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Which is how, several hours later, you find yourselves climbing into bed completely unaware that you're about to begin what will later become known as The Longest Week Of Steve Harrington's Life.

The bedroom is already unpleasant.

Not unbearably hot yet, but close enough to be annoying. The air feels heavy and stale. The open window isn't helping nearly as much as either of you had hoped it would. Somewhere outside, a car alarm briefly goes off before stopping again, and from another house comes the distant sound of somebody arguing about whether they should buy a fan.

The sheets are warm. The pillows are warm. Even the mattress seems suspiciously warm.

You spend approximately thirty seconds lying there before kicking one leg free of the duvet. Steve follows shortly afterwards. Then the other leg. Then an arm. Then the duvet itself ends up somewhere near the bottom of the bed.

For a while neither of you says anything. You're both too busy attempting to negotiate a comfortable sleeping position without actually touching anything.

Then you feel it. The look. You don't even need to turn your head. You know that look. After several years together, you could probably identify it from another postcode.

Slowly, you glance across the bed, and Steve is already watching you. The smile arrives first - that familiar crooked smile that always means he's about to become a problem.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me."

The innocence in his voice is deeply unconvincing.

"What are you talking about?"

You stare. Steve stares back, his smile getting wider.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The face."

"I don't have a face."

"You absolutely have a face."

Steve laughs quietly. The mattress shifts as he rolls onto his side, immediately moving closer like a moth approaching a flame.

Or an idiot approaching an obviously bad decision. Possibly both.

"Baby."

"No."

"I haven't even said anything."

"You don't need to."

His hand slides lazily across your waist. You try very hard not to smile, but fail immediately. Steve notices, because of course he notices.

Encouraged by this development, he leans closer and presses a kiss against your shoulder. Then another. Then one just below your ear.

Ordinarily, this would be an excellent way to spend an evening. Ordinarily, you'd be entirely supportive of whatever nonsense Steve Harrington was attempting.

Ordinarily.

"Steve."

"Hm?"

"It's too hot." The protest comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan.

Steve freezes - actually freezes - like you've just informed him Christmas has been cancelled.

"It's not that hot."

You stare at him. Then gesture broadly around the room. Towards the open window which is doing absolutely nothing, towards the discarded duvet, towards the fact that neither of you has voluntarily touched each other for more than five seconds all evening.

"It's absolutely that hot."

The betrayal on his face is immediate, profound, almost moving. Steve drops backwards onto the mattress with enough dramatic force to make the entire bed bounce beneath you.

"My own girlfriend."

"Oh, don't start."

"My own girlfriend rejects me."

"You'll survive."

"I don't know if I will."

"You will."

"This feels personal."

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

Steve, meanwhile, continues staring at the ceiling like a man contemplating the collapse of civilisation.

For the next ten minutes, he complains continuously about injustice, about cruelty, about the fundamental unfairness of the universe. At one point, he accuses the weather itself of targeting him specifically.

You point out that several million other people are currently experiencing the exact same temperature. Steve remains unconvinced.

Eventually, however, even he has to admit defeat. The heat is simply too much.

So the two of you settle into the familiar compromise you've perfected over the years.

Close enough to feel each other's presence. Far enough apart that neither of you overheats.

One of Steve's feet ends up resting lightly against your ankle. Your hand brushes his wrist.

Tiny points of contact. Just enough.

And as you drift off to sleep, Steve mutters something under his breath about the weather being his greatest enemy.

At the time, you assume he's joking.

By day four, neither of you will be entirely sure.

Day two is worse.

Not just emotionally. Meteorologically.

The temperature climbs several degrees higher overnight and, with it, whatever goodwill either of you had left towards summer. The air feels thicker somehow, heavier, as though somebody has draped an invisible blanket over the entire town and forgotten to remove it. Opening windows doesn't help. Closing them doesn't help. Standing in front of a fan helps for approximately thirty seconds before the fan simply starts blowing warm air directly into your face.

By lunchtime, every surface in the house has developed the faintly unpleasant quality of being slightly warm to the touch. The sofa is warm. The kitchen counters are warm. Even the floor feels suspiciously warm.

Steve is handling this poorly, dramatically, the way Steve handles most things.

You find him standing in front of the open refrigerator no fewer than four times throughout the day, each time pretending he's looking for something despite making absolutely no effort to actually remove anything from it.

At one point you walk into the kitchen to discover him simply staring into the fridge with his eyes closed.

"What are you doing?"

"It's cooler in here."

"Steve."

"Don't take this from me."

By early evening, however, another problem begins presenting itself.

Namely you.

Or more specifically, the fact that surviving a heatwave requires dressing accordingly.

The tiny shorts aren't for Steve. The tiny vest isn't for Steve. The fact that you've spent most of the day with your hair tied up and as much skin exposed as possible isn't for Steve either.

It's for survival. Pure, practical survival.

Unfortunately, Steve appears determined not to believe this.

You catch him looking, frequently - the sort of distracted glances that start subtle and become increasingly obvious as the day progresses.

By six o'clock, he's lost all pretence entirely.

The incident occurs while you're making a drink in the kitchen.

You're standing on tiptoe, reaching into the cupboard for a glass when you feel familiar arms wrap around your waist from behind, and you immediately grow suspicious. Because Steve only approaches this quietly when he's planning something.

His chest presses against your back, his chin settles briefly on your shoulder. And then comes the smile. You can't see it, but you can feel it.

"Steve."

"Baby."

The man already sounds wounded, and you haven't even rejected him yet. His forehead drops onto your shoulder dramatically, like a Victorian widower grieving a lost love.

"What?"

"I had an idea."

You close your eyes. "No."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I absolutely know what it is."

"You don't."

"I do."

"You don't."

You finally turn around, only to find him looking deeply offended. A performance - an excellent performance - but a performance nonetheless.

"Tell me your idea."

The smile arrives instantly, far too quickly, like he'd been waiting for permission.

"What if," he begins carefully, "I had a really good solution to this whole situation?"

Your eyes narrow. "What situation?"

"The situation where my girlfriend keeps rejecting me."

You laugh despite yourself, and Steve takes this as encouragement. Which is a mistake.

"A really practical solution."

"Oh God."

"What if I bent you over the kitchen counter?"

You nearly drop the glass.

"Steve!"

"The counter's cool."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"The fact that you've thought about the temperature of the counter is deeply concerning."

"I'm adapting."

"You're spiralling."

"I'm innovating."

The smile he gives you is so proud of itself that you nearly laugh again. Nearly.

Because the problem is that he's very attractive. Even sweaty. Especially sweaty, unfortunately.

His hands settle against your hips, his gaze flicks briefly to your mouth, and for one dangerous moment, you genuinely consider it. The cool counter, the empty house, the fact that it's been two whole days.

Steve sees the hesitation immediately, and the hope that appears on his face is almost embarrassing.

"Baby?"

You groan - actually groan - because he's making this difficult.

"I hate that look."

"What look?"

"That one."

"What one?"

"The one where you think you're winning."

Steve grins, slowly and confidently, like a man standing on the edge of victory.

Then you gently push him backwards. The grin vanishes instantly.

"It's too hot."

The devastation is immediate. Profound. Shakespearean.

"Baby."

"It's too hot."

"Baby."

"It's the hottest June day in years."

"I don't care."

"I do."

Steve drops his head backwards with a noise that should not be physically possible for a grown man to make. Somewhere between a sigh and a whine. The sound of a man watching his dreams crumble before his eyes.

You nearly cave. Honestly, you do. Because he's cute, and persistent, and looking at you like he's personally offended by the weather.

But then a bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck and reminds you exactly why this entire arrangement exists in the first place.

"No."

Steve closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods solemnly.

Then points accusingly towards the sky. "This is the weather's fault."

And for perhaps the hundredth time that day, you find yourself laughing at him.

By day three, Steve becomes proactive. Dangerously proactive.

You discover this when you walk into the bedroom after lunch and immediately stop dead in the doorway.

For a moment, you genuinely aren't sure what you're looking at.

The bedroom appears to have undergone some sort of hostile takeover.

Fans. Everywhere.

Not one or two. Not a sensible number.

Fans. An absurd number of fans.

There are fans on the bedside tables. Fans on the chest of drawers. A fan balanced on a chair that definitely wasn't designed to hold one. Another perched in the corner. One near the window. One near the wardrobe.

Possibly more. You lose count somewhere around six.

Every single one of them is pointed directly at the bed.

The combined noise is staggering. The room sounds less like a bedroom and more like the engine room of a moderately sized aircraft.

You stand there staring. The fans continue roaring.

In the middle of it all stands Steve, arms folded across his chest, looking so proud of himself it's almost offensive.

"What," you say slowly, "is this?"

Steve's smile widens immediately. "A solution."

You glance around again. The fans continue blasting air from every conceivable direction. One of them is oscillating aggressively. Another appears to be vibrating slightly. You're fairly certain the electricity bill is about to become a criminal offence.

"You did all this today?"

"Yep."

"You bought all these today?"

"Yep."

You look at the nearest fan. Then another. Then another. Then back at Steve.

"This cost money."

"It was an investment."

"Steve."

"A worthwhile investment."

"You bought six fans."

"I bought seven."

The correction arrives immediately, proudly, like he's expecting praise.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks deeply offended.

"You're laughing."

"You bought seven fans."

"Because I care."

"Our bedroom sounds like an airport runway."

"Because I care."

Unfortunately, the worst part is that it actually works.

The room is noticeably cooler. Not cold, not comfortable, but significantly less awful than the rest of the house. Enough that you find yourself lingering.

Enough that Steve notices immediately. The look on his face becomes dangerous, hopeful, the sort of hopeful that has repeatedly got him into trouble this week.

"You know," he says casually, "the bed's pretty cool now."

You narrow your eyes and Steve smiles the least trustworthy smile you've ever seen.

Ten minutes later, despite your better judgement, you're both sprawled across the bed. The fans continue roaring around you. The room is cool enough that you're actually touching for the first time in days without immediately wanting to peel your own skin off.

And honestly? You've missed this - missed him - missed the easy intimacy of being close without worrying about overheating.

Steve's hand slides into your hair, and your fingers curl into his shirt. The tension that's been building all week starts unravelling all at once - slowly, naturally, inevitably.

The kisses become longer, softer, then not so soft. The sort that makes you forget what you were talking about halfway through a sentence. The sort that leaves Steve looking increasingly pleased with himself.

Because after three days of rejection, three days of failed schemes and dramatic sighing and weather-related suffering, he can practically taste victory.

For one glorious minute, Steve genuinely believes he's won.

Then you pull back.

Not because you've changed your mind. But because you're laughing, hard, immediately. The kind of laughter that arrives out of nowhere and refuses to stop.

Steve blinks, confused and slightly offended.

"What?"

You point helplessly towards the nearest fan. Or rather, towards the collective noise of all seven.

The room sounds ridiculous. The kissing had distracted you from it momentarily, but now it's impossible to ignore.

Steve says something. You don't hear a word.

"What?"

He repeats himself. Still nothing. You laugh harder, tears beginning to form at the corners of your eyes.

Steve props himself up on one elbow. "What?"

You catch approximately half of the word, the rest disappearing into the mechanical roar surrounding you.

The absurdity of it all hits at once. The seven fans, the fact that he'd apparently spent actual money on this, the fact that he'd transformed your bedroom into a wind tunnel in pursuit of sex.

You bury your face in the pillow laughing.

Steve finally realises what's happening, and the betrayal on his face is immediate.

"Oh, come on."

"What?"

"I said-"

The fan nearest the bed chooses that exact moment to rattle loudly, and you lose it entirely.

Steve drops backwards onto the mattress with a groan, an actual groan - long, frustrated, deep enough that it cuts through even the fan noise.

You immediately point at him. "There!"

"What?"

"That!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

Steve looks baffled.

You grin. "I can't hear all the pretty noises you make."

For a second, he just stares. Then his eyes close. His head drops backwards. And another groan leaves him - even longer this time, even more dramatic - the exact sound you'd been talking about.

Which unfortunately only makes you laugh harder.

Steve, meanwhile, lies in the centre of his self-constructed cooling system wondering how, despite spending an entire afternoon planning the perfect solution, he has somehow managed to lose yet again.

By the time you eventually leave the room still giggling, he's genuinely considering whether the weather itself might be sentient.

Because at this point, it's starting to feel personal.

By day four, Steve is desperate.

Not in a dignified way. Not in a way that future generations would look back upon with admiration.

By day four, Steve Harrington has entered a deeply concerning phase of the heatwave. A phase characterised by increasingly elaborate plans, questionable decision-making, and the unwavering belief that if he just thinks hard enough, he'll eventually discover a loophole.

You discover this shortly after your shower.

The house is still warm despite the sun beginning to sink. Your hair is damp from the water, a towel draped around your shoulders as you wander down the hallway, enjoying the rare feeling of not being overheated for approximately five consecutive minutes.

Then Steve's voice drifts in through the open back door.

"Baby? Can you come here?"

Immediately suspicious. Not enough for you to be alarmed or concerned. Just suspicious. Because you've spent enough time with Steve Harrington to recognise the tone he uses when he's trying very hard to sound casual about something. The tone itself is casual. The effort behind it is not.

You follow the sound outside.

And stop.

For a moment, you're genuinely speechless.

The garden has been transformed. Not professionally or even particularly elegantly, but with an amount of earnest determination that's honestly quite endearing.

A blanket has been spread across the grass. Fairy lights hang overhead, strung between fence posts in slightly uneven lines. Candles flicker inside old jam jars arranged around the edges of the blanket. Somewhere nearby, a portable speaker is quietly playing music. The last of the evening sunlight is fading beyond the rooftops, leaving everything bathed in that soft golden-blue light that only seems to exist for a few minutes each day.

And standing in the middle of it all is Steve.

Looking so hopeful it nearly breaks your heart.

For a second, all the teasing disappears. Because it's sweet. Ridiculously sweet. The sort of sweet that only happens when somebody has spent far too much time thinking about how to make you smile.

Steve shifts awkwardly when he notices you've stopped speaking, suddenly self-conscious, which somehow makes it even worse.

"I thought..." He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "Well, it's cooler outside than inside."

You glance around.

To be fair, it is. The heatwave has finally loosened its grip slightly. A gentle breeze moves through the garden. The air feels lighter than it has all week.

Steve gestures vaguely around him.

"There's a breeze and everything."

"A breeze?"

"Yeah."

His confidence begins returning.

"A pretty good breeze, actually."

"Oh, a pretty good breeze?"

"Maybe even an excellent breeze."

You laugh, and Steve's shoulders immediately relax, encouraged and dangerous.

"I just figured maybe we'd sit out here for a bit."

"Steve."

"Maybe enjoy the evening."

"Steve."

"Maybe enjoy each other."

There it is. Finally. The real agenda.

Steve looks far too pleased with himself.

You stare at him for a moment. At the fairy lights, the blanket, the candles, the sheer commitment.

Then you cross the garden. Quickly, before he can say anything else, before he can ruin the moment by continuing to talk.

Your hands find his face. His eyes widen.

And then you're kissing him.

Hard. Immediate. Every bit of affection and frustration and longing that's been building for the past four days suddenly condensed into one moment.

Steve makes a noise that sounds suspiciously triumphant.

His hands find your waist instantly, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, the breeze shifts around you, the fairy lights glow softly overhead.

And for one glorious, beautiful moment, Steve genuinely believes he's done it.

Finally. Victory. At long last. The curse is broken. The drought is over. The kingdom is restored.

Then you pull away.

The confusion on his face is immediate. Devastating, really. Like watching somebody lose a raffle they were absolutely convinced they'd already won.

"Baby."

"No."

"Baby."

"No."

"Come on."

You laugh despite yourself.

Steve, meanwhile, looks moments away from writing a strongly worded letter to the weather.

"You kissed me."

"I did."

"Very enthusiastically."

"I did."

"And now you're saying no?"

You reach up and gently tilt his chin upwards. Towards the neighbouring houses. Towards the row of upstairs windows overlooking the gardens. Towards the very clear view that several innocent bystanders currently have of Steve's carefully constructed romantic masterpiece.

Realisation dawns.

Briefly, very briefly, then vanishes again.

Honestly, at this point Steve no longer cares. Four days is a long time. A very long time. The man is operating almost entirely on hope and determination.

He squints at the neighbour's window, then shrugs.

"Maybe they're not home."

You stare. Steve stares back.

"That's your solution?"

"It's not a bad solution."

"Steve."

"We could take the risk."

You laugh so hard you nearly double over.

The expression on his face becomes increasingly wounded.

Eventually, you lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Then another, softer this time. Apologetic and affectionate. Enough to remind him that he isn't actually losing. Just waiting.

"I'm sorry, honey."

Steve lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like genuine heartbreak. The kind of noise usually associated with tragic romances and historical disasters.

"As soon as the heatwave passes."

For a moment he simply stares at you. Then at the sky. Then back at you. As though attempting to determine exactly how much longer this weather intends to torment him personally.

Finally, he sighs. Long, suffering, dramatic enough to deserve its own award.

And as you disappear back towards the house, leaving him standing amongst the fairy lights and candles and increasingly unnecessary romantic gestures, Steve finds himself wondering whether five days can legally count as cruel and unusual punishment.

You wake on the fifth morning to the soft, steady sound of rain tapping against the bedroom window.

For a few blissfully disorienting seconds, you don't understand why you feel different. Then it hits you all at once.

You're comfortable. Actually comfortable.

Not half-awake and sweating through the sheets. Not tangled in blankets you've spent the entire night kicking away from your body. Not desperately searching for the cool side of the pillow every twenty minutes. For the first time in what feels like forever, the room feels pleasant. The air is cool. The mattress isn't radiating heat. Even the duvet, pulled loosely over your legs, feels cosy rather than oppressive.

Outside, the rain continues falling in a gentle, steady rhythm that would ordinarily make you want to stay in bed all morning.

Today, however, something else catches your attention.

Steve.

You turn your head and find him still asleep beside you, sprawled across the mattress in the careless way only Steve Harrington can manage. His hair is sticking up in approximately six different directions. One arm is trapped beneath his pillow. His mouth is slightly open. After four straight days of increasingly dramatic suffering, he looks suspiciously peaceful.

Completely unaware that the heatwave is finally over.

The sight makes something warm settle quietly in your chest.

Because the truth is, you've missed this too.

Not sex, necessarily.

Well. Not just that.

You've missed him.

Missed the easy closeness that usually exists between you. Missed curling into his side without immediately overheating. Missed waking up tangled together instead of separated by several feet of mattress and a mutual desire not to spontaneously combust.

For nearly a week, every touch has felt brief. Every kiss has ended with somebody laughing about the weather. Every moment has been interrupted by heat, sweat, neighbours, fans, or some other obstacle determined to test Steve's patience.

And somehow, through all of it, he'd never once stopped looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The thought makes you smile.

Carefully, you shift closer.

Steve doesn't wake immediately, but he does make a soft noise in the back of his throat and instinctively moves towards you, even in his sleep. Your fingertips brush lightly across his jaw, tracing the familiar stubble there before drifting along his cheek. Then his shoulder. Then the curve of his neck.

Within seconds, his eyelashes begin to flutter. Slowly, sleepily, his eyes crack open. And the moment he sees you, he smiles. Not the cocky smile. Not the teasing one. The soft one. The sleepy one. The one that always feels like being let in somewhere private.

"Hey," he murmurs.

You don't answer.

Instead, you lean forward and kiss him.

The smile disappears immediately.

Replaced by surprise.

Then delight.

Steve's hand finds your waist before he's even fully awake, pulling you closer as he kisses you back. The rain continues tapping softly against the window. The room remains cool. Comfortable. Quiet.

For the first time all week, there are no fans roaring in the background.

No neighbours overlooking the garden.

No excuses.

Just the two of you.

When you finally pull back, Steve blinks up at you for a moment as though trying to process what's happening.

Then his eyes narrow slightly.

Suspicious.

"Baby?"

"Yeah?"

A pause.

"The heatwave's over," you giggle.

Steve, meanwhile, looks genuinely emotional.

"You have no idea how happy that just made me."

You kiss him again before he can continue complaining about the previous four days.

And this time, neither of you is in any hurry to stop.

You swing your leg over his hip, pulling him closer, and immediately feel the effect it has on him. A low groan escapes him as he presses against you, the sound swallowed by your kiss. After nearly a week of stolen glances, failed attempts, and endless frustration, the tension between you feels almost unbearable. The moment he rolls his hips against yours, his eyes flutter shut.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with want. "Missed you so much."

A laugh escapes you, soft and breathless. "I think I've got some idea."

The teasing only seems to make things worse for him. His hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, encouraging you onto his lap with a desperation that borders on endearing. The second you settle over him, another helpless sound leaves his throat.

"Oh, so this is what you wanted, huh?" you murmur against his skin, trailing kisses from his jaw down to his neck.

His answer arrives as a sharp exhale and a roll of his hips. "God, yes."

For a few moments, neither of you seems capable of doing anything except enjoying the simple fact of finally being close again. You shift on his lap, pressing down enough to relieve some of the pressure that had been building all week. Your fingers disappear into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly as his hands settle firmly at your waist, guiding your movements. Every touch feels heightened after days of avoiding exactly this.

When you moan into the kiss, he presses his lips against yours harder, spurred on by the pretty noises you're making for him. He's fully hard now, and you're dripping onto him, so much so that he can already feel his dick getting wet.

When you shift to climb off his lap, intent on tasting him after so long, his grip tightens immediately.

"Not now, baby. Need you. Need to feel you. Please." His voice is almost pleading.

The sincerity of it makes your chest ache.

You nod above him, sitting up on your knees to pull your underwear down, as he does the same with his boxers, so you're pressed skin-to-skin for the first time in days, and something about it feels unexpectedly emotional. Maybe it's because the heatwave had turned every touch into a negotiation. Maybe it's because you'd forgotten how much comfort existed in simple closeness. Whatever the reason, your heart is beating just as hard as his beneath your palms.

Steve watches you with an intensity that always leaves you slightly breathless. Even now, even after all this time together, you sometimes struggle to comprehend that he looks at you the way he does. Like you're something precious. Like he still can't quite believe you're real.

You grab onto his cock, and he hisses at the contact, while you line him up with your entrance, both of you letting out the same shaky breath as his head catches at your entrance. Slowly, you start to sink down onto him.

You both moan out, foreheads against one another's. Steve can't take his eyes off your face while you sink down. The way your mouth is open in a gasp, the way your eyebrows are scrunched up in pleasure.

He gives you a minute to adjust to him, eyes half-lidded as he simply takes you in. The effort of holding himself back is written across every line of his body.

“Fuck me,” you whisper against his neck. "Please, Steve."

That proves to be the last coherent thought either of you manages for a while. And Steve doesn't need to be told twice. Not after nearly a week without feeling you squeezing around him.

The rhythm that follows is steady at first, neither of you in any hurry after waiting so long. Steve's hands never seem to settle anywhere for long, constantly moving as though he's trying to reassure himself you're actually here. Your shoulders. Your waist. The curve of your back. Every touch feels affectionate as much as desperate. You dig your fingertips into his shoulders, moaning out as he mouths at the space between your breasts, looking up at you with nothing short of adoration.

You start bouncing on his cock, meeting him as he thrusts up into you, and his head falls back against the headboard, moaning out at the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock so good.

The praise comes naturally to him, spilling out between kisses and breathless laughter. Every time he hears one of those sounds leave your mouth, his expression softens, as though he's hearing something beautiful.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours. "Just like that."

You keep up your pace as you grind your clit against his pubic bone with every downward movement. The feeling is so divine, you can't help the whines you let out. You're too lost in it to even really notice.

Steve stares up at your beautiful, blissed-out face, and in seconds he's pulling you off him, gently but firmly guiding you onto your stomach on the bed, face turned sideways on the pillow, and he's kneeling between your legs.

He gropes at your ass, spreading your cheeks to admire your dripping pussy, before pushing back into you.

He loves fucking you like this. You always go soft and boneless when he's fucking you from behind, his cock reaching so deep inside you at this angle that all you can do is grip onto the bedsheets and take the pleasure he's giving you.

Within minutes, you're right on the edge. You don't need to tell Steve, he knows your body inside and out, and he can tell you're close before you can.

"You gonna cum, huh baby? That's it. Give it to me."

The look on his face is almost your undoing.

Not the desire. The adoration. The way he seems completely incapable of separating one from the other.

Just like that, you're falling apart on his cock. Your legs quiver around his as your chest pushes into the mattress, your back arching, forcing your ass up further into the air, further onto his cock.

He can't hold himself back much longer when he feels you cum around him. Your pussy fluttering around his cock, pulsing, clenching, so warm and wet, has him right on the edge.

"Where d'you want it, baby? Huh?" he's panting above you, both hands on your lower back, pushing you further into the mattress so he can push his cock deep inside you.

"Inside baby, please," you whine, breathlessly, fucked out. "Fill me up, Steve. Need to feel you."

That's all it takes.

He comes inside you with a guttural sound that comes from deep inside him. He pushes his hips flush against yours, determined to fill you up as much as possible, and you keen at the feeling of his warm spend filling you up.

"That's it, baby. Take it. That's it, sweetheart," he mutters above you, hips slowing to a deep grind as he rides out his orgasm, eventually slowing to a stop.

For a few seconds afterwards, neither of you moves.

Then Steve practically collapses on top of you, all warmth and loose limbs, his weight settling over you in the most familiar way imaginable.

The room is quiet except for the rain against the window and the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.

Eventually, you break the silence.

"Holy shit."

A tired laugh rumbles through his chest.

"Holy shit."

Neither of you can stop smiling.

Later - much, much later - the rain is still falling steadily against the windows.

The sound drifts softly through the room, blending with the occasional creak of the house settling and the distant rumble of traffic somewhere beyond the neighbourhood. For the first time in nearly a week, the bedroom feels comfortable. Not stuffy. Not oppressive. Not one degree away from becoming unbearable. Just comfortable.

The kind of comfortable you'd spent five days wishing for.

Steve lies sprawled beside you, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, his chest warm against your back. The two of you have somehow ended up tangled together beneath the duvet again, something that would've been completely impossible forty-eight hours ago. Now, though, neither of you seems particularly interested in moving.

And for a while, neither of you says anything at all. You simply lie there enjoying the rare silence that follows a week of complaining. Because there had been a lot of complaining. Mostly from Steve.

Eventually, his fingers trace absent patterns against your side.

"Worth the wait."

The words are spoken directly into your shoulder.

You laugh immediately. A tired, content sort of laugh.

Steve presses a kiss there in response. Then another. Then one against your cheek when you turn your head towards him.

"Worth every second," he adds, sounding completely sincere.

You roll your eyes despite the smile threatening to take over your entire face.

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Even the seven fans?"

Steve groans.

"The kitchen counter?"

"The kitchen counter was a great idea."

"It was not."

"It was."

"The neighbours?"

Steve buries his face against your neck.

"The neighbours were an obstacle."

You laugh again, and the sound seems to settle naturally into the quiet room around you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Steve squeezes you a little closer.

Not dramatically. Not possessively. Just instinctively. The way he always does.

Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, the house is finally cool. And as Steve presses one last sleepy kiss against your shoulder before settling further into the mattress, you realise that for perhaps the first time in five days, neither of you has anything left to complain about.

Which, for Steve Harrington, might actually be a miracle.

dividers: saradika-graphics

ຣ bnd!steve who still invites you to his birthday parties even though his friends think you’re weird (you kind of are, because you are a horse girl).

there’s probably a year where he does this to explicitly be a little mean bc he is a teenage boy.

he’s turning 14, you’re 13, and he the invitation he sends you says that the party starts at 6PM. when you arrive, you’re very obviously late, and he and his other friends snicker a little while steve says, loudly in front of everyone, that the party started at 3, and you live right next door, how could you get it so messed up?

ຣ bnd!steve, who invites you to his family parties from there on out, because he’s known you so long that it just makes more sense for you to celebrate with his cousins than his friends, who don’t understand you or his friendship with you anyway. he pulls you aside and apologizes for the previous year, and even though it’s a whole year late, you just shrug it off. you get him back at your birthday party anyway by making him comply with the theme (still horses, because your mom kind of can’t take a hint that you’ve outgrown that kind of thing).

ຣ goddamn fucking bnd!steve inviting his girlfriend(s) over to his house to go swimming when it’s hot enough (and even when it’s not, because nothing is more conducive to misbehavior than teenagers off from school and home alone while their parents are at work). watching him from the too-hot, still air of your bedroom, your fan barely making a dent in the heat while they splash around in the water. her pushing steve off the diving board, steve splashing her in retribution. her untying her bikini top and tossing it out of the pool, and steve crowding her against the wall of the deep end, his face pressed to her neck while you try and try to just read your honors english assignment you were given to do over break.

ຣ bnd!steve whose bedroom is directly across from yours, and it was never a problem until he was 18 and you were 17 and the day comes when you accidentally see into steve’s room when he brings a girl in there, post-pool antics. after that you always keep your curtains drawn. because you didn’t see anyone’s parts but well, you sure were about to.

ຣ bnd!steve who agrees to go to your prom with you when your mom asks, but you freak OUT about it bc you did NOT want to ask him. you definitely don’t even like him! not like that!

your mom going behind your back to ask steve to your prom for you on your behalf is mortifying. you refuse to let him take you so you do go alone with your friends, but when you leave and need a ride home bc you’re the Only one who went stag, you discover steve was there the whole time in the parking lot waiting, just in case.

ຣ bnd!steve not coming over the day in late summer when you’re leaving for college but just stepping out onto the porch to casually give you a wave as your dad’s car starts driving off with you and all your crap in the backseat. he doesn’t go back inside until your dad turns at the end of the block, and you keep looking out the side window at him until you can’t anymore.

ຣ bnd!steve who, in the only way he can get your attention through the closed window with your curtains drawn, starts shining a flashlight at the side of your house. it’s late, christmas eve, but he knows you’re in your room because he saw the light turn on and then off a few minutes later.

tentatively, you peel the drapes back and see him there, window open, half hanging out of it with the flashlight waving in your face.

you push up the glass pane and lean your hands on the sill.

“what?” you ask, half annoyed and half endeared. you guys haven’t talked much since you started keeping your window all buttoned up.

“just wanted to say merry christmas,” steve calls back, and you soften.

you pause just a beat. “merry christmas,” you say back, and he smiles at you, then nods and waves and you both retreat into your bedrooms.

ຣ bnd!steve who comes thisclose to asking your mom for your school address so he can write you a letter when you head back to college in the spring.

ຣ bnd!steve who never realized or considered he may have had a crush on you until he sees you with some other guy, your boyfriend who comes to visit you over summer break after your freshman year.

it just leads to steve coming to terms with the fact that he may have always considered you a sure thing or “his” because you were always there, always at his beck and call, always around for him. he decides to just take the L because you seem happy with your college bf.

ຣ bnd!steve who overhears you on the phone with your best friend talking about how you wanted to try sex when your boyfriend was there that summer, but it was seriously underwhelming. your bedrooms still face each other after all, it’s not his fault your window is open and the drapes you have handing over your VERY OPEN window don’t do much to smother the sound of your voice, which maybe he’s been attuned to for longer than he realizes.

and steve goes from “i shouldn’t be listening to this” to “what an asshole” to “i can do BETTER” to “wait i shouldn’t be thinking that”

because you’re telling your girlfriend about how he made you feel really comfortable and excited and then once he got on top of you, he just turned into this selfish lump of a guy who only got himself off, asked “you finished too, right?” and then when you told him no, just barely fingered you and you had just told him you came because it was so pathetically bad that you didn’t even want to anymore.

ຣ bnd!steve seeing you out by the fire pit alone toasting a marshmallow on the hazy early august evening, that’s basically burnt to a crisp bc you’re zoned out bc your bf just dumped you. over the phone. because you didn’t want to sleep with him anymore. (he’d been visiting for a week! how did he expect to have sex in your parents’ house without getting caught? yes, he overheard that conversation too.)

ຣ bnd!steve meandering over into your backyard like it isn’t past midnight and sitting next to you without saying a word. just staying silent as you murmur a shaky “hey” and just finally toss the stupid marshmallow and stick into the fire and ask what he’s doing there, it’s late.

“looked like you could use an old friend, maybe” is the answer he gives you, and when you just huff he starts to tell you a story about a time you forgot: when he was 8 and you were 7 and he caught a frog in his yard. how it wriggled out of his hold and escaped into your yard. how you captured it again and handed it to him through the hole in the fence and ever since then he’s owed you, and so he’s finally paying you back.

like he didn’t embarrass himself at your horse-themed birthday party.

like he didn’t show up to your prom even though you didn’t want him to.

like he didn’t stop bringing girls over to his room once he realized that was probably why you’d started to keep your curtains firmly closed.

and this frog story. it’s really stupid and doesn’t help but it does remind you of all the history you have with him and when you get up from your lawn chair after a few minutes of contemplative silence and move it closer to his, he just lets you hold his hand and watch the fire until it burns down to embers.

you’re half asleep on his shoulder, his face buried in your hair until you sit up and look at him in the moonlight. he squeezes your hand but doesn’t move, because as much as he wants it he doesn’t expect anything.

nor should he. you’ve been his girl forever, but never really his girl.

ຣ bnd!steve’s breath catching in his throat when you tip your chin up and kiss him. soft, featherlight.

ຣ bnd!steve kissing you easy and slow by the smoldering fire, the stick you were using to try and roast your marshmallow little more than ash now. the bag of the rest of them is still off to the side somewhere, forgotten—tomorrow, your mother will ask how you forgot an entire bag of marshmallows outside, all stuck together, partially melted from the dew and then the sun beaming down on them in the heat of late summer, and you’ll have to lie and tell her you were just tired.

because you are. you stay outside with steve until the sun starts coming up over the horizon, the deep blue sky turning pink and then white right before the blue lightens.

he tugs you closer by your hoodie pouch, hands curling into it as he guides you from your lawn chair to his, settling you onto his lap. it isn’t too much. it isn’t an attempt to seduce you or entice you or anything. he just tucks his hands into your pocket and when yours join them in there, you lace your fingers with his as you straddle him, and he doesn’t let you move close, instead keeping the distance between you even as you let him kiss you over and over, everywhere he can reach.

“it’s—weird?” he asked you.

“no,” you say. “is it?”

“maybe,” he answers, and you laugh together, silencing him with a kiss because your parents’ bedroom window is open and they have no idea you’re outside, much less outside with a boy.

“we stayed up all night,” you tell him, unnecessarily.

“duty called,” steve says.

“i’m your duty now?” you ask.

but he only smiles, to himself, you think. “something like that.”

ຣ bnd!steve waiting on his back deck until he sees your curtains flick to the side, your face peeking out of the darkness down at him. you wave, he waves, and then he disappears through the sliding glass door. what he doesn’t expect, what you didn’t make a conscious decision to even do, is when he looks out his window at yours, you’re still standing there, peeking around the the jamb with your curtains pulled open for the first time in months. and even though he’s startled at your presence, you share a secret little smile before you both turn in for the night. well, morning.

because he’s been your boy forever, but never really your boy.

until now.

&&

new headcanon unlocked: eddie who looks after the sick and stray cats that pass through the trailer park 

they might not have much, but eddie would leave a small amount of his dinner out for them as a treat from all the dry food scattered on the porch. he also helps the local shelter with their TNR programs.

I also like the idea of wayne tolerating the smaller animals, but when the racoons show up, causing a bit of raucous, he gets all grumpy, but because he can see that it brings eddie joy, he lets it slide and will huff and say "just don't let them into the trailer"  

“Oh god…” you gasp out, whining as he plunged into you.

He smirked against your skin, awfully proud of himself. He kissed your neck, lips trailing over any available skin as he practically used you as a cocksleeve. Half an hour of pressing you against a wall, your full weight in his big arms like you were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Who knew being a vegetable could be so sexy?

“How are— fuck. How are you doing this?”

He hums in question. “What?”

You let out a shaky breath. “We’ve been going at it for a long time. H-how are you still holding me up like this?”

He gulps, still moving you on and off as he ponders how to cover his ass. ‘I’m actually a super powered alien, that’s why I’m really good at sex’ doesn’t seem like the best response.

“Uh… Well, I go to the gym.”

You let out a laugh that’s interrupted by another moan. “The… the gym? What, specifically to be able to fuck better?”

He smiles. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, teeth grazing your shoulder. “You have no idea.”

——————————

The late afternoon sun spilled gold through the open garage bays of Hawkins Auto, catching on floating dust and the chrome of lifted hoods while Black Sabbath crackled low through the shop speakers. Eddie’s girlfriend sat sideways on an old stool beside the front counter, one foot hooked around the ring as she scrolled absently on her phone, exhaustion settling heavy behind her eyes after spending nearly the entire day stuck there waiting on the part Eddie swore would’ve come in hours ago. Somewhere deeper in the garage behind her, an impact wrench whined loudly before cutting off, followed by Ray’s laughter and Eddie’s familiar voice answering back over the noise.

One of the perks of dating a mechanic — an exceptionally good one at that — was the lack of car troubles. The second something felt off with her car, Eddie knew about it. She had been out running errands when her brakes started feeling funny beneath her foot, enough to make her call him immediately.

‘Oh shit, yeah, bring it in, baby,’ he said over the car’s speaker when she called him.

So she did. She drove straight to Hawkins Auto and pulled around the side of the shop, where Eddie came out to take a look at it. After diagnosing the issue, he ordered the right part, completely unaware it would end up taking far longer than expected to show up.

A slow yawn slipped from her as Ray walked into the front office, a soda can clutched in his grease-stained hand, drawing her attention upward just as Eddie stepped in behind him.

“How much longer?” she asked tiredly, her voice low as she squinted at him through a mix of exhaustion and annoyance.

He offered her an apologetic grin as he wiped his hands on a shop rag, tossing it aside before leaning against the counter beside her stool.

“Tomorrow,” he replied, a slight hesitation in his voice. “Supplier fucked up the delivery window. Should’ve been here by four.”

She shut her eyes briefly, an exasperated huff of laughter leaving her through her nose. Eddie reached out, his fingers curling gently around the nape of her neck as he massaged lightly, shooting her a guilty look.

“I know, I know. But it’ll be done tomorrow, I promise,” he said softly.

“It’s okay, I know it isn’t your fault,” she murmured, finally looking up at him, her irritation softening as she leaned instinctively into the warmth of his hand against her neck. Eddie leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before pulling back.

“I’m just waiting on one more customer to pick up their car, then we’ll be out,” he told her, giving the back of her neck a brief squeeze before letting go and making his way over to the front desk computer. She nodded, unlocking her phone and returning to her scrolling as he worked.

The storefront door jingled as it opened, and a young woman stepped inside, dressed casually with sunglasses resting on top of her head, drawing Eddie’s attention almost immediately as he greeted her out of habit. His customer was pretty — undeniably so — but Eddie didn’t seem to notice, too focused on pulling up her invoice as he rested a hip against the counter.

“Alright, Ms. Browning, your alternator’s all set,” he said, tapping a few keys on the keyboard. The woman pulled her card from her bag once Eddie gave her the total, swiping it through the reader before slipping it back inside.

“You know,” she started sweetly as she tilted her head slightly to catch his attention, “I was thinking maybe you could give me your number? Just in case something else goes wrong with my car.”

She leaned forward as she spoke, her fingertips brushing against his wrist, the touch just a little too deliberate to be accidental. Eddie, however, barely reacted beyond smoothly shifting his arm away to reach for her keys. He chuckled softly — not cold, but entirely professional.

From her stool off to the side, Eddie’s girlfriend quietly lowered her phone, resting her chin against her palm as she observed the interaction in silence.

“Sorry, company policy,” he lied easily, dangling her keys between them. “But Ray’s great with follow-ups.”

The woman smiled, fingers lingering against Eddie’s hand as she took the keys from him. “Company policy, huh?” she asked, voice lilting with playful disbelief. “That’s a shame.”

Across the office, Ray glanced over from the filing cabinet as the woman continued flirting with Eddie, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A second later, his eyes slid toward Eddie’s girlfriend, brows raised with a look that practically screamed, You hearing this right now?

She met his look with a knowing one of her own before straightening slightly in her stool, folding her arms across her chest as her attention fixed shamelessly on the woman at the counter — entirely unaware Eddie had already noticed she’d stopped pretending to scroll on her phone minutes ago.

The woman leaned further over the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the laminate as she laughed at nothing in particular.

“Come on,” she pressed lightly. “Just between us? I promise I won’t tell your boss.” Her finger brushed his knuckles again, lingering a second too long.

Eddie’s mouth twitched faintly at the corner, something between amusement and disbelief, as he smoothly pulled his hand away under the excuse of scratching at his beard.

“I am the boss,” he corrected casually before jerking his chin toward his right. “And I’m taken.”

The woman didn’t even bother glancing in her direction. “But–”

“Have a good night, Ms. Browning,” Eddie cut in smoothly, the curt nod he gave her making it clear the conversation was over. She gave a small nod in return, noticeably more subdued now, before quietly turning and heading back out the door.

Eddie’s gaze lingered on the closing glass door for a second before shifting back toward his girlfriend, who was still sitting on the stool beside the counter with her arms folded and one eyebrow raised pointedly at him. Before either of them could say a word, Ray suddenly barked out a loud laugh from across the office as he shoved the filing cabinet drawer shut and walked over.

“Oh shit,” he said, bracing a hand against the counter as he grinned between the two of them. “That was intense. But not the first time, right boss?”

Eddie stared at him blankly for a beat, his expression going still in a way that very clearly read, Why the fuck would you say that?

That alone made his girlfriend’s eyebrows lift even higher.

Eddie immediately reached over and patted Ray’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble back half a step.

“Lock up. We’re heading out,” he said flatly. The sudden firmness in his voice sounded almost parental, like Ray had just embarrassed him in front of company and was absolutely getting bitched at later for it.

She hopped down from the stool without a word, sliding her phone into her pocket before gathering the bags from the errands she’d never gotten to finish after her car started acting up earlier. Behind her, Ray threw his hands up at Eddie in immediate defense, genuine confusion written all over his face now that she was walking away in silence.

“What?” he whispered harshly.

Eddie only rubbed a hand over his beard in tired exasperation before shooting him one more stern look, grabbing his keys off the counter and heading after her.

“Bye!” Ray called after them.

She only lifted a hand in a small wave as Eddie caught up beside her, reaching an arm around her while holding the door open for her at the same time. Then she walked out of the shop a little quicker than normal, heading straight for Eddie’s big black truck parked outside.

The sun had dipped lower now, casting long shadows across the asphalt while the cool evening air clung to their skin. Eddie followed closely behind her and silently reached the passenger door first, pulling it open for her and stepping aside as she climbed in without hesitation, though her arms remained stubbornly folded at her chest the second she sat down.

He shut the door gently behind her before rounding the hood, his boots scuffing against the gravel as he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The radio kicked on low — something old and bluesy Eddie would normally hum along to — but he didn’t touch the dial this time. Instead, he just turned the wheel sharply, pulling them out of the lot without a word.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, turning her head to watch the shop disappear behind them through the passenger window. Neither of them spoke for a solid minute.

Eddie’s fingers drummed absently against the steering wheel before he finally glanced over at her. “You good?”

She didn’t look at him. “Uh huh.”

Eddie glanced over at her from the driver’s seat, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he took in the stubborn look on her face. Reaching across the console, he let his hand settle against her knee, his thumb brushing back and forth slowly.

“Baby,” he started, his voice low and patient, “you know I wasn’t—”

“I know,” she said a little too quickly, the sharpness in her tone slipping out before she could soften it. Letting out a quiet sigh, she shook her head and looked out the windshield for a second before continuing. “I’m not annoyed with you, I just… girls like that are annoying.”

Her expression twisted with lingering disbelief as she glanced back at him.

“Like, you literally told her you were taken and she still kept going,” she muttered, shaking her head again. “The audacity is actually insane.”

Eddie chuckled low in his chest, giving her knee a gentle squeeze before his hand slid down to lace his fingers through hers. He brought their joined hands up to his mouth, pressing a lingering kiss against her knuckles — a quiet, affectionate attempt to reel her back down before she worked herself up any further.

“And this has happened more than once?” she asked suddenly, whipping her head toward him. The irritation in her voice was obvious, but the look she gave him carried an almost comical level of personal offense, dramatic enough that Eddie had to physically fight the urge to laugh, knowing it would only irritate her more.

“Mm… probably like once a week,” Eddie admitted with a shrug that was just cocky enough to make her expression immediately shift from irritation to pure indignation. She scoffed loudly, yanking her hand away from him, only for Eddie to laugh under his breath and catch it again before she could fully pull away.

“Hey, c’mon,” he said, still amused as he laced their fingers back together. “You know I shut that shit down every time. Like clockwork.”

She didn’t pull away from him again, but she still refused to look at him, keeping her gaze fixed ahead as Eddie pulled into the driveway.

The truck went quiet once he shut it off, yet Eddie still didn’t let go of her hand. He sighed through his nose, leaning his head back against the seat as he studied her profile for a moment before squeezing her hand gently. “Look at me.”

After a moment, she slowly turned her head, her eyes meeting his. Eddie’s thumb brushed gently across her knuckles as he held her gaze, the teasing smile from earlier softening into something quieter and more sincere.

“Not a single one of ’em holds a candle to you,” he said genuinely. “Not even close.”

Her expression softened visibly at that. It wasn’t that she doubted Eddie for even a second — she knew he’d never entertain another woman beyond basic professionalism, no matter how hard they flirted with him. The situation itself just annoyed her. Something about watching women continue pushing after being told he was taken irritated her down to her core.

Still, she knew that part wasn’t on Eddie. And judging by the way he was looking at her right now, completely focused on her and her alone, it never would be.

“You're my girl,” he murmured, leaning in slowly, his breath warm against her lips before pressing the softest kiss to them. Then another, and another — each one featherlight, lingering just long enough to coax a reluctant smile from her before pulling back slightly, his own lips twitching at the corners when she finally huffed a small laugh. "That better?"

“Mm,” she hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe one more.”

Eddie grinned before leaning in again, this time catching her bottom lip between his teeth in a playful bite that melted into something deeper, his free hand sliding up to cradle the side of her face as the kiss turned languid and warm. The tension in her shoulders eased beneath his touch, her fingers curling tighter around his as she hummed contentedly against his mouth.

It was her who pulled away first, though she barely moved back at all, their faces still close when she looked at him. “Better.”

Eddie hummed softly in approval, his thumb tracing idle patterns against her jaw.

To be different may be the shortest straw you had drawn in life. Your friends adored you for your silliness; among them, you were known and valued. Freshly out of high school, you now worried the weirdness could be more than just social ostracization. Maybe it could affect your employment in the future.

You imagined yourself sitting at an interview, dressed in your business best with a pencil skirt and heels, being looked at up and down by a man in a suit. He said nothing, but could see past your profession facade, and thinks what everyone else has thought: not you.

Ned gave you the benefit of the doubt, and one week after your interview, you showed up to Scoops Ahoy adorned in sailor garb for your first day of work. There hadn’t been any instructions on where to report to, leaving you to stand awkwardly in line with the customers. It shuffled forward slowly, and you began to worry about not clocking in on time. When it was your turn to approach the counter, you came face-to-face with someone you least expected.

Steve Harrington was standing behind the register in similar nautical wear, with a white hat sitting crookedly atop his gravity-defying hair. It seemed in school that he was a magnet: people orbited him as though he were the Poles, plucked from their places at metal lockers to surround him. He was the Sun above the pyramid of high school royalty. Now, lit by the bright, lifeless glow of fluorescence, Steve looked more like a fallen star. He looked at you first with eyes half-lidded in boredom, before his brows snapped together. 

“You’re the new girl?”

“I suppose so, yes,” you replied.

“What the hell? You were supposed to be here five minutes ago and we had a call-off,” his foot had begun to tap against the ground, you could hear in the tap tap tap on linoleum. A sign of impatience and frustration.

“I’m sorry, I was waiting in line.”

Now his squinted eyes widened in surprise, and you could see that his lashes were quite long for a man. He’d held a reputation for being handsome in school, but you felt that it was an inaccurate description. Steve wasn’t handsome, he was pretty.

“Yeah, I can see that. Why didn’t you just come to the back? I assume that you can at least scoop ice cream; you could’ve helped me out there.”

Now you were the one who was surprised. “Oh, I didn’t know that I could do that. Ned didn’t tell me what to…”

“And where’s your hat? It’s company policy,” he interrupted.

The rest of the day seemed to be you endlessly annoying Steve for things not knowing things that you couldn’t possibly know. According to him, you didn’t stick to the scripted greeting, and spent too long trying to scoop the ice cream into neat towers. He kept scolding you for calling the flavors by their standard names rather than the Scoops names, and got confused by which was which in the freezer. 

“I’m sorry Steve, I looked in the back to refill the Rocky Road like you asked, but I can’t find it.”

“I already told you it’s not Rocky Road, it’s called Rough Seas. Now hurry up! We got a line again.”

You’d never had a job that required you to use a cash register before, and you asked every customer whether or not they’d like their receipt after it printed. It added 15 seconds to each interaction, and seemed to be upsetting Steve, who had to keep reminding you that most people didn’t want their receipts, and not to ask about it. That would explain why the printer had a line of paper almost six-feet long coming out of it when you first came in.

When someone deposited 25 cents into the tip jar, you beamed at them. “Thank you, sailor! Fair winds and following seas!” you called.

 This wasn’t something that you’d been instructed to say, but you figured that you should really hammer in the marine theme as much as possible.

Steve had only groaned, muttering to himself, “Why do I always get the weird ones?”

“Do you want to take your break now?” You asked once the chaos had died down.

He shook his head, taking the sailor hat off with one hand in casual defeat. “Who knows what’ll happen in the 15 minutes that I’m gone. The whole store could go under. You’re not ready to be left alone yet.”

The silence spread over the Scoops Ahoy like molasses, slow and thick. You feared that speaking would only annoy Steve more, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry I’m not doing well, Steve. I can tell this job is important to you,” you settled, genuinely guilty to be burdening him. 

His head snapped to you from where he had been gazing at the rest of the food court. “It’s not–it’s important to establish a good work ethic. Y’know, like if I start slacking off here, by the time I have a career I’ll be dead weight.”

“Sure, my dad tells me that all the time,” you replied. “What career would you like to have?” 

Instead of responding, Steve stared down at the dark blue countertop, as if the answer resided there, somewhere deep in the grain of the particle board.

“Maybe you could be a professional athlete? You’re good at swimming. It could be your calling.”

The mop of hair raised slowly towards you. “What?”

Had you said something wrong? Maybe it wasn’t your place to give him life advice. “I… I don’t know. I’m sorry,” you frowned.

“How do you know that I’m a swimmer?” Steve asked, confusion clear in his face.

“They announced it in the morning once our junior year. ‘Swim team captain Steve Harrington plans to lead Hawkins High to victory at this weekend’s state conference. Go Tigers!’ I remember it because someone explained to me that it was unusual that the title went to you and not a senior.”

It was as though you had dropped a bomb, and Steve was watching the wreckage unfold with disbelief. Was it too much information? You had simply answered his question, but now began to doubt your answer. You went to apologize again, but he beat you to it.

“Sorry, I didn’t know that you went to school with me. I just… didn’t expect you to know that. Or remember it,” he said slowly.

“Oh, that’s alright. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken to each other until right now. You’re a little less intimidating than you were in school, so I’m not nervous,” you smiled.

He groaned, tossing his hat through the open partition and into the back room. “No kidding. I’m a fucking joke now. People take one look at me in this stupid costume and laugh. Even chicks who I know liked me in school don’t give me a chance.”

You hummed, thinking of a helpful response. “You could probably get another job, then.”

Steve huffed out a dry laugh. “Like it’s so easy to just get another job.”

“I suppose you’re right. I read in the paper the other day that unemployment rates across the state are the highest they’ve been since The Great Depression. About 13 percent, I believe. Something about the automobile industry, but I’m sure we all know about that,” you rambled.

He just stared at you, as though there was a puzzle in your face he could solve by looking for long enough. “You’ll like Robin; she’s working with you tomorrow. You’re both… quirky.”

Maybe your skin was tough from hearing it so often, or maybe it didn’t sound insulting coming from Steve. He’d used a different word than most people, and you didn’t mind being quirky. Steve didn’t seem to realize it, but you found him quite quirky yourself.

You’d heard that observing the actions of other people was a good way to learn. Thus, the first two weeks consisted of much standing around. This was the hump that many people had a hard time getting past, and the period that much turnover occurred at work. Determined to beat the statistics, you showed up to Scoops Ahoy each day, ready to be drained by your proletariat status. Not knowing what you should be doing at every moment meant that you spent lots of time standing stiffly next to Steve, waiting for instruction.

He was filling out a sheet of paper on a clipboard, and when you looked closer, it appeared to be an order form. Three cases of S.S Strawberry, four cases of U.S.S. Butterscotch, one of Blue Moon Marina. Ned was responsible for keeping inventory and ordering new stock, but it seemed all duty piled elsewhere. You could hear him smacking gum; it was against the rules at work, but he chewed it constantly.

Steve found you from the corner of his eye. “Can I help you?”

“I should be asking you that. Make myself useful and whatnot,” you replied.

He continued to scribble. “Don’t worry about it, it’s dead right now.”

You tapped your fingers rhythmically against the metal rail of the display case, cool against your skin. Thumb to pinky, pinky to thumb, back one way and forth the other. Steve hadn’t yelled at you for your hovering or tapping. There wasn’t any indication that he would be rude to you based on his behavior, and you felt bad expecting that from him. His friends had been less than kind to you in school; you simply assumed that he was the same.

“I know, but I feel bad if I’m not working as hard as I should. I want to be helpful,” you sighed.

Surely there was something in this entire parlor to do. Scrape gum from under tables, reorganize the toppings; you were being driven insane without a task to complete. 

“You are helping. You’re keeping me company.”

He said it as if it was the easiest thing in the world, simple and clear. This was the task he assigned you to: just being around. Steve hadn’t even looked up when he said it, still marking inventory on his clipboard, yet you felt as though your heart would beat straight out of your chest. It could grow wings and fly straight through the ceiling for how fast it was going. It was the most kind thing anyone had said to you all day.

You refrained from responding, but smiled at his profile; maybe he could feel your joy from three feet away. 

Routine was very good for you. Commute to work, clock in, check inventory, refill flavors that were one-third or more empty, wipe tabletops. Very easy stuff once you did it enough. Scoops wasn’t the most exciting job around, but you enjoyed having a place to be five days a week. That June was then marked as the most eventful month of your life. 

Steve wasn’t meant to be part of that routine. He wasn’t supposed to be the whistling, foot-tapping, high-socked highlight of your day. And yet whenever you came into work and that familiar mess of waves wasn’t behind the counter, a bit of your joy died.

You liked your other coworkers, too. Gary was hardworking, Todd told funny stories, and Robin was the limb you didn’t know you were missing. Nothing should’ve been so special about Steve, and yet he was. He wasn’t even the nicest person that you worked with.

When you took too long to come back from a shift, he would rail on you about workplace integrity, even though he would also take extra time on his breaks. He complained endlessly about how dismal his love life was to you, which you found pathetic and only slightly interesting. If your friends swung by the store to say hello, he would tell you that you were stealing time, but Steve was the one who let kids run through the back hallways and get free scoops.

“Does Ned know that your children run amok in this mall?” You asked, leaning through the open window of the backroom. 

He glared at you. “Is Robin the one who told you that? I don’t like it when she calls them my kids. I just know them from… town.”

“You mean Nancy Wheeler, right? That was her younger brother that just passed by.”

He raised a suspicious brow at you. “How do you know that?”

You shrugged. “I know that you dated Nancy, or I mean, everyone knows that, and I recognize her brother from being in class with my cousin. So I assume, I don’t know. That your whirlwind romance with her meant that you became acquainted with her brother and his… circle. Of children.”

“God, you talk so much,” he sighed. “It wasn’t a whirlwind romance, okay? I was really serious about her.”

You nodded solemnly. “Sure, I know how that goes.” You didn’t. “Lots of other fish in the sea, if that’s what you want. But I read in Seventeen that after a relationship, you emerge a different person, and it’s important to rediscover yourself.”

He shook his head, and leaned into the window with you. “I’m rediscovered already, and I don’t need another relationship. But it would be nice if I could land a goddamn date.” This close up, you could see the small moles dotting the column of his throat. Soft tufts of dark hair peeked out from the collar of his shirt. Your mouth felt dry. Had he always looked like that?

“Don’t tell anyone I said that. Robin has seen me fumble enough times here; she doesn’t need more ammo.”

“Gasp. Don’t worry, Steve Harrington. My lips are sealed,” you flourished with a zipping of your lips, then flicked away the invisible key.

He only rolled his eyes at you, and opened his mouth for another remark, before you cut him off. A pretty girl with a high, permed ponytail had come into the parlor. “Oh God, there she is now. Your future wife. She’s walking up. Hurry, do something.”

Steve’s head swiveled quickly to the front. He turned back to you, a determined sparkle in his eyes. “Alright, wish me luck.”

You graced him with a thumbs-up, and watched as he swaggered to the cash register. Steve was a good guy, he deserved to be freed from his dry spell. Yet watching him lean closer to the girl while she gave him a tight smile made your stomach sink, and you weren’t sure why.

Steve became a part of your Summer that you looked forward to, like running through sprinklers, biting into popsicles, sunbathing in soft grass. When he wasn’t on your shift, it was as if the roof had gone missing, or all of the lights went out. Something was missing from Scoops, and from eight hours of your life. That was not a good thing.

You knew what this meant: you had a heartstopping, ice cream melting crush on Steve Harrington.

Even in school you weren’t delusional enough to believe that someone like him could like someone like you. Despite what years of casual bullying had tried to instill in you, you knew it wasn’t because of some unlovable fault of your own. 

But who would be silly enough to think that the King of Hawkins would stoop to the ranks of drama and chess nerds, where you lay among masses of what could only be described as geeks? The seas of Hawkins High hallways had parted at his presence. On multiple occasions, you had been laughed at for simply raising your hand in class, as if it was funny that you would dare even speak. 

Maybe seeing him everyday had caused this; it was the forced proximity. You mistakenly believed that just because you worked together, Steve was now accessible to you. On your level, playing in the same league.

Although, wasn’t he? Free from the shackles of high school conformity, you had seen first hand for eight weeks that Steve Harrington was just like you. He could be annoying, make jokes that didn’t land, sing lyrics at the wrong time and speak Tears for Fears into silence. He did silly voices, recapped skits from Saturday Night Live in poor impersonations, and protected you from angry customers.

Didn’t he maybe see you in a new light, too? Recognize your feelings from a mile away, and feel the same? He must have, when he looked at you like you were the only girl in the world, warm brown eyes searching your soul. Sometimes he’d bite into the bottom of his shiny, pink lips when you spoke, and it would take every fiber of your being not to reach out and run your thumb against his mouth. 

Once, he’d even placed his hand lightly on the small of your back as he passed by you. Other than the immediate fear that he’d notice how sweaty you were, your pulse spiked from his warmth, felt through a thin layer of polyester. You were sure that there was more than enough space behind you for him to scoot past. Steve in June never would have done that. But maybe Steve in July wanted you, too.

The combination of you, Steve and Robin quickly became your favorite shift to work. When it got slow, there was no shortage of conversation to fill the time, and when it was busy, you all worked around each other with surprising efficiency.

It was a stormy, mid-July day when Robin first brought it up. You could occasionally hear the claps of thunder over the cartoonish jingle of the store, which would explain the slow trickle of customers you two had, talking between orders while Steve took his 30.

“Two scoops of Vanilla Voyage and one Chocolate Ship on a waffle cone, one scoop of Cookies and Cannons in a cup,” you called to Robin, who scooped and laid out the ice cream speedily.

“One waffle and one cup, coming right up,” she called back. You rang them up, fingers flying across the register. 

“Alright, back to business,” Robin said when the store emptied out again. The two of you sat in the front, sharing a milkshake across the scuffed, plastic table. Your crossed legs switched sides a few times, crossing one way for a few seconds, then the other, then back again, your knee jostling the table each time. Robin didn’t seem to notice. 

“You need to stop being scared and tell Steve how you feel. It is exhausting for you guys to tiptoe around each other."

“And what is it, exactly, that I feel for him?”

She pulled the milkshake from you, leaving your fingers wet with residual condensation. “Unfiltered, pure, Summertime love.”

“God, is it that obvious?” You groaned.

“Not too obvious, I don’t think,” Robin slurped, “Unless you have two eyes.”

Your heart dropped. “Do you think Steve knows?”

“Now, that might be the only person who doesn’t know how you feel. I would say I’m not sure how he missed it, but he’s never been the brightest bulb,” she grinned.

“Hey, I like him. He’s smart when it comes to other stuff! Like, he knows all about baseball, and sometimes when the Cubs are playing over the radio, he’ll explain what’s happening to me,” you defended weakly.

She raised her hands in defense. “No judgement on my end. Steve’s a surprisingly good guy. I give him the stamp of approval. Go make out to Air Supply. Use protection.”

Warmth flooded your face at the idea. Kissing Steve was something basically unfathomable. Sex was a topic of conversation that would have you combusting if you let it go too far. “Do you think he likes me, too?”

Robin snorted a laugh in response. “I’m sure he does. Why wouldn’t he?”

You frowned, looking off into the distance. The few shoppers in the mall seemed to be milling about mindlessly, arms full of shopping bags, shoes tapping against shiny, new linoleum floors as they passed by. There was nothing that separated you from them. And yet…

“I don’t know. It seems like my whole life there’s been a million reasons not to like me,” you sighed. “And I don’t know why. I think I’m missing something. Something that everyone can tell just by looking at me.”

Robin stayed silent for a moment, before pushing the milkshake back to you. “I get it. I think I’m missing that same thing.”

You gave her a soft smile. People seemed to see you and Robin the same way. If you got nothing else out of working at Scoops that Summer, you were grateful to at least have met her. She was the diamond in the horrible Hawkins rough.

“God, where is that guy anyway? It’s been more like 40, and I wanna take my break too,” Robin scoffed. Now that she had mentioned it, he had been gone longer than usual.

“Taking a dump, maybe,” you murmured, twisting the plastic straw lazily.

At that moment, Steve walked into the parlor, practically bouncing. One hand was stuffed in his short pocket, and the other held a small cup, white and green from Orange Julius.

“Speak of the devil and he doth appear,” Robin called, watching as he walked up to your table. “And where have you been, Harrington? I’m due for my break.”

He grinned, chewing on the tip of his straw. “Hello, ladies. Sorry for the wait. Robin, why don’t you take 40, too? I’ll even clock you in for the last ten minutes.”

She squinted her eyes at him, full of suspicion. “Why are you being so nice right now? What happened on your break?”

Steve wiggled his eyebrows at the both of you, before taking his hand out of his pocket. He slapped a receipt onto the table. You looked up at him, unamused, before he flipped it around. The back of the receipt had an address on it, signed by Linda with a heart.

“Holy. Shit. Did you actually land a date?” Robin gasped.

You stared at the slip of paper, mouth agape, trying to think of something to say. “Who’s Linda?”

“She works over at the Orange Julius. I went over to get some fries and she asked me to take my break with her. One thing led to another, and now I’m picking her up tonight to see Jaws at the Hawk.”

“Jaws? Not very romantic,” Robin said, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

“It’s scary is what it is," he asserted, gesticulating as he explained.

"Let me teach you guys a little lesson on love, alright? We’re gonna go see this movie, and when that kid gets eaten by the shark, she’s gonna scream and look for someone to protect her. Who better to do that but me, and my big, strong arms?”

You felt like you were going to be sick. He did have big, strong arms, and tonight they were going to hold Orange Julius Linda in the dark of the movie theater.

She’d probably bury her face into his chest, and when she finally felt brave enough to look up again, she’d see Steve’s shining eyes. They’d stare at each other, pretending to be surprised by their position, then lean in, lips brushing until–

“Wow, so you get one date after begging for how many months–” Robin began.

“Okay, I wasn’t begging anyone–”

“And now you’re acting like some sort of love expert. That’s ridiculous. I mean, even for you,” she finished, turning to you. “Am I right?”

You gave her a tight smile, before nodding to the man in front of you. “Jaws is a great movie. I’m sure you guys will have a fun time, Steve.”

“Thank you! At least someone is supportive of me,” he said, before walking past you guys to the back room.

Robin shot you a sympathetic look. “We can call about it later, if you want?”

You smiled sadly at her. “Thanks, Rob. You better go take your break before the storm ends. Then we’ll actually have to work.”

She nodded, before getting up and walking out of the store. You sat at the table, only the sound of pop music flooding the mall to give you company. Supportive, Steve had said. It felt like a slap in the face.

He had just become your friend; maybe expecting him to return your romantic feelings was too much to ask. But for a small moment it really seemed like he wanted you, too.

Your record player had been stopped for 10 minutes. The vinyl needed to flipped, but you were so engrossed in your book that you had completely forgotten about it. When the phone rang from your nightstand, you scarcely looked up from the page; just reached out to grab it from the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

You sat up immediately. “Steve? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Does something have to be wrong for me to call?”

“Well, no. But something always is when you do,” you replied. You and Steve had traded numbers your first week at Scoops in case you needed to switch shifts, and ever since then all calls between the two of you had been strictly work related.

“Sorry about that. I just wanted to know what you were up to right now,” he replied, voice sheepish through the receiver.

You sat your book down on the bed, splayed to save your page. “I was just reading. Nowhere near as exciting as your night, I’m sure.”

A glance at the clock showed that it was only 10:30 P.M. “How was your date? Don’t tell me it’s over already.”

Steve sighed, the noise crackling against your ear. “It was alright. I don’t think there’ll be a second one.”

“Oh no, what happened?” You could hear him shuffling around.

“Well, I went to pick her up, but she left me waiting in the driveway for 10 minutes because she wasn’t ready. Then we got to the movie late and had terrible seats, like all the way by the front.”

“That’s the worst.”

“I know. I guess I didn’t realize they were doing something special at this screening, since it’s the 10 year anniversary, so they sprayed water at the audience whenever the shark was on screen.”

“Oh man, are you serious? That’s so cool!”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Steve chuckled. “She didn’t feel the same way, because she started screaming about how it was gonna mess up her hair. The people around us were getting pissed because she was so loud. I didn’t know what to do!”

You laughed at the thought of Steve, wide-eyed in panic, as his date screamed in terror at her hair falling flat. 

“So what did you do?”

“We left because some big guy threatened to fight me if I didn’t tell her to be quiet! Then when we got outside, she started chewing me out for not defending her in there,” he groaned. “But what was I gonna do? Get my ass kicked because she was bothering everyone?”

“Well, it’d be the noble thing to do,” you teased, before pausing. “I’m sorry your date didn’t go well, Steve. I know you were really excited to finally get back out there.”

“God. When you say that it makes me sound like a pathetic, divorced dad.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you feel worse than you already do.”

“You don’t have to apologize; at least it’ll make a good story,” he said. 

Silence blanketed the conversation. It was warm and comforting to listen to the sound of his soft breathing against your ear. You wished you could reach through the phone to him, see what he looked like when he was all relaxed and dressed down at home. What did his room look like? What did the sheets smell like? Did he sleep on one pillow or two?

“Y’know, I was thinking that you would’ve really liked it tonight. Not the screaming and me almost getting punched, but just being there. It was kind of nerdy with all the Spielberg fans, but it was cool,” he continued. “They’re passionate, like you.”

Like you. He’d been thinking of you tonight, on his date or after, it didn’t matter. You wanted to explode. 

“I think in other circumstances it would’ve been fun. Although movie dates are stressful for me.”

“Woah, wait a minute. Are you saying you’ve been on a date before?” Steve asked incredulously. You tried not to be offended.

“Yes, I have. I know I wasn’t prom queen material or whatever, but I did go out once Sophomore year,” you replied. “With Jared Barnett from my chemistry class.”

“Jared Barnett… I think I remember him. He had the long hair, right? And everyday at lunch he’d eat a corned beef sandwich,” Steve laughed. “He was a… y'know. A guy.”

“You can say it. He was a ‘geek’, or whatever, and most people didn’t like him because they thought he was weird,” you huffed. “But we saw Return of the Jedi together and the whole time I was so anxious I could barely even watch.”

“Jared made you that nervous? I didn’t realize you liked him that much.”

“Honestly, I just liked him as a friend, but I was freaked out because I didn’t know what I should be doing. It was all dark, and he was sitting next to me so I couldn’t read him at all. I just kept thinking, ‘what if he leans in to kiss me? What if he puts his arm around me? Should we hold hands?’ It drove me crazy, although at the end of the night nothing happened, and we went back to being friends.”

“Sounds like a perfectly normal date to me. Two of you watching Star Wars or whatever,” Steve said, a smile lacing his voice.

“Everyone thought we were dating, anyway. They see two nerds being friends in my halls and think they must be a match made in Heaven. It really annoyed me; not because I’d be ashamed to be seen with him, but because people only thought that because we’re both…” you stopped, not wanting to make yourself upset.

Jared was a good guy, who you had lost touch with in the past year. You had never been particularly close, but ran in the same social circles. That was the problem.

You and all your friends were bottom of the barrel, last picks in gym, never invited to parties. You’d been called every name in the book, which is exactly why your peers of Hawkins High assumed that you and Jared must have something in common.

You sighed. “Anyway, it’s not important. Hopefully my loveless woes make you feel better about your date.”

“Not that. Talking to you makes me feel a lot better, though,” Steve said.

Your heart was racing so fast it threatened to burst completely. Steve just said that he liked talking to you, and you tried your best not to squeal and kick your legs against the bed.

“I’ll tell Robin, too, but this week it’s supposed to be really nice out. If there’s a day where all three of us are free, we should drive to the Lake. It’ll be fun; we can drink and swim and pretend we don’t work at Scoops for a day,” he suggested.

The grin on your face was so wide, you were sure Steve would be able to feel it through the phone.

“I’d love to.”

Wednesday was the miraculous day when all three of you were free, and the plan to spend it at Lover’s Lake was put into motion. 

You skipped to your car, a bag stuffed with towels and sunscreen being swung wildly in the air with joy. It would’ve been nice if music played somewhere from the sky, so that you could break into song and dance in the driveway. Your neighbors had long written you off as a basketcase for all the antics you’ve gotten up to in the front yard of your home. Jumping and spinning in silence was no longer odd behavior from you.

Steve would pick Robin up since she didn’t drive, and the three of you would meet on the East side of the lake, where it was quiet and sandy.

When you pulled up to the spot, you were struck with immediate fear when you didn’t see the red Beemer anywhere. It was 12 on the dot; were they running late? Maybe they had bailed on you in secret, watching from the trees while your head swung back and forth. Or sitting together at Robin’s, laughing at the thought of you waiting on your own.

No, Robin would never do that to you. She’d become your closest friend over the Summer; you understood each other like no one else. Would Steve play a prank like this on you? It was hard to imagine, but he used to be cruel. The things he’d done and said to your friends had been worse than the hypothetical situation you had just cooked up. Maybe it was the air, thick and stuffy, muddling your thoughts.

Suddenly, a series of quick beeps pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. The sight of the distinctive BMW rolling up next to your own beat up car made your heart soar.

He popped out of the car in a t-shirt and Levi’s jeans, hugging the curve of his biceps and thighs. This was the first time that you were seeing Steve in his own clothes since you started working together. In fact, you don’t think you’d even seen him outside of Starcourt the entire Summer. 

You were foolish to ever think before that Steve was a sallow, dimmed version of his former self. He practically glowed in the sunlight, all tanned skin, light streaks in his hair, white teeth glinting when he grinned. It was suddenly much hotter outside.

“There you are! Took you guys long enou–wait, where’s Robin?”

“I’m five minutes late; not even,” Steve said, rounding the back of his car to pop open the trunk. “And she bailed on us.”

“She bailed on us? Why? Is she okay? She did say that she was feeling more tired than usual at work yesterday…”

“No, she’s alright, but she has to go to this stupid luncheon with her parents. I tried to call but I figured you were already on your way over here. Seemed like a waste of a good day if we cancelled, anyway,” Steve said, Raybans tucked into the collar of his shirt as he hauled a bag out of his car. 

He turned to you, the perfect image of Summer. “Shall we?”

You walked to a small clearing in the trees, where dirt gave way to smooth rock and packed sand. It wasn’t a beach by any means, but it was the perfect spot to settle for the day; just enough light and shade and water.

Were you supposed to get undressed now? Part of the appeal for this lake day was the idea of sunbathing peacefully with each other. You’d been eager knowing that Robin would be here alongside you; you’d even chosen your two piece.

Now, the idea of stripping alone in front of Steve made your head spin. You crouched down next to your things, rummaging through your bag to stall, before looking back to see that Steve had already taken his shirt off. 

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him. The soft patch of hair you’d seen peeking out of his uniform was now on full display, covering his chest and leading a perfect line down his torso, disappearing into his colorful swim shorts. The moles that dotted his face and neck didn’t stop there, either. You could see them decorating the space of his broad shoulders and arms, even one slightly off center from his belly button. Holy shit. 

You were suddenly unsure if it was the heat of the day making you lightheaded, or simply the sight of him. A bead of sweat was trailing from the sharp angle of his jaw to his collarbones. Your eyes trailed up, meeting Steve’s. When you realized that you’d been caught staring, your face went warm.

“See something you like?” Steve teased.

You coughed violently at the remark, before shaking your head. “I didn’t know we were getting undressed already.”

“What the hell do you think we’re here for? I can turn around if you want.”

You nodded sheepishly, waiting for him to look away. Once everything was neatly tucked away in your bag, you cleared your throat, signalling to Steve that the coast was clear.

He turned around, hands on his hips, mouth open with what must’ve been a witty comment on the tip of his tongue. It never made it out, mouth agape with an open stare. His eyes roamed your body, face all the way down to your toes and back up again. You tried not to squirm under his gaze.

“You’ve never had a boyfriend before?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” you frowned.

“I’m not making fun of you! I’m just… processing.”

You walked past him, up the rocks to where you knew there was deeper water.

“Oh yeah? Process this!” you called, before jumping in with a graceless cannonball.

The cold water shocked you upon entering, the bottom of the lake like ice, before you swam up for air. 

You wiped the water from your eyes, looking for Steve in the sandy area where you left him, but he was mysteriously missing.

“Look out!” got yelled from above you, where he was several feet in the air, plummeting directing in your direction.

You yelped, quickly diving below the surface just as it broke under his weight. You dared to open your eyes under the water, trying to make out Steve’s blurred figure through the rising bubbles. When you came back up, he appeared bobbing in the water, famous hair slicked back against his skull.

“Jesus, couldn’t give a little more heads up?” you asked, faking anger as you splashed at him.

“I think I aimed wrong,” he laughed, splashing back.

You swam back to shore, taking turns showing your best dives and flips in the air. Steve was irritatingly good at it; diving into the water with barely a plop, twisting his body into angles you thought were reserved for gymnasts. What you lacked in technical skill, you made up for in enthusiasm. Each jump into the water was accompanied with a call for attention, you and Steve yelling nonsense to the sky.

“Geronimo! Cowabunga!” Steve shouted.

“Michael Jordan! Argentina!” You called back.

After tiring yourselves from all the jumps and racing you’d done (Steve had bested you in speed, too), you both crawled onto the towels, warmed from the sun and caught your breaths.

Laying side by side with Steve, on your stomach with a book in hand, you watched as he popped a piece of gum in his mouth, searching through his bag for sunglasses.

“You chew gum a lot. Even at work, when you know Ned will yell at you,” you observed.

He tilted his head towards you, a sly grin gracing his mouth. “Have you been watching me?”

“Sometimes, when there’s nothing else to do.”

Steve looked back up to the sky. “I’m trying to quit nicotine. It helps to have something else in my mouth.”

“You smoke? Or, you used to?”

“Yeah, just for a year or two.”

“Wow. Why did you? Does it… feel good?” You asked curiously. None of your friends had smoked cigarettes, and you weren’t sure that you knew anyone who actually did.

He chuckled at your blunt questioning. “Yeah, it does. Otherwise people wouldn’t do it. Kind of makes your head feel buzzy and light. But I only started because all my friends did,” he sighed. “It’s so stupid, the things people do to fit in. But Carol said I was a pussy if I didn’t at least try, and I couldn’t let them make fun of me, so…”

You didn’t speak for a moment, taking in what he said with awe.

“I guess I didn’t realize that popular people could get peer-pressured, too. It seems stupid to say, but I just assumed that being King Steve, every one followed your lead.”

“Nope,” he said, popping the p. “It’s all one big, sick joke. I mean, I had a lot of fun in school. It’s not like I regret my life. But looking back, it’s all stupid.” 

You looked back at your book, unreading but deep in thought. “It is all kind of stupid, huh? I actually used to sit next to Carol Perkins in middle school. She was at a table with just the three of us, my friend and I, which I think she hated. I was with my friend, but everyone she knew was on the other side of the room.”

It was biology in 8th grade; just you, Carol, and your friend Shauna. Shauna got bullied for having a stutter. She rarely spoke to people she didn’t know, and you’d felt protective over her throughout middle school. You were both skeptical when Carol was assigned to sit with you two, but she barely spoke either, probably feeling outnumbered by the weird kids.

“She wasn’t very rude to my friend and I–just a few comments here or there, nothing we hadn’t heard before–but one day she said the strangest thing to us. She said that if any of her friends were rude to us, we should tell her,” you continued.

At that, Steve turned back to you, brow creased under his Raybans. 

“It was kind of presumptuous to say that we were getting bullied, so Shauna and I just nodded our heads and went back to work. I mean, we did get bullied. But it was so odd; it was the first time anyone had really acknowledged it. Carol Perkins of all people tried to break the cycle,” you smiled at him. “Obviously it didn’t change anything, but it makes you think.”

“If I knew you in school, I probably would’ve said something equally as dumb. Trying to be good, and not meaning it,” he remarked, before falling silent, his breath steadying out as he napped in the golden light of the day.

Maybe Steve was perfect. The sight of his profile was solid evidence of that; his perfectly straight nose, full lips and glowing tanned skin. More than that, knowing Steve for two months made you truly understand his popularity in school. 

Before, it all seemed so random; you could never pinpoint why some people were worshiped while others were belittled. He wasn’t the kindest person, but maybe it was different when you really knew him. This must have been how all the girls he talked to felt; giddy with excitement and special.

He broke your shared silence over sandwiches and tangerines 20 minutes later. Steve regaled you with a tale from the week: he’d spotted an ex-girlfriend of his with another guy from the basketball team. Apparently he’d hidden behind a display at Waldenbooks until they passed, leaving his ego bruised. 

“We were never serious, it was like 4 years ago, but c’mon. I’m gonna be a loser for life if I continue like this,” he complained.

“Well, that might be true. If I saw you working at Scoops in another 10 years, I’d feel really bad. But I don’t think having a summer job, even if it’s a dorky one, makes you a loser. At least you have your own money! It’s like Brad from Fast Times: he was popular, and he worked at the burger place, and everyone loved him.”

He shook his head, peeling a tangerine and setting it on your towel, before peeling another for himself. “Okay, well then I’m like when Brad had to work at the fish place, and wore that stupid pirate costume, and also got dumped by his girlfriend.”

“Being single doesn’t make you a loser either, Steve. I don’t know why you’re so desperate to get a girlfriend. I mean… is it sex? Are you lonely?” you asked with genuine concern.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned, brow creased. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this right now.”

“You’re the one who brought it up. Besides, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, you’re right. I dunno. I haven’t gotten laid in a while; women aren’t exactly jumping my bones with the hat on. But it’s like… I don’t even like any of the girls I talk to anyway,” he sighed, tossing tangerine peels into the trees. 

“I can understand that, but what’s wrong? It’s not a big town, but there has to be someone you like. Other than Nancy.” Me, maybe.

He laid back onto the towel, squinting into the sun. “They’re all stuck up, or take themselves too seriously. And they’re all expecting something from me. To be King Steve, I guess. Be a big tough guy and all suave and stuff. It’s like I can’t be myself. Or, I don’t even know who I am anymore,” Steve’s eyes glazed over in thought, staring into the sky, seeing something you couldn’t. 

I know who you are, Steve. Or I could, if you’d let me. I like you the way you are. Please look over here. Look at me. You wished that he could hear your thoughts, understand everything you were too scared to say. If he turned to you, he’d see you, shining in the sun like you saw him, and know you were the one.

“I wish I could meet someone fun and relaxed and cool. Someone that’s like you, but not you. Y’know what I mean?”

You froze completely; the heat of the day replaced with an icy chill. But not you.

“Why not me?” you asked, voice small.

He turned to you suddenly, as if just hearing himself. “No, I didn’t–that’s not what I meant.”

Your throat threatened to close, a lump swelling so large you feared your neck may explode. “What did you mean?”

Steve blanched. “I mean, because we’re friends. And coworkers; it would be kind of weird if we…”

You nodded, chewing your bottom lip to prevent any noise from escaping. Steve was lying to you, you were certain of it. 'Not you' meant a girl like you, but prettier. A girl like you that didn’t talk too much, that could socialize without making a fool of herself, that was normal.

He sat up quickly, legs crossed close to you, and reached for your cheek. 

“Hey, wait, I’m sorry. Look at me,” he coaxed, trying to read your expression. For the first time since he met you, he was unable to see anything when he looked into your face. It was like your entire being had shut down, eyes staring blankly downward as your teeth bit skin.

“C’mon, look at me,” Steve had never sounded so soft as he cradled your face, tilting it upward. 

You did, seeing his face wrinkled with concern, lips pulled down. It was terrible timing to realize that his eyes weren’t actually brown, but closer to hazel; little flecks of green around the iris. They were beautiful, how it matched the foliage around you.

He was beautiful, and you’d been wrong before to not consider him handsome. He was possibly the most handsome man you had ever seen. You cursed yourself for thinking such a thing at that moment, even when he had just said the one thing that had been a curse your entire life.

But not you. But not you, but not you, not you, not you, not you.

“There you are. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, okay?” When you gave no response, he apologized again. “Did I fuck up our lake day? I’ll drive you home.”

At that, you gave a weak smile, and gently removed his hand from your cheek.

“I drove here, remember?”

His eyes widened just a bit at his mistake. “Oh shit, you’re right. I’m used to driving Robin everywhere, I guess…”

You nodded, at a loss for words.

“Maybe we should pack up for the day. We’ll get burnt if we stay out here much longer,” you said, standing up. You didn’t wait for Steve’s response as you shimmied your clothes back on, reaching down to dust off your towel.

“Are you sure?” Steve asked uncertainly.

“Yeah, enough fun for one day, I think,” you replied, hauling your bag over your shoulder. Without waiting for Steve, you walked back in the direction of your car, ignoring his call for you to hold up.

You walked briskly through the trees, branches scraping at your arms and legs with tiny scratches that you couldn’t mind. As soon as you spotted your dented Dodge, your body filled with small relief. Once you got in, you’d be home free, no longer have to look into Steve’s pitying eyes.

How embarrassing could you be, getting so emotional over a remark like that? What did you expect; that Steve Harrington of all people was going to fall head over heels for his coworker from the ice cream shop? You were such an idiot.

“Wait up! Hold on!”

You turned from where you had just opened the driver’s side door to see Steve, disheveled with his shirt on inside out, swim shorts still on, approaching you quickly. You paused, waiting as he halted quickly at your side.

“Are we… Are we good?” He asked hesitantly.

You wanted to yell at him. Are we good? Evidently not. 

“We’re good,” you reassured, and despite the fact that you both knew that you were lying, you climbed into the car anyway. You tried not to watch Steve in your rearview, standing pathetically next to his Beamer, bag hanging limply in one hand as you drove away.

It wasn’t easy, but you had managed to rearrange your entire schedule for the week. You weren’t scheduled with Steve in the days that followed your lake escapade, which would usually have you clawing the walls. It was a blessing in disguise now, no longer having to face the man that had broken your heart.

Gary and Todd were good sports when you called them and begged to switch days with them so you didn’t have to see him at work. You had a wonky schedule, having to get up much earlier than usual to make it on time, closing and opening back to back, but it was worth it if it meant you didn’t have to confront that awful feeling.

“God, Harrington is such an idiot. I’ll kill him for you, if you want,” Robin had said when you told her at work the next day.

You shook your head weakly. “I’m mad, but I don’t know if I should even be mad. I mean, if he doesn’t like me, whose fault is that? Nobody; he can’t help it if he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“It’s not about that, it’s the way that he said it! That must have been horrible; anyone would be upset about hearing that,” Robin explained, before turning to the register. It’d been a long day; there was hardly time for talking with how many customers there were.

“Banana boat with the works, two sugar, one with Black Cherry Boat and one with Sea Salt Caramel,” she called to you.

“Jesus Christ, when is this gonna end,” you muttered to yourself, arm deep in rock solid ice cream. Maybe the rush would take your mind off of Steve, but all you could think about were the horrible jokes he would make at a time like this, the humming he would do along to the Top 100 hits that played. The way he’d take over, peeling the bananas to make your job as easy as possible.

After the rush died, Robin pulled you to the back. “Listen, I support your decision to ignore him, but you have to know that the dingus is probably going to bother you nonstop until you hear him out. You have to be ready for that.”

“Why would he do that?”

She sighed, running her hands over her face. “Even if he doesn’t have feelings for you, you guys are friends. One bad day won't change that for him. And even though he is a complete dumbass, we both know deep down that he’s a good guy. Don’t get me wrong, he should be punished. But I know he’s gonna try his best to make you crack.”

Robin had turned out to be completely right. He'd left notes stuck to the whiteboard that said things like I’m sorry! and Please call me, which you tossed into the trash instantly. Even Todd had been recruited to get Steve back in your good graces.

“He really didn’t tell me what’s going on, but he told me to tell you that he’s sorry for what he said,” Todd relayed, looking bored out of his mind.

When you didn’t answer, he spoke again. “What did Harrington do, anyway? Was he really that bad of a boyfriend?”

At that, you threw down the rag you held into the bucket of soapy water where it belonged. “He was never my boyfriend,” you gritted out.

The closest you’d gotten to speaking to Steve was a week and a half after the lake day, when your phone rang from its place on your side table. You answered it absent-mindedly, freezing when you heard the sound of Steve’s voice softly calling your name.

“Hello? Are you th–”

You slammed the phone back onto the receiver, heart racing. You hadn’t heard his voice in days, the way it softly cradled your ear. The sound of your name rolling off of his tongue, like it was Scripture. You missed him so much, it felt like you were being carved from the inside out. It would’ve been easy to answer his call and say it. Yes, I forgive you. Let’s be friends forever. But not you. Not you.

If you went back to work with him, it could be business as usual. Everyday would be jokes and watching his back, like longing wasn’t stuck in your throat. But you knew the truth: you’d gotten too close. You’d convinced yourself that Steve might feel the same way. That he could ever see you as more than a coworker; as more than a friend. With that, you’d killed what barely had a chance to live.

Two Wednesdays after the lake day, you sat home alone. Your parents were off visiting an uncle, leaving you to stretch across the house all by yourself. Outside, the sun had begun to set in a wash of orange and pink, disappearing slowly behind the silhouette of trees. A re-run of Cheers was playing on the T.V; an episode you didn’t care about, and only wanted on for background noise while you read.

A quick knock at the door made you perk up. You weren’t expecting anyone, and were uninterested in managing a door-to-door salesman. On T.V, Sam Malone was wiping glasses. You looked back down to your book, only for the knocking to start again. 

Jesus Christ, who could that possibly be? You set the book aside, and went up to the door. It swung open to reveal Steve, dressed up in a striped polo, hair a floppy mess, as though he’d been running his hands through it.

“Steve?” You hadn’t seen him in two weeks, and now he was standing on your front porch. “What are you doing here? How do you… how do you know where I live?”

He ran his hand through his hair again, pieces falling over his forehead. “I looked it up in the phonebook. Since I already have your number.”

“Oh. Okay,” you squeaked, suddenly feeling exposed. You were dressed in little linen shorts and a big shirt, feet clad in slippers. No one had ever seen you in your house clothes; now Steve Harrington was at your door, witness to your most intimate self. 

“So... what are you doing here?” 

He stared at you, mouth tight, scanning your face as if looking for a tiny pinpoint answer hidden in your eyelashes or skin. 

“I needed to see you. I mean, it’s been two weeks. We used to see each other almost everyday,” he said.

“Why did you need to see me? Did something happen?” You frowned. Not once had you ever seen this expression on Steve’s face; so unsure and sad. Maybe he was sick or…

“Because… I missed you. I didn’t realize how used I got to seeing you until you weren’t there anymore. I know when I say that it makes it sound like I’m just thinking about myself, but I had to come talk to you today,” he admitted.

You shifted from one leg to another, antsy.

“I missed you too, Steve. I just thought it’d be good for us to get some space after that day. I didn’t want to make things more weird, but maybe I already did.”

“No; I’m the one who made things weird, not you. I’m such an idiot for what I said to you the other day. When I said that I’d date someone like you. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop, and if I could kick my own ass I would. Hell, I’d be lucky if you even wanted to date me, not the other way around.”

He stepped closer, inches away from you. One hand braced the smooth wood of the doorway.

Your face softened at his words. “You don’t have to apologize about it anymore; I forgive you. We can keep being friends.”

“Fuck, I don’t want to be friends, okay?” Steve ran his free hand through his hair again. “All I can think about lately is you. Not because I feel bad, or I pity you, but because you’re the best thing that’s happened to me all Summer.”

You stared at him, eyes wide in shock. Your throat was completely dry, leaving you speechless; not that you’d know what to say, anyway.

“You’re the most interesting, funniest person I’ve ever met in my life. Every time I’d see you at work I’d get excited because I knew I was going to have the best shift in my life. That day at the lake should’ve been perfect. I should’ve told you all of this; that you’re amazing,” he cupped your cheek at that moment, just like he had at the lake. This time it left your heart racing with anticipation, his warmth radiating into you. “That you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

You whispered his name softly, unable to believe what you just heard. At any moment your heart could burst out of your chest and shoot into the sky. 

“You… You like me?”

He tilted your face up slightly, before leaning in. Your lips brushed against each other lightly, almost hesitantly, as if giving you space to pull away before he pressed closer. 

Both of Steve’s hands cupped your face, one reaching back to settle on the back of your neck. You brought arms up to his shoulders, and allowed your hands to tangle in his hair. It was even softer than you imagined, and you wished you could pinch yourself and make sure none of it was a dream. He gave a small moan in your mouth as you scratched gently against his scalp. File that away for later.

When you pulled away, you found Steve with flushed cheeks and lips glossy from yours. You held his shoulders while he brushed his thumb against the lines of your face, moving down to hold your waist. 

“Yes, I do like you. I really, really like you.”

“That’s such a relief,” you smiled, “I really like you, too.”

Steve grinned, moving to kiss you again. “I give you permission to kick my ass if I ever hurt you like that again. You can slap me, if you want.”

You held him just an inch from your lips, “That won’t be necessary, I think. All will be forgiven if you just make it up to me.”

He guided you into the house with hands moving down to your hips, lips against yours. “I’ll start right now.”

omg. very afraid that he's ooc or that this story sucks and makes no sense but i had to get it out of my system. if u enjoyed feel free to leave a like/comment/reblog!

Huffing a sigh through his nose, Gator turns his face from you一which is more symbolic than anything else, because he can’t see you. He’s never seen you, actually, but he tells you that being able to hear and feel and taste you is enough. And when ya smell like that strawberry body butter crap ya use, he adds on, ’s nice ta smell ya too.

“Go on,” he says, not because he doesn’t want you to, but because he doesn’t like feeling like he’s not in charge, always, of all of his faculties. And with him sprawled out on the bed, your hips astride his while you made him promise to let you do whatever you wanted for him tonight, well一he’s being a little bitter about it, even though you know if he really didn’t want to, neither of you would be in the position you were. Because no one makes Gator Tillman do anythin’ he don’t wanna do. (His words.)

“You know how much I love you, Gator,” you say, leaning down to trail your lips over his neck. You feel his throat bob. It’s not always easy for him to say it back, and you understand that. His life before you wasn’t easy. His life after you still isn’t.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, like it’s obvious and all this sweetness and affection isn’t needed.

“Well, I want to show you.”

“Why?” he presses.

“Because you think you don’t deserve it.”

And he has no answer to that, because you know it’s true and you know he really believes it. He just swallows again, nods a little, his hair brushing over the pillow, and you get to work.

Your lower lip trails down over his front as your hands move over it as well; your left slides off of him to brace yourself on the mattress below you, while your right skims down his front to let your fingertips slide into the sweats he’s wearing. Breath warm on his chest, you part your lips and take his nipple into your mouth, teasing at it for a moment as he squirms a little beneath you, your tongue swirling around it.

“You little freak,” he says, but it’s playful and you can tell without looking up that he’s amused, so you smirk, just sucking at it a little harder.

With your right hand, you slide down further into the waistband of his sweats, wrapping your fingers loosely around his cock and not stroking him as much as just holding him, feeling as he twitches a little in the circle of your hand. Above you, he looses a short breath, bucking his hips up a little, but you still don’t touch him more than that.

Gator’s impatient一always is一but he behaves himself, letting you do what he promised you you could. You pull away from his chest, your left hand moving as you straighten up a bit, and rub at his nipple with your thumb before you lift your hand to cup his face.

He startles a little at the gentle press of your palm against his cheek, but he leans into your touch and you feel your heart clench. You angle his face toward yours一without his dark glasses on, you’re free to lean down and kiss him everywhere and anywhere you want: Lips, cheeks, the bridge of his nose, eyebrows. He shudders under you, his cock kicking a little in your hand, and you still一don’t stroke him.

“Come on,” he mutters against your lips as you kiss him again. “I know you ain’t gettin’ off on this kinda shit.”

“Yes I am,” you say, grabbing for his wrist with your free hand and pressing it between your legs. He gasps lowly when he realizes that you’re fully nude, have been this whole time, and he starts to work his fingers into your folds now that he’s been given the chance. But this isn’t about you, not yet, no matter how wet you are already at showing your husband how much he deserves your gentle touches.

“Fuckin’一come on,” Gator protests when you tug his hand away from you. “Felt ya drippin’ fer me, lemme take care’a一”

“That’s what I’m doing right now, for you,” you interrupt him, then climb off of him and break all contact, only to tug his sweats down to his knees. His cock is flagging to one side, not fully erect yet but chubbing up just enough to notice. “So let me, ok?”

Gator huffs again, which you know by now to take for acquiescence. As you move back toward him though, the bed dipping beneath you, his hand comes to squeeze your thigh. “Yer crazy if ya think I ain’t flippin’ ya over ‘nd fuckin’ ya stupid once yer done with whatever this cutesy bullshit is.”

You laugh, leaning over him, your nose brushing his cheek and catching his lips with yours as he turns toward you.

“And I’m the freak?” you joke. “Most people like making love.”

He grimaces but you know his heart’s not in it. “Get the hell outta here with that,” he says, reaching for you easily, because you’re basically on top of him and he can tell exactly where your ass is, since your knees are pressed against his hips. “Makin’ love, my ass.” He pauses, then squeezes your bare skin, giving one cheek a slap for good measure. “Mm, nah, more like this ass. C’mon, freak, lemme have a taste’a ya.”

You kiss him again, licking into his mouth, sloppy and wet like you know he likes, but pull away.

“Not yet,” you say.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he grumbles.

“So which do you like better?” you ask, pushing yourself back off of him, his hands sliding off of your ass as you pull away. “Tease, or freak?”

Before he can answer, you resettle yourself down by his hips and lean over him, your right hand splaying out on his stomach一you feel your heart flutter a little as he reaches down to wrap his own hand around your wrist一and your left hand moving to wrap around the base of his cock.

His breath hitches in his throat, and he’s acutely aware of your weight shifting, the bed moving as you lean down, your back bowing一and then you stop. He licks his lips, waiting, every nerve in his body alight with anticipation.

You part your lips but move no closer一instead, you let a thick string of saliva drip down from your mouth onto the head of his cock, and he groans at the feeling of it. Wet, slippery, sliding down the side of the head as you stroke your hand up, just to glide it right back down to smear your spit all down his length.

“Fuck,” he breathes, but before the expletive is even fully said your mouth is on him, taking his cock in between your lips. You pause about halfway onto him, because he does what he always does一has a visceral reaction to it, his hips bucking up without him even meaning to, shoving his fat cock further into your mouth in a way that choked you the first few times, before you learned it was just an involuntary thing Gator did every time his dick went into your mouth. It’s cute, you think, how eager it makes him seem, though you can never tell him that.

He tugs at your wrist, wanting your hand in his; you shift so you can balance on your elbow instead, laying flat and perpendicular to him with your arm bent, pressing a point into the mattress in between his legs, and let him take your hand from where it was resting on his front. He cradles it in both of his, thumbs smoothing over your palms, tracing the lines, as you sink onto his cock, sucking him off, tongue laving around him, licking at him. Your chin is soaked with spit but you don’t care what you look like一all you care about is how Gator feels.

You chance a glance up at him一he’s got his head tipped back, pressing hard into the pillow, as he covers your hand with his own, holding it, squeezing it, lining your fingertips up一it’s intimate in a way that you never really considered, feeling someone touch you, touching him as he feels you.

“Fuckin’ little一” Gator stammers, and you don’t wait for him to finish, you just pull off of him, letting more drool leak onto him, and he inhales sharply as he feels it roll down his length.

“What’s that?” you ask, stroking his spit-slick cock with your left hand, even as he’s pressing his thumbs into your right.

“Fuckin’ little devil,” he continues, and you laugh.

“I like that better than freak,” you say, and resume going down on him, taking him back between your lips to suck at the head, licking at the slit in the tip with your tongue, tasting his precome as it leaks from him, moaning at the headiness of it.

“Me一fuck一fuckin’ too,” Gator groans, rolling his hips up into your mouth. You move with him easily, letting him fuck your face slowly and easily, bobbing your head along with him. He’s clinging to your hand still, and you pull up and off of him, drawing a desperate moan from him. He lifts his head from the pillow, ready to complain, beg, whatever一but you don’t give him the chance.

You swipe your left hand over his silky, wet skin, jerking him off as you lean to the right, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to his stomach, his hips, his bellybutton. His length twitches in your hand, and he sighs as your mouth moves over him. You feel the shift of something, the energy in the room, his demeanor, as you let your mouth tell him everything without words.

“Baby,” he whispers after a long stretch of silence. You hum, your own eyes slipping closed as you suck a gentle kiss to his ribs. “Baby, I一love you so fuckin’ much.”

You smile against his side, and before you can reply, he keeps talking.

“So fuckin’ nice t’me,” he says, your thumb smudging his precome over the tip of his prick. “Soft ‘n sweet ‘n just一better’n I deserve, y’know that?” 

He releases your hand, so you snake it up and over his chest, playing with some of the whorls of hair at his chest and, of course, his nipple, and when he speaks again you hear the smile in his voice.

“Y’make me feel like I一like this shit ain’t just”一his voice breaks into a gasp as you cup the head of his cock with your hand, rubbing over it with your full palm一“like it’s real fer me too, y’know?”

You let him finish the thought, because you know deep down he doesn’t mean it like it sounded.

“Like I finally… fuckin’... landed one good thing, ‘nd that’s you. My wife.” He laughs, because what were the odds that Gator Tillman ever actually found happiness? He’d have bet against himself every time. “My fuckin’ little devil freak of a wife.”

“I mean, I’m so flattered,” you quip, and he chuckles, lifting a hand to try and card his fingers through your hair. He misses the first time; you lift your hand from his chest to help him. His fingers push through your hair to come to rest at the back of your head, thumb rubbing back and forth over your scalp.

“See that’s what I一fuckin’ mean.” You keep stroking his cock, slow and steady, feeling him leaking over your fingers, his length twitching. “You just一” He stops, the words catching his his throat. He breathes a few times in quick succession. Steadies. “You just got me. All the time. Every time.”

“Every time,” you echo, voice quiet. “I love you too, Gator.”

“Fuck,” he half-sobs, the word ripped from his chest, and you feel his hips fuck up into your hand, the orgasm overtaking him at your touch, thick ropes of come landing on your wrist, your fingers, his own stomach. You work him through it, squeezing him at the base and dragging your hand up to milk the rest out of him, before loosening your hold to slide right back down and tighten up all over again for the next upstroke. The last shot of his release dribbles out of the slit, down over the top of his length, covering your fingers in it as it drools lazily out of his prick, and when he sighs, heavy, you know he’s finished.

The sheets rustle beneath you as you move up the bed to lie beside him, and he wraps his arm around you as soon as your front is against his side. You feel him sigh heavily, wiping your hand off as best you can on the sheet behind you before you let your fingers play with his chest hair again, your cheek resting on his shoulder. You lie in the still with him, the quiet, until his hand moves to hold yours, both resting atop his front, and he turns to press a kiss to the crown of your head, holding you close. His.

Yours.

Her expression changes to a feeble smile, clearly begging your forgiveness before the news has even sunk in, and you scowl. Big time.

To say you have history with Gator is an understatement. You were wrapped up with him since elementary school一your dad was one of his dad’s deputies, and your moms were best friends, sorority sisters who stuck to each other like glue. It was practically written in the stars that you’d be together, except your star-crossed love affair was actually birthed under a bad sign. Possibly, actually, the worst sign.

He’d been your on-again-off-again boyfriend since 8th grade. And especially in the later years of your relationship, specifically junior and senior year of high school, he’d taken a penchant to pissing you off so bad you broke up with him, so he could score some sympathy sex from [Girl of the Week], only to come crawling back to you. And you, having to hear it constantly from your parents how Gator would make such a good husband for you when you graduated, always took him back. Because technically you’d been broken up, so technically it wasn’t cheating.

You just thanked whatever lucky stars were up above you that you’d never given it up to him. You just felt sorry for the other young women he’d played even worse than he played you.

But hearing his name on your second night back in town, from your best friend, minutes before you were about to see The One Who Got Away (Thank Fuck), well一it threw you for a little bit of a loop.

“Why him?” you ask.

Daisy wrings her hands together. “Honestly?” she asks. 

You nod.

“Because he and Donny got really close at work, so that’s why he’s even a groomsman at all, and… well, when we all met for drinks to ask everyone to be in the wedding party, every single other one of my bridesmaids came up to me after and said they didn’t even want to look at Gator, much less be paired up with him.”

“So I just get the shit end of the stick?” you ask. “Because I wasn’t there?”

Daisy gives you a sympathetic look, and you sigh, because yeah, ok一that makes sense, no matter how upset you are about it. “Fine.”

“I figured一you guys have history! You can handle him.”

“I could barely handle him then,” you say, but just rub your temples. “It’s just two nights. I’ll一survive. I survived five years of him when we were in school.”

“I love you and I’m sorry,” Daisy says, grabbing you and pulling you in for a hug.

Sighing, you hug her back.

&&

He’s late to the rehearsal dinner, but only by a few minutes, which ultimately doesn’t matter, except for the fact that when you see him he absolutely clocks you, and it’s unfortunate that when he does, you’re blatantly staring.

Because it’s definitely Gator. The scowl, the slicked-back hair, the confident swagger. But what catches you is the addition of a little bit of weight around the middle and some stubble that you aren’t sure if he could ever actually grow back when you’d known him.

Once he arrives, the coordinator from the venue ushers him into the line beside you so you can practice walking down the aisle, then begins to explain the timing of your steps and where to stand once you arrive at the altar, but you don’t hear any of it because Gator is talking to you.

“Fancy seein’ you here,” he says. “Shocked yer gracin’ us with yer presence.”

“My best friend is getting married,” you scoff. “Unlike you, I give a shit about loyalty.”

He laughs, eyes bright as he looks at you, almost like he respects the venom. “I always came back.”

“Don’t fucking start with me,” you say, turning away at the exact moment that the coordinator begins gesturing for you to step up to the church doors, readying you to walk down the aisle to take your places besides the rest of the party.

“Shouldn’t I be holdin’ her arm?” Gator asks, and the coordinator just nods at the same time she waves the question away, so there’s a little bit of a struggle where Gator tries to link his arm with yours while you yank it away from him, and from two couples behind you, you hear Daisy reprimand him.

“Stop it, Gator! This is just practice.”

He relents, simply walking alongside you to the altar, then smirks at you as he takes his place at the end of the line of groomsmen. You turn to stand with the bridesmaids, thankful you couldn’t see him anymore from where you were standing.

&&

You all meet at an Italian restaurant a few minutes’ drive from the church after the rehearsal, and the tables are not assigned一thankfully一so you choose one as far away from Gator as you could.

Daisy and Donny give short speeches about how thankful they are that you’re all helping them out, being their support systems, joining them on their special day一and, of course, to enjoy the evening and company. You sidle up to the trays of catered food that have been set out for the wedding party and the bride and groom’s families, ignoring the presence at your left elbow that you know like the back of your own hand.

“You look good,” Gator says, watching as you scoop some rigatoni onto your place. “Can I have some?”

You scowl, shoving the serving spoon back into the tray, and step to the side to look at what’s in the next tray. “Help yourself.”

“Aw, come on,” Gator says. “Why ya bein’ so cold t’me? We ain’t seen each other in like, eight years ‘r some shit.”

“The best eight years of my life,” you snip, and he laughs.

“Fuck, Sunny,” Gator says, using the nickname he and the rest of your group of friends had for you in high school, “you sure turned into a fuckin’ raincloud, huh?”

“Don’t call me that,” you say, not answering his question. Your friends一Daisy included一still called you sunshine or sunny for short on occasion, but Gator, as someone who was no longer your friend, was not invited to do the same.

“I’m just sayin’,” Gator says. “It’s nice ta see ya.” You grab some of the chicken parm even though you’re starting to lose your appetite, and walk back to your table.

He doesn’t follow you, but he does say, loud enough for you and everyone in the vicinity to hear, “Nice ta see ya walk away, too!”

&&

“Now, you know I can’t not call ya Sunny in that get up,” Gator says, sounding far too amused.

It’s the next day, the day of the wedding, and you’re wearing your bridesmaid dress一light fabric, pale dandelion yellow, white sash around your waist to play off Daisy’s white dress with its yellow sash.

“You can just go ahead and not call me anything,” you say, but when you catch a glimpse of him in his three-piece suit一sans the jacket, so just the vest is currently clinging to his slight tummy一you think maybe, finding out how he scored with so many girls back in high school wouldn’t be the worst choice you could make. And then he opens his mouth and that idea flies right out of your head.

“If you’d been a little firecracker like this back in high school, I mighta just done what our parents all wanted ‘nd locked ya down,” he says, stepping closer to you.

There’s a huge crowd around you, but everyone is bustling from one place to another, and no one is paying you any mind. Bridesmaids fixing each other’s hair, applying makeup, trying to figure out how to sip water without smudging lipstick; and the groomsmen are sneaking sips of whiskey一Daisy and Donny are taking photos with the ring bearer and flowergirl, which leaves the rest of you just waiting for the ceremony to start.

“Fuck you, Gator,” you say. It’s a weak comeback, but he just smirks at you, then nods.

“If you insist,” he says, and takes his leave. 

It feels entirely too easy, but he does leave you alone for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t say shit to you when he hooks his arm with yours to lead you down the aisle, he doesn’t approach you during the cocktail hour leading to the reception, and it’s only at hour three of the reception when he finally finds you again, two drinks in hand. He places one in front of you, sitting down in the chair beside yours, even though it’s the table for the bridesmaids and he has his own assigned seat on the other side of the bride and groom.

“No, thank you,” you say, fully prepared to snub his drink.

“It’s a fuckin’ peace offering, Sunny,” he says, sipping his own. “Haven’t stopped thinkin’a ya since last night.”

“Why’s that?” you ask, still not touching the drink.

He sighs heavily, and you can tell he’s not exasperated. No一he’s horny. “You look real fuckin’ good.”

You roll your eyes.

“No, I mean it. Better’n in school. And I’m still in Stark fuckin’ County lookin’ like一well, ya got eyes.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Yer excused,” he says, joking instead of being serious一like always.

“Are you trying to say you think you look… bad?” you ask, and laugh. “In case you missed the memo, dad bods are sort of all the rage right now.”

“You think I got a fuckin’ dad bod? Fuck you right back, I ain’t got a fuckin’ dad bod.”

“I think you do, actually,” you say, smirking, and Gator scowls at you.

“Not like ya got anything t’compare it to, seein’ as how you blue balled me all the way through senior year.”

“And junior year, if I’m remembering correctly.” You are. “Crazy that you lost your virginity to Mabel Hicks about two weeks after you told me you weren’t ever gonna be serious about anyone else.”

“All right, y’know what一” he starts to say, but you cut him off.

“No, you know what?” you ask. “You should have just been patient, because I promise you, I’m the best goddamn thing you’ve never had. And you never will. Bet you’re only being such a prick because you know you lost the best thing you ever一”

He cuts you off with a kiss, his lips on yours just as eager and tender as you remember; it short-circuits you, because you didn’t expect to hook up with anyone at Daisy’s wedding, much less your first (and only) serious (ish) boyfriend. He tastes like scotch and you lick into his mouth, because now you’re the one jonesing for something you’ve never had.

Vaguely, you register his drink being set down on the table, the glass clinking against yours, and you lean further into him, hands landing on his thick thighs to push yourself to your feet, breaking the kiss but keeping eye contact.

“Where一” he starts to say, but you just hook your hand beneath his arm and pull him after you.

“Bridal suite will be empty,” you mutter, because Daisy told you it would be until they were ready to leave, and they haven’t even cut the cake yet. “It locks.”

Your footsteps hasten as you approach the suite, opening it, shoving Gator inside, and then whipping your skirt around the doorframe as you slam the door, lock it, and turn to Gator.

His chest is heaving a little, same as yours, and without another word you both start undressing each other. You slip the buttons of his vest, he reaches around behind you to unzip your dress; you shimmy out of it as he shrugs off the vest, his shirt following.

Out of his clothes you can see just how much bigger he is than in high school一he’s fully grown now, the slender waist of an 18-year-old gone, a little round pooch of stomach peeking out over the waistband of his pants.

“Quit fuckin’ starin’,” he says, trying to tug his pants up a little, and it strikes you how cute it is, how sweet, that he’s self-conscious when he’s literally never looked more appealing to you in his entire life.

“Make me,” you counter, and he looks at you properly, taking in the way you’re watching his every move, eyes roving over him. His cock twitches a little in his briefs, and there’s no way you could know that一except for how you can see him chubbing up a little, straining at the zipper of his suit pants.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, the little bite back to his tone. “Finally gonna let me inta yer holiest of holies?”

“Not if you keep talking like that, you sick fuck,” you say, but simply unclasp your bra and shove down the fuckass shapewear that you wore even though Daisy promised you didn’t need it when you’d tried on your dress.

“Keep tellin’ yerself that, Sunny,” Gator says, undoing his belt and undressing himself so you’re both naked, in the small room the venue had set aside for your best friend to prepare for the most important day of her life. You’ll just apologize for this later一better to ask for forgiveness anyway.

You refuse to get down on the floor when he suggests it, so instead you find yourself bent over the vanity, hands flat on the surface, looking up past yourself in the mirror as Gator looms behind you. You see his right arm moving as he strokes himself to hardness, and with his left he pushes your thighs apart. You spread your legs for him and he dips two fingers into your slit, playing with your cunt until you’re whimpering and coating his fingers in your arousal; and then he pushes into you, cock sinking deep within your folds, his thick length pressing against your walls as he feeds each inch into you.

Gator’s eyes meet yours in the mirror as he bottoms out, and you grip the edge of the vanity as he starts to move, fucking you with quick, deep thrusts. He folds himself over you, his stomach pressing against your back, the hair covering his chest tickling your shoulder blades as he rests his front against yours, the two of you moving in tandem as you fuck yourself back against him, meeting his hips as he pounds into you.

“Fuck, ok,” you breathe, and he wastes no time in moving one of his hands to your clit, the other coming up to rest just beneath your breasts, holding you up against him.

“Y’were一fuckin’一right,” Gator says, and you don’t question what he means, just revel in the feeling of him inside you, stretching you on his cock, his breath mingling with yours as you defile this cute little bridal suite, everything white and pink and pure.

“Gator,” you sigh, closing your eyes and letting your head dip down.

“Shoulda waited fer this,” he says, finishing his earlier thought. “Best fuckin’一pussy I ever had.”

“Gator,” you mewl, half embarrassed and half vindicated一you figure that’s the closest you’ll ever get to an apology or an admission of his guilt.

“I’m right here, Sunshine,” he says, circling your wet, throbbing clit with two fingers, making you whine his name. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere neither.”

You gasp as he spreads his legs a little further, changing the angle at which he’s moving into you, and with just another few thrusts, another few massaging touches over your clit, you feel yourself trembling in his hold as you come around his cock, cunt spasming as you do, and he lowers his forehead to the nape of your neck, the tip of his nose and his lips trailing over your heated skin.

“Fuck, that’s right,” he mumbles. “Feel ya so一good around me. Fuck, I’m一comin’, I’m fuckin’ comin’一”

“Gator,” you breathe out as he snaps his hips into you a few times, your cunt so tight it’s squeezing him; he hurriedly pulls out of you, ready to burst, and he barely strokes himself twice before he’s coming on your lower back, the hot feeling of it making you shudder. He slumps against you, your elbows locked to keep yourself一and now him一upright, and you feel his flagging cock against your ass as he rests against you.

“Ain’t… just been thinkin’ about ya since last night,” Gator says, his lips on the back of your shoulder.

“No?” you ask, voice soft, glancing at him in the mirror. But he’s not looking, his face not visible.

“No,” he admits. “Been thinkin’a ya… since ya left that last time. Fer college.”

You pause. “Eight years ago?” You crane your neck to look at him over your shoulder, not wanting to see his face in the mirror after such an admission.

“Uh huh,” he says. “Left ‘nd… took the fuckin’ sunshine with ya. ‘S back now, though.”

You spin in his hold, the hand that had been on your chest now on your back. “Is it?” you ask.

He doesn’t meet your eyes for a moment, leaning in to kiss you; but when he pulls away, he looks straight at you. “Sure feels like it is.”