It's crazy right now

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You and Steve have been steadily cleaning the thing out during shifts like these all summer. (And then guiltily re-filling it so you'd have something to give the kids who come in every now and then.) However, since you hadn't had a chance to buy more after your recent attack on the thing, you thought it was empty.

But there, at the very bottom, sits one lonely lollipop.

You risk a glance back at Steve, but his eyes are already pinned to the candy. You look at each other, then the jar, then each other again. 

And you both lunge in unison. 

His shoulder bumps yours, but your elbow digs into his ribs, forcing a grunt from him. His fingers are longer, so he reaches it first, but you pin his wrist against the cool glass with your own and pry it out of his hand. 

“Goddamn it,” he mutters when your fingers close around the candy. “It’s a mystery flavor one, too!”

You grin triumphantly and pull out your prize. “Nice try. Sucker.”

“You’re not funny.” He settles back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning as you unwrap the lollipop. “Technically, I touched it first.”

“Well, technically...that doesn’t matter.” You brandish the stick, then pop the candy in your mouth. “ ‘Cause look whose mouth it’s in.” 

And he does. Look at your mouth, that is. You try to ignore the swoop in your stomach as the afternoon light catches in his mussed hair, making it look as soft as warm caramel.

“You know,” he says slowly, “we could call it even and just…share.”

You snort. “Share? You can’t share a lollipop, are you insane?”

“Why not? 

“It's juss—” You take the sucker out of your mouth to speak clearly. “Like…purposely swapping spit?”

He shrugs. “What’s wrong with swapping spit? You drink out of my water bottle all the time.” Steve’s eyes flick to yours. “It’s not any different than making out.”

Oh. 

How can he just…say shit like that?

As if kissing your coworker is a perfectly normal thought to have. Of course, it is a frequent thought for you. Okay, more like an all-consuming one, but—whatever. 

“At least tell me what flavor it is," he begs, taking a step towards you.

You hum, squinting up at him and twirling the candy in your mouth teasingly. “Kind of like strawberry, but less sour? Too tart for watermelon. I don't know, but it’s soooo good.”

His gaze drops to your lips. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“What? Flaunting my win?” you say, voice full of false innocence. “I would never!”

He huffs a laugh, then his hand finds the counter behind you with a smack. Your vision fills with broad chest, and he presses you back against the ledge, so close that you have to tip your head up to look at him. 

“Careful,” he says. “I might have to revoke your water bottle privileges.”

You roll your eyes, then pull the lollipop out again. “Fine, Harrington. You want a taste that bad?”

His eyes drop to your lips. “So bad.”

You hold the candy up between you, but when he reaches for it, you snatch it back at the last second. 

He swallows hard as you slip it back into your mouth, twirling your tongue around the hard sugar and blinking up at him from under your lashes. 

When it clicks against your teeth, his eyes darken.

Suddenly, Steve grabs the sucker’s stick and pulls it from your mouth, and you’re not really sure who moves first, but a second later…his lips are on yours. 

Your breath hitches as his tongue presses against the seam of your lips, then dips inside, tasting the sweetness there, and—God, it’s everything you dreamed of.

Steve groans softly, his exhale hot against your cheek as his fingers spread over your lower back to pull you closer, making your vest whisper against his. Your hands fly to his shirt, gripping the fabric for support as the carpet beneath your feet seems to tilt. 

You could kiss him like this forever, actually. It’s syrupy sweet, the sugar on your tongue melting with the taste of him and creating this intoxicating, addictive—

Just then, the bell over the door chimes. 

You break apart instantly, chests heaving. Steve chuckles as your hands fly to your flaming cheeks, and you whip around, putting on your best customer service face for whoever just walked in.

The sucker lies forgotten on the countertop. Something for you to clean up later.

 “Oh, and by the way,” he whispers over your shoulder before turning back to the register. “it’s cherry.”

The hallway outside your cabin was quiet when you stepped into it. The guard two turns down looked over once, then away again.

The ship let you move as long as every path still belonged to him.

You found Shanks in the library. He sat at the desk with a map spread beneath one hand.

He did not look surprised to see you.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“So are you.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Captain’s habit.”

You stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The latch clicked softly.

Shanks heard it. Something in his expression changed, small and immediate.

You crossed the room slowly, stopping on the other side of the desk.

“Evie spoke to me,” you said.

“I assumed she would.”

“She said you won’t get bored.”

Shanks leaned back in his chair.

“She’s right.”

The answer moved through you in a way you hated.

“I think she’s happy,” he added.

“She isn’t free.”

“No,” Shanks said. “She isn’t.”

He pushed the chair back and rose to his feet.

“But she is loved,” he said. “Protected. Known. She has a place on this ship no one would dare question.” His voice lowered. “That can be enough.”

“For her.”

“For you too.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re lonely even when people love you.”

The words struck too close.

You looked away.

“I know the Sunny is your home,” he said. “I know you miss them. I know you hate me for that.”

Your eyes burned.

“I also know you came here tonight.”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“You think that means you won?”

“No.”

He paused.

“I think it means you’re tired of pretending you only came here to argue.”

Heat moved under your skin.

You hated all of it.

You hated that your body had gone still for a reason that was not fear.

Shanks saw that too.

His voice dropped.

“Stop overthinking and come get what you want.”

For one long second, neither of you moved.

You rounded the desk so quickly your hip struck the corner. The dull pain barely registered. Shanks turned toward you, and you grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands, dragging him down as your mouth met his.

The kiss broke something.

Shanks made a low sound against your mouth and kissed you back hard. He tilted your head back and took the kiss deeper.

His tongue slid against yours, and your hands moved to his shoulders. You felt him smile against your mouth, felt the satisfaction in it, and bit his lower lip hard enough to make him breathe out a laugh.

“That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Knew you’d come to me.”

You kissed him again before he could say anything else.

Shanks backed you into the desk hard enough to rattle the map beneath your hands.

His mouth left yours and moved to your throat, then the sensitive place beneath your ear.

He remembered.

“You’re so angry,” he murmured against your skin. “And still you came.”

“Shut up.”

His teeth grazed your neck.

You made a sound that was between a gasp and a moan.

Shanks smiled there, then bit down.

Your nails dragged over his shoulder as his tongue dragged over the bite, making sure you felt exactly where he had left it.

“Careful,” he said, and his voice had gone dark with amusement. “Keep clawing at me like that and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

“I hate you.”

“No,” he said, mouth moving lower, open and hot against your throat. “You hate that I know exactly where to touch you.”

His hand slid beneath your shirt and up, palm closing over your breast as his thumb circled your nipple.

You pulled him closer.

Shanks made another low sound, and that one was not amused.

He lifted you onto the desk with one strong motion. Papers scattered. The map tore somewhere under your knee.

His hand pushed into your pants and between your legs.

You gasped.

Shanks watched your face as his fingers worked slowly at first, too slowly, drawing heat out of you in patient strokes that made you whine.

“Look at me,” he said.

You shook your head once.

His fingers circled your clit with just enough pressure to make your body jolt.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snapped open.

Shanks was watching you with that terrible focus again. Like every sound, every breath, every little betrayal of your body was something he meant to keep.

“That’s better,” he said.

You wanted to curse at him.

What came out was softer. Worse.

His expression changed.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

Your face burned.

You dragged him back to your mouth. He kissed you messily now, all tongue and teeth, his control thinning with every sound he pulled from you.

“Let me fuck you,” he said, lower. “I’ll make you forget every reason you thought you could leave me.”

Your answer broke against his mouth.

After that, neither of you had patience. Clothes were shoved aside and dropped wherever they fell.

His mouth stayed on yours when he pulled you closer. When he settled between your thighs. When the first rough push made your head fall back.

He caught your sound with his mouth.

Then gave you another.

And another.

The desk moved beneath you.

Your nails dug into his shoulder, dragging down as he moved, harsh and steady, his hand hooked beneath your thigh to hold you open for him, holding you in place for every deep thrust that scattered your thoughts until there was only the weight of him and the heat of him and the awful, aching truth that your body had wanted this.

Wanted him.

Shanks pressed his mouth to your neck again, breathing hard against the mark he had left.

“I can’t stand it,” he said, voice low at your ear. “Thinking about you away from me. Sleeping somewhere I can’t reach. Laughing with people who don’t know what you sound like when you fall apart.”

Your fingers twisted in his hair.

“Shanks.”

His hips drove harder at the sound of his name.

“That,” he said roughly. “Again.”

You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, arching into him as his hand moved between your legs again. His mouth found yours, swallowing the next broken sound before it could leave you.

He kissed you like he wanted to take the shape of your refusal apart piece by piece.

And you let him.

That was the part you would hate later.

Maybe.

Maybe you would hate that you stopped thinking of later at all.

Shanks dragged his mouth down your throat, leaving another mark lower than the first. One you could hide if you tried.

“You’re mine,” he said against your skin.

The words went through you, low and hot, and Shanks felt the answer in your body.

“Oh,” he breathed, satisfaction rough in his voice. “Sweetheart.”

“Don’t.”

“You liked that.”

He lifted his head.

His eyes were dark. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess from your hands.

For once, he looked less controlled.

“You can fight me tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight, take what I’m giving you.”

Your breath shook.

Then his hand found your clit again, and whatever answer you had broke apart.

You clung to him. Scratched at his back. Bit down on his shoulder when the pleasure finally dragged you under.

“That’s it,” he said into your hair. “That’s mine too.”

His arm locked around you, holding you hard against him as his hips drove deep one last time and you felt him come inside you.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The world had not ended. That felt unfair.

Shanks’s hand moved slowly up your back. Not grabbing now. Not pushing.

Keeping.

You were still sitting on the desk, legs trembling, your body aching and messy with what had just happened.

His face was against your hair.

And when it was over, he did not let you go.

“I thought about tying you to my bed,” he whispered, almost fondly. “But you came to me on your own.”

His mouth brushed your hair.

“I like that better.”

——————————

Since the night in the library, you had mostly avoided him.

You took meals when you knew he was busy. You stayed near the quieter corners of the ship.

But Shanks was patient.

He did not crowd you. He did not throw your surrender back in your face. He only watched you with that warm, terrible knowing whenever you crossed his path.

As if he was waiting for you to forgive yourself.

So when the Red Force docked that morning and Shanks disappeared with Beckman to speak with the harbor master, you packed quickly and left through the side passage.

You told yourself it was not betrayal.

You told yourself you were only going back to where you belonged.

You made it halfway down the side steps before you saw Evie.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then she looked at the bag over your shoulder. Her expression did not change.

“He’ll know,” she said.

You looked toward the dock. People moved below, carrying crates, shouting prices. Freedom looked insultingly ordinary from here.

“You aren’t going to stop me?” you asked.

She looked at you then.

There was no pity in her face.

“No.”

Your throat tightened.

Evie looked past you, toward the dock. “Go on,” she said softly. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

You walked past her before you could lose your nerve.

You made it as far as the lower dock before someone caught you.

That was the humiliating part.

Not even the street beyond the harbor. Not the little booth with the public transponder snail where, if you had been fast enough, you might have called the Sunny.

The lower dock.

You had one hand wrapped around the strap of your bag when a shadow moved beside a stack of cargo crates.

“Going somewhere?”

Your heart stopped.

Yasopp stepped into view, his expression too mild. For one foolish second, you thought about running.

Then Lucky appeared behind you, leaning against a post with a skewer in one hand and absolutely no surprise on his face.

Your throat went dry.

“I was just walking.”

Yasopp glanced at the bag.

“With clothes?”

You paused.

Neither of them moved toward you.

Somehow that made it worse.

Lucky sighed, almost sadly. “Captain’s not going to like this.”

Your stomach sank.

Yasopp held out his hand.

You hesitated.

His face softened slightly.

“Don’t make us take it from you.”

That hurt more than it should have.

You let the bag slide from your shoulder.

Lucky took it carefully, like handling it gently would make any of this less terrible.

No one grabbed you.

No one tied your hands.

They only walked with you back to the Red Force, one on either side, close enough that every person on the dock knew you were not alone.

Evie was gone by the time you reached the ship again.

Shanks was waiting on deck. Beckman stood a few paces behind him, cigarette between his fingers.

Shanks looked at the bag first.

Then at you.

For a moment, he did not move.

His face stayed calm.

That was how you knew it was bad.

Lucky brought the bag up the gangplank and set it on deck.

“Found her near the lower dock,” Yasopp said.

Shanks’s eyes stayed on you.

“Thank you.”

The words were polite.

Flat.

Yasopp and Lucky left without needing to be told.

Beckman’s gaze moved over your face once. Then he looked at Shanks.

“Captain.”

“I know,” Shanks said.

Beckman paused.

Then he walked away too.

You were left standing in front of Shanks with your bag between you.

The ship moved gently beneath your feet.

Neither of you spoke.

Finally, Shanks stepped closer.

You made yourself hold still.

His jaw shifted once, like he had bitten down on the first thing he wanted to say.

“Were you going to leave me a note?” he asked.

His voice was soft.

Too soft.

“No.”

His eyes darkened.

Still, he smiled.

It was a terrible attempt.

“No note,” he repeated.

“Shanks—”

“How far did you think you’d get?”

You looked away.

His hand came up.

You flinched before you could stop yourself.

Shanks went still.

For the first time, something cracked across his face.

Not anger. Hurt, maybe.

Then it was gone, buried so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.

His hand lowered.

“You thought I would hurt you.”

The silence answered for you.

Shanks looked toward the dock, then back at you. “I told myself I wouldn’t be angry,” he said.

Your throat tightened.

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

The honesty startled you.

His voice stayed low.

“I’m angry you ran. I’m angry you scared me. I’m angry you thought you could walk off this ship with a bag over your shoulder and disappear into a town I hadn’t cleared, toward people who may or may not be waiting, with no idea who watched you leave.”

Your chest tightened.

“There’s always someone watching.”

“Yes,” Shanks said. “Because you are mine to keep safe.”

The words struck too deep.

“Stop saying that like it’s the same thing.”

“It is to me.”

Your eyes burned.

“That’s the problem.”

For a moment, he only looked at you.

Then he bent, picked up your bag, and held it in his hand.

“Come with me.”

Your stomach twisted. “Where?”

“My cabin.”

“No.”

The whole deck seemed to quiet around you.

Shanks’s voice lowered.

“That was not a request.”

He turned and walked toward the stairs.

You stood there for half a second too long. Then you followed.

Because Yasopp was by the lower rigging.

Because Lucky was near the galley door.

Because Beckman was somewhere behind you, silent and knowing.

The cabin door shut behind you with a soft click.

Shanks set your bag on the floor beside his desk.

For a moment, he stood with his back to you.

You waited for the anger.

For the punishment.

For the thing you had been afraid of since the lower dock.

Instead, Shanks exhaled slowly.

“You’re tired,” he said.

The words broke something small and stupid inside you.

You stared at his back.

“What?”

He turned.

His expression had changed again. Still serious. Still dangerous.

“You’re tired,” he repeated. “And stubborn. And scared. And you keep thinking if you make it one more door, one more street, one more ship away, you’ll become someone I can’t reach.”

He stepped closer.

You did not move.

“That isn’t going to happen,” he said.

Your eyes burned.

“I know.”

The admission came out so quietly you barely recognized it as yours.

Shanks stopped.

“I know,” you said again, because the first time had not been enough. “I can’t leave.”

Shanks’s mouth parted slightly.

You looked down at your hands. They were trembling.

“I thought I needed to try,” you said.

“And now?”

You closed your eyes.

You saw Yasopp stepping from the shadows. Lucky waiting behind you.

Evie on the rail, saying you’d understand soon enough.

Every open path turning quietly back toward the same man.

“I’m done trying tonight.”

Not forever. Not yet.

But tonight was enough to make his face soften.

Shanks came closer. This time, when his hand lifted, you did not flinch.

His fingers touched your cheek.

You hated the tear that slipped free before you could stop it. Shanks brushed it away with his thumb.

“I told you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to run from me.”

Your chest ached.

“I was running from what happens if I stop.”

The smile faded.

Then he drew you in.

Slowly.

Your forehead touched his chest first. His arm came around you, firm and warm, holding you against him.

The fight went out of you all at once.

Not because you forgave him.

Because you were tired.

Shanks lowered his mouth to your hair.

“I have you,” he whispered.

You shut your eyes.

His hand moved slowly up your back. For a moment, he only held you.

Then his fingers slid into your hair and closed into his palm.

You gasped as he pulled your head back hard enough to hurt.

His mouth was beside your ear now, his voice low and stripped of every gentle thing he had been pretending to offer.

“But if you run from me again, sweetheart, I’ll stop letting you pretend this is anything else.”

You went still against him.

He did not loosen his grip.

“You think you’re a prisoner?” he bit out. “Try me again, and I’ll make sure you understand the difference.”

Your pulse tripped hard.

For one second, all you could feel was his hand in your hair and the steady force of his body holding yours in place.

Then his grip eased.

Slowly.

Carefully.

His mouth touched the side of your neck, soft now. Almost apologetic.

“I don’t want that for you,” he said against your skin.

Another kiss brushed into your hair.

“I want you here.”

That was the worst part.

You believed him.

In the morning, no one mentioned the bag.

Lucky saved you a seat at breakfast. Yasopp slid the honey toward you without looking. Evie glanced at you once and said nothing at all.

Beckman smoked near the rail, his gaze on the horizon, Evie tucked in beside him.

Shanks sat at your side, warm and easy, his knee touching yours beneath the table.

No one called you prisoner.

No one called you guest.

And this time, when Shanks reached for your hand, you let him take it.

The Red Force moved beneath you, steady as a heartbeat. You understood then that the ship had never been waiting for you to stop fighting.

It had been waiting for you to come home.

It was how easy the ship became.

You had expected discomfort. Stares. Whispers. The sharp awareness of being a Straw Hat among Red Hair Pirates.

Instead, the crew folded you in like they had been expecting you. They were familiar in a way you had not prepared for.

Then there was Evie.

You met her on the second morning, sitting on the rail with one knee drawn up.

Beckman stood near her, smoking, one shoulder against the mast. He barely looked at her.

That was how you noticed.

When a coil of rope slid loose near her foot, his hand caught it without interrupting his conversation. When a crewman passed too close behind her, Beckman shifted half a step without looking. When someone called his name from across the deck, his eyes moved first to her before he answered.

Quiet.

Careful.

Hidden in plain sight.

Evie caught you watching and smiled.

“He’s worse than he looks.”

Beckman exhaled smoke. “I’m standing right here.”

“I know.”

For some reason, that was the moment you understood the Red Force had its own kind of family. Not softer than the Sunny. Not better. Just different. Older, maybe. More settled in its damage.

And Shanks sat at the center of it.

You could not forget that.

No matter how easily the crew spoke to you, no matter how often Lucky saved you a seat or Yasopp called you over to watch him cheat at cards badly enough that even you noticed, all roads on the Red Force led back to him.

His ship.

His crew.

His rules.

His patience.

You saw him less than you expected.

Shanks was everywhere even when he was not in front of you. In the cabin door that locked from the inside but had a guard posted two turns down the hall. In the books stacked on your desk by the second afternoon. In the tea set you found beside them. In the way no one asked why you were there.

No one called you prisoner.

No one called you guest either.

That bothered you more.

On the third night, you found him on the quarterdeck.

The sun had gone down, and the sea had turned black beneath the ship. The crew was loud somewhere below, laughing over cards and drink, but up here it was quiet.

Shanks stood at the rail with his coat loose over his shoulders, looking out at the water.

You almost turned around.

“You can come closer,” he said without looking back.

You stepped forward, stopping a careful distance away.

Shanks glanced at the book.

“Good one?”

You looked down at it. “You tell me. You picked it.”

He turned fully then, leaning one hip against the rail. He looked relaxed. Barefoot, shirt open at the throat, hair moving slightly in the wind.

Too handsome. Too calm.

“I told you I’d be good to you.”

“Is that what this is?”

His smile stayed in place, but something behind it cooled.

“This is me behaving.”

“That’s supposed to reassure me?”

“No,” he said. “It’s supposed to remind you.”

“Of what?”

“That I’ve wanted you for months.” His gaze moved over your face, slow and warm and too focused. “And I’ve still let you sleep alone for three nights.”

Shanks looked back out at the water.

“You keep waiting for me to touch you,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“No?” His mouth curved, but he did not look at you. “You watch my hands every time I get close.”

“That’s because I don’t trust them.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

Shanks finally looked at you.

“I know what you look like when you’re afraid of me,” he said softly. “I also know what you look like when you remember what my mouth felt like.”

Your pulse jumped.

“I can wait,” he said.

You stared at him.

His smile changed, just enough to make you remember where his mouth had been. “You’ll come to me.”

Heat rose under your skin before you could stop it.

“I won’t.”

You will.” His voice lowered, warm with certainty. “And when you do, sweetheart, I’ll know exactly what to do with you.”

You looked away before he could see too much.

“I want to send a message to Luffy.”

The warmth in his face did not disappear. It simply settled into something quieter.

“Not tonight.”

“Shanks.”

“You can write it,” he said. “I’ll read it first.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The word was calm.

No raised voice. No anger.

Just a door closing.

“You said no threats.”

“I’m not threatening you.”

“You’re keeping me from my captain.”

Shanks went very still.

His eyes stayed on yours, but the warmth in them thinned.

“Your captain,” he repeated.

You paused.

“Yes.”

For a moment, the only sound was the sea against the hull.

Then Shanks smiled.

Softly.

Wrongly.

“I’ve given you room to adjust,” he said. “I let you keep saying things like that because I know this is new.”

Your throat tightened.

“But you’re on my ship now.” His voice lowered. “Under my flag. Under my protection.”

He stepped closer.

“Under my command.”

You froze.

“So when you say captain,” he said, “you should be careful which man you mean.”

He lifted his hand, slow enough that you could have stepped back. His thumb brushed once beneath your chin.

“You can write your letter tomorrow,” he said. “You can tell him you’re safe.”

“I’m not safe.”

“You are with me,” he said. “Your safety is not something I take lightly.”

“You make it sound so reasonable.”

“It is reasonable,” Shanks said softly. “You’re the one making it difficult.”

Then Shanks walked past you, leaving you alone at the rail with your pulse unsteady and the book held too tightly against your chest.

You understood then.

He had not been avoiding you.

He had been letting the ship touch you first.

—————————

The next morning, Shanks let you write the letter.

He sat across from you while you did it, a cup of coffee in his hand like this was a perfectly ordinary morning.

You kept it short.

You told Luffy you were safe. You told him not to come after you. You told him you had decided to stay with the Red Hair Pirates for a while.

When you finished, Shanks held out his hand.

You stared at him.

His expression did not change.

After a moment, you gave him the letter.

He read it once.

At the line where you had written captain, his mouth curved faintly.

He folded the paper carefully.

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” he said.

You did not ask when.

—————————

You found Evie near the bow that afternoon.

She sat on a bench, peeling an apple with a small knife.She looked up when you approached.

Evie cut a slice from the apple, holding it out to you.

You hesitated, then took it.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

That was one thing you had learned about her quickly. Evie did not rush silence. She could sit inside it comfortably, the same way Beckman could. As if words were tools, not something to spend just because the air was empty.

You leaned against the rail beside her.

Across the deck, Beckman stood near the mast, cigarette between his fingers, speaking lowly to one of the crew. He had not looked over once since you came up.

Still, somehow, you knew he knew exactly where Evie was.

Evie followed your gaze.

“He does that,” she said.

“What?”

“Pretends he isn’t watching.”

Your face warmed. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

She cut another slice of apple.

You looked away.

Evie’s smile softened. “It’s all right. You’re trying to figure out how bad it is.”

Your fingers tightened around the apple slice.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Evie said. “You’re polite.”

“He notices more than he lets on,” she added.

Beckman’s eyes flicked to Evie for half a second.

You swallowed. “Does that bother you?”

“Sometimes.”

The honesty startled you.

She tucked the knife carefully against her palm.

“Not as much as you want it to.”

You did not know what to say to that.

Evie turned the apple in her hand, searching for a better place to cut.

“I know what people think when they see us,” she said. “Or when they see Shanks with you. They think there must be some grand tragedy in it.”

Evie looked at you.

“Is there?”

Her expression softened, but not with pity.

“That depends on the day,” she said. “And the man.”

Evie watched your hand, then your face.

“Men like them don’t love lightly,” she said. “They don’t want halfway. They don’t know how to want something without putting walls around it.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“It can be.”

“And you’re happy?”

Evie leaned back slightly, looking up at the darkening sky.

“I love Benn,” she said.

The answer was simple.

“I know what he is,” she continued. “I know what he would do if I tried to leave without telling him. I know how many men on this ship would quietly step into my path before I reached the gangplank.”

Your stomach turned cold.

Evie looked back at you.

“I also know I have never gone hungry. Never slept cold. Never had a man put his hands on me without losing them afterward. Never asked for something I truly needed and been told no.”

“That doesn’t make it normal.”

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

Below deck, someone laughed loudly. Lucky, probably. A bottle clinked. The ship moved steady beneath your feet.

Evie’s voice lowered.

“But normal isn’t always kind either.”

You stared at her.

She cut another apple slice for herself.

“All I have to do is stay put,” she said. “That’s the bargain.”

Your fingers curled around the rail.

“And that feels like enough?”

Evie chewed thoughtfully.

“Most days.”

The answer should have disturbed you more than it did.

Maybe it did.

Maybe you were too tired to sort fear from understanding anymore.

Evie looked toward Beckman again.

This time, he was watching.

His gaze had settled on her, calm and still, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

“You make it sound easy,” you said.

“It isn’t.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“Because no one told me.”

The words landed quietly.

Evie put the knife back on her belt.

“I spent a long time trying to decide if wanting him made me foolish,” she said. “Then longer deciding if staying made me weak.” She looked at you directly. “It didn’t. It made me honest about what I could live with.”

Your throat tightened.

“Shanks is being sweet right now. That won’t last forever.”

Evie stood, dusting off her trousers. She stepped closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

“He won’t get bored.”

You looked at her.

Evie’s face was calm.

Almost kind.

“He’ll get comfortable.”

The words were worse.

She touched your arm once, brief and warm.

“It isn’t the worst fate,” she said. “Being loved by a man like that.”

Your eyes burned.

Evie smiled faintly.

“But don’t confuse that with being free.”

She turned and walked toward Beckman.

He did not reach for her when she came near.

He only shifted half a step, making room at his side like she had always belonged there.

Evie slipped into that space without looking at him.

Beckman handed her his coat before she could ask.

And somehow, watching them together made you feel colder than the wind.

He moved through your family’s kitchen with careful ease, carrying plates and letting your aunt direct him.

Then your grandmother tried to stand.

Shanks moved before anyone else did.

“Careful,” he said, offering his hand.

Your grandmother looked at him over the top of her glasses. “I am not made of glass, young man.”

“No,” Shanks said, smiling. “But I’m still not letting you carry that chair.”

She stared at him for half a second.

Then she laughed.

Actually laughed.

Your stomach twisted.

Lucky praised your aunt’s cooking with his mouth full. Yasopp had your uncle laughing over some story.

Beckman was quieter than the rest.

He sat near your uncle, answering questions in a low, even voice. Your uncle seemed to respect him within minutes.

“Man says five words all night,” your uncle muttered once, leaning toward you, “and somehow I trust him with the roof.”

You did not laugh.

Across the table, Shanks was listening to your grandmother describe the way the east wall had started bowing after the last storm. He nodded like nothing in the world mattered more.

“You should have sent for help sooner,” he said.

Your grandmother sniffed. “I did not know emperors were taking household repairs now.”

“For you?” Shanks said. “I’ll make an exception.”

Your aunt melted.

Your uncle grinned.

Your grandmother pretended not to be pleased and failed.

You looked down at your plate.

After dinner, everyone moved slowly. Chairs scraped back. Plates were gathered. Your aunt tried to insist no guests should help, which lasted until Shanks took a serving bowl from her hands and carried it into the kitchen anyway.

“You’ve done enough,” your aunt said.

“I haven’t,” Shanks answered easily.

Your aunt looked at him like he had already proven himself.

You needed air.

You slipped out through the side door and onto the porch before anyone could stop you.

You stopped beside the steps and forced one breath in.

Then another.

A match struck beside you.

You turned.

Beckman stood at the far end of the porch, half in shadow, cigarette between his fingers.

You had not seen him there.

“Sorry,” he said.

He did not sound sorry.

You looked back toward the yard. “It’s fine.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Inside, your aunt laughed at something Shanks said. The sound carried through the open window.

Beckman exhaled smoke slowly.

“He’s laying it on thick,” he said.

You glanced at him.

His gaze stayed on the garden.

“You noticed.”

“Hard not to.”

Your throat tightened. “Everyone loves him.”

“Most people do.”

He took another drag from his cigarette.

“He gets like this when something stays out of reach.”

You looked back at him.

“He likes the chase?”

Beckman was quiet for a second too long.

“He likes winning.”

Your pulse beat hard beneath your skin.

“And after he wins?”

His gaze settled on you then.

Not unkind.

Not kind either.

“Usually,” he said, “he settles.”

You hated him a little for how calmly he said it.

Beckman looked toward the kitchen window.

Shanks was still there. Still smiling. Still playing the part so well that anyone else would have called it kindness.

“Right now, you’re the thing he can’t have. That’s dangerous.”

You wanted your family safe.

You wanted Luffy far from this.

Beckman’s voice stayed low.

“He’s being charming now. Use it.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

The side door opened.

Both of you turned.

Shanks stepped onto the porch.

His gaze went to you first. Then to Beckman. Then back to you.

His mouth stayed easy, but something in his eyes sharpened. The warmth returned before anyone inside could have noticed it leave.

“There you are,” he said.

Your spine stiffened.

Beckman did not move.

Shanks glanced at the space between you and his first mate.

“Your aunt’s asking for you,” he said.

You looked toward the open door.

As you passed Shanks, his attention followed you closely enough to feel like a touch. He did not reach for you. Not with Beckman there.

But his voice softened.

“Don’t be long, sweetheart.”

You did not answer.

You went inside.

For a moment, the porch was quiet. Shanks looked at Beckman.

Beckman took one last drag from his cigarette and crushed it against the porch rail.

“She understands,” he said.

Shanks’s smile faded into something smaller.

More private.

“She’ll come?”

“She’ll tell you later.”

Shanks looked toward the door you had disappeared through. Your family moved inside it, laughing, talking, trusting him with every breath.

Beckman exhaled smoke into the dark.

“She thinks it’s temporary.”

Shanks’s mouth curved.

Beckman reached for another cigarette.

“You just need to get her alone long enough to let her say it.”

Shanks’s eyes stayed on the door.

“I can do that.”

—————————

You helped your aunt with the dishes because it gave your hands something to do.

She hummed beside you, pleased in a way that made your chest hurt.

“He’s very taken with you,” she said quietly.

The plate nearly slipped from your fingers.

“Auntie.”

“What?” She smiled, rinsing soap from a cup. “I have eyes.”

You stared down into the sink.

“He’s not what you think.”

Your aunt’s smile softened into something gentler.

“Most men aren’t,” she said. “But I watched him tonight. The way he looks for you when you leave a room. The way his men listen when he gives even the smallest instruction.”

“That’s what worries me.”

She laughed softly, mistaking fear for nerves.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You shut your eyes for one second.

There was no explaining it. Not without sounding cruel. Not without sounding ridiculous. Shanks had not threatened anyone at dinner. He had fixed the siding. He had carried plates. He had made your grandmother laugh.

If you said you were afraid of him now, your aunt would hear something else.

A young woman overwhelmed by a powerful man’s attention.

You dried your hands.

“I need to speak with him.”

Your aunt brightened immediately.

“Of course.”

That hurt most of all.

You left the kitchen before she could say anything else.

Shanks was near the side door, one shoulder against the wall, as if he had not been waiting at all.

When you stepped into the hall, his eyes found you at once.

Your uncle glanced between you.

“I’ll go see if Lucky’s finished ruining the last of the bread,” he said, amused.

Then he left you alone.

Shanks watched you in the quiet hallway.

“You wanted to talk?”

Your fingers tightened at your sides. “Yes.”

“Lead the way.”

You hated that he sounded pleased.

You went upstairs.

Shanks followed without asking why. His steps were unhurried behind yours. The hallway felt narrower with him in it.

At the end of it was your old room.

You opened the door.

The room was smaller than you remembered. The bed was pushed against the same wall. The quilt your aunt had made years ago was folded at the foot of it.

Shanks stepped inside after you.

“This was yours,” he said.

“It still is.”

His eyes moved to you.

“For tonight.”

Your stomach tightened.

You shut the door behind him.

The sound was too soft.

“You sent Beckman to talk to me,” you said.

“He does what he thinks is useful,” he said.

“For you.”

“For us.”

“There is no us.”

His expression eased, almost patient.

“There could be.”

“No.” Your voice shook. You hated that. “You don’t get to come here, charm my family, fix the house, and act like this is something sweet.”

Shanks was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I didn’t act.”

He stepped closer.

“I like your aunt. Your uncle’s a good man. Your grandmother is sharper than half the captains I’ve met.” His eyes stayed on yours. “It matters to me that they’re cared for.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make it sound kind.”

He looked almost sorry for you.

“I can be kind,” he said. “That’s what you keep forgetting.”

“No,” you whispered. “That’s what scares me.”

Something moved through his eyes.

Interest.

Pleasure.

You had given him something honest again.

“You’re thinking of running,” he said.

Your stomach went cold.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.” His gaze moved over your face. “You look toward exits when you’re afraid. You’ve done it since the first day.”

His attention shifted briefly toward the door.

“Your family is right downstairs,” he said.

You did not look.

“You can call for them if you want,” Shanks said quietly. “Your uncle will come running. Lucky will be behind him. Your aunt will ask what happened, and I’ll tell her the truth.”

Your breath stopped.

“That I asked you to sail with me. That you’re overwhelmed. That I should have given you more time.”

“They’ll believe me,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Sweetheart.”

That one word was worse than an answer.

Your throat tightened.

“You can tell them I followed you,” he continued. “And I’ll say I came to check on an old friend of Luffy’s. I’ll say your grandmother mentioned the siding, and I had the men help. None of that is a lie.”

“You’re sick.”

“No.” His fingers settled at your jaw. “I’m careful.”

Your eyes burned hotter.

“Beck has the harbor watched. Yasopp knows the roads out of town. My ship is closer than the Sunny tonight.”

Shanks touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Lightly.

Almost tenderly.

“Luffy will come if you call him,” he said. “I know he will.”

Your eyes snapped back to his.

“And you know what happens then.”

“You won’t hurt Luffy.”

His gaze softened in a way that made your chest hurt.

“I don’t want to.”

That was not an answer.

Shanks’s thumb moved once along your jaw.

“He’ll see you scared. He’ll get angry. He’ll come straight at me, and he won’t care who is watching.”

“Don’t use him against me.”

“I’m not.” His voice stayed calm. “I’m telling you what you already know.”

Downstairs, your aunt laughed again.

You shut your eyes.

Every path led through Shanks.

“What do you want?” you whispered.

“You know what I want.”

“No.” You opened your eyes. “Say it.”

Something in his face warmed.

“I want you on my ship.”

“For how long?”

His silence answered too quickly.

Your breath shook.

“No.”

“For now,” he said.

You hated that he knew exactly how much truth to give you and how much to hide.

“If I come,” you said, and the words felt like cutting something out of yourself, “you leave them alone.”

Shanks went still.

“My family. This house. The Sunny. Luffy.” Your voice shook, but you forced the words out. “No fighting. No threats. No making this worse.”

“And you come willingly?”

Your stomach twisted.

“For now.”

“That matters to you.”

“Yes.”

He smiled faintly.

“Then say it properly.”

Your throat tightened.

“No.”

Shanks stepped closer.

“Say it, sweetheart.”

Your hands curled into fists.

Downstairs, your uncle called for your aunt. A chair scraped. Someone laughed.

You thought of your grandmother smiling at him.

You thought of Luffy running into this house without hesitation.

You thought of Shanks’s crew already scattered through every safe place you had left.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

“I’ll come with you.”

Shanks’s expression changed.

It was small.

A quiet satisfaction. A hunger finally fed.

Then he lifted his hand and cupped your cheek.

Gently.

Like you had given him something precious instead of surrendered something vital.

“Good girl.”

The words hit low in your stomach, and you hated your body for reacting.

His thumb brushed once beneath your eye, catching a tear before it fell.

“For now,” you said again, weaker this time.

Shanks leaned closer.

His mouth touched your forehead.

“Of course.”

You knew he was lying.

He drew back and looked at you, calm and pleased and terrifyingly tender.

“Pack a bag,” he said. “Something small. We’ll tell them you’re coming to see the Red Force before we sail.”

Your chest hurt.

“They’ll think I chose it.”

“You did.”

“No,” you whispered. “You made sure I couldn’t choose anything else.”

For a moment, the warmth left his eyes. Then his thumb brushed your cheek.

“I made sure you chose the answer where no one gets hurt.”

Your aunt called your name.

Shanks looked toward the door, then back at you.

When he spoke, his voice was gentle enough to pass through walls as kindness.

“Go on,” he said. “Tell them.”

For weeks after the Red Force sailed away, you stayed close to Luffy without anyone needing to tell you. You slept lighter. You checked every crowded street twice.

But time had a way of making fear feel foolish.

Six months was long enough for you to start thinking maybe he had only been passing through your life after all.

So when the Sunny came within half a day of your home island, you asked to visit.

“My family lives near here,” you said. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

Luffy looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the deck.

“You should visit,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Just like that?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “They’ll be happy to see you.”

Nami gave you enough money to make you roll your eyes. Chopper packed medicine you did not need. Usopp told you to bring back local sweets.

For the first few days, the visit went well.

Your aunt cried when she saw you and then scolded you for looking thinner. Your uncle hugged you hard enough to lift you off your feet.

Your grandmother sat in her chair by the front window, blanket over her lap, and held your face between both hands.

“Still too pretty for sense,” she said.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

The house had not changed much. The kitchen still smelled like bread. The hallway floor still creaked in the same place.

It felt good.

Too good, maybe.

You helped wash dishes. You swept the porch. You ran errands when your aunt tried to pretend she did not need anything.

On the fourth morning, you went alone.

The market was crowded but familiar. People called your name. You bought more than you meant to.

Fresh bread. Apples. A small packet of sweets for Usopp. Tea for your aunt.

By the time you started back, the basket was heavy against your arm.

You were halfway up the road when you heard hammering.

At first, you thought nothing of it.

Then you turned the corner and stopped. There were men outside your grandmother’s house.

Red Hair pirates.

Yasopp was halfway up a ladder, prying away a warped strip of siding. Limejuice stood below him, holding fresh boards under one arm. Two more crewmates were clearing old wood from the yard.

Your basket slipped in your grip.

Someone laughed.

A big, warm laugh from the porch.

Lucky Roux.

He was sitting on the front step with a hammer in one hand and what looked like half of your aunt’s fresh bread in the other.

Your uncle saw you first.

“There you are!” he called. “You didn’t tell us you had friends with carpentry skills.”

Your mouth went dry.

Lucky looked over.

His face brightened.

“Morning.”

You could not answer.

The front door opened behind him, and your aunt stepped out.

“Oh, good, you’re back!”

You stood in the yard, staring.

Your aunt followed your gaze to the ladder, then smiled like this was the most pleasant surprise in the world.

“Isn’t it kind of them?” she said. “Your grandmother mentioned the siding once, and Captain Shanks had his men out here before I could even offer lunch.”

Captain Shanks.

The name moved through you like cold water.

No.

Your body moved before your thoughts did.

You stepped past her, across the porch, through the open front door.

Your grandmother’s voice reached you first.

“Well, aren’t you charming?”

Then his laugh.

Low. Warm. Familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

You stopped in the doorway to the sitting room.

Shanks was there.

He sat in your uncle’s chair like he belonged there, a cup of coffee resting in his hand.

Your grandmother sat across from him, smiling.

Shanks looked up.

For half a second, nothing about his expression changed. He only looked at you over the rim of his cup, calm and pleased, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

Then he smiled.

“There you are,” your grandmother said, turning toward you. “You never told me you knew such a polite young man.”

You could not move.

Shanks stood.

Slowly. Respectfully.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said.

Your aunt came in behind you, basket still in hand.

“Well isn’t that sweet,” she said softly.

Your throat tightened.

Your grandmother looked between you and him with open interest.

“You’ve been holding out on us,” she said. “A captain like this turns up at my door asking after you, and I’m supposed to believe you never thought to mention him?”

“He knows Luffy,” you said.

Shanks’s eyes stayed on you.

“I do.”

The answer was harmless. The way he said it was not.

Your aunt smiled from beside the doorway. “Well, he speaks very highly of you.”

Your stomach tightened.

Shanks lifted his cup.

“Hard not to.”

Your uncle appeared in the hallway behind you, dust on his sleeves and suspicion nowhere on his face.

“They’re doing a fine job out there,” he said.

Your aunt set the basket on the small table by the door and touched your arm.

“Come help me put these away.”

You followed her into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of the sitting room, your aunt turned to you with a look you knew too well.

“He’s lovely,” she whispered.

Your stomach dropped.

“Auntie.”

“What?” she whispered. “He’s handsome, polite, and your grandmother already adores him.”

“He shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She brushed your hair back like she had when you were younger. “A man comes all this way, fixes your grandmother’s siding, and looks at you like that?”

Your fingers curled against your palms.

“You deserve to be treated well,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

In the sitting room, Shanks laughed at something your grandmother said.

Your aunt glanced toward the sound with a smile and squeezed your arm.

“You should go catch up! He came all this way.”

You looked toward the sitting room.

Shanks was standing, his coffee set aside. Your grandmother was still talking, but his eyes were on the kitchen doorway.

On you.

Waiting.

Your mouth went dry.

—————————

Your aunt sent you to show Shanks the back garden.

That was the excuse, at least.

Shanks followed you without comment.

The garden was half-wild, herbs growing thick near the fence, flowers leaning into one another where your grandmother could no longer keep them trimmed.

You stopped near the old stone path, far enough from the windows that your family could not hear every word.

Shanks stopped behind you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said.

“That’s not a very nice way to greet an old friend.”

You turned to face him.

“We’re not friends.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “We’re not.”

Your back went stiff.

His voice dropped.

“Six months,” he said. “You made me wait a long time, sweetheart.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “How did you find me?”

Shanks tilted his head, like the question amused him.

“I never lost you,” he said.

The garden seemed to quiet around you.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I was waiting for the right time to visit.”

Your stomach turned cold. He said it gently. That made it worse.

“You look good,” he said.

The shift made your pulse trip.

You hated him for that too. For knowing exactly when to pull back. For dressing the threat in sweetness.

“You always did,” he continued, eyes lowering briefly before returning to your face. “But here? In the place that raised you?” His voice softened. “I understand you better now.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“You know what you watched.”

“That’s more than most people see.”

The words hit closer than you wanted.

You looked away.

Shanks stepped closer, and this time you did not have room to move back.

“You should have stayed closer to Luffy,” he said.

Your stomach tightened.

“That was a threat.”

“No,” Shanks said softly. “That was your warning.”

“Shanks.”

He smiled at the sound of his name.

“I missed that.”

You took a breath and hated that it shook. “I have a crew.”

“I know.”

“I’m going back to them.”

Shanks looked at you. His smile stayed easy, but something behind it cooled.

“I’ve been patient with you,” he said. “Let me stay charming a little longer.”

Then his hand lifted, slow enough that you saw it coming. His fingers brushed a loose piece of hair away from your cheek.

You sucked in a breath before you could stop it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“You don’t need to be scared of me,” he said.

“That would be easier to believe if you hadn’t followed me home.”

That made him laugh. The sound moved through you before you could guard against it.

His hand slipped to the side of your neck. Not gripping. Just resting there, his fingers warm against your skin.

“I missed you,” he said.

“You don’t know me well enough to miss me.”

“I know how long six months felt.” His fingers settled more securely at your neck. “And I know I like you better within reach.”

Your eyes dropped to his mouth before you could stop them.

“You have to stop,” you said.

“Do you want me to?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

His smile did not widen. That would have been easier. Instead, his face softened, like he was fond of your silence.

Like your hesitation pleased him more than any answer.

He leaned closer, voice lowering until it was only for you.

“You keep acting like coming with me would be the worst thing that could happen to you.”

Someone laughed. Your uncle called for another board. The house was close enough that you could hear every word.

Your family was right there.

That should have protected you.

Instead, it only reminded you that he knew exactly where they lived.

Shanks’s gaze flicked briefly toward the house.

“You have a good family,” he said.

Your stomach dropped.

“Don’t.”

His eyes returned to yours.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk about them.”

“I’m complimenting them.”

“You’re warning me.”

Shanks looked at you for a long moment. Then his smile came back again.

“I’m telling you I understand why you came back.”

He stepped closer, and this time your back touched the garden fence.

“I’m also telling you,” he said, “that wherever you go, I’ll know how to find you.”

He lifted his hand from your neck and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, almost tender.

“So you can make this hard,” he said, “or you can let me be good to you.”

“You’re trying to confuse me,” you whispered.

“No,” Shanks said. “I’m trying to give you time to choose the easier answer.”

Your eyes burned.

“My crew will come back for me.”

“I know.”

“Luffy will come back for me.”

At that, something changed.

Small.

A flicker through his eyes. A brief tightening at the corner of his mouth.

Then it was gone.

“I know,” he said again.

He leaned in.

You turned your face slightly, but not enough.

His mouth brushed the side of your neck, just beneath your ear.

You went still.

The kiss he gave you was sweet.

Too sweet.

Soft enough that anyone watching from the window might have thought it gentle. Harmless. Affectionate.

But his lips lingered there for one extra second, warm against your pulse, and his voice touched your skin when he spoke.

“Then we should talk before he does.”

The Red Force had a better library than the Thousand Sunny.

You had not expected that.

Real shelves.

Rows of them, built into the inner wall of a quiet room below deck, secured with brass latches against rough seas. Some books were old enough that their spines had cracked. Others were wrapped in cloth, carefully labeled.

You had spent the first five minutes just staring.

Usopp had been impressed for about thirty seconds. Luffy had pulled out one book, opened it upside down, declared it boring, and left to find Shanks.

Which meant you were alone.

That was exactly how you liked libraries.

You sat on the floor with your back against one of the shelves and a book open across your lap.

It felt safe down here.

Quiet.

Separate.

Until the door opened.

You looked up.

Shanks stood in the doorway.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.

His voice was warm. Easy.

It still made your stomach pull tight.

“You didn’t,” you said quickly.

A lie.

His smile deepened like he had heard the lie and enjoyed it.

“You found the library.”

“It’s impressive.”

“More impressive than the Sunny’s?”

You hesitated.

Shanks laughed softly. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Luffy.”

You had been avoiding him since the two crews met again. Not obviously. You were not rude. You smiled when spoken to.

But Shanks noticed things.

You had felt it.

His eyes lingered too long. Not in the careless way Sanji’s did, or the openly curious way some men looked when they found someone pretty. Shanks watched as if he were learning you. As if every small habit mattered.

How you held your cup.

How often you looked toward exits.

How you went quiet when a room got too loud.

How you moved away every time he came close.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

You glanced down, grateful for something to look at. “A travel journal.”

“Good one?”

“So far.”

He crossed the room slowly before lowering himself into a crouch with ease.

He was too close.

Close enough that you could see the faint scarred texture near his eye.

His gaze moved over your face.

“You’re prettier when you’re not hiding behind your captain,” he said.

Your breath stopped for half a second.

“I don’t hide behind Luffy.”

“No?” Shanks asked.

There was no mockery in it.

That made it worse.

You looked away first.

His hand came up.

You went still.

He did not touch you. His fingers stopped near your cheek.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sweetheart.

The word landed too softly.

Too naturally.

You should have laughed awkwardly and said not to call you that.

Instead, you froze.

His eyes sharpened.

There it was again. That feeling that he had just learned something.

“You’re nervous around me,” he said.

“You’re an emperor.”

“That all?”

You forced yourself to meet his eyes.

Bad idea.

He was smiling, but his eyes were not kind. They were bright. Focused. Hungry in a way he was not bothering tohide anymore.

“No,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Shanks’s smile faded slowly.

His fingers brushed your cheek.

The touch was light enough to deny, but your body betrayed you anyway. Your lips parted. Your shoulders drew in. Your pulse jumped beneath your skin.

Shanks saw all of it.

“That’s honest,” he said quietly.

You tried to move back, but the shelf was behind you.

He leaned closer.

Your book slipped slightly against your knees. You caught it before it fell, and his gaze dropped to your hands, then to your mouth.

“You’ve been hard to catch today,” he said.

“I wasn’t trying to be caught.”

“No,” Shanks said softly. “You were trying very hard not to be.”

Your fingers tightened around the book.

He was too close, and too good-looking, and you hated that your body noticed.

Dangerous things should not be allowed to look like that.

“You’re staring,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Your face warmed.

His thumb touched the corner of your mouth.

You stopped breathing.

Shanks watched your reaction like it pleased him.

Then he smiled again, slower this time.

“That’s what I thought,” he said softly.

The door opened.

You jerked back so hard your head hit the shelf.

“Oops,” Lucky Roux said from the doorway.

He did not look even slightly apologetic.

Shanks did not move away immediately.

He stayed there, crouched in front of you, his thumb still close to your mouth, his attention still fixed on you as if Lucky were no more important than a change in the wind.

Then he stood.

The room felt colder without him that close.

“What is it?” Shanks asked.

“Beck needs you.”

Shanks sighed.

You used the distraction to scramble to your feet, clutching the book to your chest.

Shanks glanced at you.

“Take it with you,” he said.

“I shouldn’t—”

“I said take it.”

Your mouth closed.

There was that shift again. Warmth over command. Smile over steel.

You nodded once.

He stepped aside to let you pass.

You moved quickly, but not quickly enough.

As you slipped past him, he grabbed your wrist. His mouth lowered near your ear.

“Don’t hide too well tonight, sweetheart.”

Then he let go.

You left without looking back.

————————

That night, the beach was lit with fires.

The locals had insisted on a gathering before the Red Hair Pirates left the island.

You stayed near Nami and Robin at first.

That had been the plan.

Stay close. Eat slowly. Laugh when Luffy nearly set his own sandal on fire. Keep your eyes away from the Red Hair captain.

Mostly.

Sometimes you slipped.

Sometimes you looked and found Shanks already looking back.

Every time, he smiled.

Every time, you looked away first.

Then someone pressed a cup into your hand.

The drink was sweet enough to hide how strong it was, and Nami laughed when your face changed after the second swallow.

“Careful,” she said. “That one sneaks up on you.”

“It tastes like fruit.”

“That’s how it gets you.”

Robin’s mouth curved over the rim of her cup.

You should have listened.

Instead, you finished it.

Then you had another.

Usopp dragged you into a terrible dance, all flailing arms and unnecessary spins, until you were laughing too hard to keep your drink steady.

When the song ended, you looked down and found your cup empty.

You found the drink table near the edge of the gathering. The jug was heavier than you expected. You had to use both hands to tilt it, and a little spilled over the side of your cup.

You laughed under your breath.

“Trouble?”

You froze.

Shanks stood several paces back half-swallowed by the dark.

“I’m not trouble.”

“No,” he said, walking toward you. “Of course not.”

You hated that he sounded amused.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

“You’ve been avoiding me again,” he said.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Dancing with Usopp?”

“He has a very demanding style.”

Shanks smiled.

You wished he would stop doing that.

His gaze dropped to the cup in your hand.

“How many of those have you had?”

“Enough to know you’re still intimidating.”

His smile widened.

Shanks reached out and took the cup from your hand.

“Hey.”

“You can have it back.”

He stepped around you instead, carrying it with him.

“Shanks.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

The look was quick. Warm. Pleased.

Like he had known you would.

He led you around the back of the drink table, just far enough that the barrels blocked you from the main fire. The party was still close, but the shadows made it feel private.

Your steps slowed.

He noticed.

“Relax,” he said, setting your cup on one of the barrels. “I’m only stealing a minute.”

Shanks leaned back against the crates, loose and unhurried, but his eyes stayed fixed on you.

“You have any idea what you’ve done to me these last few days?”

You blinked. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The wind lifted your hair against your cheek.

Shanks reached out and tucked it back. His fingers lingered near your jaw, then slid slowly to the side of your neck.

“You sit there quiet as anything,” he said, voice lower now. “You watch everyone. You slip out of rooms before they get too crowded. You avoid me like you know exactly what I want from you.”

Your breath caught.

His thumb moved once against your throat.

“And then you look at me anyway.”

Your arms loosened.

You did not mean for them to.

His gaze dropped, catching the movement.

“I keep wondering,” he said, “where else you’d go quiet if I touched you.”

Your lips parted before you could stop them.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, and this time he did not bother hiding the satisfaction on his face.

The gathering felt farther away. Luffy’s laugh rose somewhere beyond the dune, bright and familiar, but Shanks’s hand was at the back of your neck, and you could not make yourself move.

“We leave in the morning,” he said.

You blinked. “I know.”

“Come with me.”

The words were so direct that for a moment you thought you had misunderstood them.

“What?”

“Come with me,” he repeated.

No hesitation. No softness. No attempt to make it sound casual.

Your chest tightened.

“I’m a Straw Hat,” you said.

“I know.”

The longer he stayed quiet, the harder it became to breathe.

You tried to soften your voice. “I’m flattered. Really. But no.”

The word hung between you.

No.

Shanks looked at your mouth as if you had handed him something interesting.

“You’re loyal,” he said.

“Yes.”

For the first time that night, something cold passed over his face.

It was gone almost immediately.

Shanks looked at your mouth.

“Can I kiss you, sweetheart?”

Your heart jumped hard.

You looked at his mouth.

Then back at his eyes.

“Yes.”

Shanks did not rush.

He lowered his head slowly. His nose brushed yours, then his mouth touched yours.

The kiss started softer than you expected.

Warm. Controlled. Almost careful.

That lasted until you kissed him back.

His hand slid from your face into your hair, fingers threading close to your scalp. He pulled once and your head tipped back for him.

You rose onto your toes without thinking.

Shanks stepped in until your back hit a crate, his body holding you there while his mouth moved harder over yours.

He made a low sound against your mouth.

His hand left your hair and wrapped around your throat. Not tight enough to hurt. Just enough to hold you still as he parted your lips with his and slid his tongue against yours.

You tasted liquor on him.

Or maybe that was you.

You could not tell anymore.

His chest pressed into yours as the kiss turned hotter.

Your knees brushed his leg.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak.

“Come with me in the morning.”

Your eyes opened halfway.

His mouth touched the corner of yours.

“Shanks—”

“I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He kissed you again before you could answer. Your fingers moved from his shirt to his shoulder.

“Shanks.”

“There,” he murmured, mouth moving to your jaw. “Say my name like that again.”

You turned your face, but he followed, mouth moving to the side of your neck. He kissed you there once, then opened his mouth against your skin and bit down.

Your fingers dug into his shoulder.

Shanks held the pressure for one slow second before easing off, his tongue passing over the mark he had left.

“Come be with me,” he said against your skin.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“No.”

It came out weak.

He heard it.

His mouth curved against your neck.

“That one didn’t sound convincing.”

You grabbed his hair and pulled his mouth back to yours.

The kiss turned messy.

Your fault this time.

You kissed him harder than you meant to, and Shanks answered immediately. His tongue slid against yours again and you made a small sound you wished you could take back.

He swallowed it.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His hair was messy from your fingers. His mouth was wet. His eyes had gone dark in a way that made your pulse trip.

“Tell me what it takes,” he said.

You shook your head.

“I’ll give you a room beside mine. Every book I own. Every island you want to see. Jewels, dresses, gold, quiet, noise, whatever keeps you smiling.” He leaned in, close enough that his mouth almost touched yours again. “Tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”

“That’s not why I’m saying no.”

“I know.”

His voice dropped.

“That’s why I’m asking again.”

Your chest rose hard against his.

“I need to go back to my crew.”

Shanks went still.

“You need to?”

“Yes.”

He looked at you for a long time.

Then he stepped back.

You reached for your cup but Shanks caught it first.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

You almost laughed.

It came out uneven. “Now you’re worried about that?”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I’m worried about a lot of things when it comes to you.”

The words sounded sweet.

You knew better.

You took one step back. Then another.

He let you.

You turned toward the fires, forcing yourself to walk instead of run. Your lips still felt warm.

You were almost close enough to hear Usopp’s voice clearly when Shanks spoke behind you.

“Sweetheart.”

You stopped before you could stop yourself.

Slowly, you looked back.

He stood in the dark with your abandoned cup still in his hand.

For a moment, he looked like the man Luffy adored.

Then he glanced past you toward the fires, and all warmth left his eyes.

“Stay close to Luffy,” he said. “He’s the only reason I’m asking nicely.”

You did not move.

Shanks smiled again.

It did not reach his eyes.

“Good night.”

The Red Force left at dawn.

The Straw Hats stood near the shore, waving and shouting. Luffy was at the front, grinning so hard it looked like it hurt.

You told yourself not to look for him. You looked anyway.

His gaze found you immediately. For one long second, he only watched you.

Then he smiled.

A friendly smile.

The kind everyone else could see.

Beside him, Beckman leaned against the rail, cigarette between his fingers, eyes narrowed toward the shore.

The ship began to pull away.

The distance widened.

Only then did Shanks look from you to Beckman.

His voice was casual when he spoke. Almost bored.

“I want her on the Red Force.”

Beckman exhaled smoke.

He did not ask who.

Shanks was still watching you.

You stood on the shore beside your captain, the wind lifting your hair, the book you had forgotten to return held tight against your chest.

Shanks’s mouth curved.

“Make it happen,” he said.

Beckman flicked ash into the sea.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”

The Red Force sailed into the morning light.

And Shanks did not look away until you were gone from sight.

Dustin—who had stumbled into Family Video over half an hour ago alongside Max to try and convince Steve into letting them rent an R rated horror for the party’s weekly movie night—laughs loudly, causing Steve to groan into his hands before resting his head against the cool countertop in defeat.

“I’ll just go alone,” Steve grumbles against his arm. “I’ll just look like a sad, sad loser going to alone to a wedding and—”

“What about Max’s sister?”

Steve can’t help it. He lets out a snort of disbelief before standing up straight.

He doesn’t miss the look of annoyance Max shoots his way.

“What’s wrong with my sister, Harrington?” She asks pointedly and Steve’s ears turn red.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with you per se. In fact, Steve had very briefly considered asking you the moment that he had gotten off the phone with Juliet. But there was just one small problem—

“Nothing!” Steve says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Absolutely nothing! She just—”

“Hates his guts?” Dustin offers.

Max rolls her eyes in exasperation, folding her arms across her chest as she looks from Dustin to Steve.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Max insists. “She just—she just thinks you’re an asshole and would prefer not to be in the same room as you.”

Steve swallows. Something that felt like shame swirls in his gut. Of course, you had every reason to dislike him and Steve would be the first to put his hands up and say he probably deserved it. You two had very much gotten off on the wrong foot after you had overheard him call Billy’s family—and by extension your family—’trash’. It had been in the heat of the moment and he had only said it because Billy had been pushing his buttons all day. The moment he had realised that you were within earshoot, he had regretted saying it. But because he was stubborn and, at that point in time, cared more about what others thought of him than doing the right thing, and so he didn’t take them back. He didn’t apologise.

He later tried, after the first dance with the Upside Down together, after you had stopped Billy from almost killing him in Byers’ home with a syringe but you had scoffed and walked away like you didn’t buy it. You had made it very clear that you didn’t want to accept his apology, that you had made your mind up about him despite the fact your sister could not care less about the comment. He understood why—you were her big sister and you were protecting your family. Especially after Starcourt, especially after Billy died.

And so, Steve wasn’t exactly convinced by Max’s insistence that you didn’t hate him.

“There is no way she’ll go with me,” Steve says with a shake of his head, arms folded across his chest. “She hates—”

“—she will,” Max says with a knowing smile. “She owes me a favour.”

Steve blinks, looking from Max to Dustin and back again, as if waiting for one of them to shout ‘April Fools!’.

When neither of them does, Steve raises a brow at Max.

“What for?”

“She broke my skateboard,” Max explains. “I was gonna make her buy me a new one but making her go to a wedding with you sounds more interesting.”

Dustin laughs and the corner of Max’s mouth twitches but Steve looks thoroughly unconvinced.

“Gee, thanks Max,” Steve mutters, eyes shifting down to the pile of tapes stacked in front of him that he was meant to be rewinding. “But I really don’t think she’ll agree.”

And so, Steve spends the rest of his shift rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to his aunt when he called her to tell him he would be attending the wedding tomorrow, minus his plus one. 

Five minutes before his shift was due to end, Steve was carefully rearranging the candy selection just as the bell above the door sounded. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Of course—it was just his luck that a customer had decided to waltz in five minutes before his shift ended. He would put money on the fact it was a group of teenagers who would refuse to leave, teenagers who would mess up the horror display he had spent forty five minutes rearranging, teenagers who pick up the tape for Body Heat to try and convince Steve that they weren’t fourteen.

“We’re closing in—”

“—in five minutes. I know. I can read a clock, Harrington.”

Steve’s stomach turns at the sound of your voice. His head whips around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t hurt himself. He certainly dropped all of the bars of candy that he had been holding. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Steve asks, blinking as he watches you approach the counter with a schooled expression. “Robin has the flu if that’s what you—”

“—I’m here to see you,” you interrupt, eyes flicking down to the peanut butter bopper still clutched in Steve’s hand before you look back up at his face. “Max told me about your—your plus one situation.”

“Oh,” Steve says, the tips of his ears reddening as he looks down at all the candy bars he had dropped, the ones he had been lovingly arranging for the past ten minutes. “Yeah um, that Juliet cancelled on me. She’s cat sitting or something so can’t um, make it.”

You quirk a brow and Steve can tell by the look on your face that you want nothing more than to make a comment, to crack a joke, perhaps even tell him that he had very clearly been stood up, that there was no way Juliet had actually cancelled on him to cat sit. But you don’t, instead you seem to take a deep breath before you say. “I’ll do it.”

The bopper in Steve’s hand falls to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up before looking back ar you.

“Seriously?” He asks, his eyes wide as he tries his best not to look too hopeful. “You—you’re not—this isn’t a prank, right?”

You frown slightly. “Why would I do that?”

Steve blinks before he shakes his head because really, he knew you would never do anything like that to him. 

“I—I dunno—I just—you know this is a wedding, right?” Steve asks you. “Like I’ll be in a suit and you’d wear—”

“—a dress,” you finish. “I know, Max told me. I have a dress if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Steve swallows, the bopper that was back in his grip starting to melt in his sweaty grasp. “I’m not worried about that, it's just—are you sure? Like, are you sure about coming to this wedding—with me?”

You exhale, looking away from Steve momentarily to look around the store, almost as though you were bracing yourself for something big.

“Yes, Harrington,” you say finally. “As a favour to Max, I’ll go to this wedding with you.”

Steve looks back at you for a long, long moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or that you weren’t going to tell him you were joking. When he realises that this wasn’t a dream and you say nothing, he starts to smile.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much. This means a lot. My family are—yeah—this is just, it’s really great of you to—”

“—but I’m not dancing with you,” you cut in quickly, fiddling with your hands as you look away from him. “Or doing anything remotely touchy feely. I’m just your plus one. That’s it. That’s all I’ll be.”

“That’s fine!” Steve says quickly, wiping his clammy hands over his jeans before setting down the bopper onto the countertop beside him, the wrapper crumpled and the chocolate inside a little gooey. “Makes sense. Yeah. Um, totally. No dancing. Limited touching. Ju—just my plus one.”

You look at him for a beat before finally, you nod. “Good. Glad we got that covered,” you say before you lean down to pick up one of the candy bars he had dropped and tear open the wrapper.

“You know you need to pay for th—”

“See you tomorrow, Harrington,” you say, smiling before taking a large bite from the chocolate bar and walking straight out of Family Video.

“Could you sit still? Just for two minutes?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Max looked back at you blankly in the mirror before shaking her head, returning her attention to your hair, ignoring you.

You huff but you don’t question her further.

You didn’t want to admit it to yourself but as it drew nearer to ten in the morning—the time that you agreed to be ready by with Steve late last night when he had called you in a slight panic, having forgotten to tell that the wedding was over an hour away—you found that you were starting to feel nervous. 

The pale green satin dress you were wearing—the one you had been saving for Max’s graduation—hugged your body in a way that you weren’t used to. Max and your mom insisted that you looked beautiful but you didn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Especially knowing you’d be spending the day and most of the evening on the arm of Steve Harrington.

“Is it too late to back out now?” You ask Max hopefully, setting down the blusher you had been applying while she was focused on your hair. “I mean—I could say I got the flu from Robin or—”

“—absolutely not,” Max snaps at you. “Just give him a chance? Alright? He’s not the asshole he was in high school.”

You hum in acknowledgement at her words but you don’t respond. You had heard that sentiment plenty of times before, you just couldn’t allow yourself to believe it.

By some miracle, you were ready just before ten o’clock. After slipping on some silver kitten heels, you stand up straight and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror next to your bed. It was hard not to smile at how pretty you felt.

“Still wanna back out?” You hear Max ask from the door of your shared bedroom, one of your mom’s nice silver purses she only used for special occasions clutched in her hands.

You look over your shoulder at Max before your eyes flicker back to your reflection, at the hair Max had lovingly styled and the makeup you had delicately applied but mostly at the dress that gave you a fluttery feeling in your stomach. 

“No,” you say with a small shake of your head before you turn to look at your sister. “I made a promise so I should stick to it.”

Max looks at you before she smiles. “You look really pretty, by the way.”

Your face warms a little at the compliment but you try to hide it, walking over to Max to take your mom’s purse from her hands. “Not bad for a last minute wedding.”

The corner of Max’s mouth twitches before she walks over to you to carefully adjust one of your hair clips. “You promise to be nice to Steve? Give him a chance to prove himself?”

“Max—”

Max cuts you off with your name and you look back at her carefully. “I’m serious. I want you two to get along. You’re important to me, he’s important to me.”

You feel yourself soften, just a little. Because if something mattered to your little sister, it mattered to you too.

“Just don’t—don’t tell him I said that,” Max adds.

You fight back a smile. “I won’t.”

It was five minutes later when there was a knock at the front door. Your stomach turned nervously as Max ran to answer it.

“You look great,” your mom smiles reassuringly. You smile back—not entirely knowing why you felt so nervous. This was just Steve. Just Steve—the guy who just last week you had yelled at for breathing too loud. Just Steve—the guy you were now going to a damn wedding with.

You take a deep breath before bidding your mom goodbye and following the voices of Max and Steve out of your room.

“—is the tie the right colour?” You hear Steve ask Max, a nervous edge to his voice. “‘Pale green’ was right of vague, I had to—”

“—you don’t need to match with her dress, it’s not prom, Steve—”

“—but I thought—”

You walk into the open plan living room and suddenly, Steve stops talking.

In fact, Steve Harrington seems to stop breathing as he looks at you.

He was looking at you in a way that took your breath away for a few short seconds before you remember just how infuriating you thought he was. But for a brief moment, you allow yourself to look at Steve—really look at him—and admire just how nice he looked. He had always been good looking, even you could admit that, but right now with his wide hazel eyes, parted lips and the suit he was wearing—the tie of which almost perfectly matched your dress—he looked stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that made your stomach tighten.

The moment the thought enters your mind, heat spreads throughout your body. You determinedly ignore it.

“You’re late,” you say by way of a hello, hoping your voice doesn’t give any indication that you felt nothing but apathy for the man in front of you. “You know it’s rude to show up after the bride?”

Steve blinks, seeming to snap out of whatever momentary trance you had sent him in so that he could frown at your words.

“It was the tie! And there was some construction near the—”

“—still. You’re late.”

Steve seems to bite his tongue with whatever retort he had ready to go, his eyes flickering over to match who Max watches the exchange, thoroughly entertained. 

“Ready to go?” Steve asks you, choosing to ignore your remark as he steps towards the door.

You nod, opening your mom’s purse to check you had your lip gloss and some extra hair clips before looking back at Steve. “Yeah. Ready to—”

“—wait!” Max exclaims and you know what was coming before she even opens her mouth. “Let me just go grab the camera. I want this moment framed.”

Neither of you stop yourself from groaning loudly at that.

The drive to the wedding venue took a little over an hour and the car ride with Steve was almost completely silent, save for the radio that seemed to be the saving grace of the journey. 

It dawned on you that you hadn’t ever really spent one on one time with Steve before. Sure, you two had been through a lot together when it came to the upside down, but you had never hung out, not really. But now—you face the prospect of spending the entire day together. At a wedding, no less.

One thing you quickly learned about Steve was that he hummed while listening to music. A lot. Like it was beginning to grate on you kind of a lot.

“Do you have to hum while listening to music?” You ask him in a terse voice after almost thirty minutes of biting your tongue.

You watch Steve stiffen slightly out of the corner of your eye, watch the way his knuckles tighten around his steering wheel and you register the instant ceasing of his humming.

“It’s my car,” Steve points out. “I can hum in my car if I want.”

You open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him that his humming was incredibly annoying and to tell him to stop. But then you thought of Max, you thought of your promise to her that you’d try to be nice to Steve, that you would give him a chance. You find yourself pursing your lips, carefully considering your options before you decide to let this minor annoyance slip. 

Baby steps.

But when Steve pulls his Beamer into a church car park that was swarming with pastel coloured dresses, fascinators and expensive suits, it felt more like diving headfirst into cold water than tentative baby steps.

“Are you ready for this?” Steve asks you gently, sensing your apprehension as you make no move to leave the safety of his car.

You swallow nervously, soothing down your dress as you nod because suddenly, you were acutely aware of the fact that your dress cost less than thirty dollars and that your heels were scuffed, owing to the fact you had bought them secondhand from a thrift store.

“Yeah,” you lie because Hawkins was over an hour away and both you and Max had put too much effort in your appearance to turn back now. But as Steve’s hand moves to open the door, you add, “it’s just—I’m not—I’m not great with family.”

Steve’s hand stops mid-air, inches away from the door handle as he looks over at you carefully before the corners of his mouth lift into something akin to a smile. “That makes two of us,” Steve tells you. “So don’t worry. My parents hate everyone. Just don’t take it personally and you’ll be fine.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

To his credit, the moment that you finally stepped out of his car, Steve was right by your side. His hand, though tentative, rests on the small of your back as you walk towards the church, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You were already regretting the heels.

As you walk by throngs of Steve’s relatives, he gives you a very quick run down of who’s who while you try to keep up.”

“That’s my uncle Simon,” Steve tells you, nodding to a man in a suit that looked so expensive that you briefly wondered if you were even allowed to look at it. “Been married like three times. Doesn’t seem to understand what monogamy is.”

You bit back a laugh.

“That’s my great aunt Sara—”

“—great aunt?” You repeat, looking at the women Steve had subtly pointed to who did not look old enough to even be considered a great aunt. “Are you sure she’s—”

“—she had a face lift,” Steve explains and you nod slowly. “Well, we all suspect she’s had a face lift. She’s never actually said. She just keeps saying it’s because slathers herself in honey or egg whites every morning.”

Another laugh you had to fight back.

Steve was just telling you about some falling out between his grandmother and cousin as someone calls his name. Steve stops talking mid-sentence to look over at who had called out his name and smiles.

“And this,” he murmurs to you as a woman with a kind, heart shaped face and bright smile approaches. “Is my aunt Edith. She’s a bit much but—”

“Stevie! Oh, look at you!”

You watch in fascination as Steve Harrington—the guy who had been known as King Steve, the guy who had once held a keg stand record for almost three years—turns bright red.

“Edith—”

“—what?” Edith beams at the sight of Steve, carefully adjusting his blazer and fusing over his tie. “Is it a crime now to say hello to my favourite nephew?”

Steve doesn’t respond as even the tips of his ears turn red but his aunt doesn’t tease him any further, instead her soft eyes shift over to you.

“And who is this beautiful young lady?” Edith asks, her gaze so warm and friendly that you couldn’t help but smile at her. “Steve, is this your—”

“—friend,” Steve says quickly and with a quick glance over at you. “Just a friend.”

In any other circumstances, you would have corrected Steve if he referred to you as a friend but you let it slide. Baby steps.

“And a friendship is a beautiful foundation for a relationship,” Edith says to a blushing Steve before she looks back at you. “I’m only teasing him, honey. Don’t look so worried.”

You let out a breathy laugh before shaking your head. “No, go ahead. Tease away. I didn’t know he could turn that shade of red.”

Edith laughs and despite Steve rolling his eyes, he lets out a reluctant chuckle. 

“Oh, I like her already.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches before he tells Edith your name and you can’t help but notice the flash of recognition in her eyes when she hears Steve reel off your last name. You can’t blame her. The surname Mayfield and the names of your family had been splashed all over the newspapers after Starcourt, Billy's death.

But Edith doesn’t say anything, which you appreciate.

“You two should probably head inside,” Edith tells you with a nod towards the church. “Or you might be in danger of being run over by the bride.”

You let Steve guide you inside, his hand still on your back as you enter the church.

“Sorry about Edith,” Steve says as you walk towards the church pews. “She’s really—”

“—she was lovely,” you tell Steve. “Really. She wasn’t too much at all.”

Steve nods but you can see the look of quiet gratitude in his eyes.

You sit down in the pews beside Steve, becoming acutely aware of his thigh pressing against yours, of the way he was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh as his eyes darted around the church. You knew without asking that he was looking for his parents.

“By the way,” Steve murmurs after a moment, his eyes shifting back to you. “I forgot to say earlier but you look—”

But Steve was cut off by a sudden swell of music that signalled the arrival of the bride and whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue.

As Daisy met her soon to be husband at the altar and the ceremony began, you tried your very best to remain present. But as your eyes flickered around the church, something swirled in your gut. The realisation that the last time you had been in a church—albiet, nowhere near as extravagant as this—had been at Billy’s funeral.  

Despite the fact you hadn’t been very close with Billy nor had you even remotely liked your step-brother, Billy’s death had affected you more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just because of what had happened to your family in the immediate aftermath of Billy’s death, when your step-dad had left Hawkins and took every bit of stability you had left with him. It was also the immense guilt and complicated things that you found yourself feeling that had made Billy’s death difficult to navigate, guilt that you felt for surviving Starcourt when Billy didn’t, guilt for also feeling so much resentment towards Billy when he had been alive for making your and Max’s life miserable but deep down, desperately things had been different for him.

But most of all, the thing that had been the most difficult about Billy’s death? It was seeing how it had affected Max and the crushing realisation that came the moment you had heard her scream out Billy’s name—was that, try as you might, you couldn’t protect Max from everything.

And so, as you sat beside Steve Harrington in the pews you were barely listening to Daisy and her soon to be husband Dale exchange their vows. And you even miss Steve sniffling quietly beside you.

After the ceremony—of which, you remember very little—you and Steve make the short journey to the reception which would be held at a magnificent farmhouse outside of which there was a beautiful rose garden. You would have thought it a truly breathtaking sight if you still weren’t so in your own head, still thinking about Billy, of the funeral and Max.

Though he wasn’t saying anything, Steve could tell something was wrong. The small rapport you had built before the ceremony had vanished, you didn’t even complain when he had ordered you the wrong drink by accident.

“Okay,” Steve sighs, looking at your expression carefully after pulling you to the side of the bar. “You gonna tell me what’s up? Did I do something or—”

You blink, looking at Steve as though only just seeing him properly for the first time. 

“I haven’t—I haven’t been in a church since—” you stop yourself, averting your eyes in favour of watching a few of Steve’s smaller cousins running around to distract yourself from the slight burn you were feeling behind your eyes.

You miss how Steve’s eyes soften, how his expression shifts and how he half raises his hand as though he had to stop himself from reaching for you.

“Oh,” he says softly, so softly that you barely recognise his voice and you have to look at him just to be sure it was really Steve. “I didn’t—I didn’t even think. I’m sorry. I—”

“—it’s okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face as you look back at Steve. “I’m okay. It was a really beautiful ceremony.”

Steve looks at you and there was a brief moment where you thought that he was just going to drop it. That he wasn’t going to push you to talk but he said your name in that new, soft voice and you knew you weren’t going to get away that easily.

“—I know I’m not your favourite person in the world but you know you can talk to me about—”

“—Steven! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

You watch as Steve’s face almost completely drains of colour.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters to you as your peer over his shoulder to see a couple—who were undoubtedly his parents—striding towards to two of you. “Okay. It’s just my parent’s. It’s just my—”

“—oh, you must be Steven’s girlfriend!” Steve’s mother exclaims happily as both she and his father approach. You were so taken aback by the hug she pulled you into that you don’t even try to correct her on the fact you were not Steve’s girlfriend and Steve makes no attempt to correct her. Instead, his face reddens and he shoots you an apologetic smile.

That son of a—

“He had told us you were pretty but I don’t think you’d be—”

“—mom,” Steve mutters, his face now burning as he avoids direct eye contact with you, clearly not wanting to give away the fact that you definitely were not his girlfriend. But you didn’t care about it that much anymore, not when you had just learned that Steve Harrington had told his parents that you were pretty.

Steve introduces you to both his parents and, like Edith, you see the flash of recognition across their faces at your surname but unlike Edith, Steve’s parents didn’t let your name pass without acknowledgement.

“Oh dear,” his moms says kindly, placing a gentle hand on your arm that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. “I thought I recognised your face. Billy Hagrove was your step-brother, right?”

You don’t trust yourself to talk and nor do you look at Steve as you nod.

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” his father says to you solemnly, though his expression does not change in the slightest. “Awful accident.”

You smile in acknowledgement but you aren’t quite sure what to say. Thank you? Everything you knew you should say when someone offered their condolences would sound insincere. Unnatural, even. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for you, Steve’s father continues talking.

“And for his father to leave the way he did, leaving your family, a single mother to struggle and live in a trailer park of all places—it must really be awful for your family. Being amongst drug dealers and god knows what else in that park!”

You swallow. It had been awful but you didn’t think much of Danny Harrington’s tone—of the fact he sounded more sorry that your family were living in a trailer park than grieving. You still had Max and your mom—even if she had started drinking to cope—and a roof over your heads. It was all you needed.

But before you could tell Steve’s father any of this, before you could even consider politely standing up for yourself, Steve Harrington got there first.

“Dad, let’s not—let’s not go there, okay?” Steve says, placing a hand on your back as if ready to steer you away from the conversation.

Danny Harrington, for a very brief moment, looks taken aback by his son’s words but had enough sense to understand the topic of Billy Hagrove and the Mayfield family was off limits.

“Very well,” he says with a small nod and a tight lipped smile. “Enjoy the evening, both of you.”

The moment his parents leave you and Steve standing at the side of the bar, you feel immense relief.

You breathe a sigh of relief, not even noticing how tense you had felt for the past two minutes as you turn towards Steve. “That was—”

“—I’m really sorry,” Steve cuts in, his hand leaving your back in order to scrub over his face. Before you could even ask what he was sorry for, he continues. “For making them think that you’re my girlfriend. I panicked a little and didn’t know what to say—”

“—Steve, it’s—”

“—and I’m sorry for butting in like that. I know you can stand up for yourself and you didn’t need me to—you know. I just—my dad he just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t just let him talk to you like that. Like he—”

“—Harrington.”

Steve swallows, looking back at you as though he was bracing himself, ready for you to yell at him for doing something for you that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself. But to his utter surprise, you start to smile at him.

“It’s okay,” you tell him gently. “I—I appreciate it. Really. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Steve looks at you as if to make sure that you weren’t lying, his eyes on you making your stomach turn in a way that you weren’t used to around him. 

“Okay,” Steve says with a grateful smile. “Okay. That—that’s good. I thought you were going to lose your shit at me for a second.”

“No,” you say, stopping yourself from smiling back at him. “But the girlfriend thing though, still undecided about that.”

Steve can’t help it, his face flushes a warm pink and before he knows it, he was laughing and you find yourself joining in.

Baby steps.

He says your name then and you look at him, the expression on his face as he looks at you makes the world around you feel a little fussy, makes your stomach flip and your cheeks grow hot.

“Yeah?” you reply in a voice that you hope doesn’t give away just how slightly flustered you were feeling.

“I wanted to—I forgot to say this earlier,” he begins, scratching the back of his neck as though he was nervous, despite the fact you didn’t think it at all possible for Steve Harrington to be nervous. “I think—you just—you look beautiful, Mayfield.”

You weren’t entirely sure why those words had such a monumental effect on you, but they did. Your breath hitches, your face feels ten times hotter and you were almost positive that Steve could hear your heart beating out of your chest because of those words.

“You look pretty good yourself, Steve,” you say with a small, barely there smile.

Steve blinks and then—

“You just called me Steve,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting.

You shrug, you pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

Baby steps.

It was hard not to smile watching Steve twirl not one but two of his little cousins around, especially when their laughter was full of unbridled joy as they begged him for just one more spin around the dancefloor.

You sat at the table you and Steve had been convening at for the past few hours. The table where you had sat for the reception dinner with a handful of his cousins, where you had struggled to hold back tears at the speech by the father of the bride and Steve had placed a warm, comforting hand on your arm. Your skin was still tingling from his touch.

“Please Steve!” the youngest of his cousins, maybe five or six, pouted up at him. “Just one more!”

“Later,” Steve promises with a quick glance over at you. “Later, I promise!”

You were fighting back yet another smile at their whines of protest, at Steve ruffling their hair to make them squeal before walking back over to your table.

“What are you smiling at?” He asks, sitting down in the chair beside yours before taking a long swig of his beer.

“Nothing,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth of your cheeks. “Just—you’re really good with kids.”

Even the colourful disco lights couldn’t conceal the impressive shade of red that Steve had turned at your words.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” Steve murmurs. “Kids are much easier when there’s no Upside Down involved.”

You laugh, which over a few courses of dinner had become something of a common occurrence with Steve. He had made you laugh a lot, more than you wanted to admit. You were beginning to think that Max was right, that perhaps you had been a little too harsh on Steve over the past few years and you even started to feel bad for not giving him a chance sooner. Not that you would ever admit that.

It’s quiet between the two of you then. You watch Steve’s fingers gently drum against the beer bottle in his hands and as he glances over at the dancefloor. You can’t help but look over too, remembering that you had told him no dancing. You found yourself suddenly regretting that part of the deal.

“You want another drink?” Steve asks you, setting down his now empty bottle of beer. “I can get you another—”

“—do you want to dance?”

The words slip out before you could second guess them and you feel your stomach tighten in apprehension. If Steve said no then you would surely have to move far, far away and—

“Yes,” Steve says quietly and with a nod. “I’d love to.”

You look at him to see he was smiling at you and you hate the fact his smile makes your stomach feel a little fussy inside.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you tell him with a faint smile as you stand up from your chair, Steve mirroring your action only a few seconds later.

“I’ll be a gentleman,” Steve tells you with a smile that makes you wonder why you had ever disliked him in the first place. “Promise.”

The moment you and Steve were finally on the dancefloor together, the rest of the wedding faded into nothing. From Cyndi Lauper, to a-ha to Elton John, you and Steve Harrington danced until your feet began to hurt. He spun you around, he laughed when you stumbled over your heels and you laughed when a drunken uncle of his had spilled whiskey all over his blazer. Your laughter quickly died when Steve had thrown his blazer aside, leaving him in his white shirt that he had unbuttoned while loosening his tie, giving you a peak at the hair that adorned his chest. Your throat felt a little try at the sight. 

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Steve begins, smiling at you as Heaven Is A Place On Earth fades into Come On Eileen, “or are you checking me out, Miss Mayfield?”

You laugh like it was funny despite the fact you definitely had been checking him out.

“No,” you deny it with a laugh that causes the corners of Steve’s mouth to twitch. “Course not, Harrington.”

“Oh? Are we back to Harrington, now?” Steve asks in a teasing voice that makes you feel so hot it feels as though your stomach was suddenly made from molten lava. “What did I do? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman to you, Mayfield.”

It took you a moment to realise that he was flirting with you and as soon as you did the heat in your gut began to burn. 

“Just keeping you on your toes,” you tell him, your eyes seeming to sparkle in the light as you look back at him. 

Steve hums, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face as he looks at you. “Misson accomplished.”

There was something in his eyes that seemed to hold you captive, you couldn’t move, could barely breathe and in that second, his eyes dip down to your lips.

“Mayfield, I—”

“—Steve!”

It was the voice of his younger cousins’, the ones he had promised another dance with. You watch as he has to force himself to look away from you, his eyes flickering back for a brief moment to apologise.

“It’s okay,” you tell him with a smile, ignoring the pang of disappointment that had taken refuge in your gut. “I’ll um, I’ll go get another drink while you—”

You gesture towards his younger cousins’ who were both tugging on his arms impatiently, demanding Steve’s attention. He shoots you one last apologetic look before he bends down to pick both squealing girls up with one only arm. You couldn’t deny the way your heart doubled in size at the sight. 

You make your way over to the bar, passing by his parents who you avoid eye contact with while you order yourself another glass of wine and Steve another beer. You tap your nails against the wooden top of the bar, your eyes finding Steve dancing with his younger cousins’ easily. 

“He’s always been great like that with kids.”

The sound of Steve’s Aunt Edith’s voice makes you jump, very nearly spilling Steve’s beer.

“Sorry honey,” she chortles, steading the bottle as you look away from Steve and over at her. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a genuine smile because unlike Steve’s parents, Aunt Edith didn’t make you feel even remotely nervous. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Becuase you were too busy staring at my nephew?” She offers with a wry smile.

Your face warms but you don’t even try to deny it.

“You know, I’ve seen my nephew with a fair few women over the years but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any who could make him blush like you have over the course of the evening,” she tells you.

You couldn’t stop the look of shock from passing over your face, your body buzzing with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I’m just saying,” she continues when you say nothing, your fingers still tapping nervously against the table, “that I think, as his favourite auntie, that you’d be pretty grear together.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say and perhaps Edith knew that because she smiled at you kindly before walking away.

Edith’s words play on your mind as you continue to watch Steve and his cousins. You couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny that the evening had made you see Steve in an entirely different light. It had also made you rethink the Steve you had been so rude to over the past few years; the Steve that always dropped Max back home without a second thought, the Steve that never drove off without ensuring she was safely back inside the trailer, the Steve that had some sort of stupid handshake with Dustin Henderson, the Steve that had brought you tea and made Max lumpy tomato soup after Billy’s funeral. Something inside you twisted as you remembered that fact you had never said thank you to him for doing that.

“You’re looking awfully pensive over here, Mayfield.”

The sound of Steve’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts but his presence does nothing to the swirl of emotions you were feeling.

“Just thinking,” you say finally, turning to face him with a small smile. “Here’s another beer, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Steve grins, taking the bottle from you. Your fingers brush against his and your body feels alive with something you had never had thought you would feel around Steve. “Need it after running around with those kids, I’m too old for this shit.”

You laugh and shake your head in amused disbelief. “You’re twenty one, Steve.”

“Twenty one going on seventy.”

You can barely contain your laughter at that and soon both you and Steve were laughing. You miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips as you laugh, the way his cheeks flush a shade or so darker when you look over at him as the beginning notes of Heaven by Bryan Adams starts to play.

“I know you just got us some drinks,” Steve begins, setting his bottle down onto the bar and gently prying your own glass of wine from your hands. “But I really want to dance with my date.”

The way he said it, the look in his eyes, it was almost too much.

“Plus one,” you correct him, biting back a smile.

“Synmatics,” he says softly, smiling at you before he holds out a hand, palm up, for you to take. “Dance with me, Mayfield.”

There was no other answer but yes.

You let Steve pull you towards the dancefloor, the fluttering in your stomach making you feel almost dizzy as he wraps his arms around your waist while your arms loop around his neck. It was the closest you had ever been to Steve and all you could think about was how incredible he smelled, how you wanted to trace each and every mole that kissed his skin, how truly gorgeous he looked and how alive you suddenly felt in his presence.

“Ever thought that you’d be slow dancing with me?” He asks with a smile that very nearly takes your breath away. 

“Not even in my wildest dreams,” you tell him, trying to cover up the fact your heart was beating so loud you were beginning to suspect it was trying to escape from its home in your chest. “But—I think today may have helped me change my mind about you.”

“Yeah?” He asks with a hopeful smile. “Or maybe you just finally realised how irresistible I am?”

You laugh and Steve smiles so hard that you were surprised that it didn’t hurt. 

“Something like that.”

You and Steve didn’t leave the dancefloor for a long time after that. Even when the song changed to something more upbeat, you didn’t leave Steve’s arms. You slow danced to Madonna, Bruce Springsteen and Prince as guests left the wedding in their droves—the bride and groom sneaking away hours ago.

“You wanna head back?” Steve murmurs against your hair as you sway to Fleetwood Mac, the dancefloor around you significantly less busy as you pull back to look at him.

“Not really,” you admit quietly, trying to ignore how one of his large hands was resting on your lower back, how his touch had set your skin aflame. “But I think we’re about five minutes away from being kicked off the dancefloor.”

Steve chuckles, looking away from you for a moment to glance at the last few stranglers remaining with you two on the dancefloor. They were all incredibly drunk and you can see the amusement in Steve’s eyes as he looks back at you.

“C’mon,” he murmurs before he pulls himself away from you, though his hand remains on your back. “Let’s go for a walk.”

You follow him without hesitation, walking out of the farmhouse with Steve’s hand still on your back and your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I really thought you weren’t going to say yes, by the way,” Steve tells you as you walk over the path, between the red and yellow roses that were illuminated by the glittering lights strung up ahead. “To be my plus one, I mean.”

“I owed Max a favour,” you tell him. “Broke her skateboard. By accident.”

“She mentioned that,” Steve smiles fondly. “I think she thought going to a wedding with me was more tortuous for you.”

You shake your head as you stop in front of the soft pink roses to face him. “Twenty four hours ago, I might have agreed with her but, tonight—I have to admit, it’s been pretty good.”

“Just good?” Steve asks, head tilting to the side as he looks back at you with a smile. 

“No, much better than pretty good,” you say. “Maybe something closer to…pretty incredible.”

“What? Me or the wedding?” Steve asks with a hopeful look back at you.

“Undecided,” you tell with a whisper of a smile.

Silence falls as you continue through the rose garden, the colourful flowers catching your eye as you pass by. But Steve’s eyes remain on you, thought you don’t see it—on the dress that he was sure to dream about, of just how fucking beautiful you looked and how glad he was that you had broken Max’s skateboard.

“For the record, I’m really glad you said yes,” Steve tells you, the hand on your back dipping lower for just a moment and making your insides turn to goo.

“Me too,” you admit. “I um—it made me realise how silly I was—for um, not giving you a chance before. And for you know, not being all that friendly with you.”

Steve says your name and you know by the look on his face that he wanted to tell you that it was okay, that it didn’t matter but you continued talking before he could do so.

“I think I’ve realised that Max may have been right when she said you really were a good guy. I just—I’m her big sister, you know? And—I get my back up a little when people talk bad about my family and I just—I struggled to let go of what you said.”

“Because it was cruel what I said,” Steve begins, slowing down until he stops walking completely, his hand on your back making you do that same. “It was cruel and stupid and I’m sorry. Like, really fucking sorry.”

“I know and—”

“—and if after this you want us to go back to normal then I totally understand and—”

“—Steve!”

“Yeah?”

You smile, shake your head and say, “I don’t want to go back to ‘normal’ after this.”

“Then what do you want?” He asks, hazel eyes twinkling beneath the lights.

You tilt your head to the side, considering him before you say, “another dance?”

Despite the fact there was no music, despite the fact you were in the middle of a rose garden and it was fast approaching midnight, Steve does not deny your request. Instead, he pulls you into his arms like he had on the dancefloor, his body so close to yours that there was barely an inch of space between you and you were very aware of his hand resting on your lower back.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Steve asks in a voice so soft and gentle that you had to lean in to hear him.

“You did,” you whisper back with a barely contained smile.

“Well, I wanna tell you again. You look fucking beautiful, Mayfield. The moment I saw you I thought—fuck, this wedding is gonna be torture.”

Your face warms and you laugh, leaning into Steve so you could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest. 

“Because I’m annoying?” You offer with a teasing smile.

“No,” Steve says quietly, one of his hands reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear carefully. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day, Mayfield. That’s why.”

Everything seems to slow around you. Time, the roses gently dancing in the wind beside you. You can barely believe the words coming out of Steve’s mouth but the way he was looking at you told you that this wasn’t a dream—that Steve Harrington had really admitted to wanting to kiss you.

And it was crazy because twenty four hours ago, you were tossing and turning in your sleep over the idea of today, of the prospect of spending an entire day with Steve at a wedding. And now, you were desperate to feel his lips against yours.

“Then kiss me, before I change my mind.”

Steve blinks, as if to make sure that he had heard you correctly before he pulls you even closer with one arm around your waist. The proximity to Steve makes you feel almost lightheaded, his woodsy, vanillary scent filling your lungs and the hand now cupping your cheek making your body thrum with need.

“As you wish,” he murmurs before he leans in and presses his lips against yours. That first brush of his lips against yours was so inviting, so intoxicating that you felt almost every nerve in your body come alive from the feeling. His mouth was warm, his lips soft and he was kissing like there was nowhere else he would rather be than right here in the rose garden with you.

You kiss him back with no hesitation, warmth seeping through your veins as he gently tilts your head back, coaxing your lips apart with his tongue and making you forget how to breathe. You could have kissed him all night, until the early hours of the morning if you could. Especially when his tongue brushed against yours, making you whine against his lips and tug him even closer.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips, your mouths moving together in an almost desperate sort of way as your fingers curl into his shirt. “You’re gonna ruin me, Mayfield.”

You don’t know how long you stayed there, making out with Steve Harrington in the rose garden but all you knew as you finally pulled away from each other was that your lips were bee stung and his were wet and covered in your lip gloss. He had never looked so good.

“So much for keeping my hands to myself,” Steve grins as he reaches up to swipe his thumb across your swollen bottom lip. You roll your eyes and can’t help yourself—you pull him into another kiss that makes him groan against your mouth. The sound makes you feel incredibly glad that you had broken your sister’s skateboard.

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Now, normally, this kind of thing is against the rules. But tonight is a slow one, with most of the usual patrons choosing a bigger sports bar to go to after the win, and you don’t see a reason to deny this team much of anything right now. 

So, you turn and a handful of shot glasses from the shelf, snagging a fresh bottle of tequila, too. 

“Hey, could I get a glass of water?” A voice calls behind you. 

“Sure thing, do you want—” you start, but freeze when you look up to see who just sat down at the bar.

He smiles, white teeth flashing in the lights. His bleached hair is parted down the middle, falling over his forehead in frizzy, crimped waves. 

“…Ice?” you finish lamely. 

His brown eyes crinkle at the corners, and your stomach does a little flip. 

“Ice? Nah. Well, just—whatever you got’s good. Thanks.”

You nod, swiping a glass and filling it quickly from the tap. 

“Hey, great assist tonight by the way.” The words tumble from your lips as you set the glass down in front of him. 

His eyes flicker with interest as they meet yours again. “You saw the game?”

His jacket gapes a little off his waist, the width of his shoulders filling it out as he reaches for the glass.

“I always turn the TV to local sports.” You motion to the TV in the corner of the bar. As if he couldn’t see it for himself. 

“Shit, seriously? That’s cool.” His gaze lingers on you for a second before he clears his throat, then shifts on the barstool to hold out his hand. “Hey, I’m Teacake, by the way. Well, Travis, technically, but everybody calls me that. Or Tea.” 

You smile, setting down the glass you were holding and reach out to clasp his hand in yours. But when you look down at your hands, you forget entirely how to introduce yourself. 

His hands are so big that his palm practically engulfs yours, and his long, blunt fingers brush your wrist, warm against your skin. 

“How we doin’ on those shots?” Someone calls. 

You jump, the music swelling back into your ears, and you drop Teacake’s hand. Looking up, you find Gus now standing at the bar. He’s tall and lean, with black hair that’s shaved down short. You recognize him as the team’s right winger. 

“Y-yeah! Yeah, got ‘em right here,” you say, flashing Teacake an apologetic look before flipping open the tequila bottle and pouring eight neat shots, all in a row. The liquor gurgles from the spout, splashing right into the glass bottoms without spilling a drop.

“Jesus, you’re really fast at that,” Teacake muses under his breath, and you have to bite your lip to hide your smile. 

Gus turns around to face the bar, then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Body shots!”

An answering chorus of whoops and cheers echo through the bar, and you shake your head in amusement. This is definitely a bad idea, but hey—it’s not every day you win the semifinals. 

“We’re celebrating you tonight, man!” Jamison shouts over the music, coming up behind Teacake and clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. A few of the girls fill the gaps between the stools in front of you, a cloud of sparkling tops and perfume. “What’dya say, girls?” he says, turning to them with a charming grin, sweaty brunette curls sticking to his face. “You wanna show our boy, Teacake, a good time?”

You grab a knife and slice into a fresh lime, the tart smell filling your nose, the sticky juice spilling over your fingers as you try not to look up at him. 

“Hey, hey,” Travis says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

A shadow falls over your cutting board, and you look up to see one of the girls shimmying herself up onto the bar top.  

“Where do want it, Tea?” The girl asks coyly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Here?” She brushes her hand over her cleavage, and the boys crowd around, eyes eager, drinks hooked lazily in their hands. Her hand travels lower, circling the flat stomach peeking out under her top. “Or here?”

He swallows hard, then opens his mouth to say something, but she turns over her shoulder to you before he can. 

“Hand me that, would you?” She says. The neon lights catch in her lashes, and she smiles. 

You reach over to hand her a tequila shot, but she stops you, one manicured finger pointing beside you. 

“No, I meant the bottle.”

Wordlessly, and a little reluctantly, you hand her the tequila bottle, as well as a pinch of margarita salt, and a fresh lime wedge. When she turns back to Travis, a chant starts up from the crowd. 

"Tea-cake, Tea-cake, Tea-cake!”

The team’s bellows are so loud, they temporarily drown out the music. Everyone crowds in even more, and even Landon, their shy goalie, grabs a hold of Teacake’s jacket and shakes him a little in anticipation. 

Travis raises his big hands, motioning for them to stop. A small smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, but he shakes his head, and the cheers dies out. 

The girl on the bar starts to pout, her bottom lip slick with lip gloss. “You’re not any fun.”

“Oh, me?” Teacake asks, pointing a finger into his chest. “I’m fun. I’m huge fun! But look—” He fishes something out of his pocket, then holds it out proudly. “Fourteen months sober.”

He’s holding a sobriety coin. It’s a smooth, slightly tarnished bronze, but Teacake holds it like its treasure. It winks under the flashing lights as he weaves it between his knuckles in a practiced motion. 

Gus groans. “That’s right. Sorry man. I forgot. I didn’t mean—”

“Nah, man, you’re good.” Teacake says, with a little shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it.” Then, he holds out his hand for the drunk girl still perched in front of him. “Shit, here, let me help you down. And it’s not that I don’t want to, okay? Your tits look good. Great, I mean! They look great. Seriously.”

She looks up at him, then, and flashes him a small smile, turning back to her friends. You recognize that look. Pity.

It makes your stomach twist. 

Travis is a fairly new addition to the Bucks. Apparently, after spending a short time in the slammer for something stupid, his childhood hockey coach decided to give him a fresh start. Saw his potential. Saw his heart. 

He’s got more to prove than the others because of this, though, and you recognize that earnest desire to succeed. It matches your own.

Maybe that’s why you find yourself leaning over the bar in front of him and saying, “You know, you don’t have to drink alcohol in order to do a body shot.”

Travis looks over his shoulder at you, and his lips part in surprise. Like, he almost can’t believe you are speaking to him again. The rest of his team still stands around, but they aren’t listening anymore. 

“There are…other ways.” you continue, mouth suddenly dry.

He twists towards you, wide shoulders taking up your vision as he leans over the bar, meeting you halfway.  “Oh yeah?”  His hair flops in his face as he tilts his head. “What other way are we talkin’ about here?”’

You smirk to yourself, then plant your hands on the sticky bar top and level his gaze. 

“Oh. Oh, shit. You mean off me?” His eyes widen and he glances at the girls, then back at you. “Trust me, these girls don’t wanna—”

“I bet they would,” you interrupt with a shrug you hope looks casual. “But I wasn’t talking about them.”

He lets out a quiet, stuttering laugh. “Are….are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’ right now? You want to do a body shot off me?”

Landon, Gus, and Jamison all turn around sharply in unison. It’s honestly kind of impressive for three guys as drunk as they are.

“Wait, what did he say?” Landon asks. 

Jamison gestures towards you with his glass. “I think the bartender’s doing a body shot off Tea.”

At that moment, the song changes. It turns into something with a deep bass, and a sexy tempo that sits low in your hips, humming up your spine. 

“Ohhh yeah. Yep, this is happening!” Gus shouts. “Clear the bar top!” 

A blur of hands grab their drinks from the ledge before you can blink. Gus sure knows how to command a room. 

Travis rubs his neck. “I don’t know, man. I’m trying to get better at not getting talked into shit, you know?”

Jamison scoffs. “What’s the harm in this, T? You’re not the one drinking!”

A cheer runs through the crowd, and in a matter of seconds, the boys have Teacake laid out on the bartop like your personal offering. He’s scoffing, batting their hands away, lips twisted in disgust as they try to rip up his shirt. 

“Ah—okay, what the hell, man? Jesus,” he hisses. “Can take off my own damn shirt…”

Getting a knee up on the counter for leverage, you climb up onto the bar top with him, and man, that really makes the crowd go crazy. 

You seek out his eyes underneath the neon lights as your knees find their place on either side of his hips. His jacket is gone, leaving his chest heaving underneath a mussed white T-shirt, and his tongue darts out over his bottom lip as his gaze meets yours. 

He blushes, but doesn’t look away, so you turn to the girl from before, who’s standing on the ground watching. 

“Can I see that?” You ask. She hands the tequila bottle up to you, clearly a little chagrined she didn’t think of this first. “Thanks.”

 Snatching a pinch of salt from the counter, and a fresh lime wedge, you lean back on your heels and look down at Teacake.

He’s so wide and broad underneath you, your knees almost ache from being spread so far, planted on either side of his ribs. His chest is warm through the cotton shirt, brushing against your inner thighs. 

The rest of him is just as good, from the sliver you can see. His stomach made up of strong muscles under a thin layer of fat you just want to sink your teeth into. 

“There’s no fucking way this is happening,” he mutters in awe.

“Why not?” you ask.

“Why not? I mean—look at you! You’re, like, insanely hot and shit.” 

You smile. “So are you.”

And he is. 

You raise your head to look at the crowd. They’re all gathered around, awaiting your next move as the song’s tempo picks up.

“Where should I put the salt, boys?” You yell over the music. 

A chorus of suggestions rise, each one more risqué than the last, but you turn back to Teacake and move down his body. 

“I think…” You tilt your head, pursing your lips. “Here.”

“Jesus,” Travis hisses, dropping his head back against the bar as you swipe the lime across the sliver of skin just above his waistband, then sprinkle salt over the gleaming strip. “Are you sure you—”

“Hold this for me, would ya?” You reach up and press the lime wedge peel against his mouth, muffling his words. 

Slowly, under your watchful gaze, his lips part and his teeth accept it. 

“Atta girl!” Jamison shouts. “Show him who’s boss!”

Gus cheers, slinging an arm around one of the girls. “Finally, someone who knows how to shut Tea up!”

Travis’ nostrils flare as the lime invades his senses, his pupils dilated and fixed on you. The swinging lights skitter across his lashes, painting his freckles in gold.  

“Good boy.” You murmur, smiling. “Now pull that shirt up higher.”

The boys whoop so loudly the vibrations travel through your kneecaps planted on the bar. They crowd around closer, slamming open palms into each other’s chests, slinging drinks around. 

You’ll have to stay late cleaning this place up. But, considering the view in front of you right now, it’s so worth it. 

Teacake scoffs against the lime at your order, but his lips quirk. The veins in his hands flex as he reaches down and grabs his shirt and drags it higher.

The glass bottle feels slick in your sweaty palm, salt chunks digging into the pads of your fingers in the other, and your heart hammers against your ribs as you stare down at him. 

Lick. Shoot. Suck. 

Easy. 

But as his shirt lifts, revealing hard pecs beneath warm, soft fat, and a chestful of dark hair, your mouth parts on an exhale. He’s so big, and so warm. Like a damn furnace underneath you right now. 

Suddenly, you’re consumed by the urge to know what it’s like to burrow into his side and use that heavy arm like your personal weighted blanket. Your head swims like you’ve already slammed the shot, and—fuck, what are you supposed to do again?

Right. Lick. 

You shuffle down until your face is practically level with his crotch as the song builds to the chorus. He’s wearing dark jeans, spread tight over his thick, muscular thighs. God, if you were alone right now…

But you’re not. And you have a job to do. 

Slowly, you lower your body. You’re utterly entranced by the way his breath heaves once, twice, his head tipping up to look at you, and then your mouth descends—just as the beat drops. 

Cheers erupt, but you hardly hear them over the blood rushing in your ears. 

The harsh bite of salt invades your tongue, but you swipe it across his skin eagerly, looking for the taste of him underneath it. 

With the hand that isn’t clenched around the bar top for stability, you tip the bottle just enough for a small pool of tequila to land on his stomach. His core clenches as it splashes over his body, pooling in his navel before running in rivulets down his sides.  

He curses again from behind the lime, but you swoop in, slurping the alcohol off his body, letting your lips drag over the dips and valley of skin and muscle. His stomach jerks beneath the hot, velvety glide of your tongue, and despite everything, a groan escapes him. 

It’s muffled under the music, you more so feel it than hear it, but it sends a thrill down your spine. 

The tequila bites your taste buds, hot and bitter, but the scent of his skin is overwhelming. Warm, but clean, probably from his shower after the game, with just a hint of sweat that makes embers stir between your hips. 

Hollowing your cheeks, you suck gently, intent on getting every drop, and his hand twitches at his side as if he wants to grab your hair for you.

You look up when his chest vibrates under your lips and find him trying to say something to his teammate from behind the lime. One of the boys has his phone out, filming over Teacake’s shoulder with a wicked grin. 

Travis waves him away, but it’s no use, and when he turns back to you, he’s laughing from behind the fruit, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You laugh too, heartbeat fluttering against Travis’ thigh as you slide your tongue over his abs again. The tequila is gone now, but he deserves to have a video his teammates can wave around, make inside jokes about, or threaten to show everyone at the fancy hockey galas.

Finally, you pull back and crawl up his body. He looks up at you, brown eyes wide and pupils blown. That lime still pitifully stuck between his lips, flesh part facing you. Your hair brushes his cheek and his hand flies up. You think he’s going to brush it away, but instead, he reaches up under your hair, and cups the nape of your neck.

Your heart stops. His hand is so heavy, so warm, as he pulls you down. Your lashes flutter and you try to keep from grinning in excitement as you slowly, slowly lower your mouth down to his. 

His breath ghosts along your cheek as your teeth sink into the flesh of the fruit. The sour tang hits the back of your throat, but you barely feel it, because your bottom lip slides across his. 

Your stomach swoops, heat pooling in your belly. It feels like, for a moment, it’s just the two of you. No music. No onlookers. And when his other hand brushes your thigh beside his hip, you nearly forget how to breathe. 

The hoots and hollers coming from the boys rip you back into the present, and you pull back just far enough to take the lime from your own mouth, but you stay hovered over him, your eyes on his. 

He swallows hard, and his thumb brushes your thigh again. Intentional, this time. Earnest, and almost…grateful. 

“So, you still think girls don’t want to do that to you?” You tease. 

“I think—” He breaks into a helpless laugh. “Shit, man, if this is what’s waiting for me at the afterparty, I’ll win every fucking game.”

“Hey,” you smile down at him with a shrug. “It’s worth a shot.”

a/n: god, I need him bad. like, badddddddddd. expect more hockey!teacake soon. (my sports romance side is coming out, if you couldn't tell)

also, if you liked this, you might like soccer player!travis (football, for her lol) by @moonstoneandmoonlight.

teacake taglist: @xoxocelestial , @s3xytosomeone , @tellcherhesgone , @another-widow , leave a comment here if you want to join!

Thank God you’re all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.

At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors don’t have a curfew, which means the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show. 

It was fun for a while, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway. 

Right after his eyes caught yours. 

You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.

Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each other’s throats for weeks.

Tonight is is counselor’s night out! It’s supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. It’s the night everyone looks forward to the most. 

You should be having fun—being young. Whatever that means. 

At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down. 

Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless. 

He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?

Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone else’s, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally just…snap. 

Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.

God, you have to do everything yourself, don’t you? 

You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lake’s edge. 

Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree. 

Stupid. 

Doesn’t he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? You’re surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight. 

You hope it does. 

His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on. 

You yank on his tent’s zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.

“God, you never could stay quiet, could you?” You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you. 

Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, glaring up at you. 

Despite yourself, your eyes catch on his bicep, and that muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. It’s been torturous pretending you didn’t know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...

You clear your throat. “I just thought I’d let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.”

“What? I’m not—Jesus.” His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. “Get out.”

Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands. 

Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn around—something—because looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.

Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. “Oh, c’mon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” 

Lots of times, actually. 

Through the years, you’d been there for everything—watched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way. 

Because it wasn’t the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.

It was the days that followed.

The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and lonely at the same time.

The nightmares had a way of sticking to your body like blood you couldn’t get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower. 

It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone else’s skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yours—ground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.

But all that came to a screeching halt last summer. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. “Let’s say that I was. You wanted to come over and…cockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.”

You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness. 

Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more. 

You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, that familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach. 

You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. “You think I give a fuck if you’re rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because you’re fucking whimpering and moaning—”

“—I was not whimpering.” 

“—and you’re incapable of keeping quiet—yes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.”

As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze. 

“You offering?”

Your breath catches.

You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himself—literally— and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care. 

But instead, you hesitate. 

Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, that’s for sure. And there are certain patterns he’s picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes. 

Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, he’s already batting the sleeping bag off his lap. 

“I knew it,” he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. “You’re so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where you can’t stand me all summer, and now you’re making up excuses to come into my tent—”

“Oh, trust me,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. “It’s not an excuse.”

“No?” he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. “Then, prove it.”

“Fine, but I’m only staying to keep you quiet,” you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look. 

“Sure. Whatever,” Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him. 

Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but you’re careful not to touch him. 

He wishes you would. 

You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not sitting here all night. God.”

Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense it’s almost painful. The way you’re sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.

And look at you—pretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much. 

Steve heaved a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks he’s doing a good job being quiet. But he can’t smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.

“Steve,” you hiss, warning lacing your voice. 

“Shut me up, then. Goddamn.” He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. “What are you even here for? I could do this myself—” At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. “—oh, fuck yeah.”

Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribs— so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart. 

He’s panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.

He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest. 

Honestly, he should’ve known this is how the summer would end with you. 

He’s known it, and yet, he’s run from it. 

Because the last time he had you…God, he’s been such an idiot. 

Last summer, when you came home from college for break, he’d been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then you’d grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.

Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing with…with something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much. 

He’d been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didn’t surface with anyone else. Only you. 

His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized… he was scared. 

Terrified, actually. 

Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlov’s dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bond…thing? He wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway. 

So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out your bedroom door. 

He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you. 

But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls he’d built up between him and his past came crashing down. 

So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder. 

And fuck, if he doesn’t love that about you.

His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, you’re here. You’re the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips. 

He’s still hard as a rock, but his hand isn’t cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.

Steve curses under his breath. “You wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that pretty mouth?”

“W-what?” You snort. “You can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think you’re going to survive that?”

“Please? Just lick it. Just the tip.”

“Stop begging. Also, be qu—“

“Right. Right, I’ll be quiet,” Steve grumbles. “Just—if you’re gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.” Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.

Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look. 

“C’mon,” he urges, fighting back a smirk. “You know how I like it, baby.”

Shit. 

Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. You’re not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bed…you were his.

You shouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard. 

But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.

His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.

Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him. 

“Fine. But only because it’s faster.” You say.

Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden. 

You jerk your head up, and he can’t see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning. 

Steve’s hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesn’t just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn. 

You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way you’re practically holding hands across his chest.

“God, you’ve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,” Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. “You know that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Steve, you can’t call me a bitch at the same time you’re fucking my hand. Either we’re fighting or we’re fucking. Pick one. Jesus.”

“I don’t know.” His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. “We’re pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so g—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steve’s body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.

You can’t help but remember the panic that seized you when you heard his scream as the Demobats descended. You’ll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over at him and saw him pale and shaking, dripping in blood. 

You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.

“Don’t—” he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs at your hair. 

“What?” You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut. 

“What?” you repeat. “I was there, too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. “I just—really don’t want to be reminded of that right now.”

You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly. 

Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation. 

Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes. 

“Sorry, I’m—that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground. 

He rakes a hand through his hair again in irritation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was just…there’s a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scars—”

You chuckle softly. “Reed, right? I’ve been thinking the same thing all summer.”

“Every time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you here—” He gestures towards you and he trails off. 

You don’t need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice. 

With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag. 

“It’s okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Just—two people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.” 

“Oh yeah? Is that all were?” His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. “Was that all it was for you?”

You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric. 

“No,” you say softly. “But everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feeling…” The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chest—like it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.

Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. “It’s not…bad, right? That feeling?” 

“No, Steve. It’s not bad.” 

A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. “At college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.” You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. “I was scared, like, what if they didn’t believe me, you know? And, well, I’m not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. She treats it all like it’s true, anyway.”

There’s a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance. 

“I’m sorry we fought the last few weeks,” you whisper. “I was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.”

Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. “And you had every right to be,” he says. “I was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, I’m getting better. At least, Robin says I am.”

You chuckle. “I’m sure she’s right.”

“But I am sorry, too. For that, and for…just for everything.”

You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything. 

“I’m proud of you for going to see a counselor,” you say into the dark after a long moment. “Does it help?”

“Yeah,” he says. “But I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.” 

He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.

He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. He’s been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didn’t know how to accept it. Until recently. 

You see that now. 

His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his. 

“Steve, you’ve already done so much. For everyone.”

His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways he’s used them to pull orgasms from your body like he was playing an instrument.

All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back. 

Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.

You search his face for permission, because he already knows what you’re asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you don’t hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up. 

“Let me take care of you for a change,” you say.

He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh. 

Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time. 

His chest heaves with a shaky breath. “Wait, no. No, baby.” 

You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. “You don’t want it anymore?”

“No—shit, of course I want it, but—” He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. at it. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. Can…can you do that?”

You nod once. Then again. “Yes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasn’t—I was just—” your heart slams into your throat. “I still love you.”

A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steve’s face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back. 

“Good,” he says. “Now we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think you’re doing barging into my tent when I’m masturbating, you little brat?”

Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. “I told you! You were being loud.”

“Yeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.”

“That is the real reason!”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so you’re on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours. 

“Just admit it,” he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. “You wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didn’t you?”

Your panties dampen instantly, your clit pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth after so long. 

You might have been at each other’s throats for weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him he’d just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, ‘is that all you got?’ Maybe crook two fingers at you, urging you to ‘give me more.’ 

Well, you could definitely give him more. 

“I don’t know, Harrington,” you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. “I hardly remember what getting head from you is like.”

His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, he’s moving—greedy hands tugging at your shorts. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. “I thought maybe you’d want me to do that thing my tongue that always—” A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see he’s sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you haven’t gotten to suck him off yet, but it’s probably better this way, to be honest. 

It’s literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjob—

Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans, but you’re too blissed out by the stretch that you can’t even get onto him for it. 

Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.

You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open. 

“Missed those sounds you make,” he says, voice muffled against your pussy. 

Shit. 

You hadn’t even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.

He licks messy, broad strokes now, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe. 

Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing bliss—

“Shut up,” Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. “Seriously, shut up if you don’t want them to hear you.” 

“Wha—Steve!” You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. “H-help.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one who gives a shit if they hear.”

The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue. 

You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but that’s a mistake. 

He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning. 

“Cover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,” he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. “I’m busy.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth. 

Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly you’re squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it. 

You’re so wet—both from his mouth and your arousal—that your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and you’re powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you haven’t felt in a year. 

Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outside— loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you don’t have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you. 

You whimper again accidentally. “Steve—” 

“Okay, baby,” he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. When his fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your legs fall open eagerly as he lines himself up. 

When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long. 

Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching our skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.

“Still fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Goddamnit.”

You’re panting, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. “Staying so quiet, look at you. You can’t ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuck—that’s like being tortured all over again.”

You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. “That’s not funny.”

He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that aren’t there. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just—oh yeah, grind that clit into me. That’s it.”

 Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind it causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake. 

His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and oh—fuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter. 

“Fuck—Steve,” you gush. “Please.”

“What do you need?” He rasps against your throat. “I’m all yours.”

Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him. 

Only him.

“You need me to kiss you?” he says, breath hot in your ear. “Need me to shut you up?”

You nod frantically. 

“Go on, ask me for it.”

You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. “Kiss me, Stevie. Please, please—” 

“Fuck,” Steve groans at the nickname he hasn’t heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours. 

The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry. 

“Missed you, baby,” he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. “So much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.” He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?”

Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his. 

Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him. 

Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust. 

The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream. 

You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finally—you’re falling. 

Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steve’s cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you. 

He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know he’s close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit. 

“Mmhmm, mhhhmm.” Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against your cervix, painting your walls with his come, even as he strokes your knuckles tenderly with his tongue.

It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you. 

He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once he’s done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and it’s amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort. 

“So…truce?” Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.

Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy. 

Maybe it’s because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.

And maybe it’s because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harrington’s heartbeat will always be in your future.

“Truce.”

a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, don’t you just love it when characters high jack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.

“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”

Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son. 

As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter. 

The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.

Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him. 

Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you. 

You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch. 

Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”

Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.

Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”

“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.

Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”

The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.

Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.

You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.

The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.

He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks. 

He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating. 

In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.

Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.

And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him. 

That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.

As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you. 

Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.

You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug. 

“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”

You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”

“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”

You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”

Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.

“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you. 

You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”

“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.

“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”

Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”

He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage. 

“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”

Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”

You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”

“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up. 

“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand. 

Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”

Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.

Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him. 

Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window. 

Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer. 

“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again. 

Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!” 

His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him. 

The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”

“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.

“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”

Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell. 

“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.

“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”

You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms. 

“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”

He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying. 

Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions. 

“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him. 

Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you. 

Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him. 

“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming. 

Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?” 

The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs. 

Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”

He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”

You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.

A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly. 

Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.

You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch. 

Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”

“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”

You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”

Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”

You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”

“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”

You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”

You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him. 

A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.

You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed. 

You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.

Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward. 

Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter. 

“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”

Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”

Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”

“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”

“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”

He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”

You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks. 

“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.

“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”

“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”

Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”

You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.

“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.

Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”

“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.

You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."

“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”

“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”

Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”

Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it. 

“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.

“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”

“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”

Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”

His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”

The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always. 

His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”

His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.

Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone. 

You don’t care. You’re already gone. 

It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears. 

“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling. 

Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”

“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly. 

He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it. 

You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.

“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him. 

He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”

“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”

His chuckle echoes down the hall.

The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready. 

Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.

“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.

“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.

You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.

You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.

The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.

“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.

You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”

You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”

He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”

When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh. 

You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”

“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.

“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him. 

Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”

“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”

“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.

“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”

Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”

“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”

“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.

“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”

“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”

“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.

Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”

“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”

“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”

“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.

“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”

“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.

“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.

“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”

For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”

“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”

“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”

“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.

“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”

The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.

Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life. 

And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.

And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered. 

Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.

With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath. 

His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen. 

Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh. 

Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door. 

You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes. 

It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid. 

After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape. 

Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor. 

You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened. 

Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of. 

Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”

Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately. 

A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.

Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.

He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.

Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.

She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”

You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family. 

But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.

“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”

Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator. 

He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again. 

When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”

“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.

You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.

The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”

“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly. 

“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”

“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”

He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”

“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”

“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”

You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”

“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.

“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”

You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”

“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”

“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”

He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”

“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”

“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”

You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.

“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”

Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.

“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”

He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”

“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”

“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”

“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”

Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”

“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.

Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”

You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision. 

You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand. 

So, that night, you don’t go back to your room. 

You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.

You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.

Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.

“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.

“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”

You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.” 

Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.

Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”

“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”

Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”

You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.

When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”

“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”

“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”

“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.

“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.

“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”

“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.

“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”

With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.

Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat. 

 It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.

Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore. 

You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you. 

You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won. 

It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you. 

You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.

You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory. 

The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces. 

And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off. 

The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you. 

Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it. 

You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips. 

You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.

Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth. 

His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it. 

Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs. 

Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”

“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”

“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”

You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”

His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there. 

“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature. 

“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”

You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.

When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”

“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”

With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”

“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch. 

Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”

“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire. 

“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway. 

“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest. 

You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”

“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?” 

Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”

You give him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.” 

“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”

“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you. 

“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.

Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.

Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”

“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”

Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?” 

You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”

He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”

“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.

Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”

“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.

“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp. 

Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.

“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak. 

“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.” That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting. 

Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.

Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it. 

His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”

His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.

His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”

The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.

And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt. 

He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks. 

“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”

“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”

“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”

“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”

Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low. 

Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”

You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”

At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips. 

It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing. 

As in most things, Gator feels different.

It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face. 

Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”

“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed. 

“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered. 

“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”

“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows. 

“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”

You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”

He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”

Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts. 

“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”

The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.

“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”

You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”

“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.

“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.

“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”

“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”

Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again. 

“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.

“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself. 

Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”

Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”

“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”

“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.

“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”

“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”

“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.

“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.

“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up. 

“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”

“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.

“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.

Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.

In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.

“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.

You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.

“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.

“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”

“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”

“Gator—“

“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”

He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.

Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together. 

“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.

You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”

Gator pulls back, looking downright appalled. “What?”

You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”

“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”

“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.

Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”

You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”

Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”

“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”

“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”

“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly. 

He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth. 

“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly. 

You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”

“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly. 

“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”

“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”

“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”

“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.” 

“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.

“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”

Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”

He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”

“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”

“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.

Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”

His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.

Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him. 

“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you. 

“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”

You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation. 

Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”

“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut. 

He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”

With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch. 

“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”

You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain. 

“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”

You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again. 

A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring. 

“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”

“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants. 

He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”

“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”

Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again. 

When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”  

“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”

You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.

“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”

You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.

The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago. 

“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”

“Shut up,” you breathe. 

“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”

“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”

“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”

“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”

He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.” You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”

He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”

“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”

“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.

“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”

Gator groans.

“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”

“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.

You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”

“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”

“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.

“Yeah, baby?”

You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.

“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.

You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours. 

“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back. 

He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”

Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”

His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.” 

You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”

“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”

“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.

Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”

“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”

Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–

You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you. 

He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion. 

Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp. 

For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too. 

Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight. 

Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum. 

Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.

He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.

“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.

He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.” You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”

Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”

You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”

“I am,” he insists, voice low. 

The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off. 

“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe. 

“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”

“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”

You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”

“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”

You huff. “No.”

“Lunch.”

“Gator—“

“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”

“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”

“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.

Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”

“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”

“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.

“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.

He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."

You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”

“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”

“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”

He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”

You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.

Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”

“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”

“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”

You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”

“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.

“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”

Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”

“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”

“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.

The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”

You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.

You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.

When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”

“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.

“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”

You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”

“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”

“I’m not–”

“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”

You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”

Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know?” you press him. 

“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”

You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.

She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?

Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”

Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you. 

“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”

“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming. 

He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”

You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.

“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”

You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat. 

Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation. 

So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”

Trudging to the bar, he slides onto a stool while nodding to the older-looking man a bit to the left, only earning a scoff and an eye-roll.

“Never mind them,” a cheerful voice steals Logan’s attention, “they ain’t mean.”

The bartender’s surprisingly young compared to the place. Maybe it’s a family business and she’s working during a break from uni or something. Now she’s holding up a beer, silently questioning if that’s what he wants. It is.

“D’you have any grub?” he asks.

“Not much but some, sure,” she smiles.

The guy that had scoffed leans in from the side. “Better not get too friendly. He’s gonna mosey on soon enough.”

Annoyance, frustration, tiredness. It all roils inside Logan for a moment but he keeps quiet, knowing it won’t be any good to pick a fight.

But the bartender rolls her eyes. “Ease up, Jack. If I leave, I leave of my own will and not because of some hot-shot rolling through.”

Logan arches an eyebrow as the guy continues: “We need you here.” Seems a bit over the top to the newcomer.

She sends Jack a sharp look before going to busy herself with preparing the food for Logan. Logan, whose mind is working overtime until he decides to test his hypothesis when she puts the plate before him.

“Stop me if I get too close,” he grumbles, picking up the sandwich, “but you’re like me, aren’t ya?”

The entire bar goes impossibly still but the girl just smiles softly at him.

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Hmm.” He takes a big bite. “Don’t let people boss y’around.”

That makes her laugh, clear and pretty. “They tried once but they learned from that,” she winks.

“What’s ya deal?”

“I make the animals behave. Don’t sound like much but sure is handy out here. Cattle, wolves, rats...they listen to me.” She pauses, head slightly askew to regard him. “Wonder if a wolverine would listen too.”

It’s dark, but from the window behind you, you can just make out the silhouettes of dusty beach chairs, that old deflated basketball, and right where the board usually sits…there’s nothing.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

This is bad. Really bad. Someone must have come in and stolen it! Had you left the shed door unlocked? No, you are very careful!

You fly outside like a woman possessed. The sun spears your eyes, and you shade them with your hand as you cast a panicked look around the property.

Everything looks to be in order. The light blue house looms over you, and past the gated deck, a sandy trail leads down to the beach. Even from here, you can hear the distant crash of waves against the shore.

Where could it be? You always put it back. Always.

Replacing that board would cost you half of what you make all summer, and you can’t afford that.

Suddenly, something odd catches your eye. The slatted wooden gate around the back deck is slightly ajar.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re running to investigate. The concrete burns the pads of your feet as you slip through, and turn the corner fast. Too fast.

You freeze as your vision fills with tan skin, broad shoulders, and a hell of a happy trail.

There's a guy in the outdoor shower on the deck.

Naked.

The water smacks the concrete as he tips his head back, letting the streaming droplets fall over the bridge of his nose, over his jaw, catching in his chest hair—

Suddenly, his eyes snap to yours.

Your body turns to stone, even as your heart slams against your ribs.

What the fuck are you doing? Why are you still looking? Stop—

Instead of jerking back in surprise, he just...smirks. His shoulders shift slightly, but instead of away, they turn towards you. Which gives you an incredible front row seat to the muscles flexing in his forearm, and his large hand drifting down his abdomen...

Fuck. He’s hot.

“Hi.”

His voice slams you back into the present.

“Ohmygodi’msosorry—” the words rush out of you like a torrential wave, and you promptly spin on your heel, face burning.

He just chuckles behind you, and you can tell from the direction of his voice, he’s still facing you.

“Lookin’ for something?”

Something about the casual tone of his voice makes your stomach dip.

“What?” Oh I’m—“ You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment, wiling your thoughts into words and not just images of that flash of something long and thick and…"I work here. I mean—I work for the Harringtons. During summer break.”

Just saying it out loud reminds you of what you're supposed to be doing, and a rush of dread spreads through your gut at the thought of the missing board.

“So, me,” he says.

You blink. “W-what?”

“So, you work for me.”

His voice is low and even, maybe slightly amused, despite him being fully naked behind you. Why the fuck does that do things to you?

“Wait.” Your eyes widen, staring unseeing at the beach far below. “You’re their son? Steve?”

“Last I checked.”

God, no one thought to tell you that the boy next door was hot as hell, did they?

“I’m just paid to keep an eye on things when I’m not at college,” you explain hastily, tamping down the lust settling low in your gut. “Y’know, make sure stuff stays in working order when you aren’t here.”

Steve hums. “So, what kind of stuff?”

“What?” You squeak. “Y’know…stuff!”

“Stuff like surf boards?”

Shit. You wince. Listening to the uneven slap of the water on the concrete behind you is a kind of torture. Your fingers twitch around the towel.

“I’m s-so s-orry," you stammer after a moment. "Your parents didn’t tell me they were coming home—”

“No, it’s…” Steve clears his throat. “It’s just me.”

“Aren't you supposed to be at college?"

He chuckles, and the warm, throaty sound goes straight to your core.

“It’s summer break. Remember?"

Embarrassment sears through you again, as sharp and hot as the afternoon sun. There's a plastic clicking sound behind you, and then a pleasant smell hits your nose. Like coconut, and sandalwood, and something vaguely familiar. A small soap bubble drifts past your line of sight, caught in the breeze.

It seems he’s still continuing his shower despite you being here. Speaking of which, why exactly are you still here?

You clear your throat, resisting the urge to look back at him. To watch the soap buds crawl down his body, watch his long fingers glide over his thick length...

Yeah, your job is officially over, isn’t it? 

Here you are, losing your boss's expensive property, while entertaining sinful thoughts about their son, Steve Harrington, taking you right here on their back porch.

Oh, God, get a grip!

“Alright," you say with a sharp exhale, "Well, I’ll just—”

“Can I ask you something?” Steve interrupts.

“Um. Yes?”

“You always wear a swim suit to work?”

Your pulse leaps. “What?”

“Didn’t know that was the standard maid uniform these days,” Steve says, smugly.

Irritation flares in you, and you cross your arms, trying to ignore the uncomfortably hot ground under your feet, and the ache building in your core.

“I’m not a maid,” you snap. “And who cares what I wear, you’re the one showering naked in broad daylight!”

Steve laughs. “It’s my house. Besides, I had sand in my swim trunks. Surfing will do that to you.”

Oh. Well, mystery solved. Thank God.

You huff. “Well, good luck with that. I'm going—”

“Will you do me a favor?” He interrupts. Again. “I forgot a towel.”

The nerve of this man.

“Fine,” you groan. “I’ll just go and grab—”

“The one you’re holding would be good."

Right.

When you reach back blindly, holding the towel out to him, you expect the squeak of the water turning off, or the slap of his feet against the wet ground. But none of that happens.

Instead, your outstretched fingers brush Steve's skin.

Your arm wobbles, a gasp caught in your throat as his hand finds your forearm. His fingers are wet, but warm, as he gently turns your wrist until your palm faces down. You stare down at the ground, watching the towel’s shadow shrink as he gently pulls it from your hand. It falls in a heap onto the concrete.

Your heart slams against your ribs. And then—there’s a feather light touch against your knuckles.

Finally, you let yourself peek over your shoulder.

Steve's watching you from under wet lashes, his damp hair falling slightly into his eyes, as he leans down and brushes his lips across the back of your hand.

A gentlemanly kiss. So out of place like this, but...sort of sweet nonetheless.

A shaky exhale leaves your chest, and you stare back at him. The water continues to pour down, droplets glistening in the sunlight like glass beads, running over the moles decorating his broad shoulders.

Steve raises his head, then gives your hand the gentlest of tugs towards him. Just enough to let you know what he wants, but slow and careful enough to give you every chance to pull back.

You recognize it for what it is.

An invitation.

You shouldn't. It doesn't matter that he's stupidly hot. You work for his parents, so you should do the responsible thing and leave right now.

But, you don’t.

Instead, your thighs press together instinctively, and your nipples harden against your swimsuit as you follow his lead.

One step. Then another. Suddenly, you’re right in front of him. Warm mist coats the side of your face as you look up into his eyes.

You’re not sure who moves first, but not two seconds later, his mouth is on yours. Your body reacts on instinct, stumbling into him and gripping his shoulders as you kiss him back. The shower spray pours down your body, making you shiver even as the sun overhead spears through your closed lids.

Steve pulls back a fraction, his hair dripping water over your collarbones.

“You want this, too, right?” he says, breathless already.

God, yes. You answer him by closing the distance again, threading your fingers through his wet hair.

He groans into your mouth, but promptly holds you back again, his large hands settling on your hips.

“Need to hear you say it, sweetheart."

Your breasts heave against his chest hair with every inhale as you try to find your voice.

Why shouldn't you have a little fun with him? You're both obviously into each other, and you’re secluded enough back here. No one around to catch you in the act.

The thrill of it grips you by the spine. Slowly, your eyes drift down his body as he waits for your reply. Steve’s cock stands proud and at attention, thick and long beneath that happy trail that makes your mouth water.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, I-I want this.”

All it takes is one more flash of his brown eyes in the sun before your mouths collide again. Hungrily.

Your knees go weak, but his hands are there, sliding up the curve of your waist. He pushes you gently until the wooden deck wall meets your back and you lean on it, thankful for the grounding presence as all the blood in your body rushes to your clit.

“Little rule breaker,” Steve murmurs. “Running around in this tiny bikini. Stealing my board.”

“I wasn’t stealing it!" you protest, "I was—mmmm.”

Your lashes flutter shut as his tongue glides across your lower lip, your mouth parting on instinct.

God, he tastes good. Like saltwater taffy that’s been left out in the sun.

The steady stream of water coats your hands as you explore his body. He whimpers a desperate sound of approval at your touch, and you dig your nails into the warm muscles of his back when his teeth find your lip.

Your bikini is soaked now, plastered to your curves, and your wet cunt. He pinches your nipple through the fabric, and you immediately whimper, arching into him as his erection brushes your lower stomach.

His cock is silky and hot against you, and the water just adds to the slick grind of your bodies against each other.

“Look at you,” Steve mutters, pulling back to run his thumb across your jaw. “Lips all swollen from just from my kisses…”

Turning your head, you take his finger in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the pad until his eyes darken.

Then, without warning, Steve drops to his knees.

The shower spray pelts his hair, dancing across the freckles on his nose, and you shift to shield him from the droplets just as he reaches up and pulls your bikini bottoms to the side.

His tongue darts over his lips as he looks up at you from between your thighs. “...and I’m not even close to done.”