice came out softer than she intended. “I do.”

Henry’s eyes searched her face, the edge of his control fraying into something more honest. “You keep asking questions,” he said, low and deliberate, “and moving closer like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Y/N swallowed, fingers curling in his shirt. “Maybe I do know.”

Henry’s jaw flexed.

Then he leaned in, and the kiss he gave her wasn’t hurried. It was firm, claiming, like a quiet decision.

Y/N melted into it anyway.

No words. No lecture. No rulebook.

Just a kiss that said: I’m coming back. I’m not leaving. And when it’s just us, this is mine too.

And for the first time since everything had cracked open, she believed him.

He kissed her, a deep, possessive kiss that was now teeth and tongue. His hands were everywhere, sliding up her thighs, pushing the hem of his shirt up to her waist.

"Dracula," he said, his voice low, "is about obsession. About the primal, irresistible urge to possess. To consume."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. He ripped her panties aside, the fabric tearing with a soft, satisfying sound, and then his fingers were on her, stroking her slick, wet folds.

She cried out, her head falling back, her hands gripping his shoulders. He was relentless, his fingers expertly working her clit, circling and teasing until she was writhing on the counter, a desperate, needy mess.

"Henry, please," she begged, her voice a ragged, desperate plea.

He dropped his hand from her heat, making her whine in protest. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers with a speed that was both shocking and incredibly hot. He freed his cock, hard and thick, and guided it to her entrance. He thrust into her in one smooth, hard movement, stealing her breath and her sanity.

The countertop groaned under their weight, a loud, protesting creak that only added to the raw, illicit thrill of it all. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into hers, each thrust a powerful, possessive claim. She was loud, her moans and cries echoing in the small kitchen, a symphony of unbridled pleasure.

He was fucking her like he was trying to prove a point, like he was trying to erase every last trace of doubt from her mind. He was claiming her, not just with his body, but with his actions. This was his answer to her question, his definitive statement on desire and destruction.

She could feel the pleasure building, a tight, coiling heat in her belly. She was so close, so incredibly close.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dominant roar. "Come on my cock. Now."

The command was her undoing. Her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, all-consuming wave that ripped a scream from her lungs. Her entire body convulsed, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vise as pleasure, sharp and blinding, seized every nerve ending.

He rode her through it, his thrusts becoming deep and irregular. With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself inside her, his body tensing as he poured himself into her, a hot, thick flood of release that filled her completely.

They collapsed against each other, a tangled, sweaty mess, their bodies humming with the aftershocks. The kitchen was a disaster, breakfast forgotten, their bodies still joined. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips a silent promise. He had to go to Emerson, but in this moment, he was exactly where he belonged: with her, lost in a world of their own making.

Henry froze the moment the knock hit the door.

It wasn’t loud, just firm and deliberate, but it snapped through the apartment like a gunshot. It was the kind of sound that instantly reminded them they weren’t alone in the world, no matter how private Henry liked to pretend his walls were.

For a second, neither of them moved.

The kitchen was a wreck of small evidence: a turned off burner, a pan abandoned on the stove, the faint smell of breakfast gone slightly too long in the air. Y/N was still perched on the counter, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, one of Henry’s shirts hanging off her shoulders like she had been wearing it for hours instead of minutes. The whole room felt too warm.

Henry’s jaw tightened.

Another knock came, a little sharper this time.

Y/N covered her mouth with the back of her hand, trying not to laugh and trying not to look guilty at the same time. Her eyes flicked to Henry, bright and mischievous, still glowing with that satisfaction she always got when she dragged him out of his control and made him admit he liked it.

Henry did not look amused.

He looked like a man watching his own life try to implode in real time.

He let out a low, frustrated groan, pulling away with a reluctance that was almost comical. He quickly tucked himself back into his trousers, zipping up and running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice low and clipped.

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Stay where?”

Henry shot her a look that was half warning, half please don’t make this worse. He tugged his pants into place, movements quick but careful, and smoothed his shirt down like fabric could restore dignity.

The knock came again.

Henry exhaled through his nose, then crossed the living room with long strides, every step carrying the weight of reluctance. 

Y/N hopped off the counter, her legs feeling like jelly. She quickly pulled down the hem of his sweatshirt, her cheeks burning with a mixture of post-coital bliss and sudden, acute embarrassment.

Henry paused at the door long enough to compose his face into something neutral, something professor like.

Then he opened it.

The neighbor stood there in a sweatshirt and jeans, a notebook tucked under one arm, expression somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed to be standing there at all. He was young, early twenties, clean cut enough to look like he actually went to the library on purpose. His eyes were tired in the specific way people got when they were stressed about tests and too aware of time passing.

He cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he said, voice careful. “Uh… sorry. I just…”

Henry’s gaze was flat. “Yes.”

The neighbor’s eyes flicked past Henry’s shoulder automatically, like he could not help checking the apartment behind him, and that was when he caught a glimpse of the kitchen. The counter. The disheveled scene. The turned off stove.

And then he saw Y/N, wearing nothing but an oversized sweatshirt, her hair a mess, her face flushed

The neighbor blinked.

Recognition sparked instantly.

Because of course it did.

He had seen her before, on the hallway floor gathering groceries, looking sweet and helpful, while Henry had swooped in and hauled her away like he could not stand someone else looking at her for more than a second.

The neighbor’s eyes widened slightly.

“Oh,” he said, as if the universe had finally explained itself.

Henry’s hand tightened on the edge of the door. “What do you want?”

The neighbor swallowed, visibly trying to be polite despite the fact he had come upstairs and knocked on someone’s door to ask them not to, whatever had been happening in there.

“I’m studying,” he said, voice strained. “For an economics test. And, um…” His eyes flicked again toward the kitchen like he could not stop them. He looked back at Henry, cheeks faintly red. “The walls are thin.”

Henry’s expression did not change.

The neighbor continued, more awkward now. “So if you could maybe keep it down. Like, I don’t want to hear… banging. Or screaming.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, then she bit the inside of her cheek so hard she looked like she might choke on her own laughter.

Henry’s jaw flexed like he was one second away from slamming the door.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, tone cold.

The neighbor nodded quickly, like he had gotten what he came for.

But his eyes drifted again, unfortunately and inevitably, back to Y/N.

And that was when it clicked fully.

His expression changed from annoyed neighbor to oh, that is who it was.

He gave a small, helpless exhale through his nose, half laugh, half disbelief. Then he looked at Henry again, eyebrows lifting like he was silently accusing him of being the luckiest man alive while also ruining his GPA.

“Right,” the neighbor muttered. “Yeah. Okay.”

He started backing away, still staring a little too long.

Y/N, unable to help herself, lifted her hand in a tiny wave, sweet and innocent, like she had just borrowed sugar.

The neighbor’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he had clocked exactly who the loud one was.

He pointed once, subtle but unmistakable. Not at Henry.

At her.

Then he shook his head like he was suffering and turned to go.

“I have a test,” he mumbled to himself as he walked away, voice faintly miserable. “I have an economics test…”

Henry shut the door slowly.

Not slammed, just closed with the kind of controlled fury that somehow felt worse.

For a moment, he stood there with his back to the apartment, shoulders tense, like he was trying to reassemble his dignity from the floorboards.

Y/N’s voice floated over, teasing and entirely unrepentant.

“Your reputation is ruined.”

Henry turned his head slightly, giving her a look over his shoulder that could have melted steel.

“My reputation,” he said flatly, “is the least of my concerns.”

Y/N smiled, unabashed. “Mhm.”

Henry walked back toward the kitchen, every step measured, the irritation on his face fighting with something darker and more helpless underneath, something that did not regret what had happened, only the timing.

He stopped in front of her, gaze sweeping over her once, slow and assessing, like he was still trying to convince himself she was real.

Then his eyes lifted to hers.

“You enjoy provoking me,” he said.

Y/N’s smile turned wicked. “I enjoy you.”

Henry’s breath shifted, just slightly.

He leaned in, braced a hand on the counter beside her, caging her in without actually touching her.

“And you enjoy,” he added, voice lower, “making me pay for it.”

Y/N’s fingers curled in his shirt again, tugging him closer with a soft, satisfied hum. “Maybe.”

Henry’s gaze flicked toward the door, as if he could still hear the neighbor’s footsteps retreating.

Then he looked back at her, eyes dark.

“Next time,” he murmured, “we’re locking the door.”

Y/N smiled like she had just been promised something.

“Next time,” she echoed.

And Henry, despite himself, kissed her again, quiet, heated, and briefly careless, like the world could knock all it wanted.

He was not opening that door again.

. . .

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. . .

By Friday, Y/N had learned how to move through Emerson College like she hadn’t been hollowed out.

She still went to her classes. She still took notes. She still turned in assignments. She still smiled at the right moments so people wouldn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer.

But in Henry Creel’s English class, in his room, she had gone quiet in a way that felt unnatural even to her.

She sat where she always sat. She listened. She wrote. She kept her eyes on the page like it was safer than looking up.

She didn’t raise her hand anymore.

She didn’t argue his interpretations.

She didn’t push back the way she used to, the way he’d secretly loved, the way she’d once felt so alive doing it.

It wasn’t because she didn’t have opinions.

It was because she didn’t want to hear her own voice sound like hope in a room that had taught her what hope cost.

Nancy clocked it immediately.

Not in a dramatic, public way. Nancy Wheeler never made a scene when she could gather evidence first. But Y/N could feel her friend watching her between classes, in the dining hall, back at their shared dorm, tracking the way she moved like she was trying not to spill.

By late afternoon, Nancy finally said it.

They were in the dorm, sunlight thinning into early winter dusk. Nancy sat cross-legged on her bed with an open notebook and a pen behind her ear, hair pushed back as if she’d been working on something important. Y/N was at her desk, staring at a page she’d already read twice without absorbing a word.

Nancy tapped her pen against her notebook once. Twice.

Then, bluntly, “You’re miserable.”

Y/N didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re functioning. That’s not the same thing.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. She kept her gaze on the page like it could shield her. “What do you want me to do, Nancy? Start debating Shakespeare and Atwood again like nothing happened?”

Nancy’s expression softened for a second, then sharpened with decision. “No.”

Y/N finally looked over. “Then what?”

Nancy shut her notebook with a quiet snap, like she’d reached a verdict. “We’re leaving.”

Y/N blinked. “Leaving where?”

“Away,” Nancy said. “For the weekend. You need air that doesn’t taste like this campus.”

Y/N gave a humorless little laugh. “What, like Hawaii?”

Nancy stared at her. “Do you have Hawaii money?”

Y/N’s mouth opened, then closed.

Nancy lifted an eyebrow. “Because I have ramen money.”

Y/N sighed, sinking back in her chair. “Okay, fine. Not Hawaii.”

Nancy leaned forward. “My hometown.”

Y/N’s brows pulled together. “Hawkins?”

Nancy nodded like it was obvious. “Yes. You can stay with my family. My mom will feed you like she’s personally offended by your bones showing.”

Y/N stared at her, hesitant. Hawkins sounded small. Intimate. The kind of place where people noticed everything.

“That’s kind of the point,” Nancy added, reading her expression. “Small. Quiet. No professors. No hallways. No weird campus tension that makes you stare at the floor like it owes you money.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she didn’t argue.

Nancy’s voice softened, coaxing now. “And you’ll get out of your head. We’ll walk around. I’ll give you the tour. We’ll do normal things.”

Y/N’s gaze drifted back to her desk. “Normal doesn’t exist anymore.”

Nancy exhaled through her nose. “Then we’ll fake it until your nervous system calms down.”

Y/N’s lips twitched despite herself, barely.

Nancy took that as permission to keep going. “Also,” she said, casual in the way she wasn’t casual at all, “Jonathan’s in town.”

Y/N’s attention flicked back. “Jonathan Byers?”

Nancy nodded. “Visiting from California. And,” she hesitated like she was building suspense on purpose, “you’ll finally meet Robin and Steve.”

Y/N blinked. “You mean Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington?”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Full government names, apparently.”

Y/N huffed a small laugh. It surprised her how good it felt in her chest, even tiny. “You talk about them a lot.”

“Because they’re my friends,” Nancy said, then added with pointed emphasis, “and because you need to remember you have a life outside of one man and one classroom.”

Y/N’s smile faltered.

Nancy’s tone stayed steady, but her eyes were sharp, protective. “You’ve been going through the motions all week. You’re quiet in his class, you barely eat, and you act like you’re waiting for a verdict on your own feelings.”

Y/N looked away, throat tight.

Nancy continued anyway, voice gentler now. “Maybe it would be nice for you to be somewhere you aren’t stuck. And maybe it would be nice for you to see you have options.”

Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Options.”

Nancy shrugged like she wasn’t aiming directly at the bruise. “Options. Like, I don’t know… Steve.”

Y/N’s eyes snapped back. “Nancy.”

“What?” Nancy said innocently. “He’s a good guy. And he’s not your professor. And he’s not older than you. And you could go out with him publicly without consequences.”

Y/N’s face warmed, half irritation, half something she didn’t want to name. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being realistic,” Nancy replied. Then she smirked, because of course she did. “Also, I’ve seen a picture of him.”

Y/N groaned softly, already knowing where this was going.

Nancy leaned in, delighted. “And you said he was cute.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “I did not.”

“You did,” Nancy said, triumphant. “You said,” she lowered her voice into a bad impression of Y/N, “‘Okay, he’s kind of cute.’”

Y/N grabbed a pillow and threw it at Nancy’s head. Nancy caught it, laughing.

“Stop,” Y/N muttered, but there was less bite in it than usual.

Nancy’s laughter faded into something more serious. “I’m not saying you have to do anything,” she said. “I’m saying you’re allowed to remember you’re not trapped.”

Y/N swallowed. Her gaze drifted past Nancy to the window, to the campus outside: brick buildings, students moving like nothing hurt.

She thought of Wednesday.

Of turning a corner and seeing Patty Newby in the hallway with Henry, the two of them talking like colleagues, like equals, like nothing complicated had ever happened between him and Y/N.

It hadn’t been rational. It had been quick and sharp: jealousy like a cut under the skin, and the old humiliation flaring up again.

It had reminded her how easy it was to feel replaced.

How easy it was for him to look normal while she struggled to breathe.

Y/N looked back at Nancy, quieter now. “Hawkins is far.”

Nancy shrugged. “So is feeling like this forever.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

Nancy reached forward and nudged Y/N’s knee with her foot, gentle. “Come with me. Just for the weekend. Let my mom feed you. Let Robin talk your ear off. Let Steve do whatever Steve does. Let yourself laugh at something that isn’t him.”

Y/N hesitated, eyes flicking down, then back up.

“Okay,” she said finally, like the word cost her pride.

Nancy’s face softened instantly, relief, satisfaction, victory all at once. “Okay,” she repeated. “Good. We’ll leave after your last class.”

Y/N nodded, but her chest felt strange: tight, nervous, almost guilty.

Not because she didn’t want to go.

Because a part of her still felt like everything she did was somehow tethered to Henry, even in his absence.

And maybe that was exactly why Nancy was dragging her out of Boston for the weekend, so Y/N could remember what it felt like to be wanted without it hurting.

. . . 

Saturday night in Hawkins didn’t feel like a Saturday night in Boston.

It felt slower, softer around the edges, like the air itself had more room to breathe.

The sun had already sunk, leaving behind a bruised orange-and-pink horizon that made the town look almost cinematic if you didn’t think too hard about what Hawkins had a habit of hiding. The wind up on the roof carried a bite, cold enough that Y/N kept tugging the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands between sips, but not cold enough to send anyone back inside.

They were on top of WSQK The Squawk, a flat roof with a low brick wall at the edge, a few old vents, and a view of Hawkins that made it look small and contained, like a diorama someone could shake if they wanted to.

Someone, Steve, probably, had dragged up mismatched lawn chairs that looked like they’d survived at least three summers and one questionable garage sale. A cooler sat in the middle like a centerpiece, filled with beer and condensation, with a couple of crushed bags of ice that had already started losing the fight. A radio played faintly from somewhere inside, muffled through the roof access door, like the building couldn’t fully stop being itself even off the clock.

Y/N had been attached to Nancy for most of the day.

Not in a clingy way, more like a life raft way.

Nancy had given her the Hawkins tour with that brisk, determined energy she got when she wanted something to feel normal even if it wasn’t. She’d pointed out the diner, the little stores, the places that sounded ordinary when Nancy described them but carried weight in the way her voice tightened on certain corners.

And now, after hours of introductions and small talk and learning how to smile without feeling like it might crack, Y/N and Nancy Wheeler were the last two still standing close together.

Everyone else had settled into their chairs.

Robin Buckley was perched sideways in one of the lawn chairs like the concept of sitting normally offended her on principle, knees up, arms draped over them. She had that sharp-eyed, restless vibe of someone who could talk for ten minutes straight without taking a breath and still somehow look like she was listening to everything at once.

Jonathan Byers sat a little apart from the main cluster, beer in hand, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. He looked older than he was, tired in a way that made Y/N instantly trust him, like he’d seen too much and didn’t waste energy pretending otherwise.

And Steve Harrington… Steve was sprawled in his chair like he owned the roof. One ankle crossed over his knee, bottle hanging loose in his hand, hair doing that effortlessly annoying thing where it looked perfect even in the wind. He had the kind of face people trusted automatically, until he opened his mouth and you realized he was either sweeter than expected or dumber than expected, and it could go either way.

Y/N didn’t know him yet.

Not really.

But she’d already caught him glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, quick, curious looks that weren’t rude, just interested. Like he couldn’t tell if she was going to like him or not and it bothered him slightly.

Nancy had barely finished introducing Y/N properly, name, Emerson, “she’s my roommate,” the basics, before Robin, as if possessed by the spirit of chaos itself, leaned forward and decided to set the entire roof on fire.

“So,” Robin said brightly, eyes flicking between Nancy and Y/N with a grin that made it clear she was about to be unbearable, “you’re the one.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “The one what?”

Nancy made a sound that was basically a warning. “Robin.”

Robin ignored it the way people ignored speed limits.

“The one banging her teacher,” Robin said, with the casual confidence of someone ordering fries.

Time froze.

The wind seemed to pause mid-gust. Even the cooler looked offended.

Y/N’s head snapped toward Nancy so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

Nancy’s face went red immediately, violently, like someone had flipped a switch behind her skin. She looked caught, guilty, and defensive all at once, which would have been funny if Y/N hadn’t felt her entire soul try to exit her body.

“Are you serious?” Y/N hissed, low enough that it didn’t carry, but sharp enough that Nancy flinched.

Nancy’s eyes went wide. “I…”

Robin lifted a hand, as if she was moderating a debate. “Before anyone murders me, I just want to say Nancy said we’re doing honesty. Like, radical honesty. Like, ‘we’re on a roof and we have beer and nobody can stop us’ honesty.”

“Nancy,” Y/N said again, voice tighter now.

Nancy’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again like she was searching for the right sentence and finding none.

Jonathan, meanwhile, took a slow sip of his beer like he’d decided not to react too hard because it was already spiraling, but his eyes flicked to Y/N with something like sympathy.

Steve had gone very still in his chair, bottle paused halfway to his mouth. His brows pulled together, not judgmental so much as processing. Like his brain was trying to line up “Nancy’s roommate” with “banging her teacher” and struggling with the math.

Y/N could feel heat crawl up her neck. Not just embarrassment, something angrier, because she hadn’t come to Hawkins to have her private life discussed like it was gossip on a roof.

Nancy, apparently sensing the incoming death sentence, did something so painfully Nancy Wheeler it almost made Y/N want to scream. She looked at Y/N with the world’s most pathetic, apologetic puppy-dog expression.

It was shameless.

It was manipulative.

It almost worked.

Nancy’s voice came out small. “I’m sorry.”

Y/N stared. “You told them?”

Nancy winced. “I… yes.”

“Why?” Y/N demanded, then immediately regretted how shaky the word sounded.

Nancy lifted both hands, palms out, pleading. “Because I had to talk to someone about it, or write it down. And I couldn’t write it down because if someone found it…”

Robin nodded aggressively. “Facts. Paper trails are how you die.”

Nancy shot Robin a look. Robin made a face like she was being helpful.

Nancy turned back to Y/N, eyes earnest. “And they’re miles away. They don’t know anyone at Emerson. It felt safe.”

Y/N’s mouth tightened. “Safe. Great.”

Robin leaned forward again, unable to stop herself. “Also, it was kind of impossible for her not to talk about it because she was walking around the house like she had a classified file in her spine.”

Nancy glared. “Robin, please.”

Robin held up both hands again. “I’m just saying. She was stressed. She was like…” Robin mimed writing furiously in the air. “Nancy Wheeler, investigative journalism, except the story was: My roommate is making terrible decisions and I’m emotionally invested against my will.”

Nancy’s face went redder. “That is not…”

Jonathan finally spoke, voice calm, grounded, like he was tossing a rope into the middle of the chaos.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said to Y/N, “they all know. But nobody’s telling anyone.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked to him, still tight. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Jonathan shrugged slightly, not offended. “It’s Hawkins. Nobody here cares about Emerson gossip. And if anyone tried to spread it, Nancy would probably bury them in a headline.”

Nancy muttered, “I would.”

Robin pointed at Jonathan like he’d just delivered the moral of the story. “See? Protective. Loyal. Terrifying.”

Y/N tried to breathe through her nose like Nancy had told her a hundred times when she was spiraling. It didn’t help much.

She looked at Nancy again, really looked, at the guilt in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. Nancy wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t treating it like entertainment. She looked like she’d been carrying it too, in her own way, and had finally cracked enough to tell someone because she didn’t know what else to do.

Y/N exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” she said, voice forced steady. “Okay. Fine.”

Nancy’s shoulders dropped a fraction, relief immediate.

Y/N held up a finger. “But we’re not doing this like it’s a joke.”

Robin opened her mouth.

Nancy snapped, “Robin.”

Robin shut it with a dramatic zipper motion.

Steve, who had been quiet far longer than seemed natural for him, cleared his throat, careful, like he wasn’t sure what tone he was allowed.

“So,” he started, then stopped, then tried again. “Uh. Are we, like… allowed to ask questions? Or is this a ‘do not touch the trauma’ situation?”

Robin’s head whipped toward him. “Steve, shut up.”

“What?” Steve protested, defensive. “I’m being respectful.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Steve, assessing. He looked genuinely concerned, not gross, not amused. Just out of his depth, trying to behave.

It was strangely disarming.

“We’re not doing questions,” Y/N said flatly.

Steve nodded immediately. “Okay. No questions. Got it.”

Robin pointed at him. “Wow. Growth.”

Steve shot her a look. “I hate you.”

Robin beamed. “You love me.”

Nancy edged closer to Y/N, voice lower now, more private. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I wasn’t trying to… I just… I didn’t know what to do with it.”

Y/N swallowed, the anger still there but no longer spiking. “I know,” she admitted, begrudgingly. “You’re just… you’re you.”

Nancy’s expression softened. “Yeah.”

Y/N looked out over the roof edge at the town, the streetlights blinking on one by one. The sky was deepening to purple. The air smelled like winter and old brick and beer.

It was weirdly peaceful up here, even with the chaos.

She realized, suddenly, that she hadn’t been laughed at. Not really. Robin had said it like Robin said everything, too loud, too blunt, but Nancy looked ashamed, Jonathan looked protective, and even Steve looked like he wanted to be decent about it.

They weren’t judging her.

They were just being people.

Y/N let out a slow breath and turned back toward the group, shoulders easing the tiniest amount.

Robin immediately seized the opening like it was a door left unlocked.

“Okay,” Robin said, grinning again, softer now. “No questions. Fine. But I do get to say one thing.”

Nancy narrowed her eyes. “Robin.”

Robin held up a hand. “Just one. And it’s not gross. It’s logistical.”

Y/N blinked, wary. “What?”

Robin gestured vaguely toward the cooler. “Drink. Because if you’re going to have complicated feelings about a morally questionable academic entanglement, you might as well do it with a beer on a roof at sunset like a movie.”

Y/N stared at her.

Then, against her will, she let out a short laugh.

It surprised her so much she almost looked around to see who had made the sound.

Nancy’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide in relief, like she’d just seen proof that Y/N wasn’t completely gone.

Robin looked absurdly pleased with herself. “There she is.”

Jonathan’s expression softened.

Steve, still watching Y/N more than he probably meant to, relaxed slightly in his chair, like the tension on the roof had finally dropped a notch.

Y/N took a beer when Nancy offered it, cold bottle sweating against her palm. She didn’t drink right away, just held it, letting the chill anchor her.

Then she looked at Nancy again, quietly.

“You owe me,” Y/N said.

Nancy nodded immediately. “I know.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched. “And if Robin says anything else…”

Robin lifted both hands. “I’m muzzled.”

Nancy muttered, “Thank God.”

Y/N finally took a sip.

It tasted like bitterness and cold and something almost like freedom.

And for the first time in days, sitting on a roof in a town she didn’t belong to with people who somehow made space for her anyway, she felt the tight knot in her chest loosen, just a fraction, as the night stretched out ahead of them.

. . .

Y/N ended up on the edge of the roof without really meaning to.

The rest of them were still clustered around the cooler and the mismatched chairs, laughing at something Robin said. Jonathan looked quietly amused, Nancy half-arguing with her drink in hand the way she always did when she was trying to pretend she wasn’t tired.

But Y/N needed a second.

So she sat on the low brick ledge, turned sideways, and let her legs dangle over the drop. The air smelled like cold metal and distant exhaust and that weird electric hum that always clung to buildings with antennas. The sunset had thinned into a dusty purple, and the town below looked smaller from up here: soft lights, quiet streets, the illusion that nothing bad ever happened in a place like this.

Footsteps crunched behind her.

Not loud. Not aggressive.

She didn’t turn right away, but she felt him stop a few feet away like he was asking permission without words.

“Hey,” Steve said, voice easy. “Can I sit?”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder.

He was holding a beer bottle by the neck, but he wasn’t drinking it, just holding it like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. His hair was wind-tossed, jacket collar slightly crooked, and he looked oddly careful for someone who carried himself like he never had to be.

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah.”

Steve sat beside her, leaving enough space to be polite but close enough that she could feel his warmth in the cold. For a moment, neither of them talked. They just watched the sky change and listened to Robin cackle at something that sounded like an insult she’d been waiting all week to deliver.

Y/N’s eyes flicked back toward the group and landed on Nancy reaching for another beer.

“Nancy,” Y/N called out immediately. “Put it down.”

Nancy froze with the bottle halfway to her mouth and looked over like she’d been caught stealing. “What?”

“I said put it down,” Y/N repeated, louder this time. “I know exactly what you’re about to do.”

Nancy squinted. “You can’t boss me…”

“I absolutely can,” Y/N cut in, pointing at her. “Because I don’t like you drunk.”

Robin made a delighted noise. “Oh my God, she’s right.”

Jonathan nodded calmly from his chair like this was an established fact. “She’s right.”

Steve, beside Y/N, huffed a laugh under his breath. “Yeah. She’s right.”

Nancy looked betrayed. “Excuse me?”

Y/N stared her down. “You get drunk and you start mumbling and rambling, and you say the word ‘bullshit’ every ten seconds like it’s punctuation.”

Nancy opened her mouth, then immediately closed it.

Robin leaned forward, delighted. “Her favorite drunk word is ‘bullshit’?”

Jonathan answered like he was reading a report. “It is.”

Steve nodded too. “It definitely is. I’ve heard it.”

Nancy glared at all of them. “You’re all terrible.”

Y/N softened only slightly. “And you get mean, Nance. Not on purpose, but you do.”

That made Nancy pause. The glare faded into something quieter. She looked away first, like she hated being seen too clearly, then set the bottle back in the cooler with a grumpy shove.

“There,” Nancy muttered. “Happy?”

Y/N exhaled. “Yes.”

Steve watched the exchange with something like surprise, then something like understanding. When Nancy turned back toward Robin and Jonathan, Steve leaned slightly closer to Y/N, voice lower.

“You really care about her,” he said.

Y/N’s gaze stayed on Nancy, lingering a beat. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I do.”

Steve was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, “She needed someone like that.”

Y/N’s eyebrows pulled together. “Like what?”

Steve hesitated, his jaw flexing like he was choosing how much to say. His eyes flicked toward Nancy, then back to the horizon.

“After Barb,” he said quietly.

Y/N’s chest tightened a little. She’d heard the name tonight like it was sacred, the way Nancy said it without saying much at all.

“All I know is…” Y/N swallowed. “She died.”

Steve’s expression shifted, something pained, something guilty that didn’t belong to him anymore but still sat on his shoulders anyway.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “She did.”

He didn’t go into details. He didn’t force the story onto her like a warning label. He just sat there with it for a second, like he respected the weight Nancy carried and the fact that Y/N had taken some of it without even being asked.

Y/N looked down at her boots swinging over open air. “Nancy doesn’t talk about it much.”

Steve’s voice went quieter. “She doesn’t. Not unless she trusts you.”

Y/N’s throat tightened in a way that felt strangely proud. “Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

A beat passed. The wind tugged at the ends of her hair.

Then Y/N glanced at Steve again, shifting the subject because she needed it to.

“So,” she said cautiously, “you and Nancy…”

Steve’s mouth twitched, half amusement, half resignation. “Yeah. Me and Nancy.”

Y/N didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but her voice came out careful anyway. “Is that weird? Me being here? Her trying to set us up?”

Steve shook his head immediately. “No,” he said. “No, it’s not weird.”

Y/N studied him. “You sure?”

Steve leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky like it held the simplest answer.

“What Nancy and I had, that was in the past,” he said. Not bitter. Not defensive. Just honest. “We were kids. We did what we did. We learned what we learned.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And now?”

Steve glanced at her, and something in his face softened. “Now I’m looking at the future,” he said. “I’m trying to be better than the guy I was.”

Y/N’s lips parted, a quiet breath. She nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Maybe I am too.”

Steve’s gaze stayed on her a little longer after she said that, like he liked hearing it.

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “So… what’s he like?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Your teacher,” Steve clarified, tone casual but curious. “The one Robin yelled about.”

Y/N let out a laugh that surprised her, short and real and a little helpless. “Oh my God.”

Steve smiled. “What? I’m just asking.”

Y/N looked away, cheeks warm. “He’s… I don’t know.”

Steve waited.

Y/N sighed, staring at the town below like it had answers written on it. “He’s smart,” she admitted. “Like, frustratingly smart. The kind of person who makes you want to argue because he sounds so sure of himself.”

Steve’s brow lifted, interested. “Okay.”

“And he listens,” Y/N added, quieter. “Which sounds stupid, because obviously professors listen in class, but…” She swallowed. “He listens like what I say actually matters.”

Steve didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease.

He just nodded once, like that made sense in a way he understood too well.

Y/N kept talking because it felt weirdly easier to say it to Steve than it had been to Nancy. Maybe because Steve was new to her. Maybe because he wasn’t tangled up in her week-to-week pain the way Nancy was. Maybe because he was sitting beside her like he didn’t want anything from her except honesty.

“He makes me feel seen,” Y/N admitted. “And then he doesn’t. And that’s the problem.”

Steve’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That sounds like a problem.”

Y/N’s laugh turned bitter. “It is.”

Steve watched her for a second, then took a breath like he was about to step onto thin ice.

“I like you,” he said.

Y/N blinked, startled.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less smooth. “I mean, I just met you, so that sounds insane, but…” He looked at her again, steadying. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You care about Nancy in a way that makes me trust you immediately.” His mouth twitched. “And you’re really pretty.”

Y/N felt her face heat so fast she almost wanted to duck off the roof.

“Steve,” she started.

“I’m not trying to be weird,” he cut in quickly. “I just… I would really like to take you out.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

Steve held up one hand, gentle. “But I also have eyes,” he added, softer. “And you’re not over him.”

The sentence landed with a quiet kind of sadness.

Y/N swallowed hard. Her gaze dropped to her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together.

“I’m not,” she admitted.

Steve nodded like it hurt a little but he wasn’t going to make it her problem. “Yeah.”

Y/N looked back at him, eyes glossy in the dim light. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Steve said immediately. “It’s not something you apologize for. It’s just where you are.”

Y/N’s throat tightened again. “You’re really good,” she said, like she was realizing it in real time.

Steve gave a crooked smile. “I try.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “If I had fewer issues,” she said quietly, “and if I’d met you sooner…”

Steve’s expression softened, patient. “Yeah?”

Y/N nodded, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “You would’ve been good to me,” she said. “Good for me.”

Steve didn’t argue. He didn’t try to convince her otherwise.

He just sat beside her on the edge of the roof, feet planted, shoulder warm near hers, and looked out over Hawkins like he was willing to be here anyway. No pressure. No punishment. No ultimatum.

After a moment, he nudged her gently with his shoulder. “You deserve that,” he said quietly. “Even if it’s not me right now.”

Y/N’s eyes burned.

She blinked hard and let the wind dry them before they fell.

Then she forced a small smile and leaned her shoulder back into his, just enough to say thank you without words.

And behind them, Nancy’s laugh rose again, Robin’s voice cutting through it, Jonathan’s quiet presence steady as ever, proof that, for tonight at least, Y/N had somewhere to be that wasn’t Henry’s classroom.

. . . 

Sunday in Hawkins had that slow, end-of-weekend drag to it: quiet streets, pale winter light, and the faint sense that the clock was already ticking toward the drive back to Emerson College.

Nancy Wheeler drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the radio like she was thinking about turning it on and deciding against it. Y/N sat in the passenger seat with an iced coffee in the cup holder, watching Hawkins slide by through the window: brick storefronts, sleepy intersections, the kind of town that looked harmless if you didn’t know where to look.

They passed a squat brick building with a familiar sign out front.

The Hawkins Post.

Nancy nodded toward it without slowing much. “That’s the Post.”

Y/N’s eyes lingered on the building. “That’s where you worked.”

Nancy’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “My first job in ‘journalism.’” The sarcasm in her voice was practiced and tired. “Which really meant I was the coffee-and-lunch errand girl.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened instantly.

She remembered Nancy talking about it back in their dorm late at night, her voice too casual for something that had clearly left bruises. The way the men in that building treated her like she was decoration. The sexist comments. The dismissive laughs. The fact that she had been smart and ambitious and eager, and they’d still looked through her like she was glass.

Y/N’s hands curled in her lap.

“That’s disgusting,” she said, anger rising fast.

Nancy shrugged like she’d learned to shrug for survival. “It was Hawkins. It was… what it was.”

Y/N turned in her seat to look at her properly. “Men like them are exactly why women like us have to fight just to have an opinion,” she said, voice sharp. “To be taken seriously. To exist in a room without being treated like some kind of—”

Nancy shot her a glance, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “Yeah.”

Y/N swallowed, gaze still locked on that building as it receded behind them. The anger didn’t fade. It sharpened.

A beat passed. Just the hum of tires on pavement, the faint rattle of the heater, Nancy’s steady breathing.

Then Y/N asked, quiet but lethal, “Who were the worst of them?”

Nancy hesitated, only a second, but Y/N saw it. The flicker of memory in her eyes. The tightening at her jaw.

“Bruce Lowe,” Nancy said, clipped. “And Tom Holloway. He owns the Post.”

Y/N nodded once like she’d just been handed a list.

Nancy barely had time to register the shift before Y/N’s hand reached into the cup holder, grabbed her iced coffee, and the passenger door clicked open.

“No,” Nancy started, alarm spiking. “Y/N, what are you doing?”

Y/N stepped out and shut the door gently. Gently, like she wasn’t about to wage war.

Nancy leaned across the console, eyes wide. “Y/N!”

Y/N didn’t look back. She just lifted the coffee slightly, as if saying trust me, and walked toward the entrance of The Hawkins Post with the kind of stride that said she had never met a consequence she respected.

The glass door opened with a small bell-like jingle.

Inside smelled like old paper, ink, and cheap aftershave. A bored receptionist sat behind the front desk with a phone nearby and a clipboard in front of her. She glanced up lazily as Y/N approached.

“Hi,” Y/N said brightly, her smile polite and entirely untrustworthy. “I’m looking for Bruce Lowe and Tom Holloway.”

The receptionist blinked. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Nope,” Y/N said cheerfully.

“Then I can’t—”

“It’s fine,” Y/N replied, and before the receptionist could finish, Y/N was already walking past the desk like she belonged there.

“Miss,” the receptionist called, standing. “Miss, you can’t—”

Y/N didn’t slow.

She followed the sound of voices, male and loud and self-assured, down the hall.

Then she pushed open a conference room door without knocking.

The room was full of men crowded around a table scattered with papers, coffee cups, and half-eaten lunches. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a permanent stain. They were mid-conversation, talking over each other with the casual entitlement of people who’d never been told no in their lives.

“Beauty pageant,” one of them said, laughing. “That’s what sells. Get the girls in nice lighting.”

Another voice chimed in, cruder. Something about bodies. Legs. Smiles. A few of them snickered like it was clever.

Then they noticed Y/N.

Silence rippled through the room.

A man in a wrinkled shirt, Bruce Lowe, instantly recognizable from Nancy’s stories by the smugness alone, leaned back and looked her over like she was inventory.

“Wrong room,” he said, annoyed.

Another, older and heavier at the head of the table, Tom Holloway, frowned. “Who the hell are you?”

And then, like she was already assigned a role, someone waved a lazy hand toward the table. “Just leave the lunches and condiments right there.”

Y/N’s smile stayed in place.

“Oh,” she said, her voice sweet as poison. “That’s funny.”

They stared, confused and irritated.

Y/N stepped fully into the room, unhurried. “I don’t work for you,” she said calmly. “But I am a writer. A journalist, actually. And I’m a friend of Nancy Wheeler.”

Recognition flickered: annoyance, contempt, that instant instinct to dismiss anything connected to Nancy.

Bruce’s mouth curled. “Nancy Drew has friends now?”

A couple of men chuckled.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She lifted the iced coffee slightly. “This,” she said, still smiling, “is for her.”

Before anyone could move, before anyone could stop her, Y/N dumped the entire iced coffee over Tom Holloway’s head.

It splashed across his hair and face, soaked his collar, and ran down the front of his shirt in brown streams. Ice cubes bounced off his shoulder and clattered onto the table.

Tom jolted up so fast his chair scraped. “What the—!”

Y/N didn’t pause to enjoy it. She reached across the table, grabbed the nearest unfinished sandwich, mustard already smeared thickly on one slice of bread.

Bruce Lowe started to rise, sputtering, hands lifting.

Too late.

Y/N slapped the mustard-covered bread straight into his face.

A wet, humiliating smack. Mustard smeared across his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth.

Bruce shouted, stumbling back, hands flying up.

Y/N leaned in just enough for him, and everyone in the room, to hear her clearly.

“Looks like you finally got that missing mustard you wanted,” she said with a bright, satisfied smile.

For one stunned beat, no one moved.

Then the room erupted.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” someone barked.

Bruce cursed, wiping at his face, furious and humiliated.

Tom was shaking with rage, coffee dripping off his chin. “I’m calling the cops!” he shouted, his voice cracking with indignation.

Y/N backed toward the door like she was leaving a dinner party, calm as anything. “Go ahead!” she called back. “I’m not from Hawkins, jackass!”

She yanked open the conference room door and strode out, leaving chaos in her wake.

The receptionist in the lobby stared as Y/N walked past, wide-eyed and frozen. Y/N didn’t slow until she was outside, the cold air hitting her cheeks like a reset.

Nancy was still in the car, half-turned in her seat, looking like she’d just witnessed a crime and wasn’t sure whether to stop it or take notes.

Y/N opened the passenger door, slid in, and shut it gently, again gently, as if she had merely popped inside for a pamphlet.

She set the empty cup in the holder, brushed her hands together once, and turned to Nancy with a calm, satisfied smile.

Nancy stared at her. “Did you just—”

Y/N buckled her seatbelt like nothing happened. “If they didn’t hate us before,” she said sweetly, “they definitely do now.”

Nancy blinked, still stunned, then her mouth parted like she was about to scold her.

But instead, Nancy’s expression cracked.

A laugh burst out of her, sharp, disbelieving, relieved.

Y/N watched her, that same pleased smile still on her face, like she’d just done the most reasonable thing in the world.

Nancy shook her head, laughing harder now. “You’re insane.”

Y/N leaned back in the seat, eyes glittering. “Maybe.”

Nancy wiped at her eyes, still laughing. “They’re absolutely going to remember that.”

Y/N turned her head to look back through the rear window at the Post disappearing down the street.

“Good,” she said quietly. “I want them to.”

. . . 

It had been a few weeks since she’d put the Polaroids on Henry’s desk.

A few weeks since she’d looked him in the eyes and said she was still upset, still hurt, still angry enough to shake, even while part of her hated how much she still wanted him.

Sleep hadn’t fixed anything.

If anything, it had sharpened the edges. She woke with that familiar ache under her ribs, the kind that didn’t let you forget even when you tried. She lay there staring at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the radiator clink and the distant dorm sounds: someone laughing down the hall, a door shutting, someone’s radio murmuring. Then she finally sat up.

Nancy was still asleep in her bed across the room, curled under her blanket with her hair all over the pillow. The typewriter sat on her desk like a promise. The room smelled faintly of winter coats and paper and last night’s coffee.

Y/N moved quietly, slipping into the bathroom with her toiletry bag tucked under her arm.

She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and stared at herself in the mirror until her reflection started to look like a person again.

Then her eyes shifted, slowly, to the closet door.

And an idea settled into her bones.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Sharp.

Petty.

Necessary.

If Henry wanted distance, if he wanted consequences, if he wanted to learn what it felt like to lose something and have to sit with it, then she could give him exactly that.

She opened her closet and started picking, not with the mind of someone dressing for class, but with the mind of someone crafting a message.

You don’t get to pretend I don’t exist.

She pulled out an oversized knit sweater, thick and soft, the kind that made her look effortless and warm. It was a little too big, with sleeves that swallowed her wrists, and a collar loose enough to slip off one shoulder if she moved wrong. The sweater smelled like her detergent, a faint clean sweetness that always made her feel put together.

She held it up, considering.

Then she made a decision that felt like power.

No bra.

Not because she needed attention from the world. She didn’t care about the world.

She cared about one specific man who had learned to look at her like hunger and then forced himself to look away like she was nothing.

She pulled it over her head and watched the fabric settle. The knit clung just enough to remind her that Henry had eyes. That Henry had a pulse. That he’d memorized her shape whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Next came high-waisted acid wash jeans, button-fly, snug in the waist, perfect on her hips. The kind that sat high and made her feel like she could walk through fire without flinching.

Boots too, solid and a little heeled, loud enough on tile to announce her presence.

She put on a little lip color, just enough to make her mouth look alive. Not a full face, not dramatic. Something that said, I’m okay. Something that dared anyone to believe it.

Finally, she shrugged into her black pea coat, heavy and structured, the winter air already sneaking through the window cracks like it was impatient.

When she stepped back from the mirror, she didn’t look like a girl who’d spent days crying under a blanket.

She looked like someone who could ruin a man’s morning just by walking into a room.

And for the first time since he’d said mistake, she felt something like satisfaction.

She stepped out of the bathroom and found Nancy awake now, sitting up in bed with her hair a mess, blinking blearily as she watched Y/N cross the room.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed almost immediately.

“Okay,” Nancy said, her voice raspy from sleep. “What is that?”

Y/N paused at her desk, sliding her notebook into her bag with deliberate calm. “An outfit.”

Nancy stared harder. “No, I’m serious. You look like you’re going to audition for… I don’t know. A revenge fantasy.”

Y/N didn’t look at her as she zipped the bag. “Maybe I am.”

Nancy swung her legs over the side of the bed, rubbing her eyes, then looked Y/N up and down again with very specific Wheeler skepticism.

“Oversized sweater,” Nancy listed, squinting. “Acid wash jeans. Boots. Coat. You look… good.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched faintly. “I know.”

Nancy’s gaze sharpened further, and then she glanced meaningfully at Y/N’s chest. “Is there…?”

Y/N cut in smoothly. “A bra? No.”

Nancy’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus Christ.”

Y/N finally turned to face her, leaning back against the desk with forced nonchalance. “Don’t start.”

Nancy’s expression shifted into full investigative reporter mode. “Oh, I’m starting. Why are you dressing like you’re about to commit a felony in an English classroom?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked away briefly, then back. She didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know exactly why.

“Because,” she said, voice calm but threaded with something sharper, “if he wants to play professor again, if he wants to sit up there and pretend he doesn’t know me…”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh my God.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “…then he can do it while realizing exactly what he’s choosing to lose.”

Nancy stared at her for a long beat.

Then she exhaled slowly, a hand lifting to her forehead like she couldn’t believe the sentence she was about to say.

“You are insane.”

Y/N’s mouth curved, humorless. “You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true.”

Y/N did send her a genuine smile through the reflection of the mirror in response.

Nancy’s gaze softened a fraction, but the irritation stayed. “You told me you were still upset.”

“I am,” Y/N said immediately. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, forcing it down. “I’m upset. I’m hurt. I’m furious.”

Nancy watched her closely.

Y/N continued, quieter now, honest in a way that didn’t come naturally. “But I’m not going to sit there and act like he gets to break me and then keep my softness like it belongs to him. He doesn’t.”

Nancy’s expression shifted, approval flickering through despite herself. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “That… I agree with.”

Y/N grabbed her bag strap and slid it onto her shoulder. “Good.”

Nancy’s eyes lifted again, pointed. “Still. No bra?”

Y/N shrugged like it was nothing, like it didn’t make her heartbeat spike. “He’ll notice. That’s the point.”

Nancy groaned and flopped back onto her pillow for a second like the world was exhausting. “I hate you.”

Y/N’s lips twitched. “No you don’t.”

Nancy sat up again, eyes narrowing. “Just… be careful. The line between ‘making him regret it’ and ‘making yourself miserable’ is thin.”

Y/N held Nancy’s gaze for a moment.

Then her mouth softened, not into a smile, but into something real. “I know.”

Nancy sighed, resigned. “Fine. Go ruin his day.”

Y/N grabbed her keys from the desk. At the door, she paused, hand on the knob.

Nancy spoke again, quieter, like she couldn’t help herself. “You’re doing this because you want him to feel it, right? Not because you think looking good will fix it.”

Y/N swallowed.

Then she glanced back, eyes steady. “I’m doing this because you’d find out eventually anyway.”

Nancy blinked. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Y/N’s mouth curved just slightly, a small, sharp smile.

“It answers enough,” she said.

Then she left, the door clicking shut behind her, boots echoing down the hallway like punctuation marks, like she was writing the next chapter herself.

. . . 

Fourth period always had a different kind of air to it.

By the time Y/N reached the building, the campus was fully awake: students cutting across the quad with coffee cups, scarves pulled up to their noses, boots crunching over salt-dusted steps. Her black pea coat stayed buttoned all the way up, collar turned against the wind, but underneath it she felt almost too warm. Like she’d dressed herself in a secret she could feel in her bones.

Nancy was already outside the classroom when Y/N got there, notebook tucked under her arm, expression somewhere between wary and entertained.

“You really committed,” Nancy murmured as Y/N approached, eyes flicking once over her outfit like she was cataloging evidence.

Y/N didn’t slow. “We’re not talking about it.”

Nancy’s mouth twitched. “Oh, we’re talking about it. Just later. When I’m not standing in the hallway outside his classroom like I’m about to witness a crime.”

Y/N pushed the door open, and they slipped inside with the rest of the students.

Henry was at the front, of course he was, already composed, chalk in hand, the day’s work laid out in neat piles like order could keep the world from touching him. He looked the same: professional, controlled, everything buttoned up.

But when his gaze swept the room and landed on Y/N, something microscopic shifted.

He didn’t stare. He didn’t react in any way the class would notice.

Still, Y/N saw the way his eyes paused half a beat too long. Saw the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just swallowed something sharp.

And the anger she’d been carrying flared, not because she hated him, but because she hated that he could still make her feel anything at all.

She chose her seat deliberately. Not hiding in the back. Not avoiding him.

Where she always used to sit, close enough to be seen, close enough to be remembered.

Nancy slid into the chair beside her with a quiet sigh like she was bracing herself.

“Okay,” Nancy whispered, flipping her notebook open. “Mission: make him suffer.”

Y/N didn’t look at her. “Mission: pass the test.”

Nancy snorted under her breath, clearly not buying it.

Class started. Henry’s voice filled the room, calm and even, the same intellectual cadence that had once felt like a lullaby and now felt like a blade if she listened too closely.

He announced there would be a short in-class test.

Groans rippled through the room.

Y/N kept her face neutral, pen poised. She didn’t let Henry see nerves. She wasn’t giving him anything he didn’t earn.

For the first few minutes, she kept her pea coat on.

It wasn’t dramatic, she told herself. It was simply cold in the classroom; the old building was always drafty. But she could feel the sweater underneath, the knit stretching slightly when she shifted, the shape of her body softened by fabric and then not softened at all in the places that mattered.

She could feel the heat of her own decision, the private pulse of it.

Nancy leaned slightly toward her and muttered, “Are you going to keep the coat on for the entire class, or are you building suspense?”

Y/N kept her eyes forward. “Shut up.”

But after a few minutes, the room warmed with bodies and breath and the radiator’s stubborn clanking.

Y/N unbuttoned her pea coat slowly.

Not teasing. Not performative.

Just inevitable.

She slid it off her shoulders, the heavy black fabric falling away, and draped it over the back of her chair.

The oversized knit sweater underneath looked innocent enough, soft and slouchy, sleeves swallowing her wrists, but the looseness of the knit and the way it sat on her made her feel exposed in a way that wasn’t entirely about skin.

She felt Nancy’s eyes cut sideways to her, then away again.

Nancy didn’t say anything.

Which meant Nancy had noticed.

Y/N kept her posture calm, chin lifted, gaze on the board like she wasn’t acutely aware of a man at the front of the room who had once kissed her throat in the dark and promised she was safe.

Henry continued without missing a beat. If anyone watched closely, they’d see him pick up the stack of tests and begin walking the rows, methodical and controlled, handing one paper to each student like a ritual.

When he reached Y/N’s row, her pulse tightened in her throat.

She didn’t look up at him at first. She forced herself to stare at the blank top line of the paper, as if it was the only thing that mattered.

Henry’s shadow fell over her desk.

His hand set the test down in front of her.

And then he looked down.

It was subtle. Just a flick of his gaze, the way a person’s eyes move when they’re taking in a student’s posture or checking whether they’ve written their name.

But Y/N felt it instantly: the tiny shift in the air, the infinitesimal pause that didn’t belong to professionalism.

His eyes dropped, too low and too long.

To the hardened peaks of her nipples visible through the sweater’s fabric.

And for the briefest moment, the mask on his face slipped.

Not fully. Not enough for the class to notice.

But enough for Y/N to see the flash of it in his gaze: heat, hunger, a sharp, involuntary reaction he couldn’t file away fast enough.

Y/N’s grip tightened on her pen.

She didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her react.

Instead, she lifted her eyes slowly to meet his.

Henry’s expression was composed again in an instant, professor first, man second, but his pupils looked darker than they had a second ago, and the tight line of his jaw said he was fighting something.

Y/N held his gaze for one heartbeat longer than necessary.

Not pleading.

Not sweet.

Just a quiet reminder.

You did this. You chose to lose this.

Henry’s throat bobbed once, like he swallowed hard.

He moved on.

But the air felt different after he passed, charged, faintly electric, like the room had shifted by a degree only she could measure.

Nancy leaned toward her and whispered through the corner of her mouth, “Oh my God.”

Y/N kept her eyes on the test. “Don’t.”

“I’m not judging,” Nancy hissed, eyes wide. “I’m observing. Like a journalist.”

Y/N’s lips pressed into a thin line. She forced her breathing to stay steady, forced her pen to touch paper.

She wrote her name at the top.

And as she began the first question, she could feel Henry at the front of the room again. Even without looking, she could sense the faint tension in the way he’d returned to his desk too quickly.

Like he was trying to put distance between himself and a choice he could still taste.

Y/N finished the last question with a kind of grim satisfaction, like she’d carved her way through it on spite alone.

Her hand ached from writing. Her sweater sleeves were pushed up to her forearms, and the classroom had settled into that test-taking hush: pencils scratching, someone clearing their throat, Henry’s quiet footsteps moving now and then between the rows like a metronome.

When she was done, she didn’t sit there second-guessing.

She capped her pen, smoothed the paper once, then stood.

Her chair legs made a soft scrape against the floor, loud enough in the silence to turn a few heads. Y/N kept her face neutral as she walked up to the front, test in hand.

Henry was at his desk, leaning over a stack of papers, posture controlled. He didn’t look up immediately, professional timing, the kind that pretended he wasn’t aware of her at all times.

But when Y/N stopped at the corner of his desk and placed her test down, his gaze lifted.

And then it dipped.

Not subtle this time, not in the way that mattered.

His eyes tracked the line of her sweater, the soft knit draping over her hardened peaks, the fact that she’d chosen to make it impossible for him not to notice. It was only a second, maybe less. The class wouldn’t see it. If anyone did, they’d assume it was accidental.

Y/N knew better.

She felt the heat of his attention like a hand.

Henry’s jaw tightened. His expression stayed unreadable, but his eyes looked darker than they had at the start of class.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear.

Y/N didn’t give him a smile. She didn’t give him anything easy.

She just held his gaze for one beat, long enough to remind him she’d seen him looking, then turned and walked back to her seat with her shoulders steady and her pulse not steady at all.

Nancy’s eyes followed her like a spectator at a tennis match. When Y/N sat back down, Nancy leaned in slightly, whispering without moving her mouth too much.

“He looked,” Nancy murmured.

Y/N kept her eyes forward. “Nancy.”

“I’m just saying,” Nancy continued, barely contained, “you could power the entire dorm with that tension.”

Y/N’s pen tapped once against her desk. “Please focus.”

Nancy huffed, but she quieted.

A few minutes later, Henry’s voice cut through the room.

“Pencils down.”

The scrape of graphite stopped. Papers rustled. Students sighed and shifted, relief and annoyance mixing in the air.

Henry began walking the aisles, collecting exams and scanning the room the way he always did, like he could tell who’d cheated just by looking at them.

Y/N sat still, hands folded on her desk, face composed.

She felt him before she saw him: the faint change in the space near her, the shadow that fell across the edge of her notebook.

Henry paused beside her desk for only a moment, as if he were simply passing through.

But then his hand moved.

He set something down with careful precision, like he didn’t want the sound to give him away.

A small square of paper.

A sticky note.

His fingertips lingered a fraction longer than necessary, as if the act of placing it there cost him restraint.

Then he continued walking, voice resuming as if nothing had happened.

“Please pass your papers forward.”

Y/N didn’t move right away.

Her heart was beating too loud.

When she finally looked down, the note was tucked partly under the edge of her notebook, positioned so only she could see it.

Henry’s handwriting was unmistakable, neat, controlled, the kind of script that looked like discipline.

After your last class. My apartment. Don’t be late.

No apology. No explanation. No softness.

Just certainty, quiet and private.

Y/N’s throat tightened.

A week ago, that kind of note would’ve made her feel giddy, chosen, powerful.

Now it made something more complicated rise in her: anger still aching under her skin, a fragile pride that she hadn’t folded, and that same stubborn pull toward him that refused to die.

Nancy leaned in, voice barely audible. “What is it?”

Y/N slid the note further under her notebook without looking at Nancy. “Nothing.”

Nancy narrowed her eyes like she could smell a lie. “That’s not—”

“Drop it,” Y/N whispered.

Nancy stared at her a beat longer, then leaned back with a quiet, irritated sigh. “Fine. But I’m not blind.”

Class ended. Chairs scraped. Students filed out into the hallway.

Y/N stayed seated a moment, letting the room empty and letting her breathing settle enough that she could stand without shaking.

Henry didn’t look at her again. He didn’t have to.

The note had done the looking for him.

On the walk between buildings, Y/N kept her coat buttoned, the cold air biting at her cheeks. Her mind replayed the sentence, my apartment, like it was a dare.

By the time her last class ended, she’d made her decision.

She found a pay phone in the hall outside the student lounge, dug coins out of her pocket, and dialed the dorm operator with practiced ease. The line clicked and hummed in her ear.

“Hi,” she said, voice steady. “Can you leave a note for Nancy Wheeler? Tell her I’ll be back later and not to wait up.”

When she hung up, the receiver clacked into place.

Y/N stood there for a second, hand lingering on the phone like it could keep her anchored.

Then she adjusted her bag strap, lifted her chin, and headed out into the winter light, toward Henry’s apartment, toward whatever came next, knowing full well that she was still upset and choosing him anyway.

. . .

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. . .

Morning office hours were usually predictable.

Henry liked them that way: quiet, orderly, students drifting in with questions about essays and commas, the day still clean enough to pretend it would stay that way. He was alone in his classroom early, collar buttoned, chalk dust on his fingertips, a mug of coffee cooling on the corner of his desk.

The knock came sharp and confident.

Henry didn’t look up right away. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Daniel Taylor walked in like he owned the room.

Not nervous. Not hesitant. Not the posture of a student asking for help.

Daniel smiled as if they were equals.

“Professor Creel,” he said warmly, too warmly. “Morning.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mr. Taylor.” His voice was neutral, clipped. “If you’re here about your last paper—”

“Oh, no,” Daniel cut in, still smiling. He shut the door behind him with deliberate care. “I’m not here about a paper.”

That made something cold shift in Henry’s chest.

Daniel strolled closer, hands in his pockets, then stopped at Henry’s desk like he was visiting a friend. He leaned down, not quite disrespectful on the surface, just familiar enough to be wrong.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Daniel said.

Henry finally set his pen down. “About what?”

Daniel’s smile widened, almost apologetic. “About your extracurriculars.”

Henry didn’t react outwardly. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. He’d learned long ago that the first sign of fear was an invitation.

Still, his hand went still on the desk.

Daniel reached into his jacket and pulled out a small stack of Polaroids.

He didn’t toss them. He placed them carefully—one, two, three—spread across Henry’s desk as if he were laying out evidence in court.

The photos were grainy. Dim. Shot from a bad angle.

But clear enough.

A cracked classroom door. A sliver of shadow. Henry’s profile. Y/N too close to him, close in a way that couldn’t be explained away as tutoring. A hand at her waist. Her body angled toward his. The kind of moment that only existed when they believed the world wasn’t watching.

Henry stared at the pictures without blinking.

Daniel watched him like he was studying the moment Henry would break.

“I took them,” Daniel said, casual. “Your door doesn’t always shut all the way. Guess the old building’s settling.” He shrugged. “Or maybe you were too distracted to notice. I would be too with her...”

Henry’s voice stayed even. “What do you want?”

Daniel’s eyebrows lifted, feigning innocence. “Direct.”

Henry’s eyes finally lifted from the photos to Daniel’s face. His gaze was calm, but it was the calm of something dangerous being restrained.

“What,” Henry repeated, “do you want?”

Daniel leaned back slightly, satisfied. “I want you to end it.”

Henry didn’t move.

Daniel tapped the top photo lightly. “Dump her. Cut it off. Whatever you call it.”

Henry’s jaw clenched so hard it made a small muscle jump near his cheek. “And if I don’t?”

Daniel’s smile turned sharp. “Then I take these to the principal. Or the department chair. Or whoever makes the biggest mess.” He shrugged again. “I’m not picky.”

Silence stretched.

Henry’s mind moved fast, and his face gave nothing away.

Y/N’s name wasn’t said aloud, but it filled the room anyway.

Daniel continued, voice still falsely light. “You’re careful, I’ll give you that. But you’re not invisible.” His eyes flicked over Henry’s desk, the classroom, the space where Y/N had laughed once, where she’d challenged him, where she’d looked at him like he was something worth wanting. “And she’s not subtle.”

Henry’s fingers curled slowly against the wood of the desk. “You’re blackmailing me.”

Daniel’s smile thinned. “I’m protecting her.”

The lie was so effortless it almost impressed Henry.

“You?” Henry said quietly.

Daniel’s eyes flashed. “I tried to date her. She used me. Everyone knows it. Then suddenly she’s glowing again, and you’re looking like you haven’t slept in a week.” He tilted his head. “It doesn’t take a genius.”

Henry’s voice dropped lower. “This isn’t about protecting her. This is about you not getting what you wanted.”

Daniel’s expression hardened for a second, then smoothed back into smugness. “Call it what you want. End it, or I ruin both of you.”

Henry stared at him. Not with anger, not yet. With calculation.

He imagined the aftermath in perfect, brutal clarity.

An investigation. Faculty whispers. Students staring. Y/N labeled before she’d even finished school, reduced to a rumor, a scandal, a cautionary tale. Her writing dismissed as favoritism. Her grades questioned. Doors closing quietly in her face without anyone ever admitting why.

He imagined her sitting across from him, trying to be brave while her future burned.

And the worst part, the part Henry couldn’t stop replaying, was that Daniel was right about one thing:

Y/N wasn’t built to endure shame quietly. She’d fight it. She’d challenge it. She’d get loud.

And she’d be punished for it.

Henry’s gaze dropped to the Polaroids again. His throat tightened with something that had nothing to do with fear.

He’d been telling himself it was just heat. Just hunger. Just a secret he could compartmentalize.

But lately it had stopped feeling like that.

Lately, it had started to feel like belonging.

Like waking up with her in his bed.

Like her laughter in his kitchen.

Like the way she looked at him when she wasn’t being clever, when she was soft and tired and needed him.

He’d been careful not to name what that was.

Because naming it would make it real.

And real things could be destroyed.

Daniel broke the silence. “So?”

Henry finally looked up.

“Take your photos,” Henry said calmly.

Daniel blinked. “What?”

Henry’s voice stayed even, but the edge in it was unmistakable. “Take them. Get out of my classroom.”

Daniel’s smile returned, triumphant. “So you’re going to do it?”

Henry didn’t answer.

Daniel scooped up the Polaroids, tucking them back into his jacket with deliberate satisfaction. He stepped toward the door, pausing like he wanted the last word.

“You’re making the right choice,” Daniel said.

Henry’s eyes stayed on him, cold now. “No,” he replied softly. “I’m making the only choice you’re leaving me.”

The door clicked shut.

The room went still again, but it wasn’t the peaceful kind of stillness Henry preferred. It was the kind that came after a gunshot.

Henry sat down slowly, staring at the empty space on his desk where the photos had been.

His coffee had gone cold.

He didn’t notice.

All he could see was Y/N’s face when he’d hurt her before, how she’d tried to cover it with anger, how quickly her eyes had given her away. He imagined doing it again on purpose, more sharply, more final.

He imagined her saying, What are we? and him forcing out words that would cut clean.

He imagined her leaving his apartment, his bed, his life, and never coming back.

And for a moment, just a moment, his composure cracked, not into rage but into something worse:

Regret in advance.

Because he knew what he’d have to do.

He was starting to fall in love with her. He could feel it like a slow, unstoppable tide pulling at the edges of his control.

And that was exactly why he couldn’t let this ruin her.

Henry pressed his fingertips to his temple, eyes closing briefly.

He could protect her reputation.

He could protect her future.

Even if it meant becoming the villain in her story.

When he opened his eyes again, his expression was perfectly composed.

But his chest ached like something had already been torn out.

He reached for a blank piece of paper, an excuse for her to come see him, a reason that wouldn’t look suspicious, and began to write.

Not because he wanted to end it.

Because he didn’t see another way to save her.

. . .

Y/N walked to Creel’s class like the world had finally decided to be kind to her.

It was one of those crisp Boston mornings where the air felt sharp enough to wake you up properly, where the brick buildings looked warm in the early sun. She had her notebook hugged to her chest, her highlighters tucked into the spiral like a bookmark, and a smile she couldn’t stop from forming; small, private, ridiculous.

She hadn’t seen Nancy’s bed made and empty without feeling that pinch of loneliness this time.

She hadn’t woken up with dread sitting on her ribs.

Because she was going to see him.

Because she’d been counting minutes since she’d left his apartment, replaying the way he’d looked at her when he thought no one was watching. Replaying his voice in her head like it could keep her steady through the day. She was still riding that soft, warm hope that maybe, maybe this could keep being theirs.

She slipped into the classroom early like she always did, expecting that familiar flicker in his eyes. Expecting the subtle shift in his posture, the way the air seemed to change when they were in the same room.

Henry was already at his desk.

Neat. Composed. Shirt cuffs buttoned. Chalk ready. Papers aligned like soldiers.

But the moment his gaze found her, something tightened.

Not desire. Not warmth.

Something like grief, quick, buried, gone so fast she almost missed it.

Y/N’s smile faltered for half a second, then she forced it back into place, telling herself she was imagining things. Telling herself it was just morning seriousness. Professor face.

“Good morning,” she said softly, making it sound normal.

“Good morning,” Henry answered.

His voice was the same as always, measured, controlled, but it didn’t wrap around her the way it usually did. It didn’t linger. It didn’t reach.

Y/N slid into her seat, still smiling, still pretending the tiny twist in her stomach wasn’t there. She opened her notebook and waited for him to come closer. For some sign. Anything.

Instead, he stayed behind his desk longer than usual.

When class began and students trickled in, Y/N tried to focus on the lecture. She really did. She wrote notes. She underlined quotes. She raised her hand once, eager, bright, ready to shine the way she always did when she wanted him to see her.

Henry didn’t call on her.

It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone else. He called on another student, moved on, kept the room flowing smoothly.

But Y/N felt it like someone had tapped a bruise.

He walked the aisles like he always did, passing desks, scanning pages, pausing to check someone’s annotation, except every time he came near her row, his path shifted subtly. As if he were avoiding her by inches. As if proximity itself was dangerous now.

Y/N’s pen started to slip in her fingers.

Her stomach churned. Her throat tightened.

What is happening?

She caught his eye once, just once, and the look he gave her made her heart drop.

Not cold.

Not angry.

Worse.

Controlled pity, disguised as indifference.

Her hands went clammy. She kept writing anyway, pretending her notes didn’t start to blur as her eyes watered just enough to sting.

By the time class ended, she was sitting too still.

Too quiet.

As students packed up and chairs scraped the floor, Y/N stayed seated with her notebook open, hoping, praying, this was a misunderstanding that would fix itself the moment the room emptied.

Henry stood at the front like he always did, posture perfect.

“Have a good weekend,” he told the class, voice steady.

Y/N waited until the last student shuffled out.

The door clicked shut. The room fell silent.

Her heart was beating so hard it felt loud.

She stood slowly, forcing her face into something that looked like calm. “Hi,” she said again, as if the word could reset the day.

Henry didn’t smile.

He didn’t come to her.

He stayed by his desk, hands resting on the wood, eyes fixed on a point just past her shoulder like he couldn’t risk looking at her too long.

“Y/N,” he said.

And the way he said her name, careful, distant, made her stomach drop so violently she thought she might be sick.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Her voice came out too light. “Did I do something?”

“You need to stop coming to see me,” Henry said.

The sentence landed like a slap, clean and sudden.

Y/N blinked, not understanding. “What?”

Henry’s jaw flexed. “This ends. Today.”

Her chest hollowed. She stood there, frozen, her fingers gripping her notebook so tightly the spiral bit into her palm.

“You’re…” she tried again, the room tilting slightly. “You’re breaking up with me.”

Henry’s face didn’t change. That was the cruelest part.

“We can’t continue,” he said, voice as flat as if he were discussing a syllabus.

Y/N’s throat tightened until it hurt. “Why?”

Henry’s gaze flicked to her at last, and she saw it: something raw, something hidden under all that control.

Then he buried it again.

“Because it was a mistake,” he said.

The words were surgical. Precise. Designed to cut.

Y/N’s eyes stung instantly. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe through the pain like she could out-stubborn it.

“A mistake,” she repeated, barely a whisper.

Henry’s mouth tightened, just slightly, like the word tasted bitter. “Yes.”

Y/N stared at him, waiting for the joke. Waiting for the reveal. Waiting for him to step forward and soften and tell her he was scared and he didn’t mean it.

He didn’t.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered, voice shaking now despite her best effort. “Henry…”

“I do,” he said.

Her heart broke in real time. She felt it, something inside her cracking, sharp and sickening, like ice giving way.

Her eyes drifted helplessly to his hands, so steady, then to his face, so controlled.

“How can you say that?” she managed. “After everything. After…” Her voice caught, and she forced it out anyway because the pain demanded language. “After you held me. After you let me come to you when I was scared. After you…”

Henry cut her off, voice harder now, as if softness would ruin him. “This is not up for discussion.”

Y/N’s breath shuddered. She nodded quickly, too quickly, because if she didn’t do something she would fall apart right there at his feet, and she refused to give him that.

Her face went still, pain sealed behind her eyes.

“Okay,” she said.

Henry’s gaze flickered, a crack of something that almost looked like regret.

Y/N didn’t let herself stare at it too long.

She picked up her bag with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. She tucked her notebook against her chest like armor.

Then she walked to the door.

Every step felt unreal, like her body was moving while her mind stayed behind, still trying to negotiate with the moment.

Her fingers closed around the knob.

Behind her, Henry said her name again, quiet, wrecked, like he almost couldn’t help it.

“Y/N.”

She paused.

For one brutal second, hope surged, wild and desperate, that he was about to take it back.

She turned halfway, just enough to look over her shoulder.

Henry’s face was composed again. Eyes guarded. Walls up.

“Take care of yourself,” he said.

That was all.

No apology.

No explanation.

No “I’m doing this for you.”

Nothing that could soften the cut.

Y/N nodded once, a tiny motion that felt like defeat, and walked out.

She didn’t cry in the hallway.

She didn’t cry down the stairs.

She didn’t cry on the walk back to her dorm, even though the campus seemed too bright, too normal, too indifferent. Students laughed. Someone played music from an open window. A couple held hands on the steps of a building, careless and young and free.

Y/N kept her face steady, swallowing pain like it was something she could digest.

She skipped her next class without even thinking.

She skipped the one after that, too.

Her legs carried her to the dorm on autopilot.

When she got inside the room, the silence hit her first. Nancy’s side was still empty, her bed made, her typewriter gone. The room felt like it was missing its spine.

Y/N shut the door.

The click was small, but it sounded final.

She stood there for a moment like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Like she’d been unplugged from herself.

Then her knees buckled.

She crossed the room in two steps and collapsed onto her bed, still clutching her notebook like it could save her. She kicked off her shoes without looking, tugged the blanket up over her shoulders, then over her head, burying herself in darkness like a child.

And that’s when the dam broke.

The first sob tore out of her, ugly and involuntary.

It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t cinematic. It was the kind of cry that scraped your throat raw, the kind that made your chest hurt, the kind that left you feeling like you were being hollowed out from the inside.

Her hands fisted in the blanket, knuckles white. Her body curled tight, as if she could fold small enough to disappear, as if being smaller would hurt less.

But it didn’t.

It only made the loneliness louder.

She pressed her face into the pillow and tried to breathe, but every inhale came out shaking. Tears soaked the fabric fast, hot and endless, as if her body couldn’t stop producing grief now that it finally had permission.

Her mind replayed it in cruel loops.

Because it was a mistake.

The words echoed until they felt like truth.

She pictured his face as he said it, so controlled, so calm, like everything they’d done, everything she’d felt, had meant less than nothing to him.

She tried to remember the way he’d held her during the night, the way he’d promised she wasn’t alone, and it made the pain worse, because it meant either those moments were lies, or he’d meant them and still chose to cut her anyway.

Her chest tightened until breathing felt like work.

She squeezed her eyes shut under the blanket, whispering to herself, “Stop. Stop. Stop,” like she could command her heart into silence.

But her heart didn’t listen.

It kept breaking.

She wanted to be angry. Wanted to sit up and wipe her face and call him cruel and arrogant and manipulative. Wanted to turn the hurt into something sharp enough to protect her.

But all she had was the ache.

The sick, trembling ache of someone who’d started to believe she was wanted, only to be told she was a mistake.

Eventually she rolled onto her back beneath the blanket, staring into the darkness, tears still streaming. The world felt muffled and far away. Her arms wrapped around her stomach like she could physically hold herself together.

She thought of Nancy, and for the first time she hated that her friend was gone. Not because she blamed her, but because the room had never felt emptier.

There was no one to hear her without seeing her. No one to hand her water. No one to sit on the edge of the bed and say, “Tell me what happened.”

Just her.

And the sound of her own grief.

Y/N pressed a shaking hand over her mouth again, trying to swallow another sob.

It didn’t work.

It never worked.

She cried until her throat burned, until her eyes were swollen, until her body got exhausted enough to stop fighting and simply tremble in the aftermath; quiet, broken breaths under a blanket in a dorm room that suddenly felt like the loneliest place on earth.

. . .

A few days passed the way bruises did, quietly, tenderly, with everything in Y/N’s life rearranged around the ache.

When Nancy came back from Hawkins, the dorm felt different immediately. The door opened with familiar impatience, her overnight bag rustled, and books hit the desk with a soft thud like punctuation. She took one look at Y/N’s bed, the blanket pulled high, the curtains half-drawn, the same untouched cup on the desk, and understood without needing a headline.

Nancy didn’t ask right away.

She moved around the room with a deliberate normalcy, unpacking, hanging her coat, setting her typewriter back in its place as if routine could anchor them both. She offered small things instead: “I brought you a new pen,” “Hawkins had the worst weather,” “Jonathan says hi,” and let Y/N answer with whatever she could manage, even if it was nothing but a muffled sound under a blanket.

But by the third day, Nancy came in carrying a paper bag and a styrofoam cup that smelled like cafeteria coffee and stubbornness.

“Okay,” Nancy said, voice firm, as she set the bag down on Y/N’s desk. “I’m going to do something radical.”

Y/N didn’t move.

Nancy sat on the edge of her own bed and stared at the blanket-covered lump that had become her best friend for the past week.

“I’m going to feed you,” Nancy announced.

A quiet sniff came from under the blanket. Not a laugh. Not even close.

Nancy sighed, leaning forward. “I know you’re awake.”

Silence.

Nancy tapped the bag with one finger. “Turkey sandwich. An apple. Chips. I’m not proud of the chips. But I’m here. Eat.”

Y/N’s voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “I’m not hungry.”

Nancy stared at the blanket like she could see through it. “You haven’t been hungry in days.”

A pause.

Then, so small it barely counted, the blanket shifted. Y/N’s face appeared, puffy-eyed, hair a mess, cheeks drawn tight like she’d been clenching her jaw for a week straight. She looked like she’d been trying to survive on willpower alone.

Nancy’s expression softened for half a second. Then it sharpened again, because softness didn’t fix anything and Nancy Wheeler was built for action.

Y/N sat up slowly, taking the coffee cup with trembling hands. She didn’t drink it at first. She just held it, like warmth was the closest thing to comfort she could tolerate.

Nancy waited and let the silence do its work.

Finally, she asked quietly, “What happened?”

Y/N’s throat worked like she was trying to swallow broken glass. “Nothing.”

Nancy didn’t blink. “That’s a lie.”

Y/N’s eyes filled instantly, like her body had been holding it back for too long and the dam gave out the moment someone said the words out loud.

“He ended it,” Y/N whispered.

Nancy’s spine went straight. “Who?”

“Who else?” Y/N’s mouth trembled. “Henry.”

For a second, Nancy looked genuinely still, like the room had paused around her.

Then the irritation arrived, sharp and immediate, burning through her expression like someone had struck a match.

“He ended it,” Nancy repeated, voice rising.

Y/N nodded once, then stared at the coffee like it might drown her. “In class. After. He… he said it was a mistake.”

Nancy’s jaw clenched.

Y/N’s voice cracked. “Like I was just… something he regretted.”

Nancy’s hands curled into fists on her knees. She forced herself to breathe, slow and controlled, like she was trying not to explode in a room that still had paper-thin walls.

“And you’ve been in here,” Nancy said, tight, “disappearing.”

Y/N swallowed. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Nancy’s eyes flicked up to Y/N’s face, gentler now, protective. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Y/N let out a miserable laugh. “Because you were gone. And because I didn’t want you to look at me like I’m stupid.”

Nancy’s stare went hard. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Y/N blinked. “You don’t?”

Nancy’s voice sharpened, anger redirecting itself. “I think he’s stupid.”

Y/N flinched, instinctively trying to defend him even with her heart in pieces. “Nancy…”

“No,” Nancy cut in, and there was something fierce in the way she said it, like she refused to let Y/N keep bleeding quietly. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. “What are you…”

Nancy stood abruptly, already moving, already on a mission. She grabbed her coat from the hook, shoved her arms into it, and picked up her keys.

“Nancy,” Y/N said, panic threading through her voice. “Don’t… don’t do anything.”

Nancy turned at the door, expression brisk and too calm to be honest. “I’m not doing anything.”

Y/N frowned. “You look like you’re doing something.”

Nancy forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I’m going to have a calm, rational discussion.”

Y/N stared at her. “With who?”

Nancy waved a hand like it was nothing. “Creel. He’s technically my professor too, which makes this… educational.”

“Nancy…”

Nancy opened the door. “Eat your lunch.”

Then she left.

And the second the door shut, the dorm felt colder.

Nancy didn’t walk to Henry’s classroom.

She marched.

Her steps hit the tile like punctuation marks. Her thoughts ran faster than her feet. He called it a mistake. He made her think it mattered. He let her fall for him. Then he cut her loose to save his own skin.

Nancy’s anger was hot, but it was focused. Nancy Wheeler didn’t do blind rage. She did precision.

When she reached Henry’s hallway, she didn’t hesitate outside his door. She didn’t knock politely.

She pushed it open.

Henry was at his desk, papers laid out, chalk in hand like he’d been teaching normal students normal things all morning. He looked up at the sound of the door with the same controlled expression he always wore.

Until he saw Nancy.

Something flickered in his eyes: recognition, caution, and then the slow tightening of dread.

“Ms. Wheeler,” Henry said, voice measured. “Is everything all right?”

Nancy stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind her with deliberate force. Not a slam, a statement.

“No,” Nancy said. “Everything is not all right.”

Henry’s posture stiffened. “If you’re here about an assignment…”

“I’m here about Y/N,” Nancy snapped.

Henry froze so completely it was almost imperceptible.

Nancy took one step closer, her eyes bright with that specific Wheeler intensity, the one that made people confess without realizing they were doing it.

“She’s been in bed for days,” Nancy said, sharp. “She can barely eat. She’s barely spoken. And do you know why?”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “Ms. Wheeler…”

“You ended it,” Nancy pressed, voice climbing. “And you did it like she was nothing.”

Henry stood slowly, as if movement needed permission. His voice stayed calm, but the strain under it was unmistakable. “This is not appropriate.”

Nancy laughed once, humorless. “Oh, you’re worried about what’s appropriate now?”

Henry’s eyes flashed. “Lower your voice.”

“No,” Nancy said, stepping closer again. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Henry stared at her, and Nancy saw it: the calculation, the control. The same control he’d used to keep everything hidden. The same control that had let him cut Y/N off clean like an amputation.

Then Henry’s gaze sharpened, as if something clicked.

“You knew,” he said quietly.

Nancy didn’t blink. “Excuse me?”

Henry’s voice dropped lower, controlled but suddenly dangerous. “You’ve known about her. About this. This entire time.”

Nancy’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t know the details.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “But you knew.”

Nancy exhaled, irritated. “Yes. I knew something was going on. I’m not blind.” She lifted her chin, unflinching. “But Y/N didn’t sit down and confess it to me.”

Henry’s mouth tightened. “So she lied to you as well.”

Nancy’s eyes sharpened like knives. “Don’t you dare.”

Henry blinked, caught off guard by the venom in her tone.

Nancy moved closer until she was standing at the edge of his desk, hands planted on the wood like she was pinning him in place.

“She didn’t tell me because she was protecting you,” Nancy said, voice low now, more dangerous than yelling. “She didn’t tell me because she didn’t want you to get in trouble. She didn’t tell me because she trusted you.”

Henry’s throat worked, but no words came.

Nancy’s eyes burned. “And you took that trust and crushed it.”

Henry’s composure cracked, not fully, but enough that his voice sounded rougher when he spoke. “You don’t understand the situation.”

Nancy’s laugh came sharp. “Oh, I understand it perfectly.” She leaned in slightly. “You liked her. You still do. And the moment it got complicated, you decided the easiest way to protect yourself was to make her feel disposable.”

Henry’s hands curled at his sides. “That’s not what I did.”

“It’s what she felt,” Nancy shot back. “Do you think it matters what you meant if she’s the one bleeding for it?”

Henry’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, and Nancy caught it: guilt.

Good.

Nancy pressed harder. “You know what she said to me?” Her voice tightened. “She thought she was stupid for believing you cared.”

Henry flinched. It was small, but it was real.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Did you?”

Henry’s jaw clenched. Silence.

Nancy scoffed. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

Henry’s voice came quiet. “I did what was necessary.”

Nancy snapped, “Necessary for who?”

Henry didn’t answer fast enough.

Nancy’s expression hardened like steel. “Exactly.”

She stepped back, breathing hard. For a second her anger looked like it might spill over into tears, but she swallowed it down. Nancy always swallowed it down.

Then she said, voice fierce and steady, “If you cared about her future, you should’ve cared about her heart too.”

Henry’s eyes lifted to hers, and for the first time he looked less like Professor Creel and more like a man trapped in consequences.

Nancy pointed at him, controlled but furious. “You don’t get to build someone up in private and destroy them in daylight and call it protection.”

Henry’s mouth tightened, and his voice came out strained. “If this becomes public…”

Nancy cut him off instantly. “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before you touched her at all.”

Silence slammed down between them.

Henry’s gaze flicked away, like he’d been struck somewhere he couldn’t defend.

Nancy grabbed the doorknob, then paused.

Her voice softened, just a fraction, the kind of softness that made her words hit harder. “She’s not a mistake. Don’t you ever call her that again.”

Henry’s eyes returned to her. Something pained and quiet flickered there.

Nancy didn’t care.

She opened the door.

Then she added, over her shoulder, like a warning carved into air:

“You want to protect her? Then stop being the one who hurts her.”

And she left him standing in an empty classroom with chalk dust on his fingers and guilt sitting heavy in his chest, because Nancy Wheeler had always been good at finding the truth, and she’d just thrown his back at him.

. . . 

Nancy went to Creel’s class alone the next morning.

Not because she cared about The Great Gatsby or whatever he had assigned, and certainly not because she wanted to sit through an hour of him pretending he didn’t have blood on his hands.

She went because someone had to.

Y/N wasn’t coming out of that bed. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until the world stopped feeling like it had teeth.

So Nancy showed up.

She walked into the classroom with her notebook tucked under her arm and her jaw set like she was headed into a crime scene. She didn’t sit in her own seat. She didn’t even look at the familiar desk that belonged to her.

She went straight to Y/N’s seat next to hers.

Front row. Slightly to the left. Close enough that Henry couldn’t avoid looking at it.

Nancy dropped into the chair like she was claiming it, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate confidence. She set her notebook down and clicked her pen.

Henry was at the front of the room, arranging papers, chalk in hand. His head lifted the moment she sat.

His eyes landed on her, then flicked to the empty seat beside her out of habit, and stopped.

For half a second, the mask on his face wavered.

Not dramatically. Just enough for Nancy to see it: a tightness around his eyes, a brief flash of something like regret that he couldn’t file away fast enough.

Nancy didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

She rolled her eyes slowly, exaggeratedly, and stared down at her notebook like he was nothing more than a professor with a bad lecture to get through.

Henry’s jaw tightened. He looked away.

Class began.

Nancy didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t challenge him the way Y/N always did. She didn’t give him the lively back and forth he clearly missed, even if he didn’t deserve to miss it.

She sat there like a silent accusation.

Every time Henry’s gaze drifted toward that seat, toward where Y/N should have been, Nancy was there instead, staring straight ahead, expression flat.

Punishment by presence.

The lecture crawled by.

Henry spoke about themes and symbols, about language and intent. About characters lying to themselves and calling it virtue.

Nancy kept her pen still on the page, not writing a word, because she refused to take notes from a man who had just rewritten someone else’s life into collateral damage.

When the class finally ended, chairs scraped and students shuffled toward the door. Henry dismissed them with the same polished tone he always used.

“Have a good afternoon.”

Nancy stood last.

She packed her things slowly, letting the room empty, her eyes occasionally flicking toward Henry as if she was weighing whether to say something sharp enough to leave a mark.

She didn’t. Not yet.

She walked out into the hallway and then stopped.

Halfway down the corridor, she remembered what she’d come to do in the first place: get the makeup work, the notes, anything that might help Y/N catch up once she could breathe again.

Nancy turned back toward the classroom door.

She reached the threshold and was just about to step inside when she heard voices.

Not loud. Not arguing. A low, confident male voice that didn’t belong to Henry.

Nancy froze, instincts snapping into place like a camera shutter.

She stayed just outside the crack of the door, careful not to cast a shadow that could give her away, and angled her head slightly.

Inside, someone was speaking, too casual and too bold.

“I told you I’d keep an eye on it,” Daniel Taylor was saying.

Nancy’s stomach dropped.

Through the narrow slit of the cracked door, she could see the scene in fragments: Henry at his desk, Daniel standing too close to it, posture smug, like he belonged there.

And then Daniel pulled something from his jacket.

Polaroids.

Nancy’s blood went hot.

Daniel spread them across Henry’s desk with the same casual cruelty Nancy had seen in people who liked having leverage. He tapped one with his finger like he was admiring his own work.

“See?” Daniel said. “I told you. I got them. Clear as day.”

Henry didn’t speak. His face was turned slightly away, composed, but Nancy could see the rigid line of his shoulders and the stillness in his hands.

Daniel leaned in, voice dropping with satisfaction. “So. You did it, right? You called it off.”

Henry’s voice came low and controlled. “Yes.”

Daniel’s smile widened, ugly in its triumph. “Good.” He gathered the photos back into a neat stack like he was putting away a toy. “Smart choice.”

Nancy’s fingers curled around her notebook so hard the cardboard bent.

Daniel tucked the Polaroids back into his jacket and chuckled under his breath. “She’s available now, then.”

Henry’s head snapped up slightly.

Daniel either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He continued, voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “Honestly, you did her a favor. She was playing with fire. If I’d taken those to the principal…” He whistled softly. “Jesus. She would have been ruined. Not anymore than you have.”

Nancy’s vision went sharp.

He did it. He blackmailed him. He would have ruined her.

Daniel smiled like he was proud of himself. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to. Not now.” He lifted his brows at Henry, as if Henry owed him gratitude. “You did what I asked. So we’re good.”

Henry’s voice was flat and dangerous. “Get out.”

Daniel laughed, like Henry was being dramatic. “Relax. We’re on the same side now.” He turned toward the door.

Nancy moved instantly.

She stepped back into the hallway, heart pounding, and walked away fast, fast enough that her footsteps didn’t sound like panic, but her mind was sprinting.

She didn’t look back until she turned the corner.

Daniel emerged seconds later, strolling out like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t see Nancy, because she had pressed herself into an alcove beside a bulletin board, holding her breath like she was hiding from a predator.

Daniel passed by, whistling under his breath.

When he was gone, Nancy finally exhaled.

Her hands were shaking, not from fear, but from fury so intense it made her skin feel too tight.

She stood there for a moment in the empty corridor, staring at the spot where Daniel had disappeared, jaw clenched, mind racing like a newsroom on deadline.

Y/N had been broken open and left bleeding in her own bed because some smug little boy had decided he deserved her.

And Henry, Henry had taken the hit, thinking he was saving her, not knowing he’d just handed Daniel the power to keep hurting her anyway.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed.

Her anger had a new target now.

And this time, she knew exactly where to aim.

. . .

Nancy didn’t walk back to the dorm.

She moved like she was late to stop a fire.

Her shoes hit the pavement too hard, her notebook pressed tight against her ribs, her breath coming out sharp in the cold air. Every thought in her head was a sentence she wanted to throw at someone’s face. Every step was a decision: don’t confront him, don’t blow it up, not yet.

When she reached the dorm building, she yanked the door open, climbed the stairs two at a time, and made it down the hall like she owned it.

She unlocked the room and slipped inside.

Then, immediately, she turned and locked the door again.

Click.

A deliberate, final sound.

Y/N was still in bed, curled under the blanket like she was trying to disappear into it. The curtains were half drawn, the room dim and stale with days of quiet. There was a cup on the desk that had been sitting there too long, a crumpled tissue. The air felt heavy with grief.

Nancy didn’t bother with gentle.

She crossed the room in three steps, grabbed the blanket, and yanked it off.

“Okay,” she snapped. “Up.”

Y/N jolted like she’d been shocked, blinking hard, hair sticking to her face. “Nancy, what the hell?”

“Sit,” Nancy ordered, and when Y/N tried to flop back down, Nancy grabbed her forearm and hauled her upright so she was sitting against the headboard.

Y/N’s eyes were glassy, confused, instantly defensive. “What is wrong with you?”

Nancy’s chest was heaving. Her face was flushed with anger and adrenaline. She looked like she’d just run from something dangerous, and she had.

“I know,” Nancy said.

Y/N blinked. “Know what?”

Nancy’s voice went sharp and clipped, the way it did when she was about to drop a headline. “I know why Henry broke it off. I know what happened. I know who did it.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Nancy, I already told you.”

“No,” Nancy cut in. “You told me he ended it. You didn’t tell me he was forced.”

Y/N stared at her, as if her brain couldn’t process the sentence. “Forced?”

Nancy leaned forward, eyes blazing. “Daniel Taylor.”

The name hit Y/N like a slap.

Her face changed instantly: confusion to disbelief to something darker.

“What about Daniel?” Y/N demanded, voice rough.

Nancy didn’t hesitate. “He has Polaroids.”

Y/N froze. “Polaroids of…”

“Of you and Creel,” Nancy said, blunt as a typewriter key striking paper. “Looked like he took them through the cracked classroom door.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped so hard she went cold. “No.”

“Yes,” Nancy said, voice tightening. “I saw them. I heard him. He walked into Creel’s classroom like they were friends and put them down on his desk like a ransom note.”

Y/N’s breath started coming faster. “That’s… that’s not possible.”

Nancy’s voice sharpened. “It is, because I heard him say it. He threatened to turn them in. He demanded Henry dump you or he’d take them to the principal.”

Y/N stared at Nancy like the room was tilting.

For a second, all she could do was blink.

Then anger flooded her so fast it was almost dizzying.

“That,” Y/N’s voice cracked, her hands curling into fists, “that little piece of shit, I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Nancy said, firm. “I know.”

Y/N shot out of bed like a spring snapping.

“Oh, I’m going to fucking kill him,” she hissed, pacing like a caged animal. “I swear to God, Nancy, I’m going to—”

“Stop,” Nancy barked, grabbing her arm.

Y/N whipped around, eyes wild. “No. Don’t tell me to stop. He ruined everything, he—”

“He could ruin everything,” Nancy corrected, tight and urgent. “And that’s why you can’t do anything stupid.”

Y/N yanked her arm back. “I’m not being stupid, I’m being—”

“Angry,” Nancy snapped. “Rightfully. But if you confront Daniel, he’ll panic.”

Y/N scoffed. “Good.”

Nancy’s eyes flashed. “And what do people do when they panic? They act. He’ll turn the pictures in.”

Y/N went still.

Nancy watched her, voice lower now but no less intense. “If you go after Henry, he’ll get scared too. He’ll think you’re going to blow it up. And he’s already on edge. He’ll either shut you out again or…” She swallowed. “Or Daniel will find out you know, and he’ll speed up the damage.”

Y/N’s chest heaved. Tears pricked at her eyes, not sadness this time, but rage and humiliation tangled together.

“So what?” she demanded, voice shaking. “I just sit here and let him keep doing this?”

Nancy held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “No.”

Y/N blinked. “Then what?”

Nancy exhaled slowly, forcing herself to calm down the way she always did before she wrote something that mattered.

“I have a plan,” Nancy said.

Y/N’s laugh was sharp and broken. “Nancy, this isn’t—”

“It is,” Nancy cut in. “Because he thinks he’s the only one with leverage.” Her eyes narrowed. “He thinks he can hold those photos over you like you’re powerless.”

Y/N stared at her, breathing hard. “Nancy…”

Nancy stepped closer. Her voice dropped, calm and focused, dangerous in a different way.

“We’re going to get those photos,” she said.

Y/N’s pulse stuttered. “How?”

Nancy’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “With blackmail.”

Y/N’s brows shot up. “Nancy—”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Nancy said briskly. “You’re dating an English professor in secret. We’re already living in the moral gray.”

Y/N swallowed, still shaking. “What could we possibly blackmail Daniel with?”

Nancy’s eyes flicked over Y/N like she was assessing a witness. “First, you calm down,” Nancy said firmly. “Because if you go storming into the hallway yelling about murder, we’re dead before we start.”

Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to breathe. “Fine. Okay.”

Nancy nodded once, satisfied, and continued. “Second, Daniel Taylor is sloppy. People like him always are. He thinks he’s untouchable because he has something scandalous, which means he won’t be careful.”

Y/N’s voice was tight. “So what do we do?”

Nancy reached for her notebook, flipping it open like she was already taking notes for a story.

“We find out where he keeps them,” she said. “We get him to bring them somewhere. Or we get into his stuff when he’s not looking.”

Y/N’s hands trembled at her sides. “You’re talking about stealing.”

Nancy’s expression stayed flat. “I’m talking about retrieving your life.”

Y/N swallowed hard, eyes burning. “And if he has copies?”

Nancy didn’t flinch. “Then we get those too. Or we make him too scared to use them.” Her gaze sharpened. “But first, we need the originals. Because that’s his confidence. That’s his power.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I can’t believe he did this.”

Nancy’s voice softened just a fraction, enough to land like a hand on her shoulder. “He did it because he’s jealous. Because you rejected him. Because he’s petty and thinks women are prizes and punishments.”

Y/N’s eyes filled again, but she blinked the tears back fiercely. “Henry—”

Nancy cut her off immediately. “Not yet.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Nancy held her gaze. “You cannot go to Creel. You cannot even look like you’re thinking about Creel. Right now, Henry has no idea I heard any of it. That’s good. That’s an advantage.”

Y/N’s voice was small and trembling. “But he did this to protect me.”

Nancy’s jaw tightened. “And he did it in the worst way possible.” She leaned in. “We can deal with Henry later. Right now, we deal with Daniel.”

Y/N stared at her, chest rising and falling too fast. “What do you need from me?”

Nancy nodded once, like she’d just been waiting for that.

“I need you to act normal,” she said. “In class. In the halls. Around Daniel. Like you don’t know anything.”

Y/N let out a shaky exhale. “I don’t know if I can.”

Nancy’s voice went firm again. “You can. You’re a writer. You’re good at playing a role.”

Y/N swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Nancy’s eyes sharpened. “And I need you to trust me.”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded again, more certain this time. “I do.”

Nancy exhaled, relief flickering briefly across her face before determination replaced it.

“Good,” Nancy said. “Because we’re going to take his power away.”

Y/N’s voice came out low and fierce. “And then what?”

Nancy’s mouth tightened into something cold. “Then we make sure he never does this to you again.”

She closed her notebook with a decisive snap.

“And,” Nancy added, eyes bright with purpose, “we’re getting those photos.”

. . . 

They didn’t have the luxury of hesitation.

By the next day, Nancy had turned their dorm room into a war room, quiet and focused, all sharp edges and whispered contingency plans. She didn’t write any of it down where someone could find it. She just repeated it until Y/N could recite it in her sleep.

Act normal.

Don’t look guilty.

Don’t look scared.

Get him comfortable.

Get him close.

Get him careless.

Y/N didn’t feel normal. She felt like her skin had been peeled back and the air hurt.

But she could act.

She had been acting for days already, pretending she was fine, pretending she wasn’t hollowed out, pretending her heart hadn’t been stomped into something small and bruised. Acting was the one skill grief hadn’t taken from her.

So she did what Nancy told her to do.

She walked into the hallway outside Creel’s classroom like she wasn’t carrying a secret bigger than her body. She wore her usual face, chin slightly lifted, shoulders back, lips pressed into something that could pass as indifference if you didn’t know her.

Nancy kept a few steps behind, quieter than a shadow.

Daniel Taylor was exactly where Nancy predicted he’d be, near the bulletin board, talking too loudly to another student, laughing like he owned the building.

When he spotted Y/N, the smile on his face changed.

It sharpened.

Like he’d been waiting for her to show weakness so he could taste it.

Y/N didn’t give him that.

She slowed just slightly, just enough to make it look like she’d noticed him, just enough to hook his attention. Her expression stayed smooth, almost bored.

“Daniel,” she said, like his name didn’t make her want to vomit.

His eyes traveled over her in that gross, assessing way, like he thought he’d earned the right. “Y/N,” he replied, voice smug. “Back on campus?”

Y/N made a tiny sound that could have been a laugh. “I go here.”

Daniel’s mouth tilted up. “Yeah. I guess you do.”

There was something ugly underneath it, an implication he didn’t even bother to hide.

Y/N forced herself not to flinch.

Behind her, Nancy’s presence was like a hand at the back of her spine, steadying her.

Y/N let her gaze flick briefly to the backpack slung loose over Daniel’s shoulder. Casual. Almost accidental. Like she was just noticing it.

Then she gave Daniel the bait.

“I’m surprised you’re still in one piece,” she said lightly.

Daniel blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/N shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just figured you’d be hiding. People talk.”

Daniel’s expression flickered, irritated. “People talk about what?”

Y/N tilted her head like she was considering how much to say. “About you being so interested in my life.”

Daniel scoffed. “Please.”

Y/N leaned a fraction closer, enough to make him feel like she was engaging, enough to make him stop thinking about his belongings and start thinking about her.

“I’m just saying,” she murmured, voice calm, “it’s kind of embarrassing.”

Daniel’s brows pulled together. “Embarrassing for who?”

“For you,” Y/N said, sweet as poison.

Daniel’s pride snapped to attention exactly the way Nancy predicted it would.

He stepped closer, posture puffing up. “You think you can talk to me like that?”

Y/N gave him a tight little smile. “I think I just did.”

Daniel’s eyes flashed, and as he shifted, annoyed and hooked and focused on the conversation, his backpack slid down his shoulder. He adjusted it absentmindedly, loosening the strap, and that was all Nancy needed.

Nancy moved.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious.

One second she was behind Y/N, the next she was beside Daniel, her shoulder brushing his like a total accident in a crowded hallway.

“Oh, sorry,” Nancy said briskly, already bending as if she’d dropped something.

Daniel barely looked at her. His attention was on Y/N, on the way she wasn’t cowering like he wanted.

Nancy’s fingers slipped into the side pocket of his bag with the clean efficiency of someone who’d spent her life snooping through drawers for answers.

Paper. Plastic. The square edge of a Polaroid stack.

She gripped them, slid them out in one smooth motion, and tucked them inside her notebook like they belonged there.

Then she straightened, expression flat, and stepped back into place.

Y/N saw the smallest nod from Nancy, barely a movement.

Got them.

She didn’t let relief show. She kept her face cool as she delivered the exit line Nancy had coached her on.

“Anyway,” Y/N said, dismissive, “I’ve got class.”

Daniel’s mouth curled. “Yeah. Cool. Later.”

Y/N stared at him for one heartbeat longer than necessary, enough to promise she wasn’t done with him, then turned.

Nancy turned with her.

They walked away at a normal pace for the first ten steps.

Then, the moment they hit the stairwell, Nancy grabbed Y/N’s wrist and they moved, down the stairs, around the corner, away from the hallway like the building itself was chasing them.

Y/N’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

They reached the dorm. Nancy unlocked the door, shoved them inside, and locked it again.

The second the bolt slid into place, Y/N spun toward her.

“Did you—”

Nancy opened her notebook and pulled out the Polaroids.

Y/N’s breath caught so sharply it sounded like a sob.

There they were, those stolen moments turned into weapons. Grainy proof. Private things made ugly by someone else’s eyes.

Y/N stared at them, shaking.

Nancy’s face was pale with anger. “Yeah,” she said. “I did.”

Y/N’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Then a hard knock rattled the door.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Nancy and Y/N froze.

Another knock, more violent.

“OPEN UP.”

Daniel’s voice, sharp and furious and panicked.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “He noticed faster than I hoped.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Nancy—”

Nancy held up a hand. 

The knocking came again.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

Nancy walked to the door like she wasn’t afraid of him, like she’d been waiting.

She didn’t open it all the way, just enough to look him in the eye through the crack, the chain still on.

Daniel’s face was flushed. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d been tearing through hallways looking for them.

He looked right past Nancy at Y/N.

“Where are they?” he demanded. “Where are the photos?”

Nancy blinked slowly, like she was bored. “What photos?”

Daniel’s eyes bulged. “Don’t play dumb—”

“Oh,” Nancy said, cutting him off, her voice calm and razor sharp, “you mean the Polaroids you took through a classroom door like a creep?”

Daniel flinched, just barely.

Nancy leaned closer to the crack in the door, her tone pure Nancy Wheeler, controlled, furious, terrifyingly rational.

“You should leave,” she said. “Before you make this worse for yourself.”

Daniel’s mouth twisted. “Give them back.”

Y/N stepped forward behind Nancy, rage finally overcoming fear. “You never should’ve had them.”

Daniel’s gaze snapped to her, dripping with entitlement. “You’re not in a position to—”

“No,” Nancy cut in again. “You’re not.”

Daniel’s voice rose. “You think you can threaten me?”

Nancy smiled, cold and perfect. “I’m not threatening you. I’m explaining your reality.”

Daniel’s eyes flashed. “You have nothing.”

Nancy’s smile widened by a fraction. “Actually, Daniel, you have nothing.”

He stared, breathing hard. “That’s a lie.”

Nancy’s voice dropped lower, quiet and deadly. “Is it?”

Daniel’s jaw clenched.

Nancy continued, calm as a judge. “Without those photos, what do you have? Your word.” She tilted her head. “Against a professor.”

Daniel’s expression changed slightly, uncertainty leaking in.

“And not just any professor,” Nancy added, “but one of Emerson’s most respected faculty members.”

Daniel’s nostrils flared.

Nancy didn’t blink. “And you’re also up against two students. Two students with perfect attendance, strong grades, and not a single disciplinary mark between them.” She held his gaze. “You think anyone is going to believe you over him?”

Daniel’s confidence faltered for the first time.

Y/N’s voice came out sharp behind Nancy. “Especially when you already look obsessed.”

Daniel snapped, “I’m not—”

Nancy cut him off again, her voice like ice. “You are, Daniel. And if you keep showing up at our door, yelling, demanding things, you’re going to make that very easy to prove.”

Daniel swallowed, eyes darting like he was calculating damage.

Nancy leaned in closer, lowering her voice until it was almost conversational, almost kind, which somehow made it worse.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “You’re going to walk away. You’re going to stop talking about Y/N. You’re going to stop lurking around like a perv. And you won’t say a word about this. And you’re going to pretend you were never stupid enough to try this.”

Daniel’s lips parted. “And if I don’t?”

Nancy’s smile didn’t move. “Then you can explain to the principal why you were taking secret photos through a classroom door. You can explain why you were carrying them around campus. You can explain why you were using them to threaten a faculty member.”

Daniel’s face went pale.

Nancy’s tone sharpened. “You want to gamble? Fine. But you’re the one who loses the most.”

Daniel stood there for a moment, chest heaving, anger fighting fear.

Then he took a step back.

“You’re insane,” he spat.

Nancy’s smile turned sweet and lethal. “No. I’m a journalist.”

Daniel glared at Y/N one last time, bitterness radiating off him. “This isn’t over.”

Nancy’s eyes didn’t flicker. “It is if you’re smart.”

Daniel turned and stormed off down the hall.

Nancy watched until he disappeared, then shut the door and locked it again.

Only then did her shoulders drop.

Only then did Y/N’s legs start shaking.

Y/N let out a breath that sounded like she’d been holding it for days. She looked at Nancy like she couldn’t believe she was real.

“Nancy,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You—”

Nancy turned, still holding the Polaroids, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline. “We got them.”

Y/N’s throat tightened so hard it hurt.

Then she surged forward and threw her arms around Nancy, hugging her so tightly Nancy made a small surprised noise.

Y/N’s voice came out muffled against her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Nancy stiffened for half a second, her arms came around Y/N, firm and protective.

“You don’t get to fall apart alone,” Nancy muttered, her voice rougher than usual.

Y/N shook in her arms, relief finally pouring out where the grief had been. “I thought he ruined me. I thought—”

“He didn’t,” Nancy said immediately. “He tried, and he failed.”

Y/N pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes wet. “You saved me.”

Nancy’s face softened, just a little. “No. I did what friends are supposed to do.”

Y/N’s mouth trembled. “I don’t deserve you.”

Nancy scoffed, wiping at the corner of Y/N’s cheek like she was annoyed by the tears. “Eat your lunch. Then we figure out what comes next.”

Y/N laughed through a sob, hugging her again, harder this time, grateful in a way that felt like survival.

And for the first time since Henry’s classroom door had closed behind her days ago, the world stopped feeling like it was winning.

. . . 

Y/N waited until the hallway thinned out.

She stayed near the water fountain at the end of the corridor, notebook hugged to her chest, eyes tracking the classroom door like it might bite her if she got too close. Students drifted past in clusters, laughing, complaining about readings, the usual noise of a campus that didn’t know how someone’s whole world could fracture in the span of a single sentence.

When the last of them finally filed out of Henry’s classroom, Y/N stepped forward.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate long enough to lose her nerve either.

She slipped inside like she belonged there.

Henry was at his desk, gathering papers with the same careful movements he always had: orderly, precise, like the rest of life could be sorted into stacks. The room smelled faintly of chalk and old books. The windows let in a gray winter light that made everything look a little harsher than it needed to.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

For a heartbeat, his expression didn’t change, professional and neutral, and then it cracked.

Not widely. Not dramatically.

But enough.

His eyes fixed on her like he didn’t trust his mind, like he’d been seeing her everywhere and had finally lost the right to have her in his doorway again.

“Y/N,” he said quietly.

It had been a week.

Seven days since he’d looked her in the face and called her a mistake.

Seven days since she’d walked out with her heart in her hands, trying not to let it spill in the hallway.

Y/N shut the door behind her gently, but the click still sounded too loud in the empty classroom.

She didn’t approach right away.

Instead, she stood there, taking in the room: the desks, the chalkboard, the spot near the front where she used to sit like she belonged to something here. The place where she used to look at him and feel wanted.

Now she felt only the echo.

She glanced toward the hallway window in the door, making sure there were no silhouettes lingering outside. Then she crossed to the desk.

Henry didn’t move.

He watched her like he was afraid any movement would scare her back out the door.

Y/N reached into her notebook and pulled out the Polaroids.

The stack was small, but it felt heavy in her hand, heavy with what could have happened, heavy with what Daniel had tried to make of her, heavy with the fact that Henry had let himself be cornered by it and decided she was the thing that needed to be sacrificed.

She placed the photos on his desk.

One neat pile.

Right in the center.

Henry’s gaze dropped to them.

His whole body went still.

Then his eyes lifted back to her face, sharp with realization and something like shame.

“You got them,” he murmured.

“I got them,” Y/N confirmed, voice steady. Too steady, like she was holding herself together with wire.

Henry didn’t touch the photos. He looked at them like they were a live grenade.

“I don’t care what you do with them,” Y/N added. “Burn them. Keep them. Rip them up. I don’t care.” Her chin lifted slightly, defiant and tired at the same time. “I just wanted you to have them. So you know it’s over.”

Henry’s throat worked. “Y/N.”

She didn’t let him speak yet.

She stood on the other side of the desk, close enough to feel the familiar pull of his presence, and it made her stomach twist with anger that it still affected her at all.

Henry finally moved, just a fraction, like he was stepping out of the role he’d been hiding behind.

His voice came soft, raw around the edges in a way she hadn’t heard in class. “I’m sorry.”

The apology landed differently than she expected.

It wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t perfunctory. It sounded like it had been stuck in his throat for days, like he’d rehearsed it alone and hated himself every time he reached the end of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, more firmly, as if repetition could prove sincerity. “For what I said. For the way I ended it. For hurting you.”

Y/N stared at him.

A week ago, if he’d said that, she might have melted. Might have run to him. Might have let him fold her back into his arms like none of it happened.

Now she felt the pain flare again, sharp and bright, because his apology was proof that he’d known exactly what he was doing when he did it.

She swallowed, throat tight.

“I don’t like what you did,” she said quietly.

Henry’s face tightened, but he didn’t argue.

Y/N’s fingers curled around the edge of the desk. “I understand that you were scared,” she continued, voice trembling slightly despite her effort. “I get that you thought you were protecting me. I get that you were cornered.”

Henry’s gaze stayed on her, intent, like he couldn’t afford to miss a single word.

“But you didn’t protect me,” Y/N said, and the sentence came out like it had teeth. “You hurt me. You made me feel stupid. You made me feel disposable.”

Henry flinched. The smallest movement, but real.

Y/N blinked hard, eyes burning. “I’ve dated guys before you,” she added, voice rougher now. “I’ve had boyfriends who didn’t call. Boyfriends who cheated. Boyfriends who were whatever.” Her laugh was quiet and bitter. “And I didn’t care the way I care now.”

Henry’s eyes darkened. Not jealousy, something deeper. Something like grief.

Y/N’s breath shuddered. “You’re the first one I’ve ever gotten genuinely upset about. Like it physically hurt. Like I couldn’t breathe in my own room.” She swallowed. “And I hate that. Because I didn’t ask for that.”

Henry’s hand twitched as if he wanted to reach across the desk, to touch her, to fix it. He stopped himself.

Y/N stared at him, trying to read his face the way she used to, like his expression was a text she could annotate.

“I don’t know what happens now,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if you even still want me.”

Henry’s jaw tightened like the question was unfair in how obvious the answer was.

But Y/N cut him off before he could speak, because she wasn’t done.

“All I know,” she continued, voice shaking now, “is that I’m still upset. I’m still angry. And I’m still hurt.”

Henry’s face softened in a way that made his professionalism look like a costume.

He exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding his breath since the day he ended it.

“I do want you,” he said, voice low and steady, not rushing, not pleading, just honest. “I never stopped.”

Y/N’s throat tightened at the words, because they didn’t fix anything, but they made the ache swell anyway, proof that it had been real, that it still was.

Henry looked down at the Polaroids on his desk, then back to her. “I thought I could protect you by making you hate me,” he admitted, and his voice turned rough with self-disgust. “I thought if you believed I didn’t care, you’d walk away and your future would stay intact.”

Y/N’s lips parted, a silent, pained breath.

Henry’s eyes held hers. “I was wrong,” he said. “About the method. About the cruelty. About thinking I had the right to decide how much pain you could take.”

Y/N’s hands trembled against the desk edge.

Henry swallowed hard. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he said, and it sounded like it cost him something to be that fair. “But I need you to know, none of it was because you meant nothing.”

Y/N stared at him, eyes glossy.

She wanted to throw something. She wanted to collapse. She wanted to kiss him and punch him in the same breath.

Instead, she let the truth sit between them: messy, unresolved, alive.

“I’m not here to fix this in one conversation,” she said, voice small but firm. “I just wanted you to know what happened. I wanted you to have them. And I wanted you to hear it from me.”

Henry nodded once, slow.

Y/N drew in a shaky breath. “And I want you to understand something,” she added.

Henry’s gaze sharpened. “What?”

Y/N met his eyes, brave in the way she was brave only when she had no other choice.

“If you ever do that to me again,” she said quietly, “if you ever decide you get to hurt me for my own good or for some stupid reason, I won’t come back.”

Henry went still.

The words hit him like a verdict.

Then he nodded once, solemn. “Understood.”

Y/N swallowed, tears threatening.

She didn’t let them fall here.

Not in his classroom.

Not on his desk.

She straightened, gathering her notebook back to her chest like armor again.

“I’m going,” she said.

Henry’s voice was quiet, urgent. “Y/N.”

She paused at the door but didn’t turn around right away.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said, still facing the door, voice barely above a whisper. “But I know I didn’t deserve that.”

Henry’s reply came softer than the chalk dust in the air. “No. You didn’t. But I’ll be here if you decide to forgive me because I do still want you.”

Y/N nodded once, like she accepted that answer for now.

Then she opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, heart still aching, anger still alive, and yet, for the first time in a week, she felt like she’d finally gotten some of her power back.

. . .

taglist, •*o+**.

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People always say the same things about you.

Sweet, polite, and pretty in that soft sort of way that makes old women at the grocery store smile at you fondly and teachers immediately trust you with passing out papers.

The kind of girl who remembers everyone’s favorite candy, who waves when people let her cross the street, who still says bless you when someone sneezes, even if she doesn’t know them. Hawkins is small enough that kindness stands out, and yours seems endless.

It’s almost strange, really.

Not because you’re naive exactly, but because the world has not managed to harden you yet. You still help Dustin with his homework even after he acts like a little asshole all through dinner. You still leave little notes in his lunchbox and compliment strangers’ outfits and smile at people like you genuinely hope they’re having a good day.

And maybe that’s why nobody’s ever dated you.

Not for lack of trying, because boys definitely do. They trip over themselves around you constantly, all awkward grins and sweaty palms and invitations to the movies that you somehow never realize are dates until weeks later when Robin physically grabs your shoulders and says, “Honey, he was flirting with you.”

Your response had only been a confused blink. “He was?”

Robin had stared at you for a very long moment before muttering something about you being “a baby deer in the middle of hunting season.”

The thing is, romance has always felt like something happening around you instead of to you. Girls in your grade pass notes about kissing boys behind the bleachers while you sit beside them, doodling little stars in the margins of your notebook.

Nancy comes over ranting about Steve, and you listen carefully, chin in your palm, like she’s telling you a story from another planet entirely. Then there’s Eddie. And honestly, maybe the universe should’ve warned him first.

Because Eddie is used to people looking at him and immediately deciding what he is before he even opens his mouth. Freak. Burnout. Drug dealer. Satanist. Every adult in Hawkins looks at him like he’s one wrong move away from corrupting their children, and every girl who flirts with him does it with this expectation that he’ll play into the role they’ve already created in their heads.

But you don’t, you look at him the same way you look at everyone else: warmly.

The first time he really notices it is after Hellfire one night, when everyone else has already cleared out of the drama room except you, sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs, waiting for Dustin to finish arguing with Mike about some campaign detail. Eddie’s shoving books back into his bag when you quietly slide a can of Coke across the table toward him.

“I remembered this was your favorite,” you say simply.

And Eddie just stares at you. Because you remembered that. Not in a flirty way. Not trying to get anything from him. You’d just noticed him mentioning it once weeks ago and tucked the information away in that sweet little head of yours like it mattered.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

You blink at him softly. “What?”

“Nothin’, sweetheart.”

The nickname slips out before he can stop it. And the worst part is the way your entire face warms at it, ducking your head shyly like nobody’s ever called you something like that before. Which, horrifyingly enough for Eddie, might actually be true.

Steve’s living room is already loud by the time Eddie gets there.

Robin is halfway through aggressively arguing with Nancy about what movie they’re watching, Steve looks one inconvenience away from death on the couch, and somewhere in the kitchen, Dustin is complaining about the lack of “real snacks” like he personally funds the grocery shopping. 

It’s warm inside the Harrington house, all yellow lighting and cluttered blankets draped over the couch cushions, the kind of easy domesticity Eddie always feels a little strange stepping into. Then he sees you.

Curled up in the corner of the couch with sock-covered feet tucked beneath you, smiling the second the front door opens.

“Eddie!” you say brightly, like you hadn’t just seen him yesterday at Hellfire. “There’s still space next to me.”

That immediately becomes the worst moment of Eddie’s entire life.

Because there is space next to you, a very obvious space. One you apparently saved for him without thinking twice. Robin notices the way Eddie visibly hesitates in the doorway and has to fake a coughing fit into her sleeve to keep from laughing.

Eddie drops onto the couch beside you with what he hopes resembles casualness. “Well, sweetheart, how thoughtful of you. Saved me from sitting on the crusty Harrington carpet.”

Steve flips him off from the recliner. “You’re lucky you were invited at all.”

You giggle softly at that, and Eddie immediately has to look away from you.

The movie starts eventually, though Eddie barely absorbs any of it. Not when you’re sitting tucked against his side close enough that your knees keep brushing every few minutes. Every time it happens, you murmur a tiny “sorry” under your breath before doing it all over again thirty seconds later, entirely unaware of the psychological warfare you’re inflicting on him.

At some point during the movie, you start reaching into the popcorn bowl in his lap instead of the one on the coffee table. Again, absentmindedly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to lean across him every few minutes with your soft perfume surrounding him and your sleeve brushing against his rings.

Eddie thinks he may actually be dying.

“Oh my god, this part is so sad,” you whisper at one point, turning toward him with wide eyes.

Eddie blinks. “Sweetheart, this guy has been on screen for maybe four minutes.”

“I know,” you whisper back earnestly. “But look at him.”

And Christ.

That’s another thing about you, you care about everything. Movie characters with three lines. Stray cats behind Melvald’s. Random kids crying in the grocery store. You move through the world with this unbearable softness that makes Eddie feel simultaneously protective and completely ruined by you.

About halfway through the movie, the room cools enough that you quietly reach for the blanket bunched beside Eddie’s leg. He lifts it automatically to help you pull it over yourself, only for you to immediately lift one side toward him too.

“You’ll get cold,” you murmur.

Eddie stares at you for a beat too long before slowly ducking beneath the blanket beside you. Across the room, Robin physically presses her lips together to stop herself from making a noise. Then, somehow, things get worse. Because sometime during the second movie, you get sleepy.

Eddie notices it in little ways first. The slower blinking, the way your words trail off halfway through comments. Eventually, your head tips sideways against his shoulder so naturally that it almost seems unconscious.

The entire room goes quiet for exactly two seconds. Not because of you, but because Eddie completely freezes.

You don’t even realize what you’ve done at first, already half-asleep against him beneath the blanket. Then your eyes blink open slightly, face warming the tiniest bit when you realize where you’re leaning.

“Oh,” you mumble softly. “Is this okay?”

Eddie thinks his heart physically hurts.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, sweetheart. ‘Course it is.”

You smile at that. Small and sleepy and trusting. Then your eyes drift shut again against his shoulder like there was never a possibility he’d say no. Robin watches Eddie very carefully after that. Specifically, the way he doesn’t move for the next hour, not even once.

By the time the movie ends, you’ve wandered into the kitchen with Nancy to help clean up empty soda cans while Dustin argues with Steve over something stupid in the dining room. Eddie is still sitting on the couch like he’s recovering from a near-death experience when Robin drops into the seat beside him.

“You are so unbelievably into her,” she says immediately.

Eddie scoffs without looking at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit. You looked at her like a Victorian man seeing an ankle.”

That finally gets a reluctant snort out of him. Robin grins, leaning back into the couch cushions. “She likes you too, y’know.”

Eddie’s expression changes instantly. “No, she doesn’t.” The response comes too fast. 

Robin’s face softens slightly beneath the teasing. “Eddie—”

“She’s nice to everybody,” he cuts in quietly, eyes flicking toward the hallway where you disappeared moments ago. “That’s just who she is.”

And maybe that’s the problem, because Eddie knows what people like him do to things that are soft.

Friday afternoon sunlight spills warm through the hallway windows, catching against Eddie’s face as he leans against the lockers outside your classroom like he’s been there a while, pretending not to wait for you.

Which is exactly what he’s been doing.

You almost miss him at first while stuffing books into your bag, too focused on making sure Dustin remembered his science worksheet this morning. It’s only when someone whistles obnoxiously down the hall, and Eddie flips them off without even turning around, that your eyes finally land on him.

And immediately, your stomach does something strange. Not bad, strange, just strange. Because Eddie’s looking at you already.

Not casually either. His dark eyes lock onto yours the second you notice him, and for a moment, he looks almost nervous, which feels impossible considering this is Eddie. Eddie, who performs lunch table monologues and flirts with teachers for extra credit, acts like the entire world is his stage.

You smile anyway.

“There she is,” he says, pushing off the lockers.

“Hi,” you answer softly, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder. “Were you waiting for someone?”

Eddie actually laughs at that.

“Sweetheart,” he says, stepping closer, “you are genuinely killin’ me.”

Your brows pull together a little. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He shakes his head, grinning to himself before dragging his rings along the back of his neck. Suddenly, he looks oddly uncertain again. “Uh… actually, I was waitin’ for you.”

“Oh.” The word comes out quieter than you mean for it to.

The hallway around you buzzes with noise, lockers slamming and people shoving past each other on their way outside, but it suddenly feels very far away. Eddie shifts his weight once, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to gauge something.

Then he says, “You wanna go out with me tonight?”

“You mean…” You blink once. “Like a date?”

Eddie’s mouth twitches slightly. “Yeah, sweetheart. Like a date.”

And maybe it’s embarrassing how fast your face warms.

Not because you don’t want to go. God, you do. You think maybe you’ve wanted to for longer than you realized. It’s just that nobody’s ever looked at you quite like Eddie is right now, all careful confidence hiding something softer underneath. 

“Okay,” you say before you can overthink it.

Eddie stills. “Okay?”

You smile a little shyly. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

For a second, Eddie genuinely looks stunned.

Then the slowest grin spreads across his face, crooked and warm and so unfairly pretty that you have to glance down at your shoes for a second just to collect yourself.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, mostly to himself.

You laugh softly. “What?”

“There’s that thing again where you say yes to me like I just asked if you wanted a pencil instead of—” He cuts himself off with another disbelieving shake of his head. “Tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, like he still can’t believe it.

He walks backward down the hallway afterward, still grinning at you in this helpless sort of way, before finally turning toward the exit. You stand there for a moment after he disappears, your heartbeat feeling strangely uneven beneath your ribs.

Then, naturally, you go find Robin.

She’s already behind the Family Video counter when you walk in later that afternoon, lazily rewinding tapes with Steve half-asleep beside her. The second she sees your face, her eyes narrow suspiciously.

“What happened?”

You blink. “Nothing happened.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

Steve lifts his head slightly from the counter. “What’s a nothing face?”

Robin points at you dramatically. “That face. That’s the face girls make before they tell you life-altering information.”

Your cheeks warm immediately. “It’s not life-altering.”

“Oh my god,” Robin gasps. “You kissed someone.”

“What? No!”

Steve snorts tiredly into the counter. Robin leans forward. “Then what?”

You hesitate for half a second before saying quietly, “Eddie asked me on a date.”

Then Robin slams both palms onto the counter so hard Steve nearly falls out of his chair. “I KNEW IT.”

Your face warms instantly beneath her stare. Steve looks significantly more awake now, too, blinking between the two of you while Robin points at you like you’ve personally validated her entire worldview.

“I told you he liked her,” she says to Steve.

Steve shrugs. “I mean, yeah. The guy looks at her like she personally invented music.”

“Oh my god,” you mumble, covering your face briefly with your sleeve.

Robin immediately softens at that, grinning as she leans her elbows onto the counter. “Aw, honey, don’t look embarrassed. This is cute.”

Cute. The word alone makes your stomach flutter strangely.

You glance down shyly, tracing your thumb along the strap of your bag. “It’s just a date.”

“Mhm,” Robin hums knowingly. “And what exactly are we wearing to this very casual, definitely-not-important date?”

You blink. “I don’t know yet.”

Steve finally sits up straighter. “Wait, hold on. Tonight tonight?”

You nod once. Robin gasps dramatically. “Oh, this is serious.”

“It is not serious,” you protest immediately. 

Robin’s expression turns fond in that way it sometimes does around you, all teasing melting into something softer. “Sweetie, he stood outside your classroom looking nervous and was a statue when you fell asleep on him. You’ve altered his brain chemistry.”

You hide your face again with a quiet groan while Steve laughs under his breath.

“I’m serious,” Robin continues. “I have literally never seen him act normal around anybody he’s interested in.”

Before you can answer, Robin suddenly narrows her eyes. “Wait. Have you even been on a date before?”

You hesitate just long enough for her to gasp. “Oh, my god.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly.

Steve blinks at you. “Like… ever?”

You shrug awkwardly. “I don’t know. Nobody’s really asked.”

Robin and Steve share a look over your head that feels deeply loaded.

“What?” you ask suspiciously.

Robin shakes her head slowly. “Nothing. I just think half the male population of Hawkins is profoundly stupid.”

You laugh quietly at that, cheeks still warm. “You guys are making this sound way more dramatic than it is.”

Robin reaches over the counter to squeeze your hand once. “No, honey. We’re making it sound exactly as dramatic as it is.”

By seven o’clock, your bedroom looks like a small tornado passed through it.

Not because you’re trying overly hard, exactly. More because every outfit suddenly feels wrong the second you put it on. Robin’s teasing voice still echoes faintly in your head every time you glance in the mirror.

"Eddie Munson stood outside your classroom, nervous."

Which is ridiculous, Eddie doesn’t get nervous. However, your stomach has been fluttering stupidly for the last hour anyway.

Eventually, you settle on something simple. Something that still feels like you. Soft sweater, jeans that fit nicely, a little lip gloss Nancy once insisted you’d “thank her for later.” By the time you finally step out of your bedroom, the house is quiet except for the television murmuring faintly from the living room.

Dustin is sprawled across the couch with a bowl of cereal balanced on his stomach despite the fact it’s fully evening. He glances up absentmindedly at first.

His entire face lights up. “Whoa.”

You immediately laugh nervously. “What?”

“You look pretty.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you slightly off guard. Dustin sits up straighter on the couch, grinning at you in a way that suddenly reminds you painfully that he’s still your little brother underneath all the dramatics and endless talking.

“You really think so?”

“Duh.” He gestures vaguely with his spoon. “Eddie’s gonna freak out.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “Dustin.”

“What? He likes you like… aggressively.”

You laugh softly despite yourself, smoothing your hands nervously over your sleeves. “Robin said the same thing.”

“Because it’s true,” Dustin says, like it’s obvious. “He talks about you all the time.”

That makes you blink. “He does?”

“Oh my god,” Dustin groans, dropping back dramatically against the couch cushions. “You seriously have no idea, do you?”

Before you can answer, headlights sweep briefly across the front window.

Dustin sits bolt upright immediately. “He’s here.”

Dustin notices your expression and grins even wider. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” he says delightedly. “This is amazing.”

Then there’s a knock at the door, and your heartbeat feels too loud. Dustin looks between you and the front door with poorly concealed excitement before jumping up from the couch first.

“Oh, I’m answering it.”

“Dustin—”

Too late. He yanks the front door open with the energy of a child on Christmas morning.

Eddie’s standing on the porch in dark jeans and his leather jacket, curls slightly messy like he’s been dragging nervous hands through them. 

He’s holding a small bouquet of flowers that look suspiciously like they came from the little stand outside Melvald’s, and for once in his life, Eddie Munson actually seems unsure of himself.

Then his eyes land on you behind Dustin, and he completely forgets how to speak. Dustin looks back and forth between the two of you with visible delight.

“Oh my god,” he whispers dramatically. “He is freaking out.”

Eddie blinks once like he’s rebooting. “Henderson, I will kill you.”

“You brought flowers,” Dustin says smugly.

Eddie ignores him entirely, still staring at you in a way that makes your chest feel warm all over again. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi.” The word comes out softer than you intended.

Eddie swallows once. Then, very carefully, he holds the flowers out toward you. “These are for you.”

“Be home by ten!” Dustin calls dramatically as Eddie leads you back toward the van.

You pause halfway down the walkway. “Since when do you give me a curfew?”

“Since now,” he says importantly, leaning against the front doorframe. “And no funny business.”

Eddie scoffs loudly without looking back. “You are literally fifteen.”

“And wiser than both of you combined.”

You laugh softly under your breath as Eddie opens the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. 

“Goodbye, Dustin.”

“GOODBYE. BE SAFE. DON’T GET PREGNANT.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, face burning as Eddie bursts into helpless laughter beside you.

The front door slams shut before you can retaliate further.

“Your brother is insane.”

“You encourage him.”

“Because he’s funny.”

“He’s awful.”

Eddie laughs again as the van rumbles to life beneath you. The sound settles warmly through the small space alongside the radio's quiet static, and for a little while, things feel easy. 

Eddie drums his fingers against the steering wheel while he drives one-handed, occasionally glancing over at you with this small private smile that makes your stomach flutter every single time.

It isn’t until he pulls into the overlook outside town later that night that things start to shift.

The place is mostly empty this late, only a couple of scattered cars parked beneath the dark stretch of sky overlooking Hawkins. “This okay?” he asks.

You nod immediately. “Yeah. It’s pretty up here.”

Eddie’s eyes linger on your face for a second too long before he looks away again with a quiet hum. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”

Then, after a moment, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

You watch absentmindedly as he taps one loose and settles it between his lips, the flame from his lighter briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face in warm orange. Smoke curls slowly into the night air once he exhales. 

You don’t know why you ask. Maybe curiosity, maybe because everything about Eddie feels a little intoxicating lately.

“Can I try one?”

Eddie freezes mid-exhale. Slowly, he turns toward you. “What?”

You shrug a little, suddenly oddly shy beneath the intensity of his stare. “Just once.”

For a second, he just looks at you. “You’ve never smoked before.”

It isn’t a question. You shake your head once. “No.”

Eddie lets out the faintest breath through his nose, eyes dragging away toward the windshield for a moment. His rings tap softly against the cigarette resting between his fingers.

And maybe this is exactly the kind of thing everyone in Hawkins expects from him. Corrupting nice girls in parked vans late at night. The thought should probably make him feel guilty. Instead, all he can think about is the way you’re looking at him right now, all soft curiosity and trust.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “you really shouldn’t ask me things like that.”

Your brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

Eddie glances back at you then, dark eyes unreadable in the low lighting.

“Because,” he says quietly, “I’m probably gonna say yes.”

Before you can overthink it, Eddie sighs softly and shifts closer across the seat, cigarette still balanced between his fingers. “C’mere.”

You lean closer instinctively, knees brushing his in the cramped space between the seats. Eddie watches you the entire time, gaze flicking once toward your mouth before he catches himself.

“This’ll probably taste awful, by the way.”

You smile a little. “You’re really selling it.”

“Just bein’ honest.”

Carefully, he lifts the cigarette toward your lips. And Christ. The sight alone nearly does him in.

You hesitate only briefly before taking a tentative inhale exactly the way he showed you. Almost immediately, your face scrunches up as you start coughing lightly into your sleeve.

Eddie laughs instantly, reaching over to rub a warm hand against your back. “Easy, easy— there she is.”

“That is horrible,” you rasp between coughs, eyes watering slightly.

“I did warn you.”

You’re still laughing softly at yourself when you finally glance back up at him, only to realize how close he is now. For a moment, neither of you moves.

The cigarette burns slowly between Eddie’s fingers, forgotten entirely now as his eyes stay fixed on yours. You can still feel the warmth of his hand through your sweater, where it rests against your back. Though the look on his face is becoming significantly less careful by the second.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod once.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Your voice comes out softer than usual, and Eddie notices immediately. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, dragging his eyes away from your mouth with visible effort.

His hand slips from your back only so he can lean farther into the seat, head tipping briefly against it like he’s trying to regain control of his own thoughts.

You watch him for a second before smiling slightly. “What?”

Eddie laughs once, but there’s no real humor in it. “You have genuinely no idea what you do to me, huh?”

Your stomach flips hard enough to make you glance away. Not because you don’t understand what he means, you do.

Maybe not fully, or with the same confidence other girls seem to have, but you understand enough to feel the tension thickening between you now. The difference is you’re not afraid of it, not with him.

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

That gets Eddie’s attention instantly. His head turns toward you again, curls falling slightly into his eyes. “I do?”

You nod, fingers fidgeting lightly in your lap. “You always look at me like you’re thinking something.”

Eddie goes very still. Because he is, constantly.

And suddenly, he’s picturing every single filthy thought he’s had about you over the last few weeks while you sat beside him smiling sweetly like you trusted him with your whole heart.

Every moment, he’s imagined pulling you into his lap, kissing you until you forgot your own name, hearing soft sounds fall from your mouth, all because of him.

Dangerous thoughts, especially about someone like you.

“You really wanna know what I’m thinking?” he asks finally, voice lower now.

The question sends heat crawling up your neck. Still, you nod.

Eddie studies your face for another long second. Then he leans closer again, slowly enough for you to stop him if you want to. You don’t.

“You sit next to me,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between yours and your mouth, “lookin’ all pretty and sweet all the time, and you don’t even realize what it does to me.”

Your breath catches quietly. 

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, almost pained, “I’m trying my best here not to ruin you.”

The word ruin sends a pulse of heat low in your stomach. His gaze darkens immediately at your reaction.

“There she is,” he says quietly, almost pleased. “That got your attention.”

Your face burns. “Eddie…”

“What?” he asks innocently, though there’s nothing innocent about him anymore. “You asked.”

You should probably tell him to stop. Instead, you whisper, “Keep talking.”

Eddie actually closes his eyes briefly at that. When he opens them again, his face slips into something soft, following something dangerous. Like the restraint he’s been clinging to all night is finally beginning to slip.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

You laugh nervously. “I thought you were supposed to be the bad influence.”

“Oh, trust me, doll.” Eddie’s hand slides slowly along your knee, warm and deliberate enough to make your pulse jump. “I am.”

The touch alone feels impossibly intimate. Not because it’s inappropriate, not because it’s even that scandalous. But because it’s Eddie.

Because he’s touching you like he’s trying very hard not to scare you away while simultaneously imagining a thousand worse things.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head once.

“I don’t even think you mean to do it.”

His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your knee, and you swear he notices the exact second your breathing changes.

“You smile at me,” he continues softly, “sit close to me, remember little details that nobody should remember… and every time you do, I think maybe this is the moment I finally lose my mind.”

Your heart is pounding so hard now you’re convinced he can hear it. Especially when his eyes drop once more toward your mouth.

Eddie’s thumb is still stroking slow circles over your knee, his dark eyes locked on your mouth like he’s starving for it. You can barely breathe.

“Eddie…” you whisper, not sure what you’re even asking for.

He lets out a shaky breath, like your voice alone is undoing him. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lean in the last few inches and press your lips to his: soft, uncertain, barely a kiss at all, more like a gentle brush. 

Eddie freezes for half a second, then groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, careful, as he tilts his head and kisses you back properly, like he’s teaching you how good it can feel.

You make a tiny surprised sound when his tongue traces your bottom lip, and he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We can stop anytime. Just tell me.”

“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, cheeks burning. Your hands are trembling as you reach up and curl your fingers into his jacket. Eddie’s eyes flutter shut like the words physically pain him. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, guiding you with gentle pressure until your mouth opens for him. The slide of his tongue against yours makes heat pool low in your belly, unfamiliar and overwhelming.

You try to match him, tentative and sweet, and when you shyly suck on his tongue, he makes a broken noise and pulls you closer across the seat.

He pants against your lips while his hand stays gentle on your neck, thumb stroking your jaw, but his other hand grips the edge of the seat like he’s holding himself back from devouring you.

You kiss him harder, braver now, and he rewards you with a soft moan that goes straight between your legs. When you accidentally graze his bottom lip with your teeth, something you’ve only ever seen in movies, he jerks, fingers tightening in your hair.

Eventually, he pulls back, eyes dark, lips swollen. “Back of the van?” he asks, almost hesitant. “Only if you want. We don’t have to—”

You nod before he can finish, heart hammering. “I want to. With you.”

Eddie helps you climb through to the back, spreading out the blankets he keeps there like he’s making a nest for you. He lays you down so gently it makes your chest ache, then settles over you on his elbows, careful not to crush you.

“Look at me, baby,” he says softly, brushing hair from your face. “We go as slow as you need. Tell me if anything hurts or feels weird, okay? Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek.

He kisses you again, slower, deeper, until you’re squirming beneath him.

His hands stay respectful at first, stroking your sides and waist, until you arch into him and he finally slides one under your sweater. The warmth of his palm on your bare skin makes you gasp.

“So soft,” he murmurs against your neck, kissing down the column of your throat. “So fucking perfect.”

You’re trembling when he helps you out of your sweater and bra, but not from fear. Eddie looks at you like you’re something holy, eyes reverent as he cups your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten.

“Eddie—” Your voice breaks on his name when he leans down and takes one into his mouth, gentle suction and slow flicks of his tongue. You’ve never felt anything like it. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping curls, and he groans in approval.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Hold onto me.”

He works you open with patient fingers later, after your jeans and panties are gone, whispering praise the whole time.

“Relax for me, baby… just like that. Good girl. So wet already, fuck. All for me?”

You nod frantically, hips twitching. When he curls his fingers just right, you cry out, shocked by the sharp burst of pleasure.

“There?” he asks, voice low and pleased. He does it again, watching your face. “Yeah? You like that?”

You can barely speak, just whimper and nod. He keeps talking you through it, gentle but filthy, until you’re shaking apart on his fingers with a broken little moan.

He kisses you through it, then rests his forehead against yours while he rolls on a condom. “You sure, sweetheart? We can stop right here. I’d be happy just making you come all night.”

You shake your head, pulling him closer. “I want you. Please, Eddie.”

He enters you so slowly it almost hurts, a combination of pain and how careful he’s being, how full you feel. He stops every inch, murmuring against your temple.

“Breathe, baby. That’s it… doing so good for me. So tight—fuck, you feel incredible. Breathe, okay?”

When he bottoms out, you both moan. He stays still, buried deep, kissing you softly until the stretch eases into something warm and aching and good.

“Move,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “Please.”

He rocks into you gently at first, then a little deeper when you start lifting your hips to meet him. Every thrust is measured, his voice a constant low rumble in your ear; praise, dirty little observations, encouragement.

“Look at you taking me so well… my sweet girl. Never thought I’d get to have you like this.”

You get bolder as it builds, wrapping your legs around his waist, experimentally clenching around him. Eddie’s rhythm falters.

“Shit—baby, do that again.”

You do, shy but eager, and he groans like he’s dying. On impulse, you tilt your head and bite his shoulder. Not hard, but just enough to leave a mark. Eddie curses loudly, his hips snapping forward harder for a second before he catches himself.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it,” he laughs breathlessly, kissing you deep.

He reaches between you and rubs your clit in tight circles, voice growing rougher as you both get close.

“Come on, baby. Let me feel you. Want you to come on my cock—yeah, just like that. Good girl. So good for me.”

You shatter with his name on your lips, clenching around him so hard his thrusts turn erratic. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he comes with a broken moan, hips jerking.

Afterward, he stays inside you for a long moment, stroking your hair, pressing soft kisses to your flushed face.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice tender. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, smiling shyly as you nuzzle into him. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”

Eddie laughs softly, pulling the blanket over both of you. “Yeah? Even when I almost lost my mind because you bit me?”

Eddie’s arm is wrapped carefully around your waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin like he can’t stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. Not that you mind.

Your head rests against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowly come back down while his other hand plays gently with your hair. Every few seconds, he presses absent little kisses to the top of your head like he’s doing it unconsciously, like affection simply spills out of him naturally around you.

You feel him shift slightly beneath you after a minute, enough that you tilt your chin up to look at him. He’s already staring down at you, dark curls messy, lips slightly swollen, expression somewhere between completely wrecked and deeply concerned.

“…You sure you’re okay?” he asks again quietly.

The question makes your chest ache a little. Not because it’s upsetting, but because he sounds genuinely nervous about it.

You smile softly almost immediately. “Yeah.”

Eddie studies your face carefully anyway, like he’s searching for any sign you don’t mean it. “Yeah?” he repeats.

“Mhm.”

“You promise?”

A quiet laugh leaves you then, small and sleepy and warm from where you’re curled against him. “Eddie.”

“What?” he says defensively, though his hand tightens slightly around your waist. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Your fingers drift lazily along the chain around his neck while you look up at him. “I’m okay.”

Eddie exhales slowly through his nose, tension visibly easing from his shoulders. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

You smile a little wider. “You say that a lot.”

“That’s because you keep doin’ things that make me need divine intervention.”

Your laugh this time is brighter, and Eddie immediately looks at you like he’s just won something.

There’s still this almost disbelieving softness in his expression now, like he hasn’t fully processed that this actually happened. That you happened. 

“You’re thinkin’ too hard,” you murmur.

His mouth twitches slightly. “Can you blame me?”

You shrug a little against him. “Maybe.”

“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek, “you trusted me with your first time. I think I’m allowed to spiral a little.”

Heat blooms softly across your face at the words.

“You’re really okay?” he asks one more time, softer now.

You nod against him. “Yeah.”

Then, after a tiny pause: “It was nice.”

Eddie goes completely still underneath you. Slowly, he lifts his head enough to stare down at you properly. “Nice?”

You blink innocently. “Yeah.”

A laugh bursts out of him so suddenly it startles you.

“Baby,” he says through his grin, “I am never letting you describe that as nice again.”

Your face warms instantly as you hide it against his chest with a groan, and Eddie just laughs harder, wrapping both arms around you tighter while pressing another kiss into your hair.

“There she is,” he murmurs fondly. “My sweet girl.”

The next morning feels strangely dreamy. Not in some dramatic life-changing way.

Dustin is still loudly arguing with the television before noon, the neighbor’s dog still won’t stop barking, and Hawkins still looks exactly the same outside your bedroom window.

Every time your mind drifts back to the night before, heat creeps slowly up your neck all over again. Eddie’s hands on your waist. The sound of his voice going rough when you kissed him back. The way he kept checking in afterward, like your comfort mattered more to him than anything else in the world.

You think maybe that’s your favorite part. Not the sex itself, though that had certainly been overwhelming in ways you’re still trying to process. It’s the fact that Eddie held you afterward like something precious.

The phone rings around two in the afternoon. You perk up instantly from your spot sprawled on the living room carpet, flipping through a magazine. Dustin glances over from the couch suspiciously while you practically scramble for it.

“Hello?”

A small pause. Then: “Hey, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flips immediately. You smile before you can help it, curling the phone cord loosely around your finger. “Hi.”

Eddie goes quiet for a second on the other end, like maybe hearing your voice affected him too much. When he speaks again, there’s a smile tucked into his words.

“How’re you feelin’ today?”

Warmth floods your face instantly. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Another tiny pause. “Good.”

From the couch, Dustin narrows his eyes. “Is that Eddie?”

You wave him off blindly while Eddie snorts quietly through the phone. “Your brother sounds possessive.”

“He’s nosy.”

“I heard that,” Dustin calls loudly.

You laugh softly, and Eddie goes quiet again for half a second in that way he keeps doing now, like hearing you laugh still catches him off guard.

“So,” he says eventually, voice lower now, easier. “I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanted to come to the Hideout tonight.”

“The bar?”

“Mm.” You can practically hear him lighting a cigarette through the phone. “Thought maybe I could buy you a drink. Since you’re all grown up now.”

Your face burns instantly. “Eddie.”

“What?” he asks innocently. “You are.”

You tuck your hair behind your ear shyly despite the fact that he can’t see you. “I’ve never been to the Hideout before.”

“I know.”

And for some reason, the way he says it sends warmth straight through you again. Like he enjoys being the first person to show you these things. 

“Only if you want to,” he adds after a second, softer this time. “No pressure.”

You smile immediately at that. “I wanna go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie exhales quietly through his nose, almost sounding relieved. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll come get you around eight.”

“Okay.”

There’s another pause afterward that stretches warm and comfortable between you both. Then Eddie says, quieter now, “Missed you today.”

Your heart stutters embarrassingly hard. “Oh.”

A soft laugh crackles through the receiver. “There’s that little sound again.”

“What sound?”

“The one you make when I say somethin’ that gets in your head.”

You duck your face instinctively, even though he still can’t see you. From the couch, Dustin groans dramatically. “You are smiling so weird right now.”

The Hideout smells faintly like cigarettes, beer, and old wood, the second Eddie pushes the door open for you.

It’s darker inside than you expected, lit mostly by warm amber lights strung lazily behind the bar and the colored glow from an old neon beer sign buzzing softly in the corner. A band is setting up near the tiny stage in the back while people crowd around sticky tables, laughing too loudly over the music humming through the speakers.

His hand settles lightly against the small of your back, warmth through your shirt as he leans closer so you can hear him over the noise. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You glance up at him and smile. “Yeah. It’s just different than I expected.”

Eddie grins. “What, you thought it’d be glamorous?”

“A little.”

“Aw, honey.” He nudges you gently toward the bar. “This place barely passes health inspection.”

You laugh softly under your breath, and Eddie’s expression immediately softens at the sound like it always does now. There’s still something almost disbelieving in the way he looks at you tonight, like he can’t quite process that you came here with him willingly. That you’re sitting beside him at the Hideout, of all places. 

The bartender greets Eddie immediately as soon as you slide onto the stools. “Munson.”

“Hey, Frank.”

Then Frank notices you beside him, one brow lifting slowly.

Eddie catches it instantly. “Don’t start.”

Frank smirks knowingly before wiping down the counter. “Wouldn’t dream of it. What can I get you two?”

Eddie glances sideways at you thoughtfully for a second, tapping his rings lightly against the bartop. “Lemme get a beer…”

Then his eyes flick back toward you again, something amused flickering there.

“And a Dirty Shirley for her.”

You blink. “How did you know that’s what I’d like?”

Eddie shrugs casually, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You just seem like a Dirty Shirley kinda girl.”

The answer makes you laugh softly. And for some reason, Eddie looks absurdly pleased with himself over that. When the drinks arrive a minute later, you eye yours curiously before taking a cautious sip through the straw.

Immediately, your face brightens. “Oh, this is good.”

Eddie snorts into his beer. “Yeah, because it’s basically candy.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Nah.” His gaze drifts slowly over your face again, softer now. “Kinda fits you, actually.”

Heat creeps up your neck at the way he says it. You glance down shyly at your drink while Eddie leans one elbow onto the bar beside you, watching you with open fondness now that nobody from school is around to see it.

“You nervous?” he asks after a moment.

“A little.”

“About bein’ here?”

You shrug slightly. “I guess.”

Eddie hums quietly, eyes flicking around the crowded bar before settling back on you. “Nobody’s gonna bother you while you’re with me.”

The words shouldn’t affect you as much as they do. Maybe it’s the confidence in his voice. Maybe it’s the fact that he says it so naturally, like protecting you is already instinct.

Or maybe it’s just Eddie.

“Good,” you say softly before taking another sip.

Eddie goes suspiciously quiet beside you, and you glance over. “What?”

His eyes drag slowly from your lips back up to your face.

“Nothin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You just look real pretty sittin’ here.”

The music hums warmly through your chest now instead of pounding against it, and the second Dirty Shirley Eddie absolutely did not need to buy you has left your cheeks pleasantly warm. You’re leaning closer to him without thinking anymore, your knee pressed between his, where he sits angled toward you at the bar like the rest of the room barely exists.

Eddie’s halfway through telling you some ridiculous story about Gareth nearly setting a school amplifier on fire when you start laughing hard enough to grab onto his arm.

And that completely derails him.

He loses his train of thought instantly, eyes dropping to your hand wrapped around his forearm before slowly flicking back up toward your face. You’re still smiling at him, all sweet and tipsy, entirely unaware of the effect you have on him.

“Why’d you stop talking?” you ask.

Eddie blinks once. “You’re pretty distracting, sweetheart.”

Your face warms immediately.

“There she is,” he murmurs fondly into his beer.

Eventually, the bar starts getting louder as more people crowd in, conversations overlapping with the music until Eddie notices you beginning to glance around, slightly overwhelmed. 

His hand settles instinctively against your knee beneath the bar. “You wanna get outta here?”

You look back at him immediately. “Yeah.”

Eddie studies your face carefully for a second before asking softer, “Wanna come back to my place?”

And maybe it should feel more scandalous than it does. Instead, all you feel is warm trust settling low in your chest when you nod. “Okay.”

The drive to the trailer park is quiet in the nicest way.

One of Eddie’s tapes plays softly through the van speakers while warm night air drifts through the cracked windows. Your head rests lazily against the seat as streetlights pass over Eddie’s face every few seconds, catching the silver of his rings against the steering wheel.

He keeps glancing at you, not subtly either. Every time you catch him, he smiles crookedly to himself before looking back at the road.

By the time he parks outside the trailer, you’re pleasantly floaty enough that you don’t even think twice before following him up the steps. The trailer is dim and familiar from all the times you’ve picked Dustin up after Hellfire. Eddie immediately tosses his keys onto the counter before turning toward you.

“You want somethin’ to drink?”

You shake your head slightly before your eyes catch the cigarette pack sticking halfway out of his jacket pocket.

“…Can I try another one?”

Eddie actually laughs softly under his breath. “You are trouble.”

You smile innocently. “You said that already.”

“Yeah, well.” His eyes drag slowly over your face again. “Still true.”

This time, when he pulls a cigarette loose and lights it, you step closer before he even asks. Eddie notices immediately, something dark and pleased flickering briefly across his expression before he tamps it down.

“C’mere then, sweetheart.”

The pet name lands warm in your stomach now.

You lean in slightly while Eddie lifts the cigarette toward your mouth again, two fingers resting carefully beneath your chin to angle your face upward. The touch alone feels unfairly intimate, especially when his eyes stay fixed on your lips the entire time.

“That’s it,” he murmurs softly as you inhale carefully.

This time, you barely cough, and Eddie’s brows lift immediately. “Well, look at that.”

You laugh lightly through the smoke, a little proud of yourself despite how ridiculous that probably is.

Meanwhile, Eddie looks devastatingly fond. “That’s my girl,” he says quietly.

Your face flushes even more now, like that’s even possible. 

“You like it when I say stuff like that, huh?” he asks gently.

You glance down shyly. “Maybe.”

His grin turns downright dangerous. “Jesus Christ.”

Then, before you can recover from that, Eddie disappears briefly toward his bedroom area. You hear drawers opening for a second before he returns holding something glass and obnoxiously large in one hand.

You blink. “What’s that?”

“A bong.”

Your expression must give you away because Eddie immediately laughs. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s just weed.”

“I know what weed is.”

“Mhm.” He drops onto the couch cushions beside you, smirking slightly. “And yet you looked at it like a church girl.”

You nudge his shoulder lightly while he chuckles to himself, already packing it with practiced familiarity. Then he glances sideways at you.

“You wanna try?” There’s no pressure in his voice, just some boyish curiosity.

You hesitate briefly before nodding. “Okay.”

Eddie’s expression softens instantly into something almost unbearably affectionate. “Attagirl.”

Heat floods your face again.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting tucked against his side while he guides you through it patiently, one hand steady against your waist while the other helps position your fingers correctly.

“Slow,” he murmurs. “Yeah, just like that.”

You follow his instructions carefully, trying not to focus too hard on the fact that his mouth is barely inches from yours right now. The hit burns less than the cigarette but still catches in your throat enough to make you cough lightly against his shoulder afterward.

Eddie laughs warmly, rubbing your back. “That wasn’t too bad!”

“You make everything sound embarrassing.”

“That’s because everything you do is cute.”

Your face immediately buries against his shoulder while he laughs harder, wrapping an arm around you automatically like he can’t help himself anymore.

By the time the second hit settles in properly, you are absolutely gone.

You’re not panicking or dizzy or anything nightmare-inducing. Everything just suddenly feels unbelievably funny and soft all at once, like the entire trailer has been wrapped in warm cotton. The music playing quietly from Eddie’s radio sounds deeper somehow, and you cannot stop giggling every time he looks at you.

Which he keeps doing, constantly.

“You good there, sweetheart?” he asks from beside you, trying very hard not to laugh himself.

You stare at him for a second too long before nodding very seriously. “Your eyelashes are really pretty.”

That immediately breaks him. Eddie doubles over laughing, one hand covering his mouth while the other stays loosely around your waist to keep you upright, where you’re practically folded into his side on the couch.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes. “You’re high as a kite.”

You gasp softly like he’s offended you. “No, I’m not.”

“You just complimented my eyelashes like you discovered religion.”

“They are pretty.”

That only makes him laugh harder.

You narrow your eyes at him for approximately two seconds before dissolving into giggles, too, burying your face against his shoulder. Eddie wraps both arms around you automatically, then, still shaking slightly with laughter, he presses a kiss into your hair.

“Godt,” he murmurs fondly. “You’re adorable.”

You hum happily against him, completely content tucked into his chest while his rings drag lazily along your back.

A few minutes later, you start rambling, not about anything important either. Just whatever pops into your head.

“You know what’s weird?” you mumble suddenly.

“What’s weird?”

“The moon.”

Eddie snorts softly. “The moon.”

“Yeah. It just follows you around all the time. That’s weird behavior.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think the moon has behavior.”

“It does.”

“Mhm.”

You tilt your head up to look at him very seriously. “You smell good.”

Eddie visibly short-circuits for a second. “…Thanks.”

“And your hair is soft.”

“You touched my hair for like three seconds.”

“I know,” you sigh dreamily. “It was nice.”

That’s apparently the final straw. Eddie drops his forehead briefly against the top of your head with a groan. “Baby, you gotta stop sayin’ things like that before I lose my damn mind.”

You just smile at him sweetly, which does not help. Eventually, after you nearly fall asleep sitting upright against him, Eddie gently decides you need to move to the bed before your neck ends up permanently bent at a horrifying angle.

“C’mon, pretty girl.”

You blink sleepily up at him. “Hm?”

“Bedtime.”

The second he slides an arm beneath your knees and lifts you into his arms, you immediately wrap yourself around him with a soft little laugh.

Eddie steadies you against his chest easily, though his expression goes dangerously fond all over again when you instinctively nuzzle closer against his neck.

“You’re comfy.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Like a heating pad.”

Eddie nearly walks directly into the wall laughing.

The mattress dips softly beneath you a moment later as he sets you down carefully onto his bed. You immediately starfishing across it in a way that makes him snort affectionately while crouching beside you.

“You wanna sleep in jeans, sweetheart?”

You make a face. “No.”

“Okay.” His voice stays gentle. “Can I help you change then?”

You nod immediately.  That feeling hits Eddie square in the chest every single time.

So he moves slowly. Helping you swap your jeans for a pair of old sweatpants and one of his oversized shirts while you continue mumbling nonsense the entire time.

“Attractive people should legally have warning labels,” you inform him seriously while he helps guide your arm through the sleeve.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. It’s stressful.”

Eddie laughs softly under his breath. “Poor thing.”

“I’m serious.” You squint at him sleepily. “You’re very handsome. It’s distracting.”

He actually stops moving for a second. “Good lord,” he mutters weakly.

“What?”

“Nothin’, baby.”

By the time you’re finally settled beneath the blankets, your eyes are barely staying open anymore. Eddie starts to pull away toward the edge of the bed before soft fingers catch loosely around his wrist.

“Stay.”

Eddie looks down at you for a long second before his entire expression melts. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, climbing in beside you. “I’m stayin’.”

By Monday morning, half of Hawkins High has already noticed the jacket.

Not because it’s particularly flashy. Eddie’s leather jacket has always looked a little worn around the sleeves, a little too big on you, where it hangs past your fingertips. But everyone knows who it belongs to. Hellfire patches and metal pins tend to stand out in a school full of pastel sweaters and varsity jackets.

You don’t even think much of it at first while standing at your locker between classes, adjusting your books against your hip as Robin practically materializes beside you with the energy of someone spotting celebrity gossip in real time.

“Oh, my god.”

You blink. “What?”

Robin gestures wildly toward your body. “The jacket.”

Your eyes drop downward like you somehow forgot you were wearing it. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Robin repeats incredulously. “That’s Eddie’s jacket.”

You shrug a little, though warmth immediately creeps into your cheeks anyway. “I got cold Saturday.”

“And he let you keep it?”

The way she says it makes you pause. “…Yeah?”

Robin stares at you for a very long moment before muttering, “That man is so far gone.”

You laugh softly under your breath, trying and failing to suppress your smile while Robin watches the entire thing happen in real time.

“Oh, you like him bad too,” she realizes immediately.

“I do not like him bad.”

“Honey, you are literally wearing his jacket. Is that not the universal equivalent of a declaration?”

Before you can answer, someone whistles from farther down the hallway.

You glance up instinctively just in time to see Eddie leaning beside the cafeteria doors, already beaming, looking at you. More specifically, at you in the jacket. The slow grin that spreads across his face afterward is downright unfair.

Robin physically grabs your arm. “Oh, he’s gonna be unbearable now.”

And she’s right. Because Eddie spends the rest of the day looking at you like he won something.

Every time you pass each other in the hallway, his eyes immediately flick toward the oversized sleeves swallowing your hands before dragging slowly back toward your face with a deeply pleased expression. 

At lunch, he hooks two fingers through one of the jacket loops while passing behind your chair and murmurs a quiet, “Looks better on you anyway, sweetheart,” directly into your ear.

You nearly forget how to speak afterward. By the end of the school day, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Outside, the parking lot buzzes with engines starting and people spilling toward their cars in noisy groups while you make your way down the front steps. And there he is. Leaning against the side of his van with a cigarette resting between his lips, like he’s been waiting a while. The second he notices you walking toward him, his entire face softens.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hi.”

Eddie takes another drag from the cigarette while you stop between his knees, where he’s perched against the van door. “You survive another thrilling academic day?” he asks dryly.

“Barely.”

“Yeah? Tragic.”

You laugh quietly while his eyes drift over your face again, lingering there warm and heavy enough to make your stomach flutter. Then your gaze drops toward the cigarette between his fingers.

A slow smile pulls at his mouth. “What?”

You hesitate briefly before leaning in slightly. “Can I?”

This time, he doesn’t even tease you about it.

He simply lifts the cigarette toward your mouth automatically, eyes fixed steadily on your lips while you lean closer to take a slow drag. The smoke burns less now, familiar enough that you barely cough at all when you exhale.

Eddie watches the entire thing like he’s completely mesmerized.

“Atta’ girl,” he says quietly. The praise settles warm all through you.

Maybe it’s the nicotine. Or the way he’s looking at you. Or the fact that you spent the entire day missing him in a way that feels embarrassing to admit.

But suddenly you just want to kiss him, so you do. You lean forward softly, cigarette smoke still lingering faintly between you as your lips press against his. Eddie makes the quietest sound into your mouth.

His free hand immediately slides against your waist, pulling you closer between his knees while he kisses you back, slower this time, like he’s savoring it. Around you, the parking lot continues moving in noisy blurs, but Eddie kisses you like there’s nobody else there at all.

When you finally pull back slightly, he’s staring at you with completely blown pupils. 

For a second, he just looks at you. Then he lets out a quiet laugh under his breath, thumb brushing absentmindedly along your waist where it’s still holding you close.

“Who are you?” he murmurs, almost disbelieving.

Your face warms instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eddie grins slowly, eyes flicking toward the cigarette still dangling between his fingers before dragging back to your mouth.

“Couple weeks ago you were apologizing for saying hell in front of teachers,” he says softly. “Now you’re stealin’ drags from my cigarettes and kissing me in the school parking lot.”

Heat blooms all through your chest at the way he says it. Not mocking, something more towards pleased. Like he’s enjoying watching this softer, bolder side of you emerge.

You smile shyly despite yourself. “Maybe you’re a bad influence.”

Eddie actually groans at that, dropping his forehead briefly against your shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, “you cannot say things like that to me.”

“Why not?” you ask innocently. 

Eddie’s thumb hooks beneath your chin immediately.

“Because,” he says quietly, voice rough around the edges now, “you say it like you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

The warmth in your stomach deepens at that familiar tone, at the way he’s looking at you like he’s equal parts obsessed and completely doomed by it. And maybe you do understand a little more now.

Maybe that’s why your smile turns just slightly shy and knowing when you whisper, “Maybe I do.”

Eddie stares at you for half a second like you just physically struck him. Then he laughs softly under his breath, completely gone for you.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t reply with words after that, just hooks his fingers more firmly beneath your chin and drags your mouth back to his.

Eddie kisses like he’s addicted to it already, cigarette smoke still clinging faintly to him while his hand slides warm against your jaw. The parking lot noise fades somewhere far into the background as he tilts his head and kisses you again and again like he can’t help himself anymore.

And when you melt closer against him with a tiny contented sigh, Eddie smiles directly into your mouth, completely, and hopelessly ruined.

badda bing badda boom.

anyyywayyyyy, hope you all enjoyed.... i have a surprise coming at 11pm >:)

taglist is open!!

beebeebeeboop:

@bitterestwillow@kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses@meadows-ofasphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @sisteramycatherine @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullstevepeachpuffs25 @abirdinthehouse @m-art000 @micheledawn1975 @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg

A window with dull concrete around and dry bushes stared back at you, a perfect reflection of the life you were dragging behind you.

Empty apartment, tangled sheets with an unmade bed, mind drifting through fog with no direction or desire. 

No one to share this pathetic lunch with, no one to come home to, no soft words to chase away the ache of isolation. 

You chewed mechanically, staring at the same patch of wall you stared at yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The world kept moving around you; cars passing, coworkers laughing, life happening—but only you  had felt stuck, suspended in a moment you just couldn’t climb out of.

"Oi, Jerry! Tell that fucker to hurry up!" 

And of course, it was once again him, interrupting your thoughts. 

Joel Miller, the delivery guy who rolled in every Tuesday with stacks of office supplies, had been part of the background noise in your life long before he became your fuck buddy. 

You couldn't ignore him if you tried to anyways; he owned every room he entered with that brash, take-no-shit swagger. 

Pushing late forties, hair slicked back with whatever cheap gel he had, a solid gut from beers that he wore like a trophy, not giving a damn. 

He smelled like cigarettes and gas stations, a scent that clung to the office air and sparked whispers amongs your coworkers—not out of dread, but that eye-rolling tolerance for the loudmouth who never knew when or how to shut up.

Joel was all noise, no substance: complaining about bullshit traffic, picking fights over nothing just to hear his own voice win, his gaze sliding over everyone—guys, gals, whoever sparked a glance. 

Heck, he sees ass, he looking. He finds a face pretty, he flirtin' no matter the gender. 

But with you back then? He kept it clean, no sleazy lines or winks, even if his eyes hung a beat too long. He'd spot you, acknowledge, then bounce, like some unspoken rule held him back. 

What flipped the switch that day? Maybe that bare finger where your ring used to sit, or the way your stares locked, or just dumb luck kicking in.

Maybe even fate.

"Well, hello beautiful—thought I was the only fool smart enough to sneak off from all that hustle out front." You can still remember the exact words. "What's a pretty thing like you doin' hidin' with your lunch on a day like this? You work inside, right? Must be nice. I'm out here breakin' my back while you're in there enjoyin' the air-conditionin'."

His words were annoying, your fuse already short from the weight of your own misery. 

"You're real chatty, huh?" He asked, laughing deep and unbothered, pressing on: "Most people say hi back. Or at least blink. You're like talkin' to a statue." 

You stabbed at your greens, sighing loudly.

"That's alright. I talk enough for both of us."

He flashed a grin, propping his clipboard like a throne, eyes lighting with that devilish spark. "If I'd known there was someone this cute hidin' back here, I'd've started takin' my breaks here weeks ago." 

You didn't lift your head at that point.

"Ah, playin' hard to get. Classic." He teased. "Name's Joel. And you are?"

Head down, fork scraping plastic, you shot back cold: "Not interested." 

He let out a low whistle, more entertained than stung. "That's an interestin' name, sweetheart." Chuckle rolling out thick. "Bet it's real hard to fit on a driver's license."

Annoyance flickered hot, mixed with the dull throb of your solitude—you wanted him gone, but he stuck, a loud intrusion in your quiet hell, dragging the outside world into your numb bubble. 

"Alright, miss not-interested. Try not to miss me too much." He called out, and finally left with that.

-

"Lord almighty, I swear this job's tryin' to put me in an early grave," he announced to absolutely no one, wiping sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. "Ain't even noon and I already wanna go home, crack a beer, and pretend today never happened."

The second week, he didn't just stand in front of you and yapped about everything and nothing—no. 

He sat down right next to you. 

He dropped onto the concrete with a grunt so dramatic it almost echoed off the wall. 

And you didn't look up. You just prayed that he will get up and leave. 

But of course, he didn't. 

"First thing this mornin', some jackass parked his truck sideways in the loadin' zone. Sideways. Like he spun the god damn wheel, said 'Jesus take the wheel,' and Jesus said 'nah.'"

You stabbed your salad.

"And them warehouse men today? Useless. Every last one of 'em. 'Joel, can you lift this?' 'Joel, can you sign that?' 'Joel, can you fix the forklift?' 'Joel, can you suck my dick?'" You almost chocked on your salad, looking at him in disgust. He chuckled. "Nah, just kiddin'—I'll yap 'bout my route instead." 

At some point Joels vulgar language became the standard. At some point. But unfortunately not that day. 

"Drove through three counties this mornin', dodgin' puddles bigger than ponds. Tell ya what, darlin', days like this make a fella appreciate findin' a pretty face to break the monotony. You just sit pretty; I've got stories for days."

You inhaled slowly through your nose and closed your eyes for a second, and that was enough for him to make another dumb joke. 

"Oh, look at that—she's alive," he said, chuckling.

You glared at him, only earning a grin from him. 

"But...you're real good at this, y'know."

"At what?" you muttered.

"Listenin'," he said, smug. "Most folks interrupt me halfway through my first rant. But you? You just sit there takin' it like a champ."

Then he winked obnoxious.

"Guess you're built different, sugar."

You stabbed at your salad again, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach after that pet name. Joel finally pushed himself to his feet, scratching at his belly as he dug a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket.

"Alright, not-intrested. Same time next week."

-

By the third week, you hated to admit it—even to yourself—but you could remember a flicker of anticipation that waited for his presence. A tiny, unexpected part of you sparked with oh, he'll probably show up again. 

Because how many days had you been sitting alone on this concrete, telling your coworkers it was "nothing," that the divorce was just a "mutual decision"? 

How much you hated their whispers and the way their eyes kept drifting to your bare finger—all of them inventing their own version of your own story, none of them stopping to think, even for a god damn second, 'maybe we should just leave her alone'. 

"Lord above, if this mornin' gets any worse, I'm throwin' myself in front of a forklift."

You didn't look up, because you knew exactly what was about to happen. 

He plopped down besides you with a grunt, holding a lunch bag and groaning: "Shoot, sugar, you're quieter than a church mouse on sunday, again. but that's fine—means I get to unload without interruption." 

So you sat there, clutching on a sad little muesli bar, not even having the slightest energy to open it and listening to his ramblings. 

You were exhausted. Exhausted from waking up each day and pretending that everything is okey. Exhausted about battling thoughts on going sick for the day, or even leaving work. 

"Warehouse's a damn zoo," he muttered, digging inside his launch. "Boss got me waitin' around 'cause some idiot mislabeled the shipment. Again. I swear, I'm surrounded by fuckin' morons."

He pulled out a sandwich; thick, messy, wrapped in crinkled foil and was about to take a bite when he finally glanced sideways.

His chewing stopped.

He stared at your muesli bar.

Then at you.

Then back at the bar.

"…What in God's name is that."

You blinked. "Lunch."

He snorted. "That ain't lunch, hon. That's a god damn cry for help."

You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring his glance. 

Then, without warning, he tore his sandwich clean in half—one loud, irritated rip and shoved the bigger piece toward you.

You recoiled. "No."

"Take it."

"I said no."

He grabbed your wrist then, not rough, just stubborn, and slapped the sandwich half into your palm.

"Gonna starve yourself to death with that lil' piece of shit," he grumbled, already unwrapping his remaining half. "Ain't lettin' you pass out on my watch. I ain't fillin' out paperwork for that."

You stared at the sandwich in your hand. It was warm, heavy, smelling like cheap deli meat and something spicy. 

Your throat tightened.

Your husband used to make you sandwiches.

Every morning. Even on the days you didn't speak. Even when the marriage was already cracking down the middle.

You swallowed hard.

Joel didn't notice because of course, he was already back to complaining.

"And another thing...traffic was a damn nightmare..."

You didn't know then how much he'd matter. -

You couldn't exactly remember why you ended up in a bar that night.

You hated alcohol. The taste. The warmth in your throat. 

But it was one of those evenings where the past clawed its way back, uninvited, wrapping around your thoughts like fog and making your heart ache. And as much as you tried to drown it with liquor, a Coke zero did the job better that night.

His hand used to fit perfectly in yours, pulling you through days that blurred into moments of happiness and quiet joys; lazy Sundays with coffee steaming in the kitchen, his laughter rumbling low as he teased you about burning the toast again, the way he looked at you as if you were the only one in his life. 

And now? 

It was all gone, evaporated like morning mist under the harsh sun, leaving you lost in this unfamiliar city, this bar that hummed with the low murmur of conversations you didn't want to join. 

Who did you blame?

Him, for letting the spark die out in a series of unspoken silences? 

Yourself, for not fighting harder, for not seeing the cracks sooner? 

Had you changed too much, bent too far for his expectations, until you were a shape you no longer recognized? 

The questions swirled in your mind, unanswered, as you stared into the bubbles of your drink, the ice melting slowly. 

And there you saw him again. 

Joel. 

He was perched on his stool like he owned that place, nursing a pint of beer that sloshed slightly as he scratched at his big belly, the fabric of his faded flannel shirt straining against the motion. 

You sighed, and rolled your eyes painfully. 

His gaze lingered too long on a woman's ass as she leaned over the pool table. 

Years later you would hear whispers about him, from the regulars who nursed their own sorrows at the bar; how he was a fixture here, always chasing the next warm body, stumbling home with someone on his arm, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath. 

They even said he had a daughter once, lost her young to some tragedy that hung over him like a shadow, but in that night, you didn't know about any of that. 

That night, you just wished this god forsaken dim light would swallow him whole before he noticed you.

But as if the universe conspired against your solitude, Joel caught your eye across the room. 

His lips curled into a smug smirk, the one you already know all too well. 

He shifted on his stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and without a second hesitation, he pushed off and headed your way, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. 

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with that southern twang.

He stopped just close enough that you caught the faint whiff of his cologne—cheap and musky, mixed with the sharpness of the beer.

"Didn't expect to see my lunch buddy here, lookin' all lonesome and pretty under these sorry lights. What brings a fine thing like you to a dive like this on a night that's beggin' for trouble?"

You rolled your eyes again.

"Still playin' hard to get, hm?" Joel persisted, leaning one elbow on the counter besides you. 

He chuckled low, a rumble that vibrated through his chest, and took a step closer.

"Darlin', you know you can't fool ol' Joel. I see that fire in your eyes, even if you're tryin' to hide it behind that soda. Come on now, what's a man gotta do to get a smile outta you tonight?" 

"Joel, please," you said, your voice flat, edged with the irritation. "Ain't in the mood."  

He didn't take the hint—never did. Instead, he grinned wider.

"Oh lord almighty," he drawled, dragging out the words exaggerated. "The statue can talk, eh?" 

He set his beer down right next to your soda with a clunk, and slid onto the stool besides you, his knee bumping yours under the counter—accidental, or so he'd claim. 

The foam from his last sip still clung to the edge of his mustache, a white froth that made him look even more unkempt, more insistent.

"You look like you could use somethin' stronger than that coke, sweetheart. What's got you all twisted up? Some fool broke your heart, or this city just grindin' you down? C'mon now ol' Joel's got an ear and a shoulder, 'specially for a gal who looks like she needs a little…distraction."

"None of your business, Joel. Go bother someone else." 

But Joel just leaned in closer, unbothered, his breath warm and beery against your ear as he launched into another rambling.

"Aw, don't be like that, Honey. I'm just tryin' to help a lady in distress. Let me buy you somethin' stronger…or we could slip outta here, find somewhere quiet where a southern gentleman can take care of you proper."

He took a long pull from his beer then, the liquid going down his throat, and when he set it back down, a fresh bit of foam clung to his mustache, dangling there for a second before he swiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his stubbled chin. 

You felt the weight of Joel's words settling over you like the bar's humid air.

"Look, I ain't tryin' to go where I'm not wanted. Just sayin' you look like someone life's been gnawin' on. I've been there. Lost a marriage once. Hurts like cheap whiskey goin' down."

His flannel sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a faded tattoo on his forearm, a blurry horse that spoke of younger, wilder days, and you couldn't help but wonder, fleetingly, what stories it hid or if it hid anything at all.

The blunt honesty surprised you, slipping past your annoyance and stirring a thin thread of curiosity.

"Yeah, well," you muttered, your voice barely rising above the hum of the room. "Doesn't mean I need your pity party or whatever this is."

But the words lacked their earlier bite, softened by the way his story mirrored fragments of your own unraveling.

Joel chuckled, his mustache twitching as he scratched at his jaw, stubble rasping against his nails. 

"Pity? Hell nah, darlin', that ain't my style. See, after my own shit fell apart, I figured out the best way to forget is with a little company that don't ask too many questions, just shows up warm and willin', lets ya lose yourself in the moment till the sun comes up and chases the shadows away."

You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat eased just a touch as his words wormed their way in, distracting from the echo of your ex husband's words.

"Company that doesn't ask questions," you echoed softly, the phrase tasting foreign on your tongue, your gaze dropping to the melting ice in your soda. 

There was uncertainty in your tone, but a flicker of interest sparking, even if you didn't want to admit it. 

"Exactly right," Joel drawled. "No drama—just see where the night takes us, you and me, darlin'. If you say stop, I stop. I promise, by the time we're done, them troubles'll be nothin' but echoes."

His implication clear as day, without shame and respect. The kind of blunt talk that should have repulsed you outright. 

And it did, in part; disgust curled in your stomach, at the sleaziness of it all, this old man yapping nonsense like it was gospel. 

Yet beneath it all, as your world of careful plans and shattered stability cracked wider, a strange pull tugged at you—an attraction born from desperation, the want of something to numb your thoughts.

"You're disgusting," you shot back, the words tumbling out sharper than intended, your cheeks flushing. 

Joel didn't flinch; instead, his lips quirked into that infuriating smile.

"And you're beautiful, honey." he replied, his drawl softening. 

The compliment landed unexpectedly, stirring warmth in your chest you hadn't felt in ages.

Overcome by the rush of it all; you acted on impulse, leaning forwards to press your lips to his in a kiss that was quick and fleeting, tasting the bitterness of beer and the rough scratch of his beard against your skin. It was a moment of raw need, but as quickly as it happened, you pulled back, confusion flooding your features, heart pounding.

Joel's eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing across his weathered face, before that smirk returned, smug and knowing. 

"Well now, ain't that a surprise," he drawled, voice thick with teasing triumph. "Looks like all that neediness was just bubblin' under the surface, waitin' for a little nudge." 

You froze, the vulnerability crashing over you in waves, embarrassed.

Joel's expression shifted then, the smirk softening just a tad bit. 

"Easy there, honey," he murmured, drawl low and coaxing. "No need to bolt like a spooked filly. I get it—world's been rough, leavin' ya all tangled up inside. But how 'bout we take this outta here, head to my van? It's got space, privacy, and I can help chase them tormentin' thoughts right outta your pretty head, least till mornin' comes callin'."

He nodded towards the door.

You breathed deeply, steadying the whirlwind within. 

What the hell was wrong with you? 

Your eyes met his, searching in those crinkled depths for something real amid the sleaze, and after a long moment, you nodded, accepting the uncertain path ahead. 

Joel grinned, wide, sliding off of his stool with a grunt. He fished a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket, tossing them onto the counter, the bartender nodding absently as change clinked back. 

Then he stood, extending his hand towarsd you beckoning you into the night, the beginning of something tangled and unexpected.

-

His van was...if you'd put it nicely...very compact. 

Boxy, and worn down to its bones. The paint had faded into a chalky blue, chipped along the edges like old nail polish. Rust bloomed around the walls in stubborn freckles, and the back door had a dent big enough to suggest a story he'd never bother telling. A tiny row of potted plants sat on a narrow wooden shelf outside the window, their green leaves pressed against the glass like they were desperate for some water.

Joel's hand settled on your waist as he guided you forwards, fingers splayed just enough to steer you through the puddles without a word. 

Who were you in that moment? 

The woman who'd once ironed her husband's shirts on Sunday mornings, planned grocery lists with precision, traded her drafting table for PTA meetings and minivan keys? 

And now this—trailing after a stranger's touch into the night, not knowing how it'd end. 

"Y'know, darlin'," he drawled, "this ain't exactly the Ritz, but it'll do for keepin' the wolves at bay. Got a little garden out back of the park where I park most nights. Pretty flowers on summer and stuff. Ain't much of a flower guy though." He chuckled at his own nonsense.

You tried to school your features, to keep that flicker of disgust from showing: the way the van's interior peeked through the grimy windows, cluttered with stuff and a tangle of extension cords, a far cry from the crisp lines of your old house with its polished counters and linen curtains. 

It almost repulsed you, that glimpse of transience, the life pieced together from scraps and stubborn will, but you bit back the words, swallowing them away.

Joel noticed it anyway; his hand tightened fractionally on your waist before loosening. He cleared his throat, the sleaze turning into something almost shy, almost like shame as he fumbled for his keys. 

"Yeah... I know it ain't the best place," he admitted, the drawl softening, "Folks look at it and see a mess. But hell, it gets me through the day, y'know? Keeps the roof—such as it is—over my head and the road under my wheels. No mortgage chasin' me down, no fancy lawn to mow into submission. Just me and this old stubborn ass." 

He shot you a sidelong glance, eyes crinkling with a forced grin, trying to lighten your mood with that rambling charm of his. 

The door slid open with a metallic groan, releasing a puff of warmth laced with the faint, musty scent of unwashed blankets and motor oil. 

And inside—much to your surprise—it was actually cozy and put‑together.

 Sure, there were empty cans and bottles scattered around, and it clearly hadn't been cleaned in a long time. But somehow, it still felt warm.

There was a narrow space lined with built‑in cabinets, a real bed raised against the back wall with a worn quilt folded neatly on top and a compact kitchen with a proper stove and a tiny sink squeezed beneath a window. Soft fairy lights hung along the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the wood. 

"C'mon, darlin', don't stand there catchin' your death," he said. "You can lay down on the bed if ya want—ain't no palace, but it's clean enough, or as clean as a man livin' solo gets. I'll crank up the heat." 

He fiddled with the controls until the vent rattled awake, warm air stirring inside the van. 

Uncertainty started to coil in your gut, as you sat down his mattress—a tangle of doubt and fleeting desire, the perfect wife you'd been fracturing further with each passing second. 

Joel sank down besides you with a grunt.

"Look, I ain't gonna rush ya," he murmured, "We can just sit here, listen to the rain play its tune on the roof, talk 'bout nothin' if that's what you need. Or...whatever feels right. Your call, beautiful—no pressure from this side of the van." 

His words washed over you, annoying in their length and sleaziness, yet oddly soothing, smoothing the jagged edges of your thoughts. 

You nodded, barely, your fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. 

This wasn't you—climbing into a van with a stranger, a loudmouthed guy who lived like this, all nomadic and unapologetic. 

But his promise echoed in your mind, that he'd fuck all your problems away, and part of you, buried deep, wanted to believe it.

Before your brain could catch up, you leaned in, smashing your lips against his in a rush of impulse again. Joel's smirked against you, that smug curve pulling him back just enough to break the kiss. His rough hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your jaw. 

"Well now, ain't you just warmin' up quicker than a skillet on the stove, eh?" he murmured, eyes sparkling like he'd won some unspoken bet.

You ducked your gaze, staring at the frayed edge of the blanket, your pulse racing under his touch. 

"How long's it been since somebody touched this beautiful body of yours, huh?" He asked, one hand sliding down to trace the curve of your shoulder. "I mean, look at you—curves like a backroad at midnight, all soft and invitin'. Bet it's been a spell, baby, leavin' you all pent up and achin' without even knowin' it."

Too long. 

It had been too damn long since anyone had looked at you like that, let alone touched you with intent. 

You squirmed under his touch, that directness was disrespectful, disgusting in its bluntness, the way he talked to you like you were a prize he'd earned. 

But god, the arousal twisted deeper, heat pooling between your thighs, making your breath hitch. 

He didn't wait for words; his lips found your neck, pressing open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, stubble scraping in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine. He nibbled at your earlobe, teeth grazing just enough to earn a soft gasp from you, his free hand roaming over the swell of your breast, thumb circling through your shirt until your nipple hardened under the attention.

"Hey now," he whispered, "this still alright with you, sugar? I ain't pushin' if you ain't ready—though damn if you don't taste like trouble I been cravin'."

You nodded, words already failing as your body betrayed your caution, arching slightly into his touch. 

Joel's grin widened, pleased, before he captured your mouth again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming dance. 

He shifted, guiding you back onto the mattress with a gentle push, his weight settling over you. That big belly of his pressed down, soft and heavy against your stomach, pinning you.

He broke the kiss with a chuckle. "If you can't breathe under all this, darlin', just holler—though I reckon you'd rather I smother you a lil' more, keep you pinned like the pretty thing you are."

You rolled your eyes and pulled him back down. 

Your kisses grew hungrier as Joel's hand wandered lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before dipping between your legs. His fingers brushed the edge of your panties, and you startled, thighs clenching instinctively, a jolt of uncertainty spiking through the haze of desire.

"Whoa there, easy now," Joel soothed, not pulling away but pausing, palm resting on your thigh. "Ain't no need to jump like a cat on a hot tin roof, beautiful. I got you—gonna take it slow as molasses in January, make sure every touch feels like heaven. Been doin' this dance longer than you think, and I promise, by the time I'm through, you'll be beggin' for more of this big ol' belly pressin' down on ya."

His words tumbled out, long and filthy, uttering nonsense half of you didn't even understand. But it distracted you from that uncertainty and replaced it with a fresh wave of want. 

He slipped his hand under the waistband of your panties, fingers finding your slick folds. 

You were soaked already, embarrassingly so, and he groaned low in his throat as he traced your clit in slow, deliberate circles. 

"Goddamn, honey," he muttered, "you're drippin' like a summer storm out there."

He slid one thick finger inside you, then two, curling them just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was big, his movements steady and unhurried, pumping in and out with a rhythm. 

You moaned, the sound escaping raw and needy, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

"Listen to you, moanin' like a siren callin' me home," Joel teased, thumb pressing firmer on your clit as he worked you deeper. "Sounds filthy as hell, sugar—got me harder than a fence post just hearin' it. Keep makin' those pretty noises; I could listen to 'em all damn night while I finger this sweet pussy of yours."

"Shut up," you gasped, half-annoyed, half-breathless, but the words unfortunately lacked any bite, dissolving into another whimper as he quickened his pace, the wet sounds of his fingers filling the van.

The coil in your belly tightened quicky, pleasure building quick, the months without touch, the sleepless nights, every stroke of his fingers pushed you closer. 

And when the orgasm hit, it crashed over you in waves—your walls fluttered around his fingers, body arching off the mattress as you cried out, the release washing away all the insecurities in a flood of bliss.

"That's it, beautiful, come for me," Joel praised. "I got you, honey, ride it out...yeah, just like that."

As you calmed, Joel shifted slightly, his free hand drifting down to his lap, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. 

He pulled out his cock then; thick, heavy, already hard and swelling under his grip as he gave it a slow stroke. 

Your eyes widened, locking onto the sight—veined and girthy, curving upward with a heft you'd never encountered, the head flushed and glistening faintly in the low light. 

It was bigger than anything you known.

He chuckled, low and smug. "Like what ya see there, beautiful? Ol' Joel's packin' a bit more than most fellas, ain't he? Been told it makes a gal's eyes pop just like yours are doin' now—wide as saucers, wonderin' how it'll all fit. Don't worry, sugar; this big boy's got a mind of its own, but it'll treat ya right if ya let it."

"I want it." You whispered before you could even stop yourself. 

What was wrong with you? 

Joel's smirk widened, knowing, as he kept stroking, his thumb circling the tip to spread the bead of pre-cum.

"Oh, I know ya do, baby. Finally breakin' down for me, huh? Good girl—ain't no shame in cravin' what ya need. This pussy's beggin' for it already, I can tell."

You sighed, the annoyance flaring even as arousal pooled low in your belly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. 

He paused then. "Condom?"

You nodded quickly—you hadn't been on birth control since the divorce. 

Joel rummaged in a drawer besides the bed, pulling out a foil packet with a grin, tearing it open and rolling the latex down his length with practiced ease, the material stretching over his size. 

He smirked at you the whole time, eyes gleaming. "I'll promise ya some lovin' and care, baby. All these thoughts will be gone—poof, like smoke in the wind. Gonna fuck 'em right outta ya, leave ya floatin' on a cloud of nothin' but good feels."

You rolled your eyes, a mix of exasperation and excitement bubbling up as you didn't know what the hell you were doing, but in that moment, it felt right enough. 

He shrugged off his shirt fully now, revealing the full expanse of his belly, soft and heavy, before nudging your legs apart and settling between them, his weight dipping the mattress further. 

"Look at this pretty pussy, all pink and swollen from comin' on my fingers," he murmured.  "Shinin' like a damn pearl in the moonlight filterin' through that window there."

He pushed in then, the blunt head breaching you inch by agonizing inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. It burned at first, a delicious ache as he filled you, his girth forcing you open. 

You winced, discomfort flickering across your face, and he paused, one hand stroking your thigh, the other braced besides your head.

"Easy now, honey, breathe through it," he cooed, though his tone was laced with triumph. "I know it's big, but you're takin' it like a real champ."

"Shut up, oh my god," you hissed, embarrassment washing over you, but the words broke into a moan as he bottomed out. 

Joel grinned, sweat beading on his brow, and shifted his weight onto you completely, pinning you beneath his bulk as he began to thrust—slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your inner walls.

"That's it, beautiful, feel me fuckin' ya deep, chasin' away every damn worry in that head of yours."

His pace quickened, thrusts turning rougher, the bed cracking in time with the slap of skin on skin, his belly rubbing against you with each drive. 

He kept yapping, filthy stream of consciousness pouring out between grunts, his drawl turning breathless but no less annoying unfortunately. 

"Fuck, darlin', this tight hole's milkin' me good—gonna fill this rubber up with my cum soon, mark ya as mine even if it's just for tonight. You love it, don't ya? Takin' every inch like a pro, moanin' for more."

The words blurred into sensation, your body responding despite the sleaze, hips rising to meet his as pleasure rebuilt, coiling tighter. 

You clenched around him, cries spilling from your lips as it crested, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, your nails raking his back.

Joel followed soon after, groaning loud and guttural, his thrusts stuttering as he came, hips grinding hard against you while he filled the latex with hot spurts. 

He collapsed then, breathing ragged.

After a moment, he pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom with a quick tie and tossed into a nearby trash can. He cleaned himself up with a towel from the floor, wiping away the sweat and stickiness, before turning back to you. 

You laid there all breathless, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, the emotional high crashing into a wave of shame that made you curl inward. 

You rolled your eyes at his gaze and turned away, burying your head into the pillow, the scent of him overwhelming as regret whispered in your ear:

What had you done, giving in like this?

Joel noticed immediately, his voice softening as he reached out, hand resting on your shoulder. 

"Hey...did I hurt ya? What happened, honey? You were all lit up like fireworks a minute ago, and now you're hidin' like a scared kitten."

You mumbled something into the pillow, the words muffled. He pulled you back gently, wrapping you in his arms again, that unexpected tenderness cutting through the post-climax haze like a balm. 

You didn't cry, but you let out a big sigh, looking at a corner of the van. 

The empty apartment, the signed papers, the life unraveling like frayed thread. It all came crashing down on you. 

What had you done to deserve this?

You muttered against his shirt, voice muffled and broken, "I got divorced." 

The words hung there, exposed, the rain seeming to pause in sympathy.

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek with surprising care, though his grin crept in, sleazy but laced with a sweetness that caught you off guard. 

His eyes softened, just a fraction, and he murmured, "Oh, baby."

"God dammit, that mother fucker was sure as hell a dumbass to let you go like that," he said. "I mean, look at ya—pretty as a peach in July, all soft curves and fire in them eyes. He'd have to be blind and stupid to toss away a woman like you." 

You couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled up.

His words were filthy in their bluntness, annoying in their endless sprawl, but they lightened the mood, pulling you from the edge. 

So, you two stayed like that for a while, wrapped in his arms, the van's heater humming as the rain drummed on, his hand stroking your back in lazy circles until your breaths evened out.  -

The next day, he slipped his phone number into your palm while you were still asleep, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, muttered something about needing to get moving before his boss 'chewed him out like a dog with a bone,' and then left the van quietly so you could keep sleeping.

And when you came home again, disgust started to coil in your gut, sharp and unrelenting. 

Was this who you were now? 

Divorced once, the ink barely dry on those papers, and already fucking strangers in the back of a van just to numb the ache? 

The shame washed over you in waves, hot and suffocating, but tangled in that was something far worse—the admission that it had felt good. 

Too good.

Joel chased away those shadows in your mind, his kisses, sleazy as they were, had landed soft, pulling you under until the pain dulled to a distant hum. The way he pleasured you, something you haven't felt in years. 

You didn't cry. 

You never let yourself. Crying felt like a crack in the armor, and you couldn't afford to fall apart—not now, not ever. Not even as you got fired the next day.

Your boss's voice droned through the office like white noise—too many sick days, too little output, pack your things and leave. 

You only nodded numbly, the words sliding off of you like rain on glass, and drove home in silence, the radio off, the engine's hum your only companion in that moment. 

And there you sat in your apartment:

Divorced. Fucked by a random man in his rusty van. And now, fired.

Where was the perfect wife from years ago, the one with the husband who kissed her goodnight in their beautiful house, the one with plans and stability woven into every corner? 

Still, no tears came. 

You could remember how hard it had been, those days stretching like no end in near, each one heavier than the last, the weight of unraveling pressing down until breathing felt like a chore.

And in that moment all your eyes could see Joel's number on the coffee table, staring up at you like a dare. 

You thought about it for two full days, fingers hovering over your phone in the quiet hours, the what ifs swirling in your head. 

What would happen if you called? 

He would say some sleazy, stupid shit. Tease you in that obnoxious tone until you rolled your eyes. And then? He would ask to fuck. 

You felt so fucking stupid even considering it—chasing distraction from a man who probably saw you as just another notch—but god, he numbed the pain, turned the sharp edges soft, if only for a night.

"Now, who the hell is this callin' me up? I swear to the good Lord above, if this is one of them scam artists tryin' to fleece old folks outta their hard earned cash, you're barkin' up the wrong damn tree, buddy—ain't got nothin' but cigarettes in my pockets and a van that leaks worse than a sieve."

You swore you didn't want to call. 

But a soft smile tugged at your lips despite the knot in your throat, the sound of him so vividly alive in that sterile quiet of your space. 

"Joel," you said softly.

There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle, lazy and smug. "Well, I'll be damned, if it ain't my favorite troublemaker callin' me up outta the blue. Here I was, sweatin' bullets thinkin' I'd scared you off for good with all my big talk and bigger belly." He said. "Hell, I been thinkin' 'bout you non-stop, beautiful, wonderin' if you'd come to your senses and give ol' Joel a ring. What's the word? You need a laugh? A ride? Somethin' more...interestin'?"

He talked and talked, words tumbling out in that endless, annoying stream, painting pictures with his charm.

Suddenly, the words spilled from you, unbidden. 

"I got fired."

"Lord have mercy," Joel growled, the playfulness dipping into something almost genuine. "Fired? Shit, darlin', that's a raw deal if I ever heard one. You holdin' up alright? Tell me what happened, or hell, don't—ain't gotta spill it all if you don't want. But listen here, you sound like you could use a pick-me-up, and I know just the thing. You need me to swing by and scoop you up?"

He'd been thinking about that one thing again, the heat of bodies and the escape it promised, 

but in the ache echoing through your chest, maybe that's exactly what you needed—a distraction. 

So you whispered into the phone, "Yes."

-

"Goddamn, darlin'," he drawled, voice muffled against your wetness. "You taste like honey straight from the hive—sweet and sticky, makin' a man forget his own damn name. Let it go now, yeah? Tell ol' Joel what's eatin' at you 'bout that job. What'd they do to my girl, huh?"

It ached once inside your stomach when he said 'my girl' but it was quickly overshadowed by his tongue diving over your clit. 

Joel's broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his calloused hands gripping the soft flesh there, thumbs pressing into your skin that sent shivers up your spine. 

Tongue flat and broad, he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy, savoring the slick folds with a groan that vibrated through your core. 

No words were said from the drive over—just his knowing grin as he manoeuvred his truck in front of his van. 

And what happened next, didn't surprise you. 

"C'mon, tell ol' joel what's bothering you."

You exhaled a shaky breath, fingers threading into his salt-and-pepoer hair, the strands coarse under your palms as the first waves of pleasure loosened the knots in your chest. 

"The...the endless meetings," you murmured, hips twitching upwards into his face, the words fracturing on a gasp as he hummed approval, the vibration sending sparks along your nerves. "Talking in circles, nothing ever changing..."

He didn't stop, couldn't—tongue thrusting shallowly now, lips sealing around your clit to suck with rhythmic pulls that made your thighs quiver against his ears.

"That's it, beautiful, keep talkin'. What else? Gimme the dirt—bet they had you runnin' ragged like a dog chasin' its tail."

His free hand slid up your belly, palm warm and heavy, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in lazy strokes, grounding you even as he unraveled you. 

"Boss...always breathing down my neck," you continued. "Criticising everything, like I was invisible until I screwed up. And the hours—god, the hours bleeding into nothing."

Joel growled low, the sound feral and approving, doubling his efforts: tongue flicking rapidly over your clit while two thick fingers eased into you, curling to stroke that sweet spot inside you. 

Confessions started spilling freer now: "Colleagues whispering, promotions going to the loudest liars, feeling like I was drowning in paperwork that meant jack shit"—until the dam broke.

Orgasm crashed over you like a sudden storm, thighs clamping around his head as you came on his face, pulsing waves of release soaking his beard and lips. 

You cried out, back bowing off of the mattress. 

Joel pulled back slowly, chin glistening, eyes  triumphant. "Fuck me, beautiful, that was a sight—comin' apart like Fourth of July, all fireworks and no holdin' back." He drawled. 

He stood up then, the mattress dipping under his weight and rummaged in a nearby drawer, pulling out a towel, and dabbed gently at your thighs, cleaning your release with care, his touch lingering just enough to tease without pushing.

You sat up slowly, limbs heavy with afterglow, watching him through half lidded eyes; his belly strained against his shirt, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow catching the dim light filtering through the curtains. He caught your gaze and grinned, tossing the towel aside. 

"Well, hell, I'm gonna miss ya as my lunch buddy now that you're footloose and free."

You smirked, a playful spark cutting through the haze, even as surprise flickered at your own words tumbling out.

"You got my number now."

Why did it sound like that?

Like you two were something official...

"Yeah," he drawled simply. "Gimme a sec—gonna wash up."

He walked towards the tiny bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the hush.

Your eyes wandered and wandered then, tracing the faded photos pinned to a corkboard above the sink—mementos amid the chaos of tools and takeout wrappers. 

One caught your eye: a faded snapshot of a blonde girl, no more than eight, gap-toothed smile besides a younger Joel, his arm slung around her shoulders, both squinting into  the sun at what looked like a county fair. 

"Is that your daughter?" you asked when he emerged, towel slung over his shoulder, voice light and curious, no weight behind it—you didn't know him and you didn't want to push it. 

Joel froze mid-step, the easy smirk fading, his face hardening into lines etched deep by time and loss. 

The air thickened, a sudden stretch of silence between you. 

"Yeah," he said finally, voice low. "Lost her a long time ago."

You went silent then, nodding once, gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets.

This was the only time you ever heard about Joel's daughter. The rest was whispers and rumours from the bar. Even today, Joel never wanted to talk about it. And you didn't push him. 

Joel cleared his throat after a beat and headed toward the narrow kitchen at the front.

"Hell, this bastard's hungry now—mouth's all worked up, but I ain't got nothin' but some sad ass lookin' tomatoes, a hunk of cheese that's probably seen better days, and fuckin' bread that's more hole than loaf." His sleaze returned, trying to lighten the mood. 

You rose quietly, padding after him on bare feet, and leaned against the counter's edge. "Let me make you something. I don't need more than that."

He stared at you for a beat, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he shoved it down. But you caught the way his features grew soft. 

-

By the third time it happened, you stopped pretending it was an accident. 

Joel had spent the days between calling you nonstop to complain about anything he could think of— payments, deliveries, the guys in the warehouse—just rambling into your ear until you fell asleep from sheer boredom.

You remember being deep in your job search—hours of scrolling through listings that blurred together into rejection and possibility—when your thoughts started to distract you again.

The phone buzzed on the coffee table, jolting you from the haze, Joel's name lighting up the screen like an uninvited spark.

"Honey, you ain't gonna believe the bullshit I dealt with today—had this asshole at the site yappin' about permits like he owns the damn place, breathin' down my neck while I'm tryin' to weld a frame that won't hold up to a stiff breeze. Swear to God, if I had to listen to one more word 'bout codes and inspections, I'd have shoved that clipboard where the sun don't shine. Anyway, enough of my griping—how's that fancy job hunt goin'?"

Bla bla bla and more bla. 

You rolled your eyes.

But there was a pause then, his breath catching just a fraction, the bravado softening into something almost shy.

"Listen, uh... you wanna come over tonight? Or I could swing by and pick ya up? Ain't pushin', just...thought maybe we could unwind, y'know?"

You sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room, the promise you'd made to yourself after the last time—no more distractions, no more surrendering to the pull of his rough warmth—cracked under the strain of solitude. 

"Yeah," you said finally, voice steadier than you felt. "Pick me up."

So...you landed in his van again. 

His lips met yours with a hunger tempered by familiarity.

You melted into it, hands finding his neck, fingers tangling into his strands as the kiss deepened—tongues brushing in lazy exploration, breaths mingling hot and ragged in the small space.

You pressed closer, the scratch of his beard against your skin a grounding rasp, the make-out stretching slowly, bodies shifting on the bed until you were half in his lap. 

Breathless, Joel pulled back first, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours. 

"I was thinkin'...we could make this somehow official. Nothin' serious, mind you—just fuckin' around and stuff when we need it, y'know? Keep the loneliness at bay without all the messy strings." He grinned, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in it.

You laughed, the sound light and disbelieving, echoing softly in the van's cocoon. 

"Are you serious? You want me to be your fuck buddy?" 

The term hung absurd in the air, but it pulled a chuckle from him too, his eyes crinkling further.

"Yeah... why not? If we're gonna keep doin' this, we might as well call it what it is. Ain't promisin' the world, but hell, I could be your go-to when the night's too damn quiet."

You looked at him then, really looked—the way he held his gaze steady despite the sleaze, while you remembered the care in his hands after that first unraveling, how he wiped away the evidence of your surrender with a tenderness no one else had offered. The way his presence drowned out that hollow ache, letting you forget the spin of your life for stolen hours.

How were you able to numb those thoughts otherwise?

How could you deal with this loneliness eating you from the inside? 

"Yeah," you said, the word simple and sure, sealing the pact with another kiss.

You remember that you were left wondering, even then, if this was just how Joel was—if he took care of everyone like that, if he softened for anyone who crossed his path. You told yourself not to read into it, not to mistake kindness for anything else. You assumed he was like this with all the people he let close.

You didn't know he'd cut them all off the same week he met you. All women, all men he hooked up with. 

You didn't know you were the exception.

You didn't know he'd never been gentle for anyone else.

And you...you saw or still see him as temporary.

A placeholder.

Someone you'll leave behind once you finally get your life back.

You downloaded a dating app that same evening you agreed to the arrangement with Joel. 

Two people agreeing to keep things simple, and only one of them caring too much.

-> If you'd like to be tagged for this series, please let me know!!!

i'm sooooo bad at past tense stuff so i hope this isn't super confusing and just somewhat understandable. I also hope this met yall's expectations on how Joel and reader met. This is how i always had it in my mind and well...it'll get angsty🤭🤭

You sat stiff and awkward in the passenger seat, arms crossed over your chest as if you were wrongfully reprimanded (some would say that you were). Neither of you had said a word since getting in the car, just sat in silence for ten painful minutes. You were too busy stubbornly staring out the window and he was busy giving you well deserved silent treatment. It’s been like this for two whole weeks. Constant bickering, constant arguing, constantly having to put up with your bullshit.

Leon exhaled through his nose, eyes set on the blur in front of him, ears ringing from how fucking quiet it was. And it’s weird because Leon has dealt with much, much worse, but something about you just worked him on his last nerves. He’s literally fought the worse of the worse, but you just got under his skin in a way he couldn’t shake.

You were assigned to him on a cold Monday morning, loud confident and painfully honest. The first three hours he had with you were bliss, you listened, you nodded all eagerly and got along with the others. The second you were fully alone with him, you completely switched, lips pouted, arms crossed, eyes rolling at every thing he said.

Leon had tried, really tried, to be patient. He’d even given you the whole, ‘I’m not as scary as I seem’ speech.

Didn’t matter.

You talked back, you argued, you sassed him.

-day one, 8 am-

Leon stood in the hallway outside the training room, arms crossed, trying to look approachable. It wasn’t really working.

You were escorted by someone whose name you kept forgetting, walking up to him as you eagerly scanned the place. You didn’t even notice that the person left, not even bothering to introduce you to Leon, but it wasn’t really like you needed an introduction. You heard a lot about him.

“Rookie,” he greeted gruffly with a nod, your attention turning away from the framed photo on the wall beside him. You blinked up at him, giving him a small smile as you tried your very best not to ogle. “Welcome.”

“Thanks.” It was quick, a little too friendly and curt, but the words stuck in your throat like your body was forcing you to not word vomit to Leon of all people. All 5’11, tired, stubble blessed calmness wrapped up in the hottest dilf you’ve ever seen.

You blinked, clearing your throat awkwardly. “What did you say?”

He eyed you once, exhaling slightly before nodding to follow him. “First day jitters is normal. Try not to let it get to your head.”

You followed him like a lost puppy, staring at the back of his head letting your eyes just naturally trail along down his shoulders and arms. You weren’t able to stop in time at his abrupt stop, colliding into his back in a quick smack that had you letting out a loud oof in surprise. He immediately turned around, barely budging as he looked down at you.

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

“Maybe try to walk beside me and not behind me.”

“Right, sorry.”

Leon lead you to the training room, giving you side glances every now and then to make sure you weren’t stumbling over yourself again.

“Are we immediately going to train?” You asked loudly, stepping in front of him and turning around as you walked backwards just so you could look at him.

“Did you think we were?”

“Aren’t we?” He stared at you silently, glancing behind you at the rapidly approaching wall, stopping a few feet from a nearby door so you couldn’t go smacking into it. “Can we?”

“I think it’s a little more custom to show you around and introduce you—”

“I just want to get to the good stuff.” You interrupted impatiently, looking down a nearby hallway before rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet.

“I’m sure we’ll get to that soon.”

“What’s down there?” You pointed with one finger, Leon looked down the hallway with you, turning to look at you again.

“Offices.”

“Oh, okay.” You trailed off, looking up at the ceilings for some type of directional cues. “Whose office?”

“Important people.”

“Do you have an office?”

“No.”

“I thought important people have offices.”

Leon breathed in slowly at that, eyes boring into you. “What was that?”

You looked at him again, eyebrows raised slightly. “Huh? Oh, I meant, just— y’know…”

He let you stumble over your words, eyes meeting your avoidant ones until you quickly turned to go down the hall. “You’re going the wrong way.” He said simply, watching as you did a full 180 and walked the opposite direction.

This is going to be a very long day.

-day two, 4 pm-

He could still hear your voice echoing in the back of his head, unnecessary comments, rapid-fire questions, annoyed sighs. Everything went down hill after showing you around, he blamed it on nerves. That was the only thing that stopped him from questioning his own sanity.

Leon stared at the ceiling.

He’d been through hell.

Literal hell.

And yet somehow you were the one testing his mental health.

Leon was focused on the briefing folder in his hands, blocking out your nonstop seven minute rant. He honestly wasn’t even sure what the fuck you were even talking about, or how you had so much to talk about. He hoped you would’ve just tired yourself out and stopped talking completely, but you never did.

“…and I’m just saying, why would he expect perfection out of me for our first drill? It was so unfair. I didn’t have breakfast either, I slept through my first alarm, so I had to drink some gross smoothie my roommate made. Do you like smoothies, or are you more of a milksh—”

Leon closed the folder slowly.

“You done?”

You blinked at him. “Well, no? I was just about to ask if you liked milkshakes more than smoothies. I can understand if you do, sometimes I prefer milkshakes more.”

He just let you ramble on, opening the folder again to quietly read the contents. Inhaled through his nose and reminding him that you were new, he was a professional, he’s been in your shoes before. It’s just nerves. It’s just nerves.

“Also, you walk a little too fast. Could you slow down a bit?” At your question, he immediately stopped walking, turning to the side to face you as he closed the folder.

“You have to keep up.” He spoke softly, extending the folder for half a second like he was debating on letting you read it but decided not to give it to you.

“But I can’t really keep up with you if you’re taller than me.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked down at the folder for some divine intervention to help him out of this interaction. “Okay, I’ll walk a lil’ slower.” He looked back at you with a tight smile, walking in an awkward languid stride.

He was starting to miss zombies again.

-day five, 12 pm-

Leon crouched beside the evidence marker, gloved fingers tracing the edge of a blistered wound on the open neck of the victim. You watched as he examined the scorch pattern on the concrete, head tilting as he examined the body. You stood behind him, arms crossed, rocking on your heels.

“What am I supposed to be doing?” You stepped onto the tips of your toes, peeking over his shoulder to watch his gloved hand as he

“Observing.”

“I already am.”

“Then you’re doing what you need to.”

You fell quiet, staring at the back of his head before quickly crouching beside him, stepping so unnecessarily close that your shoulders bump together. “Is that a bite or a burn?”

Leon doesn’t look up, and you’re not sure if he’s aware of the close proximity or just doesn’t care. “Burn. High-temp, chemical.”

“Can I examine it too?”

“No.”

“Am I supposed to just watch you?” You asked curiously, turning at the sound of his knees popping as he stood upright again. Your gaze lingered on his legs, inching up slowly, slowly before craning your neck to look up at you. He was looking off into the distance, scanning something you weren’t able to see. “I could help you if you told me.”

“It’d help me if you were quiet,” you could tell he didn’t mean to say it, just a slip of his mouth that he wasn’t able to stop in time. Your eyebrows furrowed in defensiveness, lips curled into an offended pout as you stood up. His head quickly turned to you, eyebrows lifting slightly in recognition. “I’m sorry. It’s easier for people to focus on the evidence when it’s a bit… quieter.”

You looked away, mumbling to yourself before digging the tip of your shoe into the dirt. For the tiniest of seconds, he actually felt bad, watching your shoe scrape in the dirt and the way your shoulders curled in slightly. He approached you quietly, head ducking slightly to try to catch your eye, one hand hovering over your shoulder. “Hey..”

You finally lifted your head, eyes narrowed just a little in that bratty, dramatic way that had him immediately pulling back. “Is your lack of patience a compensation for your inability to be in full control of others?”

He sighed sharply, giving you a slow nod as his eyebrows raised quickly in that ‘figures she’d start something’ kind of way. He hummed lowly, blinking down at you before tugging on the edges of his sleeve. “I’m used to working alone. That’s all.”

You blinked, pursing your lips together to try to offer some advice, but he cut you off before you opened your mouth again. “Maybe you should wait in the car, hm? I think we could both use a break.”

For a moment, the air between you softened. Just a little. You stared at him for a long moment, eyes flicking along his face before shrugging slightly. “Fine by me.”

You walked past him, glancing over your shoulder to sneak another peek at him as he turned around, the broad expanse of his back moving slowly against the tight fabric of his shirt. You lingered by just long enough to watch the muscles move, eyes trailing up along his shoulders before hurriedly dipping into the safety of the car with a shaky exhale.

-day seven, 3 pm-

The warehouse was dark, cold and stuffy, reeking of mold and whatever organisms were too busy growing in between the walls. Leon figured it would be a good idea to bring you out to the field with him. Exposure therapy. It was more in hopes that whatever happened was scare you into not being an insufferable brat for two minutes. It was a terrible thought to think, especially about a new recruit, especially by someone he was training.

It seemed like you were purposefully stepping too close to him, he could feel the warmth of your body seeping into his personal space. You lingered exactly three inches away from him, chest nearly pressing into his back in an incredibly distracting way. He had cast you two stern looks to try to give you a silent reminder on this new thing called personal space, but nothing seemed to click.

He held up a fist, a clear signal to stop. You kept walking too distracted on the creepy, dark hallway to the right of you to notice his signal. You bumped into his back, hard enough that you were sent right back into a déjà vu moment of your first day. You quickly looked up at him, hoping he wouldn’t send another firm, cold look towards your way. Leon slowly turned around, eyeing you up and down once before walking forward after a long period of silence.

You winced to yourself, focusing on the back of his shoulder and the extend of his arm as he held his gun out. He took a sharp turn left towards a crate covered in yellow stickers, but you were a fraction too slow to turn. He quickly grabbed the back of your crate, tugging you towards him with such simple ease you were certain your stomach butterflies multiplied into frantic moths.

“Stop,” he said simply, keeping your vest firm in his grip, looking sternly at you in a way that had your cheeks warming. “Pay. Attention.”

“I am.” You rebutted to yourself, watching as he shook his head, but motioned for you to follow him before moving towards the safety of the crate. You listened this time, mainly staying behind him just to proudly stare at the way he moved.

-day thirteen, 5 am-

The sky was still dark when Leon stepped out of his car, eyes heavy, shoulders stiff. You were already waiting at the entrance of the building for him, quickly rushing forward at the sight of him stepping out.

“Good morning,” you smiled sweetly, handing him a small paper cup of black coffee. He looked down at it in silence, rubbing the side of his stubbled jaw before cautiously taking the cup. “Nice car.”

You peeked inside the car through its windows, squinting as you tried to scan the interior. Leon just wrapped an arm around your hip, politely turning you away. “Thank you.”

“I guess the higher ups had to repay for not giving you an office, huh?” You joked lightly, nudging your elbow against his, but he just blankly stared at you. Taking a long sip of his coffee, and maintaining that eye contact, he nodded once.

“Not much of a morning person?” You asked, quickly following after him as he took three steps off the street. He inhaled through his nose, taking another aggressively large gulp. “It’s a beautiful day out.”

At your words, he looked up at the sky, subtly looking around for the beautiful day you were talking about. “Where?”

You pressed your lips together, motioning around at the semi quiet area. “Everywhere.” Leon gave you a look, glancing down at the half drunken coffee in his hand before humming lowly.

“Drink a lot of these?” He motioned with the cup.

“How’d you know?” You tilted your head at him, skipping in line as he stepped up the stairs of the building.

“Just a hunch.”

You nodded to yourself, feet subconsciously pattering in line with his strides. He stopped at the top of the stairs, turning to you before he opened the door. “You seem tired, Leon.”

“Do I?” He said sarcastically, opening the large front door for you. He stepped behind you after you entered the building, quickly tossing the coffee into a nearby trash can.

“So, I’m taking it you’re not a morning person? Are you more of a night owl? Or maybe like an evening…stallion?”

“I’m always tired.”

“Why?”

“Because of you, kiddo.”

You paused, puffing your cheeks out at the very appealing fact of Leon being awake all night because of you. You cleared your throat, trying not to dwindle too much on thoughts of what he’d be doing all alone late at night. “You saying I keep you up?”

He nodded simply, but his head snapped around at the sound of your poorly muffled snickers. He tilted his head at you, a short, genuine chuckle slipping from his lips as he realized the hidden innuendo of his words. “Yeah, that’s real cute.”

Your brain literally short circuited at the sound of his laugh, eyes blinking once at him as if he had sprouted angel wings and a glowing halo.

-day eighteen, 1 pm-

You and Leon are sat side-by-side in the briefing room, legs pressed together in a professional, bordering on inappropriate way. The director drone on about mission parameters and potential targets. You weren’t too sure, you stopped listening six minutes ago. Your leg was jittering up and down, foot bouncing sporadically against cold tile. Every now and then, your foot would nudge against his boot, and even though he’d occasionally nudge his foot against yours to get you to stop, you physically couldn’t. It was like your body just needed the physical reminder that he was just within reach.

You sat up straight as the director glanced your way, eyes scanning the room to ensure everyone was still paying attention. You peeked a fast side glance his way, then another, trying to savor the look of his side profile.

You nudged his foot once.

Nothing.

Nudged again.

Nothing.

Nudged a third time.

Nothing.

He just sat there, actively listening to everything the director said, not even sparing you the smallest of glances. You nudged his foot again, and he was quick to reach down under the table to grab your knee. You stared down to where his hand engulfed your knee, forcing your leg still. His jaw flexed, muscles visibly clenched to keep from speaking while the director was.

You looked up at him again as he pressed enough force against your thigh that you could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of your pants. You kept still, slowly blinking up at his stoic expression. After a moment of keeping you in place, he unfortunately pulled away from you, the warmth of his hand disappearing almost immediately.

You waited about two seconds before nudging his foot again.

-day twenty four-

The two of you sat silent in a filing room, sitting on a metal table, you watched Leon as he stared down at the newly filed report in his hands. You could see the way his eyes shifted back and forth as he reviewed the mission report, checking over for anything he might have missed. You leaned forward towards the edge of the table, legs swinging back and forth before you cleared your throat.

“How’d I do?” He set down a pen nearby beside you, running one hand through his hair before looking at you.

“If you hadn’t ignored two of my commands, you would have done better.”

You sighed softly, looking down at your thighs as you brushed off a small speck of lint from your pants. Leon’s eyes followed the movement, turning to look back at the report.

“So, like on a scale from one to ten?”

“Six.”

“A six?” You repeated in shock, eyes wide as your head snapped up to him fast enough there would’ve been a cartoonish whoosh of air.

He shrugged, patting you by the hip to motion for you to get down. You quickly hopped off, snatching the pen from the table and clicking it aggressively a few times. “Well, you did…better. Than last time.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“By how much?”

“On a scale from one to ten?” You nodded at him, to which he looked away deep in thought. “One.”

-day thirty three, 10 am-

You handed Leon the file he asked for, but not before giving him a once‑over. He gave you a double take, eyebrows furrowed at the sudden look but turned to study the file. His eyes flicked up from the paperwork, catching the way your gaze lingered a little too long on his hands. He quickly looked down at the papers, trying to ignore the burning feeling of your eyes on him.

“You look like you slept well last night,” you said suddenly, and he had to force himself to not look up at you. “Did you?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Does that mean you’re not thinking of me anymore?”

At that, his eyes looked up to meet yours, eyebrows tilted up ever so slightly. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I mean, like— a few weeks ago you said that y—”

“I know what I said.”

“Is that a no?”

He looked down at the file, not answering your question, but his silence was enough of an answer for you. You pressed your lips together in annoyance, shoulders squaring slightly like you were getting ready to pounce on him. You stared at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek as you debated on how to get his attention again.

“Maybe it’s a good thing then. People your age need all the sleep they can get.” He blinked at you, tucking the file under his large bicep.

Bingo.

“My age?”

“Yeah. Y’know, like… an older guy.”

For a moment, you could see the puzzle clicking together in his head, the loud debate on whether he was going to entertain your stupidity or not. He blinked slowly, turning around to start walking down the hallway. You huffed under your breath, rushing a little to catch up to him. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Sleep is important for everyone, but more important for older people.”

He nodded silently, stepping out the building and walking to his car, not bothering to check to make sure you were following because he knew you well enough to know that you were following him like a baby duck. “I slept really good last night too.”

“Yeah, that’s good, kid.” You hummed happily to yourself, hands behind your back as you rounded the car to reach the passenger side.

You swung the door open, stumbling inside before slamming the door behind you. You waited until he got in the car, door closing with a soft thud before grinning at him. “Do you normally stay up late thinking of me? Isn’t that a bit unprofessional?”

“I think this conversation is unprofessional.”

“You didn’t say no.”

He shifted in his seat as he clicked his seat belt on, leaning against the leather cushioning as he stared at you. He turned the car on with a quick motion of his wrist, resting his hand against the bottom of the steering wheel. “Put your seatbelt on.” He said curtly, looking out the window until he heard the soft click of the belt.

“…Leon?”

“Yes?”

“Are you embarrassed because of my question?” You leaned forward, hands on the center console as you pushed through his personal space bubble like always. He looked over at you, peeking towards the windows as he started the car.

“No.”

“But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Your question doesn’t need to be answered.”

“But not giving me an answer makes it seem like you do think of me.”

“Yeah, I see you in my nightmares.”

-day thirty nine-

The building was quiet for once, the kind of late‑evening lull where most agents had already gone home and city around had gone quiet out of respect for long days. You were exhausted, body heavy, eyes droopy, mind all foggy from a day of investigations and identifying viral mutations. The sights were burned into your head, staring at vials under a UV and spending hours trying to identify which one is which, what they look like when they take a host, which one is more deadly. And don’t even get started on the amount of filing you’d done.

Who knew the DSO required so much work?

The clock on a nearby wall ticked towards midnight, dim lights peered out from closed doors of other agents who were trying to wrap up their last bit for the day. You hadn’t seen Leon since that abandoned building earlier today, and honestly, you were starting to miss his brooding self, even if it had barely been only thirteen hours since you last saw him.

You’re holding a cup of lukewarm coffee that you’ve neglected to drink because you were too busy running around reviewing case files you didn’t fully understand. You’re sitting on the floor of an empty hallway, back against the wall and a small handful of paperwork spread out awkwardly against your lap. You reread the same sentence you’ve been stuck on for five minutes, trying to get your mind out of its temporary brain freeze.

Footsteps echoed from down the hall, you quickly pull your legs into a lopsided pretzel, blinking up at the pair of legs with a tight polite smile. You’re fully expecting to see some random person giving you a concerned look at the disheveled sight of you. Leon appears from the corner, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it too many times.

He stops when he notices that it’s you on the floor and not another stressed out newbie. “You’re still here?” He asked, voice low and hushed. For the first time since he’s met you, and probably for the first time today, you don’t speak.

Or complain.

Or correct him, or make fun of him for stating the obvious.

You were just quiet, brain running on 20%, body slumped over in fatigue and face completely calm in similar ways it would be when you’d just woken up from a peaceful sleep. He lingers in front of you, watching as you gave him a slow nod before crouching down in front of you. “What are you working on?”

“This...” You trailed off as you tried to find the right words, but eventually gave up and opted on giving him the report so he could read through it instead. Your eyes shift from his own, watching them flick left and right as he read, before dipping down to where his arms hovered over your knees.

“How long have you been at it?”

“Uhm…what time is it now?”

Leon watched you for a moment, arms crossed loosely. It was strange seeing you like this— not poking at him, not trying to get a rise out of him. Just… relaxed.

He gently grabbed the rest of the papers from your lap, standing up slowly. “C’mon, you’re done for the night.” He extended his hand out to you, to which you quickly obliged, reaching out to allow your hand to be blanketed in his.

He pulled you up with ease, his hand steady around yours as he tugged you towards him. You stumbled forward slightly, legs half asleep from the position you were in, standing closer to him than you meant to be. You quickly straightened up, smoothing the wrinkles on your pants as you took a small step back.

“Grab your stuff,” he looked down the hall as you quickly bent down to grab the coffee cup from the floor, his eyes flicking momentarily at the curve of your ass. “I’ll take you home.“

You turned to him with eyebrows raised. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “I’m still doing it.”

There was no room to argue, not with the way he quickly turned to walk down the empty hall. You rushed after him, the building humming quietly around you as he glanced over to the side to ensure you were nearby.

“You shouldn’t be here this late.”

“You were here this late.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

He didn’t answer, just pressed the elevator button and waited, arms crossed against his chest. The elevator doors slid open, and he gestured you inside with a small tilt of his head before following after you. The doors closed with an eery shut, sealing the two of you in a quiet metal box lit by soft fluorescent light.

You leaned against the wall, watching the levels tick down. “What were you doing?”

“Work.”

You looked over at him, glancing in his hands for the paper or files he would’ve been working on but you only found the ones he took from you. “Where’s your files?”

“Submitted.”

“Oh.”

He looked over at you, giving you a slow hum. “I’ll keep these in my car until tomorrow.” He just stood there beside you, keeping the files tucked under his armpit.

“Thanks.”

By the time you reached the garage, the air was cold enough to make you shiver, night air biting aggressively at your face. Leon unlocked the car with a soft beep, stepping around the vehicle to open the passenger door for you. You slid into the passenger seat, sinking into the warmth of the interior. Leon got in a moment later, shutting the door with a soft thud that echoed in the quiet garage.

He started the engine, the dashboard lighting up in soft blues. The radio stayed off. You provided him your address, but for a while, neither of you spoke.

You watched the way his hands rested on the wheel, the way his eyes darted around the roads as he drove. The ride was surprisingly relaxing, the perfect amount of comfortable silence needed for such a late night.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building, he shifted the car into park but didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at you, just sat there, hands resting against the wheel, eyes forward. You unbuckled slowly, glimpsing up at him before swinging the door open. “Thank you, Leon.” At the sound of his name, he glanced your way, giving you a slight nod.

The cold air hit you the moment you opened the door, but the warmth from the car clung to your skin. You stepped out, closing the door gently behind you. You walked toward your building, your footsteps soft on the pavement. Halfway up the stairs, you turned back towards the unmoving car.

Leon was still there, still watching. Sitting in the quiet glow of the dashboard lights, eyes following you until you reached the door. He didn’t even look away when you turned back. You turned towards the front door with a shaky sigh, swallowing the lump in your throat as you unlocked it.

Stepping inside, you quickly peeked out the nearest window at the sound of the low rumble of his car pulling away. You smiled to yourself, biting your bottom lip before rushing up to your bedroom.

The peace was nice while it lasted.

-day forty, 1 am-

Leon could feel the weight of your body on top of him, the tight suction of your cunt around his cock had his head tipping back, guiding your hips against his own. Each breathy little gasps and moans filled his ears, cock twitching inside you.

Heavy eyes were stuck to your every move, watching as you bounced up on his length, trailing down to the jiggle of your tits. The slick sounds of your pussy rang in his ears, breathing heavy as he stared up at your face, soaking in every inhale you took. Leon gripped your hips tighter, one hand sliding down to grope at your ass lifting up and connecting down against the flesh in a firm smack.

Lost in the feeling of you, he was only dimly aware of a distant ringing sound until the shrill trill of his cell phone shrilled loudly, slicing through the haze of lust. Leon's eyes flew open, his body rigid as he jolted awake. The first thing he saw was the empty expanse of his bedroom, the rumpled sheets tangled loosely around his bare legs. The second was the unmistakable heat and dampness between his own thighs, sticky and cool in the wake of his precum his cock throbbed against his sweats.

With a low, frustrated groan, he slowly sat up against his headboard, staring off into space as his phone continued to ring. He didn’t even want to give his dream a second thought, but the painful heat in his gut made it incredibly hard to.

Leon cursed under his breath. “No fucking way.” He hesitated, glancing over at his phone as he reached out for it. He let the phone ring until the call naturally ended, watching the notification of a missed phone call from Claire. His cock throbbed angrily at its neglect, one hand fisting tightly around the blanket.

Leon laid back on his bed, the faint moonlight filtering in through the half-open blinds. His mind drifted to the thought of you, just for long enough that he could physically feel the leak of precum coating his underwear. He dragged a hand along his face, trying to wipe the thoughts away.

It didn’t really make sense. You were annoying. A sassy fucking brat who spoke back on every little thing he said, constantly pushed his buttons. But the longer he thought about it, the more he pictured you, like a flashing red light of warning that only made the straining erection in his pants worse.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Leon's hand drifted down to palm his growing erection straining against his sweatpants. He groaned breathlessly, eyebrows furrowed slightly. Shielding his eyes with one muscular forearm, Leon slipped his hand into his sweatpants and wrapped it around his cock. A shudder of warmth rippled through his body at the contact, his breath catching in his throat as he began to stroke himself with slow deliberate pumps.

He tried to block out the memory of you from his mind, but almost like it was on cue, a flash of you bending over popped up. His thumb pressed against the weeping head, dragging along the slit before sliding down to squeeze at the base. “Oh ffuckk.” He breathed shakily, and for a moment he could feel the warmth of you around him, could nearly hear the soft, breathless whines that left your mouth.

With a low exhale, he removed his arm from his face, dragging his pants down until the weight of him slapped up against his stomach. He moved his other hand, wrapping his fingers back around the girth base, the pinkish head flushed and leaking. His calloused palm glided up the thick length, circling around the swollen crown before sinking back down.

His climax approached swiftly, muscles tensing and stomach clenching as his hand worked over his cock. He breathed out laboredly, head pressing against the pillow under him as he mumbled out your name. At the last possible second, his hips jerked up into the tight fist of his hand, cock twitching and pulsing as thick ropes of semen erupted from the tip. Jet after jet of his cum splattered against his hand and stomach, painting himself with his own release.

For a long moment, Leon could only lie there gasping for breath, his heart pounding against his ribs as the lingering echoes of his climax slowly faded. The night was dark, the only sound the distant wail of a siren echoing through the quiet city streets outside. He sighed heavily, eyes fluttering closed as his cock slowly softened.

“I’m so screwed.”

-present time-

The rain had softened to a steady hiss against the car, the two of you both actively avoiding each other despite being within three feet of one another. Leon kept his hands on the wheel, jaw set as he was trying very, very hard not to think about how irritated he was.

You hadn’t spoken since the argument.

He hadn’t either.

Then you shifted in your seat, clearing your throat as you looked at him. “Are you mad?”

Leon’s eyelid twitched. Just barely. “I’m not mad.”

“You look mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not.”

You stared at his side profile, leaning forward to try to force him to look at you but his gaze remained steady on the road. “Did I embarrass you back there?”

“Rookie.”

“What?”

“Just say what you need to say.”

You perked up slightly, leaning back against the seats. “So, earlier, when you said I was being reckless—”

“You were.”

“—I wasn’t.”

Leon’s head turned so slowly it was almost mechanical. “You ran into a room without checking your corners.”

“But you were beside me, couldn’t you do it too?”

He stared at you. Actually stared. Like he was trying to decide if you were joking. He pressed his tongue along the inside of his cheek, turning back to stare at the road.

“Leon.”

He ignored you.

“Leon?”

Still silent.

“Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment? Aren’t you a little ol—”

“Rookie.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop. Talking.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, scoffing to yourself before looking out the window. The car fell silent again. Leon’s grip on the steering wheel had gone from tense to white‑knuckled, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful. You could practically feel the irritation radiating off him. You shifted again, just enough to make the leather seat creak.

“So,” you said, keeping your eyes on the scenery around you, “you’re definitely still mad.”

That was it.

Leon’s hand shot out, turning the car sharply towards the side of the road. Tires hissed against the wet pavement, his hand quickly turning the engine off which idled and hissed to sleep. He didn’t speak for a moment. He just sat there, deep breathing like he was trying to keep himself calm.

Then he turned to you.

Slowly.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and tight, “I am trying, really trying, to keep my composure. But you are making it extremely difficult.”

You blinked once, pointing to yourself. “Me?”

“Yes. You.” He ran a hand through his hair, unbuckling his seatbelt to physically turn and face you. “You don’t listen,” he started listing things out on one hand, fingers extending at every annoying thing you’ve done for the past two months. “You argue with everything I say. You run into danger like you’re invincible. And then you sit here and poke at me like it’s a game.”

You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand.

“No. No. This is where you stay quiet and listen.”

Your mouth zipped shut. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how seriously angry he was.

“You do realize, I’m responsible for you,” he asked, waiting for you to silently nod your head to make sure you were actually listening. “I cannot do my job if you won’t let me.”

The car went silent again, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It was this heavy, tense kind of tension. You stared at him, blinking slowly as you shifted in your seat trying to relearn how to breathe.

Despite the harshness of his words, you couldn't ignore the way your body reacted to his stern lecture. A thrill raced through you, settling low in your belly as you met his heated gaze. The furious set of his jaw, the intensity burning in his eyes—it sent a secret, shameful pulse of arousal through you. You knew it was wrong, but the way he was looking at you, speaking to you with such authority... it was incredibly exciting.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled softly to which he let out a curt chuckle.

“Oh, you’re ’sorry’?” He tilted his head at you, watching the way you immediately just nodded your head at his echo. He looked at you for a moment longer, taking in the way your face darkened in embarrassment and the slight downturn of your lips into the pout he knew all too well. Realizing he might’ve overreacted, he quickly looked away, arm resting against the center console as he scratched the side of his jaw.

He couldn't shake the lingering ghost of his dream, the feel of you against him still etched into his skin. “Leon?” You spoke hesitantly, gently tapping him by his elbow to check on him. His head turned to look at you again, but the more he looked at you, the more he thought of that fucking dream.

And then he an insistent, throbbing ache deep in his groin. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shaking his head slightly to try to ignore the pulsing heat building between his legs, but you took it as a silent shut down. You anxiously sat there, oblivious to his internal struggles.

He couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. All he could do was let the silence trudge onward, as he battling the temptation clawing at his insides. He finally looked at you, eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of your chest heaving up and down. With a low, muttered “fuck it.” he surged forward, one calloused hand cupping your jaw as he captured your mouth in an intense kiss.

You gasped, eyes flying wide open as you jerked back in shock. The two of you looked at one another in tense silence, and almost like he realized the severity of his actions he slowly pulled back. Before he could open his mouth to explain himself, you quickly reached out for his upper arm to pull him into another kiss. Your lips parted instinctively to welcome the warmth of his tongue.

Your hands fisted in his hair, arching into his chest as your lips moved eagerly against his. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, until Leon's hands slid to your waist, ensuring you were unbuckled before yanking you out of your seat. In a single, swift motion, he pulled you onto his lap, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you tight against him.

His other hand searched around for the lever to push his seat back a few inches, before sliding up to rest against your ass. His lips left yours, leaving you huffing for air as his mouth trailed down to your neck, nipping at your pulse point. Your head lolled to the side, warmth running through your body like a furnace.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass, kneading and squeezing as he pushed your hips forward. You could feel the hard outline of his erection against your thigh, sending a sharp throb straight to your cunt. He pulled away from your neck, hands traveling around your hips before sliding down to wrap around your thighs to force you to sit up. “Do you want me to—to take off—”

“Yeah.” He breathed out heavily, watching you with heavy lidded eyes as you nervously fumbled with the buttons of your pants. His hands lingered over yours to make sure you didn’t need help before sitting back as you wriggled out of them. He could’ve gotten a heart attack at the sight of your lacy, see-through underwear, damp path spreading in the middle.

You quickly undid his zipper, shifting back as he lifted his hips up and tugged his pants down until they pooled awkwardly around his knees. Three fingers dipped under his boxers to free his cock, the crown leaking a tear of precum. His hand disappeared somewhere by the seat, forcing the chair back to give him extra leg room.

You stared down at the sight of his length, not even attempting to blink in case this was the best fucking wet dream ever. “Can I take these off?” You glanced down at his hands as they hovered by your panties, immediately nodding. He carefully slipped the fabric down, down until they were free from your legs, jaw going slack at the sight of your dripping slit. “Holy shit.”

His large hands gripped your ass, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he guided your movements, pulling you down to meet his cock. The two of you gasped in unison, back arching at the contact as he slowly rolled your hips against his, watching the way his cock nestled in between your lips. “L-leon.” You whined lightly, his cock immediately throbbing at the sound of your voice, another glob of pre leaking out to rub against you.

Leon’s eyes stuck on your face, eyes dilated and breath labored as he struggled to speak. “I know, I know, just gimme a sec.” He strained out in between a rumbling groan as the head of his cock caught at your entrance. He continued to guide you against him, grinding up against you little by little until the tip of his cock started inching against your hole.

You clenched around the intrusion, sucking a strained gasp from his mouth. His hands tightened around your hips, one heavy palm rubbing against your ass before giving it a quick plap. “Relax a little for me, baby.” He squeezed a handful of ass, one hand moving to wrap around his cock the same way he did the other day, except this time he was nudging his length inch by inch inside you.

You tried to ease up a bit, but it was like your pussy was trying to suck him in one go, walls clenching tight around the head of his cock. “Fuck. Keep gripping like that and I’ll cum before I even get all the way in.” Leon grunted, pulling out just to bring his hand down against your cunt in a warning smack. You flinched at the temporary pain, a surprised moan slipping from your lips as he took the opportunity to slide his cock into your slick heat.

His large hands gripping your hips as he guided you to straddle him, thighs pressing against thighs. Your pussy fluttered around his length, taking a second to get used to the sheer thickness of him. Your slick arousal dripping down onto his thighs, pussy stretched obscenely around him.

“Oh god.” You muttered to yourself, attempting to roll your hips forward only to be met with the nudge of his cock against your g-spot.

“It’s okay, I got you.” He reassured softly, fingers rubbing against your skin as he experimentally jerked his hips up, studying the way your face twisted up into a whiny moan.

You started to move, lifting yourself up until just the swollen head remained nestled inside your entrance. Then, with a roll of your hips, you sank back down, taking every throbbing inch of his hard length deep inside your soaked, clinging heat. His eyes followed your movements, one hand sliding up to wrap around your arm to tug you against his check. You gasped against his shoulder, the sound sending straight to his cock as his hips bucked up subtly.

Your movements started to grow desperate, hips moving up and down to feel the drag of his cock against the spongy, sensitive spot. “Mm fuck fuck,” you grunted breathlessly, head leaning against his shoulder, tilting down to watch as your pussy sucked him.

“Doing s’good, keep going.” He praised, his hand firm around your arm to keep you arched against him. His other hand rested around your hip, lightly ghosting over your movements.

His words spurred you on, and you began to bounce on him in quick hops, your hips rolling down against his. His hand smoothed up along your back, running back down to give your ass another firm slap just to feel the way your pussy clenched around him. The slick sounds of your coupling filled the car, windows fogging and lewd slaps of flesh against flesh forcing the car to creak in time with the movements.

Leon thrust upwards to meet your downward pressure, hips smacking against yours with each bounce. His heavy-lidded gaze remained locked between your face and the fast bounces of your hips, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, watching every flicker of pleasure.

His hand slid up to your bouncing breast in front of his face, cupping the soft swell before squeezing the tender mound, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers. He pinched and tugged on your nipple, forcing out another strained moan as his fingers curled around your throat. His grip tightened slowly, enough pressure to make your pulse pound against his palm, thumb pressed against your jaw as he guided your face towards him.

He pressed a slow kiss on your lips, cupping your jaw in one hand as he breathed heavily at the eager clench of your pussy. “You getting tired?” He asked against your lips, to which you quietly nodded, moaning as he snapped his hips up again. “Gotta get that stamina up, hm?”

“Keep going.” He said shortly, glancing down at the ring of cream leaking down his length. His hips continued their relentless rhythm, the thick head of his cock kissing your cervix with each buck.

He could feel your body trembling, could see the way your eyes fluttered shut as the pleasure became too intense. But he didn't let you slow down, hips snapping up to meet yours every time you’d slow down. You gasped heavily, back arching as a wave of warmth rippled through your spine. You shivered against him, falling limp against his chest with a broken moan as your climax crashed through you.

Your cunt clenched down around his length, soaking his cock with your release as your toes curled and you spasmed over him. Leon watched in rapture, mouth slightly open as he felt the liquid squirting against his legs. But he wasn’t done with you. He forced you to ride out the waves of your orgasm on his cock, your body jerking and shuddering above him as he thrusted his hips up.

Only when your climax subsided did he slow down his thrusts, breathing still ragged as he watched you come to. You rolled your hips slowly, one hand resting on his shoulder as he tilted his head up to stare at you more. You looked in between your legs, pulling your hips up until his cock slipped free, coated in your arousal. “You didn’t— did you come?”

His hands rested on your ass cheeks, giving you a slow grin as he shook his head. “No, but it’s o—”

“Let’s go to the back.” He looked at you in a split second of surprise, watching as you stumbled off his lap and crawled to the cushions of the seats behind him. He turned to watch you, cock jerking in his grip as he rushed up to follow you. He watched as you laid back against the seating, legs spread apart.