vani ‹𝟑

Your brain felt fuzzy. Not just because you had just woken up but because one of Steve’s large hands was beginning to roam over your body—one smoothing over your hip, the other skimming along the skin of your thigh. Everywhere he touched felt as though it was burning because Steve Harrington still had that effect on you, apparently.

“Like where?” You hum back a reply, trying to ignore the feeling bubbling up in your gut, one that made you feel every nerve in your body, one made you very aware of the wetness already pooling between your legs. “Cancun?”

Steve smiled against you before his tongue glides across the skin of your neck, causing a small whimper that you couldn’t help to slip from your lips. “Not quite.” He murmurs in a low voice, one that makes your pussy clench around nothing and your thighs to squeeze together.

That he notices. Because of course he does.

“Try again,” he hums, leaving a trail of wet kisses along your skin as one of his hands dips lower, running along your inner thigh and making your blood sing with want.

“Stevieee,” you breathe in a voice that was somewhere between a moan and a whimper, your head titling back to rest on his shoulder. Steve can’t help but smile at the nickname, remembering a time when it had made his skin crawl and now it made his heart soar when it fell from your lips. “Please, I need—”

He cuts you off by parting your thighs with his large hands, fingertips dragging across the skin in a slow, sensual dance that made your nipples grow taunt, made you forget about everything else that existed outside of Steve and his touch.

“Need, what?” Steve asks you in that lilting voice of his that made you feel conflicted about whether you wanted to kiss him or smack him for teasing you this early in the morning. “C’mon baby, just keep guessing. You’ll get it right.”

You huff, a little annoyed by his teasing but feeling your cunt throb in anticipation as his hands move an inch or so higher up your thigh.

“Croatia?” You offer, bottom lip pulled your teeth as Steve’s hands gently coax your thighs further apart.

Steve thinks about it, deft fingers now brushing over the damp patch that he formed in your panties from all his teasing. You whimper as they come into contact with your clothed clit, the small jolt of your body making Steve smile before he ducks his head down to suck gently at the spot on your neck that he knew drove you crazy.

“Try again, sweet girl.”

You let out a whine, unable to stop yourself because not only were Steve’s lips sucking at your skin but his skilled fingers were easing pressure on and off your clit over your panties, making your body jolt with each movement and making it difficult to think about anything other than him.

You try to think but all you could focus on was Steve and his fucking fingers, of his lips on your neck. “P-Puerto Rico?”

When he shakes his head, you could have cried. God, all you wanted was for him to touch you. All you wanted was for him to pull your panties to the side and fuck you with those thick fingers of his.

“Stevie, please—”

You couldn’t see Steve’s face but you knew he was smiling, you knew he was absolutely loving every minute this.

“No, baby, you gotta guess,” he tells you, pulling your panties to the side so he could use two long fingers to part your glistening folds. “C’mon, you’re so smart, you’ll get it.”

A soft mewl leaves your lips as Steve’s fingers glide easily through your wetness, collecting your slick and humming as he did so. Fucking tease. Heat was surging to your gut, making it near impossible to think of any vaguely coherent thoughts.

“Ha-Hawaii?” You finally gasp out, your hips pressing back against his achingly hard cock as he slowly—so very slowly—sinks two thick fingers into your sobbing cunt.

“Almost, sweet girl,” he tells you, leaning in to nip at your ear lobe as he begins to pump his fingers into your needy hole. That sensation alone was enough to have your toes curling but with every press of his fingers inside of you, he curls them, pressing the digits against your front wall and making stars burst behind your eyes. “You’re so close, aren’t you? Keep guessing, baby. You got this.”

You were a mess of moans and whimpers, the sounds coming from your soaked cunt were obscene as Steve continued to fuck his fingers into you. He can't help but cant his hips forwards, making you feel his thick, rock hard cock against your ass.

"Cost-oh!-Costa Rica?"

Steve doesn't respond right away, he's too busy plunging two fingers deep inside of you and listening to the pretty sounds that leave your lips as a result.

"Yeah, baby," Steve murmurs and the low rumble of his voice makes your velvety walls squeeze his digits, causing him to groan and seek friction against you. "You got it. Such a good girl f'me."

Those two words alone were enough to make fresh heat surge through your body. But when his thumb nudges against your swollen, puffy clit? You couldn't help the way your body convulses with pleasure, the wanton moan of Steve's name that leaves your lips and the way you were now dripping down his wrist.

"We were on the beach," Steve tells you, thumb expertly circling your clit while his fingers continue to pump in and out of you. "And you were wearing this fucking bikini and it got me so fucking hard, baby. I woke up needing to have your sweet pussy wrapped around my fingers, needed to make my girl feel good.”

You could feel it, the tightening sensation in your lower belly that was heightening your senses. The smell of sex that still clung to the bedsheets from last night, the squelching sounds of your cunt as Steve's fingers disappeared inside of you, the sight of your slick dripping down onto the sheets beneath you, the feeling of Steve's cock pressed against you.

"S-Steve," you gasp out, squeezing your eyes tight shut as the feeling of him pressing his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you made the coil in your gut feel close to snapping. "I'm going to—"

But you don't get to finish, because Steve's thumb was rubbing circles over your clit and suddenly—your orgasm was crashing over you.

It was so intense. You felt it in every nerve in your body, the pleasure almost consuming you as your vision whites out and your pussy gushes around Steve's fingers, your release coating the digits and wetting the sheets beneath you.

"Fuuuuck," Steve breathes out, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his cock now so hard that it was almost painful. "That's it, pretty girl. I got you. I always got you."

You were trembling, pleasure still thrumming through you even as Steve withdraws his fingers from you.

You finally roll over to look at him then and feel heat swoop back down to your gut at the sight of Steve licking his fingers clean.

Fuck, how did you get so lucky?

Steve hums at the taste of you coating his fingers, your essence almost as sweet as honey to him. Steve's eyes stay locked with yours as he withdraws his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop.

"Tastes like heaven, baby," he tells you, lifting a hand to cup your jaw gently, a look of utter devotion on his face as he stares at you. "You're fuckin' heaven on earth, sweet girl."

You roll your eyes at his words but your face warms, the corners of your mouth twitching as you try not to smile.

"Sap."

Steve laughs, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, his hardness pressing against your thigh and making heat pool low in your gut again.

"But I'm your sap, baby.”

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Gator had texted you earlier, something simple and almost shy for him: Come over. Stay the night. Dad’s gone till tomorrow. No emojis, no crude jokes. Just that. And you’d said yes before you could overthink it.

Now you were here, parked behind the big barn so no one driving by on the county road would spot your car. The house was quiet except for the creak of floorboards under your boots as Gator led you upstairs. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles in a way that felt new, gentle, almost careful.

His bedroom door clicked shut behind you, and the rest of the world fell away.

It wasn’t a big room. The ranch house had that lived-in, slightly worn feel everywhere, but Gator’s space felt like a time capsule. Posters of classic muscle cars and heavy metal bands curled at the edges on the walls. A shelf still held a few dusty toy cars from when he was a kid, lined up next to empty beer cans and a half-dead houseplant someone had probably given him as a joke. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, and the lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, golden glow that softened all the hard edges.

Gator stood there for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water? Or… I got soda in the fridge downstairs.”

You smiled, stepping closer. “I’m good.”

He nodded, but his shoulders stayed tense. You’d seen him cocky a hundred times, strutting around in his deputy uniform, cracking dumb jokes, trying way too hard to be the big man his father expected. Tonight he just looked… young. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.

You reached up, brushing a strand of his dark hair off his forehead. “Hey. It’s just me.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “That’s the problem.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in and kissed you. It started soft, almost hesitant, his lips moving against yours like he was testing the waters. Then you sighed into it, hands sliding up his chest, and something in him unlocked. The kiss deepened, slow and thorough, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You tasted the faint mint of his toothpaste and the underlying sweetness that was just Gator.

Clothes came off gradually, between kisses and quiet laughs when his belt buckle got stubborn. He tugged your shirt over your head, reverent fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder. You unbuttoned his flannel, pushing it off his shoulders, then reached for the hem of his white t-shirt.

He caught your wrists gently.

“Wait.”

You paused, searching his face. His cheeks were flushed, eyes darker than usual. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. Just…” He exhaled through his nose, looking away. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” You freed one hand and cupped his jaw, turning him back to you. “Talk to me.”

Gator swallowed hard. For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, like he was ripping off a bandage, he grabbed the back of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one motion.

The sight hit you like a quiet punch.

His chest and stomach were lean, corded with muscle from ranch work and whatever half-assed workouts he did to impress his dad. But when he turned slowly, offering you his back, your breath caught.

Scars.

Dozens of them, crisscrossing his skin in pale, raised lines. Some thin and straight, like from a belt or a switch. Others thicker, jagged, as if something had torn instead of sliced. A few looked old, faded to silvery white; others still carried a faint pink edge, newer. They mapped his shoulders, his spine, the backs of his ribs. One particularly nasty one curved over his left shoulder blade like a brand.

You’d known Roy Tillman was a hard man. Everyone in the county knew. But knowing and seeing were two different things.

“Oh, Gator…” The words slipped out soft, full of something you couldn’t name yet.

He didn’t turn around. His voice came out tight, almost defensive. “Yeah. Not exactly pretty, huh? Figured you’d see eventually if we kept doin’ this, but… tonight’s different. You stayin’ over and all.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I got jumped by a bear or somethin’ dumb.”

You stepped closer until your front brushed his back. Carefully, giving him every chance to pull away, you laid your palms on his scarred skin.

He flinched, just a tiny twitch but didn’t move.

Your fingers traced one of the longer lines, feather-light. “These are from him?”

A long pause. Then, barely audible: “Most of ‘em.”

You pressed a kiss to the spot between his shoulder blades, right over a cluster of smaller marks. His skin was warm, smelling faintly of soap and the outdoors. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t gotta be sorry. Ain’t your fault.” His voice cracked just a little. “Just… didn’t want you lookin’ at me different.”

“I’m not.” You kissed another scar, then another, working your way across his back with slow, deliberate affection. “I’m looking at you, Gator. The guy who makes me laugh even when I’m mad at him. The guy who drove twenty miles in a snowstorm last week just to bring me soup when I was sick. The guy who’s trying so damn hard even when the world keeps kicking him.”

He turned then, capturing your face in his hands and kissing you fiercely. There was gratitude in it, and relief, and something deeper that neither of you had named yet. When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy.

“You don’t gotta say stuff like that.”

“I want to.” You guided him toward the bed, and he let you, sitting on the edge while you knelt between his knees. Your hands never left his skin, stroking up his arms, over his chest, avoiding nothing. “You’re more than what he did to you.”

Gator’s breath hitched when your lips found a scar on his collarbone. “I ain’t… I ain’t good at this soft shit.”

“You’re doing fine.” You smiled against his skin. “Lie down.”

He obeyed, stretching out on his back. You climbed up beside him, pulling the covers over both of you before settling half on top of him, your head on his chest. His heart hammered under your ear.

For a while you just lay there, listening to the wind and the occasional creak of the old house. Your fingers kept moving, light circles over his ribs, tracing the edges of scars you could reach, then smoothing over unmarked skin like you could erase the memory of pain with touch alone.

“You ever talk about it?” you asked quietly.

He snorted. “With who? Dad? Yeah, that’d go over real well.”

“With me. Or anyone.”

Gator was quiet so long you thought he might not answer. Then: “He always said it was to make me tough. Make me a man. Said the world out there’d eat me alive if I was soft.” His hand found your hair, playing with the strands absently. “Guess I believed him for a long time. Still do, sometimes. That’s why I act like an asshole half the time. Figure if I’m loud enough, mean enough, nobody’ll look too close.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes. “I see you. The real you. The one who’s scared and funny and kind when he thinks no one’s watching.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “You’re too good for this place. Too good for me.”

“Stop that.” You leaned up and kissed him softly, then again, until he relaxed beneath you. “I’m right where I want to be.”

The kisses grew slower, deeper. Not rushed like your usual hookups in the truck or against the barn wall. This was unhurried, exploratory. You mapped every inch of him with hands and mouth, paying special attention to the scars, kissing them, whispering nonsense words against them, letting him feel cared for in a way you suspected no one ever had.

Gator’s hands roamed your back, gentle despite their calluses. He murmured your name like a prayer when you kissed the worst scar on his shoulder. When you finally settled over him, taking him inside you with a shared sigh, it felt like more than sex. It felt like coming home.

You moved together in a slow rhythm, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. His eyes stayed open, locked on yours, raw and unguarded. Every thrust carried quiet emotion: thank you, I see you, I’m here. When you came, it was with his name on your lips, and he followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he shuddered.

Afterward, you stayed tangled up, your head back on his chest, one leg thrown over his. His fingers drew lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.

“You’re stayin’ the whole night?” he asked, voice sleepy and hopeful.

“Mhm. Unless you kick me out at dawn.”

He huffed a laugh. “Not a chance.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, broken only by the distant lowing of cattle and the wind. You traced one of the scars on his side again, feeling the raised tissue under your fingertip.

“Does it still hurt? Any of them?”

“Sometimes. When it’s cold. Or when I think about it too much.” He shifted, pulling you closer. “But right now? Nah. Feels… better with you touchin’ ‘em.”

Your heart squeezed. You pressed another kiss right over his heart. “Good. Because I plan on touching them a lot.”

Gator’s chuckle rumbled under you. “Greedy.”

“Only for you.”

He tilted your chin up for another kiss, sweet, lingering, full of all the things he couldn’t quite say yet. When he pulled back, his expression was softer than you’d ever seen it.

“I ain’t used to this,” he admitted. “Somebody lookin’ at all my ugly parts and not runnin’.”

“They’re not ugly.” You rested your palm flat over a cluster of marks on his ribs. “They’re proof you survived. Proof you’re still here, still trying. That’s beautiful to me.”

His eyes shimmered again. He blinked hard, then tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders like he could shield you both from the world outside this room. “You’re gonna make me go all soft, woman.”

“Good. You deserve to be soft sometimes.” You snuggled deeper into his side. “And I’ll be here to remind you.”

Gator didn’t answer with words. Instead he held you tighter, his breathing evening out as sleep started to pull at him. Just before he drifted off, he mumbled against your hair, “Thank you. For stayin’. For… seein’ me.”

You smiled into the darkness. “Always.”

The ranch house settled around you, old timbers groaning like they approved. Outside, the North Dakota night stretched endless and cold, but inside Gator’s room, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the scars felt less like wounds and more like roads that had led you both right here to this quiet, affectionate moment where fooling around had quietly, beautifully, become something real.

You fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart, your hand still resting protectively over the map of his past, promising silently to help him write a better future.

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you moved to a small apartment when you finished university because that’s what you had always wanted.

you always thought that living independently would be easy for you; you were a hard worker, a good student and your family helped you with the money at first.

the idea of living alone felt like freedom to you.

no one telling you when to come back home, no sharing the bathroom, no having to make lunch. you just wanted your own space, sitting on the couch on quiet mornings with coffee.

so when you had it, you painted the walls, you filled it with your decorations, and for the first few months, you felt like you were happier than you’d ever been.

you loved coming home to silence and also loved the independence that came with paying your own bills and making your own rules.

but then rent went up.

again.

and again.

the building was sold to some new owners who just didn’t care that you were a good tenant. they wanted more money, and they didn’t care that you couldn’t handle the new price.

you tried everything; cutting back on groceries, canceling every subscription and even considering a third job, but it wasn’t enough.

so you had to do what everyone would have done.

look for a roommate.

you posted in every social media you had, and now that’s how you ended up here.

i’m a two-bedroom apartment on the center of the city, sharing space with awkward programmer names keys.

well, you thought he was awkward at first.

he was practical and serious.

so you two started as polite roommates.

then friendly roommates.

and now, you two were almost best friends.

keys and you spent nearly every evening together.

keys would be coding in the couch while you cooked dinner, both of you talking about your day.

on weekends, you’d watch movies until late, sharing a blanket and your kegs eventually tangled together without saying any word.

he made you laugh like no one else would.

you made him feel seen in a way he never had before.

but lately, the tension became impossible to ignore.

it was the look he gave you while you weren’t paying attention. the way his hand would linger on your back when he passed behind you in the small halls, and the way the conversations would suddenly get quieter.

you were scared.

so when a guy from your office asked you out, you didn’t even think it twice.

maybe because you wanted to ignore that feeling you were having.

or maybe because you really wanted to try out with him.

his name was bob. he was nice. stable. easy to talk, and really smart.

he made you laugh, and he didn’t come with the complicated and tense history you and keys built over the last months.

dating him felt safe.

at first, you tried to keep things casual with keys.

you started coming home later. you spent more afternoons and nights with your boyfriend.

and after that, then the conversations with keys became shorter, drier.

the movies night stopped. the late-night chats became rare, and everything that was the usual thing, stopped being.

keys still smiled at you, still brought home your favorite snacks and still remembered the way you ordered your coffee.

but there was a distance between both, a distance that was quiet and painful.

he tried to hide how much it hurt him.

you tried to pretend you didn’t noticed.

one night, you decided to bring your boyfriend home for dinner.

you told yourself it was just dinner. that it was normal to introduce your roommate to the guy that you were seeing.

but deep down, you knew you were playing with luck.

keys was in the kitchen when you two walked in.

he froze when he saw his hand on your lower back, like he used to do. for a second, something dark flashed across his face before he masked it with a polite smile.

“hey,” keys said with a voice quieter than usual. he wiped his hand on a dish towel. “you might be bob.”

your boyfriend smiled and extended his hand, excited about meeting him.

“yeah, nice to meet you, man. heard a lot about you.” you blushed listening to that, trying to ignore the bad tension between them.

keys shook his hand, but the grip was a little too tight.

“all good things, i hope.”

the dinner was awkward.

really awkward.

you tried to keep a conversation, but keys was usually quiet. he smiled when he was supposed to, laughed at your boyfriend’s jokes, but his eyes kept drifting at you.

it was like he was waiting something from you.

and every time bob touched your arm, your leg or leaned to say something closer to your ear, keys’ jaw tightened.

when bob went to the bathroom, the silence between you and keys became horrible.

“you seem happy,” he said finally. his eyes were on his plate, now empty.

“i am.” you looked at him.

“good,” he whispered. “that’s… good.”

the air felt heavier and thick. there was a lot neither of you where saying.

when your boyfriend came back, keys excused himself, saying he had work to do.

you watched him disappear down the hallway with his shoulders more tense than usual.

later that night, your boyfriend went home, and you found keys sitting alone in the living room, staring at the dark tv screen.

he didn’t even look at you when you sat on the couch next to him.

so you realized it was already fucked up.

things with alex moved fast.

within a couple of months, you were completely smitten.

you were falling hard, and he was falling just as hard as you. he started staying over more often, leaving his laptop on the coffee table or his hoodie in your room.

you were happy.

but keys was not.

on the surface, he was polite. he smiled when your boyfriend was around.

then he realized bob was a backend developer, so he started bonding with him over programming talk.

they spent hours in the couch discussing codes and frameworks, and keys became surprisingly good friends with your boyfriend.

but if you tried to talk to keys. that was something different.

he would give you short answers. when you asked about his day, he’d only say “fine” before disappearing to his room.

one night, your boyfriend stayed to sleep and left for work early, you found keys in the kitchen making breakfast.

you tried to talk to him like you two used to do.

but he just glanced at you with a mug in his hand.

“morning. he left some pastries if you want one.”

he didn’t even look at you while he was staring.

“i’m good,” you said. “keys… did i do something wrong?” you asked now.

he finally looked at you.

“no. you’re happy. that’s great. really.”

you could hear the subtle sarcasm in his tone, but it was still there.

“why are you being like this?” you felt a weird feeling in your chest. a pang. like you were hurt.

he set his mug down a little bit harder than usual, making you jump a little bit.

“like what? i’m not doing anything.”

his words hurt white than they should have. you knew he was jealous. you knew this was killing him.

but he never said it outright.

so then, you got tired.

tired of his attitude with you.

tired of him trying to ignore you when you needed his help with home things.

tired of his lies.

you couldn’t take the silence anymore.

you waited until your boyfriend had gone home, then you knocked his room’s door softly.

he opened it after a moment, looking tired. he was wearing an old shirt and his pajama pants. his hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it.

he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“can we talk?” you asked.

he hesitated, then stepped aside to let you in.

you sat on the edge of his bed while he leaned against his desk with crossed arms.

the tension was bigger than usual.

“i miss you,” you said honestly. “i miss my roommate. my best friend. i miss how we used to talk. i hate this distance between us.”

keys looked down at the floor for a long time before speaking.

“i’m trying,” he said. “i really am. i know he is your boyfriend but he also seems like your best friend, and i feel left-out.”

you thought all this was about love.

but apparently to him, it was about friendship.

and that hurt you more than anything he did before. you didn’t even know why.

his voice cracked on the last words.

“i didn’t know it was hurting you this much. you know you are still my favorite boy.”

you felt your throat tighten.

“i didn’t want you to know because it was selfish to me. it’s your boyfriend.”

the silence felt heavier.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered.

keys gave you a small smile.

“i know. i’m sorry for being an asshole these past few days… i was just so stressed with work and… you know.”

you nodded.

“can we try to go back to how we were?” you asked.

“yeah,” he said. “i’d like that.”

the days after that conversation were better.

the tension between you two didn’t disappear; it still lingered in quiet moments and the way your hand would brush with his.

but you were talking again.

laughing again.

sitting together on the couch watching movies.

but the air between you changed. for worse.

there were moments that made your pulse race, and you felt a traitor for that, because it wasn’t fair to your boyfriend.

the sexual tension was becoming impossible to ignore.

one friday night, you three were a little bit drunk, and your boyfriend suggested playing truth or dare after dinner.

he thought it would be fun.

you agreed, mostly because you didn’t want to seem weird about it.

the three of you stay in the living room with your drinks.

at first, it was light and silly. but the game slowly turned more dangerous.

when it was your boyfriend’s turn, he looked at keys with a grin.

“truth or dare?”

“truth,” keys said. alex leaned back.

“have you ever wanted to fuck the girlfriend of one of your friends?”

the question landed like a bomb.

you froze.

keys’ eyes flicked to you for a split second before he answered.

“yeah. i have.”

your boyfriend laughed, thinking it was some old story.

“damn, bro. who was it? someone from work or high school?”

keys didn’t look away from you.

“it was one question.”

the tension in the room became suffocating, but your boyfriend didn’t seem to notice the weight behind his words.

“respect for being honest, bro.”

but you knew.

and keys knew you knew.

eventually, your boyfriend yawned and stretched.

“alright, i’m wiped. gonna head to bed.” he leaned in and kissed you deeply, his hand sliding down your back. “are you coming with me?”

you moved your head.

“i’m staying to finish this drink and i’ll go to bed. don’t worry.”

“come join me soon, babe,” he murmured against your lips before standing up.

he gave keys a casual nod.

“night, dude.”

“night,” keys replied.

once bin disappeared into your bedroom and closed the door, the living room felt like hell.

all silence.

you and keys stayed at the floor, both drunk from the drinks you’d had during the game.

the half empty bottle of vodka was still in the middle of both.

neither of you made a move to get up.

keys looked at you for a long moment, then reached the bottle and took a slow sip. he passed it to you without saying anything.

you took one too, the burn sliding down your throat.

“i shouldn’t have been drinking. this shit is bad for me.” he said, laughing softly.

“a day is a day.”

“we’re not done playing, are we?” he asked quietly.

you let out a nervous laugh.

“we probably should be. he’s right there.”

but you didn’t move. and neither he did.

keys leaned back on his hands.

“truth or dare.”

you swallowed.

“dare.”

the tension in the room thickened instantly.

keys stared at you, and then his voice dropped lower.

“i dare you to kiss me.”

you looked at him. shocked. and your heart slammed against your ribs.

“keys. no.” you said in a whisper, shaking your head side to side. “i have a boyfriend. i can’t.”

he didn’t look away. his eyes were glassy and desperate.

“just one kiss,” he murmured.

you bit your lip. you know what you wanted, but you were smarter than that.

or that’s what you thought at first.

“that’s not fair. you know i can’t.”

keys leaned in slightly.

“we’re both already too drunk. if you took another sip you will throw up. so… it’s just a kiss. one kiss. please.”

he sounded like a yearning man, trying to get that kiss from you.

the silence stretched between you two. your head was already spinning. the alcohol made everything warmer and more tempting.

you stared at his lips, then back to his eyes.

and it was like your brain thought the answer, confused by the alcohol.

“just one kiss.” you whispered.

keys didn’t hesitate.

he was as drunk as you, so he waited for you to make the move. you leaned in and kissed him.

the moment his lips touched yours, everything else disappeared.

the kiss started slow but quickly turned deep and hungry. his hand came up to gently cup your face as he kissed you harder.

he tasted like vodka.

one of your hands gripped his shirt as the other rested on his neck. for those few seconds, you forgot about your boyfriend.

you didn’t feel guilty.

when you finally pulled away, your breath was hard.

“fuck…” he said, and before he could say anything else, you kissed him again.

it was harder this time. deeper. more passionate.

your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently as you tilted your head and kissed him.

keys groaned into your mouth, the sound low and needy.

the kissed turned messy; tongues sliding, teeth grazing and breathing ragged. you climbed into his lap without thinking

keys let out a surprised but hungry sound as you settled over him, your hips rolling down against the growing hardness in his pajama pants.

“fuck.” he said against your lips.

you rocked your hips slowly, gridding down.

“you feel so good,” he whispered between kisses. “so fucking good.”

you kissed him harder. his hands roamed under your shirt, touching your bare skin like he couldn’t get enough.

just as the heat between you was becoming overwhelming, you both froze.

there was a noise from your bedroom.

the sound of the door opening.

your boyfriend was getting up.

you quickly climbed off keys’ lap. both of you were flushed, with a heavy breathing and lips swollen.

keys looked wrecked; his hair was messy, his eyes dark because of the lust, and a very obvious bulge.

you barely had time to sit on the floor and fix your shirt before bob walked into the living room, rubbing his eyes sleepy.

“hey, you guys still up?” he murmured. “i’m just gonna get some water.”

“yeah,” you said, trying to sound normal. “we were just… talking.”

he nodded, still half-asleep, and disappeared into the kitchen.

the second he left, you and keys looked at each other.

your boyfriend coughed from the kitchen as you got up from the floor. keys looked at you, wondering your next move.

“i think i should… leave”, you said, tipsy.

“yeah. i get it.” he stared at you, getting up slowly.

now both of you were closer, as if he was going to give you a goodnight kiss.

bob stood up next to the door frame, waiting for you to leave with him.

“night, keys.”

“night.”

you stayed frozen for some seconds before forcing yourself to leave.

keys didn’t say anything else. he just watched you with dark conflicted eyes as you walked out of the room.

you slipped inside and closed the room quietly. bob was already under the covers, half-asleep. you crawled into bed beside him.

your heart was racing for what happened some minutes ago.

the taste of keys was still in your lips.

the feeling of his hand was still in your body, making it feel warm.

your boyfriend murmured something and pulled you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist.

you let him, but your mind was somewhere else.

in the way keys wrapped your waist. with his hands.

you were drunk. guilty. and completely unable to stop thinking about what happened.

then you just fell asleep.

the next morning, the apartment smell like coffee and bacon.

you woke up with a slightly headache, and your boyfriend was still sleeping next to you.

you slipped out of the bed quietly, wearing an oversized shirt and panties, and headed to the kitchen to have some breakfast.

keys was already there.

he stood by the counter in his pajama pants and a black t-shirt, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

the moment you walked in, he froze.

for some seconds, neither of you said anything. the tension was huge and it made you feel sick.

keys’ eyes flicked down to see your bare legs, then he looked up back to your face.

“morning,” he finally said with low voice.

“morning,” you replied back, barely above a whisper.

you walked to the fridge, hyper-aware of every moment. when you reached past him

to get the orange juice, your arm brushed against him.

both of you tensed by the contact.

keys swallowed hard.

“about last night…”

you turned to face him. his eyes dropped to your lips for a second before he forced himself to look back at your eyes.

“i meant everything.” he murmured. “look, i…”

the sound of your bedroom opening interrumped him.

your boyfriend walked out, really smiley and wearing his boxers.

“morning, baby,” he said, walking over and kissing you on the lips. “hey keys, you making coffee?”

keys forced a smile.

“yeah. want some?”

the three of you stood in the kitchen uncomfortable and with a big tension going on there. your boyfriend was completely oblivious, talking while he purred coffee to himself.

you and keys couldn’t stop stealing glances at each other.

everything felt different now.

maybe it was the way you two looked at each other.

maybe it was the feeling of his touch.

you didn’t even know what was. but you liked that.

later that night, the three of you decide to watch a movie together in the living room.

your boyfriend sat in the middle of the couch with you curled up against him. keys sat on the other side, trying to look relaxed.

the movie was playing on the tv but neither of you three were paying attention; keys were watching you, you were watching him, and your boyfriend was bored.

that is why he was stroking your thigh, and keys’ jaw tightened about that.

about halftime through the film, your boyfriend leaned closer to you, his lips brushing your ear.

“wanna go to the bedroom?” he whispered, suggesting you something. “i’ve been craving you all night.”

you forced a smile and nodded.

“let’s go.”

you stood up, turning to keys and smiling to him. you said you were just tired.

“night.” he said quietly.

“night,” you replied, avoiding his gaze.

in the bedroom, your boyfriend wasted no time.

he pulled you onto bed, kissing you hungrily as he tugged your shirt off. his hands roamed over your body, but you felt nothing.

no heat.

you pushed onto his back and took the control, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned.

“fuck, baby… just like that,” he moaned, his hips bucking into your fist.

he was completely lost in pleasure.

then he came with a moaned, spilling over your hand and his stomach. he pulled down for a kiss, murmuring how good you were and that he loved you.

then you just kissed back, and he felt asleep.

he left you needy.

he didn’t even try to touch you.

you stayed staring at the ceiling and eventually, you slipped out of the bed, in your occasional outfit.

you headed to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

you didn’t even expect keys to be there.

he was leaning against the counter without anything but his usual pajama pants. the moment you walked in, his eyes lingered on you.

neither of you spoke at first.

keys’ glaze slowly dragged down your body; your bare legs, the way the t-shirt barely covered your thighs.

“you okay?” he asked with a low voice.

you nodded, walking to the fridge.

“just thirsty.”

you grabbed the bottle, watching him.

“couldn’t sleep?” keys asked while swallowing hard.

he stepped closer while his eyes turned more dark.

the kitchen felt too small.

“no,”

then he talked.

“i can’t stop thinking about… y’know.” he said.

your breath hitched. you turned to face him.

before you could even think better of it, you stepped closer.

keys met you halfway.

the kiss was slow at first; soft, trying to kiss you nicely. it felt like both of you were scared of that.

then it quickly turned deeper.

hungrier.

his hands slid under your t-shirt, and they were cold. he gripped your waist as he pulled you closer to the counter.

you moaned softly into his mouth, and he seemed to enjoy that sound because he smiled.

keys groaned and lifted you onto the counter effortlessly, stepping between your legs.

his mouth moved to his neck, kissing and licking like he was scared you would go back to your bedroom.

you moaned, trying not to be loud since your boyfriend was in your room sleeping.

he pushed your shirt up, exposing your breasts. his thumbs brushed over your nipples, making them harden.

you then gasped, arching a little bit your back.

“so pretty,” he murmured.

he leaned down and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over it.

you moaned, your hands going into his messy hair, pulling it slowly.

then he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours with lust. he gathered saliva in his mouth and let it drop slowly onto your nipple, watching it glisten as it ran down your breast.

he leaned in again, spreading the spit with his tongue and sucking your nipple harder now.

“fuck, keys…” you moaned, your legs wrapping around his waist.

he groaned against your skin, one of his hands sliding between your thighs.

his fingers brushed your soaked panties.

“you’re so wet,” he whispered with a soft voice. “all this f’me?”

you nodded, grinding yourself against his hand desperately.

the kitchen was filled with soft sounds, wet noises and quiet moans.

you know this was forbidden, but you didn’t care at all.

your boyfriend left you needy in bed, selfish about himself.

you just looked for someone else. for someone who knew everything about you.

he pulled back to see your face, your nipples were glistening with his spit, shiny and swollen from his sucking and licking.

his hand went to your panties waistband, pulling them to a side. then he pushed two thick fingers inside you without a warning.

“oh, fuck…” you moaned, arching your back like a cat. he pumped his fingers inside you slowly at first, then faster.

“this pussy is dripping for me,” he said.

you moaned into the kiss, your hips rocking against his hand as he fucked you with his fingers. he curled them perfectly, hitting your sensitive spot while his tumb rubbed over clit.

keys kissed down your neck and then started sucking the skin over there, ignoring the fact future marks were going to stay there.

the wet obscene sound of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt filled the quiet kitchen.

he dropped into his knees in front of you and pulled your panties down your legs and tossed them to the side.

he spread your thighs wider as he saw you dripping.

“you’re so perfect,” he whispered.

then he buried his face between your legs.

keys ate you like a starved man; loud and completely shameless.

his tongue was flat and broad as he licked from your entrance to your clit, moaning against you like you’d taste better than anything he ever tried before.

he sucked your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue fast, then pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in deep.

you gripped his hair tightly, your thighs shaking around his head.

“oh, fuck… keys.”

he groaned loudly into your pussy, making your eyes roll.

he was so noisy; slurping, moaning, licking messily as he devoured you. his fingers replaced his tongue, pumping deep.

you were getting close.

keys looked at you.

“cum for me, baby.” he said. “wanna feel you in my tongue.”

you came hard.

and your orgasm hit like a wave, your thighs clamping around his head as you squirted onto his tongue and chin.

keys moaned slowly, not stopping and licking you through it, sucking and drinking every drop like he couldn’t get enough.

you were shaking, gasping and almost sobbing because of the intensity.

keys stood up with his face shiny with your juices, and leaned to kiss you, letting you taste yourself in his mouth.

he was hard, and his cock was pressing your thigh through his pajama pants.

he kissed you one more time before pulling away from you.

“i need to fuck you,” keys said, watching you with lustful eyes.

he didn’t even wait for an answer, but it was obvious with the eyes you gave him. he showed his pajama pants down, freeing his cock.

he lined himself up and pushed into you in one deep thrust.

“fuuuuck,” you gasped. “you’re so big, i can feel you deep.”

keys groaned, gripping your thighs as he started fucking you deeper and harder now. the wet sound of his cock plunging into your soaked cunt filled the silence.

“so fucking tight,” he growled. ”you’re dripping. my god.”

you moaned then loudly.

“harder, please.”

and he did it.

he was good. better than your boyfriend.

maybe because your boyfriend didn’t even try to fuck you good, he just wanted to cum.

and the fact he was at the room next to you was making you even more horny.

the bulge of keys’ cock was visible in your lower belly with every thrust he made. he pressed a hand there, feeling himself move inside you.

“look at that,” he said. “you can see my cock stretching you out. this is insane.”

you whimpered, setting your hands now on the counter trying to dig your nails in there, but of course, failing.

the outline of his cock was clear every time he bottomed out.

“it feels so good.” you were being noisy, loud, and probably your boyfriend was going to notice about it.

it couldn’t help it. the way he was splitting you open was driving you insane.

“i need you to be quiet, baby.” keys said, fucking you deeply while he kissed you, spitting a little bit in your mouth. “your boyfriend is down the hall. you don’t want him hearing you, right?”

one of his hands slammed against your ass cheeks, careful enough to be quiet.

he kissed you once again, then spat directly onto your mouth.

you moaned at the filthy act, swallowing it as he fucked you.

then he did it harder.

your back was arched against the counter, his thrusts were harder now.

“oh, keys… fuck.”

“i told you to stop being noisy,” he moaned.

“i’m trying….” but it wasn’t enough, you couldn’t keep your mouth shut while he was fucking you that good.

keys took your panties, leaning on the counter, and pulled them inside your mouth.

you didn’t expect that at all, but you kept moaning against them while he was fucking you harder and deeper.

“i’m gonna cum,” he whispered in your ear as he felt you were stretching around him.

you came first. making a mess while you moaned loudly against your panties. keys didn't stop.

he fucked you thought it, then he kept

going, chasing his own release while you trembled in overstimulation.

then he came, filling you up with all his cum.

he stayed buried inside you for a long moment, and kissed you softly.

“you’re so perfect,” he said, getting dressed fast at the same time as you.

your legs were shaking, you leaned against the counter, trying to make your hair look better than before.

your boyfriend appeared, with a smile in his face.

“baby, why are you awake?” he said, not even looking at keys. “are you two okay?”

“yeah, i was just helping her find the milk.” keys said with a silly smile on his face.

your boyfriend then nodded, without saying anything else.

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Steve laughs, hoping that you don't see the way the tips of his ears have turned red. He was very aware that he had been at the wash only a few days prior but it was hot and he wanted an excuse to see you, see your body dripping with suds and water. Even the thought of seeing the pebbled peaks of your nipples through your white vest top was enough to make his cock stir beneath his shorts.

"Yeah um, fuckin' bird took a shit on my bonnet so figured I should get it cleaned again," Steve explains, grinning at you like he definitely had not been rehearsing that excuse on the drive over as he opens his door and climbs out of his car.

Your mouth feels a little dry when you see the red shorts he was wearing, the ones that stretched deliciously over his thighs. Then there was the white tank top he wore, one that gave you a perfect peak at the dark hair that adorned his chest, one that showed those incredible biceps of his and displayed his skin tanned from the sun, peppered with freckles and moles that you wanted to explore with your mouth.

You're quick to pull yourself back to the present, your eyes flickering down to the small splatter of white and dark brown on the bonnet that you can't help but smile at. You could see right through this guy.

"Of course. Can't have that, can we?" you say with a wry smile before turning around so that you could bend down to grab a large bucket full of cleaning supplies that waited beside the tyres, allowing Steve to look shamelessly at your ass as you did.

You busy yourself with grabbing the rest of the gear—the hose, the wash mitts, wheel brushes and a spare bucket while Steve watches, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as you lean down to fill up one of the buckets with soapy water, which allows him a clear view of your cleavage. He feels his traitorous cock swelling beneath his shorts already.

"So," you begin as you start by cleaning off the bird shit on the bonnet with a wet rag. "You got any plans this evening, Harrington?"

"Um," Steve begins, adjusting his stance so that you didn't see the growing bulge forming beneath his shorts. "Yeah. I um, I have a date."

Steve did not know what had possessed him to say those words. He did not, in fact, have a date tonight. In actuality, Steve had been planning to head straight home after the wash and fist his cock thinking about your tits in that tank top. But he couldn't tell you that.

You falter for the briefest of seconds when he mentions he was going on a date, something that felt an awful lot like disappointment swirling in your gut. You had thought, perhaps stupidly, that Steve might actually like you. That perhaps he was soon going to pluck up the courage and ask you out. But no, Steve Harrington was going on a date tonight with someone who wasn't you.

For a moment, you remain quiet. Despite the confidence you had gained from the years after high school, despite the fact you were no longer an awkward teenager, you found yourself feeling the way that you did back then. Inadequate. Not enough for a hot jock like Steve.

"Sounds fun. Hope you have a good time," you say finally as you finish scrubbing up the bird mess from the bonnet before you bend down to start cleaning the wheels.

You would have cleaned the rest of his car in complete silence, would have let the thought of him going on a date remain on your mind the entire wash. But then you remembered that you were completely alone with Steve and that you weren't the same shy, quiet girl you were in high school.You were a grown woman.

And so, if you wanted to fuck with him a little before his little date—you could do so.

You finish cleaning the wheels and tyres before you stand up straight, glancing over your shoulder to see Steve looking at you. You smile at him sweetly before turning your attention back to his car.

You grab the hose, turning it on to give his car a pre-rinse of loose dust and dirt (one that wasn't at all necessarily, considering he had only had his car washed on Monday) before you look over at him again.

"It's pretty fuckin' hot today," you comment, glancing up at the sun that was beating down on your exposed skin.

"Yeah," Steve says, a little distracted by the image he had of himself kissing up your exposed neck, of him licking the sweat off your skin as his hands roam all over your body, his hands slipping beneath those denim shorts and finding you already soaking wet—

Steve shakes his head, trying to stop his imagination from derailing any further and making his cock any harder than it already was.

"Yeah. It is really hot."

God—now he was stating the fucking obvious. He wondered what the hell had happened to the guy who once only needed to smile at a girl for her to drop her panties for him.

Oh yeah—you happened.

It was quiet again then, the only sounds being the water dripping onto the beamer. You lean unnecessarily over the front bonnet, not bothering to pull your shorts down as they ride up the backs of your thighs, exposing the very bottom of your ass cheeks for Steve to gawk at. Which he does—shamelessly.

You switch off the hose, grabbing the spray nozzle from the supply bucket and twisting it onto the hose pipe before you turn to look at a very flustered looking Steve.

"Did you mind if I take my top off?" You ask him, tilting your head to the side with a sickly sweet smile as you watch Steve's eyes widen. "Don't worry, I have a bikini on underneath. It's just—it's really hot—"

"—y-yes,” Steve stutters out quickly, breathless with want, heat prickling up his neck that had nothing to do with the summer sun and everything to do with you. “Ye-eah, if it’s hot for you then I don’t—”

The words die on his tongue, in fact, any coherent thought that Steve has disappears at the sight of you pulling your tank top off over your head. The sight of the cherry red bikini you were wearing beneath was nothing short of torture for Steve. Your tits looked—fuck—incredible, the material of your bikini hugging your breasts perfectly and making Steve’s shorts feel way too tight.

You could see Steve’s reaction. It was hard not to miss the large tent that had formed at the front of his red shorts. You can’t help but look because you had heard so many rumours over the years about how big Steve Harrington’s cock was and now—now you could see the clear, thick outline of it through those shorts of his. The undeniable evidence that yes, Steve Harrington’s cock was fucking huge.

And fuck, if the sight of it didn’t make your pussy throb.

You turn the hose on, switching to the soft shower setting as you spray Steve’s car like you weren’t already thinking of your next move, thinking about a way to make Steve Harrington lose his damn mind.

“Just gonna—try and cool down a bit,” you tell Steve, turning to face him with the hose still spraying water in your hand.

Steve blinks back at you, too dazed, too turned on to really understand anything you were saying to him. He just nods, his lips parting as he tries to form a reply.

But you don’t wait for him to do so. 

You raise the hose above your head, letting the spray drench your upper body. It was cold and you let out a small, satisfied moan at the feeling of the water cooling your too hot skin. You feel the goosebumps forming over your skin, feel your nipples harden beneath the material of your bikini and you can’t help but look over at Steve to gauge his reaction. When you see him looking at you like you were the most delicious thing he had ever laid eyes on, you don’t hesitate to lower the spray directly onto your breasts.

The cold water hitting your tits directly makes you squeal, coupled with the feeling of your sensitive peaks rubbing against the material of your bikini makes something hot surge through your body.

“Feels s’good,” you moan out, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you tilt your head back, feeling the water drip down over your stomach and into your denim shorts.

You can’t see Steve but you certainly hear the way he takes in a shuddering breath.

You switch the hose off, glancing down at your bikini top that was now completely soaked through, your perked nipples poking through the material and making Steve forget every single word in the English language.

“I b-bet it d-does,” Steve manages to say, his throat feeling too tight, his cock now so hard that it was almost painful. “Ni-nice and w-wet, huh?”

“Yeah, huh,” you smile at him, your eyes dropping back down to the bulge that had formed his shorts for the briefest of seconds before you look back up at his stupidly handsome face. “I’m so wet, Stevie.”

Steve lets out a noise—something that almost sounded like a whimper and the sound goes straight to your throbbing cunt. 

“T-that so?” Steve asks, his hands now twitching with the effort it was taking him to not palm himself over his shorts, to give himself some relief from the aching he was feeling from between his thighs. He could feel himself leaking already. You just looked so fucking hot, your top half completely drenched, water dripping down the valley of your breasts and your fucking nipples—

You let out a small tut, glancing down at your denim shorts that were also now beginning to drip with water. 

“These might have to come off too,” you hum, your fingers slipping just beneath the waistband of the denim and causing Steve’s eyes to nearly bulge out of his head. “Is that okay with you, Stevie?”

Steve can only nod, completely unable to form a sentence as your words finally register.

“Words, Stevie,” you tell him, one of your hands trailing upwards, gliding over your wet skin to cup one of your breasts over your bikini. “Be a good boy and use your words.”

You weren’t entirely sure what had gotten into you. Sure, the car wash wasn’t in the middle of town but you were still very much at risk for getting caught if another customer pulled in. But maybe it was the heat finally getting to you or maybe it was the fact that Steve Harrington was stood less than eight feet away from you, hard as a fucking rock all because you decided to fuck with him.

And you certainly weren’t going to stop now. 

“Yes,” Steve grits out finally, his jaw tight as he watches you roll your nipple between two fingers, pleasure blooming across your face at the sensation. “Yes, please—fuck—take ‘em off too.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” you hum, your hands returning to the waistband of your shorts to unbutton them.

Steve Harrington had never looked so desperate. You watch, your shorts pooling at your feet, as Steve runs one of his large hands through his hair, fingers tugging at the strands as though that would offer him some kind of relief.

“You good, Stevie?” You ask him as you switch the hose back on, blasting a spray of cold water to your stomach, causing your body to jolt and sending a shot of pleasure through your body. You were so ridiculously turned on, cleaning Steve’s car was at the very back of your mind as you felt heat pooling between your thighs. That feeling, almost like molten lava surging directly to your core, made any rational thought leave your mind entirely.

“You can touch yourself y’know,” you tell him, your own voice completely breathless, mostly from the cold water spraying over your warm skin but also from the fact Steve Harrington was looking at you as though he wanted nothing more than to devour you.

Steve groans—he actually fucking groans—at your words, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as one of his hands rest on his soft tummy, tugging it up slightly and revealing a dark trail of hair that disappeared into his shorts. That sight made your cunt clench around nothing.

“You sure?” Steve asks you, his hips bucking upwards in a not so subtle way, trying to seek some relief. “I don’t—I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

You almost roll your eyes, he was being so kind, so considerate and so Steve that you felt your heart beat a little faster in your chest.

But you also wanted him to take a fucking hint.

“Touch yourself,” you tell him, switching the setting on the nozzle with one hand as the other directs the spray directly towards your covered cunt. “I want you to watch me and I want you to touch yourself.”

Steve didn’t even have time to comprehend what you were about to do, didn’t have time to prepare himself for what was about to happen. And so, the moment that you move the hose between your legs, directing the spray right against your covered clit—that was the moment Steve Harrington lost all sense of control.

Steve lets out a loud, shameless groan of your name, a sound that you hope you would never forget before he hastily tugs down his shorts, his boxers quick to follow.

Nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared you for the first sight of Steve Harrington’s cock. It was fucking beautiful. Long, thick and impossibly heavy. The audible smack that it made as it slaps against his soft tummy makes your mouth feel dry. You couldn’t help but notice how the ruddy tip was leaking, how precum was dribbling down a vein that bulged down his length.

“You’re so fucking big, Stevie,” you tell him, completely breathless as you press the nozzle against your clothed cunt, a moan slipping out as the pressure hits your swollen clit and causing your thighs clench around the hose. “S’fucking big.”

“Fuck,” He groans, one hand gripping the stack of tyres beside him to steady himself while the other wraps around the base of his thick cock. “You’re so fucking hot, I—”

Whatever Steve was about to say was almost entirely drowned out by the sound of his own moan as he began to stroke his cock. The sight was truly something to marvel at. His handsome face twisted in pleasure as he began to fuck his fist, the hair he had been famous for in high school now falling in front of his eyes, completely dishelved as he lost himself in watching you continue to press the nozzle between your thighs, watching your tits bounce with every movement and listening to the sweet sounds of pleasure falling from your lips.

“Look at you, Stevie,” you gasp out, a smile tugging on your lips as you watch him pump his thick cock desperately, his eyes darting between the nozzle between your thighs and your face contorted with pleasure. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?”

He whimpers. King Steve, Steve the hair Harrington fucking whimpers at your words and you swear, you could had gotten off to that sound alone.

“Yes,” he groans out, his hand twisting as he reaches the tip of his cock, hips canting up into every stroke. “Only for you, baby.”

Your stomach tightened. Your body felt as though it was burning, pleasure was surging through every cell in your body at the pet name. You wanted nothing more than to drop the damn hose, get on your knees and take Steve’s cock into your mouth until your jaw ached. But you couldn’t give him what he wanted. Not yet anyway.

But you needed more, you needed something because you were so close and you knew Steve was too. You could hear it in those small groans and whimpers he was letting out, could see it in the way he was biting down on his bottom lip so much that he was in danger of drawing blood. 

And so, you lean back against his car, one hand pulling the nozzle slightly away from your body as the other tugs down your bikini bottoms, exposing your soaked cunt to the hot summer air.

Steve looks as though he was in physical pain from holding back as he gets a full view of your glistening wet pussy. You watch, heart hammering, as his tongue swipes along his lower lip, as though he was desperate for a taste.

But you wouldn’t give him that—you just wanted to give him something to remember when he was on that fucking date tonight.

You direct the water directly against your clit and the moan you let out surely could have been heard from miles away. Pleasure shoots through you, so intense that you had to grab onto Steve’s car behind you with your free hand so you wouldn’t lose your footing.

“Stevie,” you gasp out, your hips jerking upwards as you chase that feeling again. “Stevie, are you—”

“—yeah,” Steve groans out, the wet sounds of him fucking his fist with his precum meeting your ears and making the heat burning inside of you feel even more intense. “Yeah, baby. I’m—I’m s’fucking close. Gonna cum. Gonna cum fuckin’ watching you. You’re so fuckin’ good. So fuckin’ hot, baby.”

You mewl out, white hot pleasure consuming you as cold water blasted against your swollen clit. It was too much, the pressure, the fact that Steve Harrington was fucking watching you, that he was getting off and that you weren’t even fucking touching. It was so hot. It was so fucking hot and you could feel the pressure—building, building, building and—

Steve lets out a sound, one that was almost animalistic in its desperation. And you watch as he spills white ropes of his cum down onto the hot concrete and the sight of how much fucking cum was coating the asphlat was what tipped you right over the edge with him.

You let out a wanton moan, one that ripped from the very back of your throat, one that you felt deep within your bones. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your thighs shook, your release mixing with the water being sprayed from the nozzle and Steve’s name fell from your lips like it belonged there.

You didn’t know how long both of you stood there—you still leaning against Steve’s car for support and Steve bracing himself against the tyres. All you knew was that when you finally found the courage to look over at Steve—you found that he was already looking right at you.

“I don’t actually have a date tonight,” he tells you, leaning down to pull up his shorts and boxers that he pooled at his feet while you mirror his actions, switching off the hose and tugging your bikini bottoms back up. “I don’t—I don’t know why I told you that I did but I—”

“—do you want one?” You ask him, your voice still a little breathless from the intensity from your orgasm.

Steve blinks, seemingly confused at your words as he looks at you quizzically. “I don’t know what you—”

It then seems to hit him, he seems to understand the meaning of your words and the smile that breaks out across his face was so breathtakingly beautiful that you couldn’t look away.

And when he takes a step closer, you feel as though he has stolen the air from your lungs.

“With you?” Steve asks softly, leaning in to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, fingers then lingering on the warm skin of your cheek. “Of course I fucking do.”

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You should have pushed him off. You knew who his father was. Everyone in Stark County knew Roy Tillman. You knew the stories about the ranch, the “discipline,” the way people disappeared when they crossed the Sheriff. You still let Gator fuck you in the back seat of the patrol car that night, parked behind the dumpsters, one of his hands clamped over your mouth so the radio wouldn’t catch the sounds. He was rough even then, teeth at your throat, hips snapping hard, muttering “good girl” and “take it” like he was proving something to someone who wasn’t there.

That was two years ago.

Now you’re twenty-four and still here. Still letting him show up at your trailer after midnight smelling like gun oil and blood and the cheap cologne he wears to cover both. Still letting him push you face-down on the mattress and take what he wants while the scanner on his belt crackles with dispatch calls he ignores.

-

The night they grab Dot’s husband from the hospital, Gator comes to you wired and mean.

He doesn’t knock. He never does. The door bangs open and he’s already stripping his tactical vest, talking a mile a minute the way he does when he’s high on adrenaline and daddy’s approval.

“Wrong guy,” he says, laughing, voice sharp. “We took the wrong fucking guy. Hospital was crawling with feds and I still went in. Told the boys the FBI was inside. Almost got us all pinched. Dad beat the shit out of me at the dinner table for it. Right in front of everybody. Called me a pale little lizard again. Same shit he’s said since I was a kid.”

He’s on you before you can answer. Hands under your tank top, yanking it up over your tits, mouth already on your neck hard enough to leave marks you’ll have to cover tomorrow. You try to talk, ask if he’s hurt, if Roy really hit him that hard but Gator just shoves two fingers into your mouth and growls, “Shut up and open.”

He doesn’t bother with the bed. He bends you over the kitchen table, the same one where you sometimes eat cereal in the morning like a normal person. Your shorts and underwear are dragged down to your knees. He spits on his hand, rubs it over his cock once, and pushes in hard. No warm-up. No checking if you’re ready. Just the thick stretch and the burn and the way he bottoms out on the first thrust like he owns the right to hurt you a little.

“Fuck—look at you,” he pants against your back, one hand fisted in your hair, the other braced on the table so he can drive deeper. “Still wet for the criminal. Still taking my cock like you don’t know what I do when I’m not here.”

He fucks you like he’s angry at the world and you’re the only thing he can punish for it. Hard, deep, the slap of skin loud in the quiet trailer. Every time you make a sound he pulls your hair tighter or reaches around to pinch your clit until the sound turns into a broken moan. When you come he doesn’t slow down. He just keeps going, chasing his own, muttering the same shit he always does when he’s close: “I’m a winner, I’m the fucking law, take it, take it”, until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a snarl, flooding you so deep you feel it drip down your thighs the second he pulls out.

He doesn’t stay the night. He never does when the job is still hot. He just tucks himself back into his pants, presses a messy kiss to the side of your mouth, and says, “Don’t clean up. I want to know you’re walking around tomorrow with my cum still in you.”

Then he’s gone, back to the ranch, back to Roy, back to whatever fresh violence is waiting.

A week later they finally get Dot.

Gator shows up at your place with blood under his nails and that wild, too-bright look in his eyes. He doesn’t talk about the kidnapping itself just that they got her, that she’s at the cabin, that his dad left him alone with her for a while and she started talking about his mother. He laughs when he says it, but the sound is wrong.

“She called me a liar. Said my name was supposed to be Roy but Dad took one look at me in the hospital and decided I’d be a loser for life. Said he’d rather the name die out than let me carry it.” Gator’s hands are shaking when he pulls the vape from his pocket and takes a long hit, the menthol cloud curling around both of you. “I told her to shut her fucking mouth. Walked out before I did something worse.”

This time he doesn’t shove you to your knees right away. He sits on the edge of your bed, legs spread, and crooks a finger.

“C’mere. Slow.”

You go. He makes you stand between his thighs while he undresses you piece by piece, tank top peeled up and tossed, bra unhooked with deliberate fingers, shorts and panties dragged down until you’re naked in the dim light of the single bulb. His hands map every inch like he’s inventorying what’s his. When he finally pulls you into his lap you’re straddling him, his cock thick and hard between your folds, not inside yet.

“Look at me,” he orders, voice low and rough. You do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. “Tell me what you want.”

Your face burns. “You.”

“Specific, sweetheart. Use your words. Tell the deputy exactly how you want to get fucked.”

You swallow. “I want you inside me. Hard. I want you to use me.”

Gator’s mouth curves into something almost vicious. “That’s my girl.” He lifts your hips, lines himself up, and drops you down onto his cock in one smooth, brutal motion. The stretch punches a broken sound out of you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, just plants his feet and starts thrusting up into you, deep and punishing, the wet slap of it filthy in the quiet room.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groans, hands gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. “So goddamn wet for me. You hear that? That’s your cunt sucking me in like it knows who it belongs to. Say it.”

“It belongs to you—”

“Louder.” He snaps his hips up harder, grinding deep on every upstroke so the head of his cock drags over that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Whose tight little hole is this?”

“Yours—Gator, fuck—yours—”

“That’s right. Mine to wreck. Mine to fill. You gonna come on my cock like a good whore or do I need to flip you over and pound it out of you?”

You’re already shaking, nails digging into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop talking, voice dropping into that filthy, almost conversational register he only uses when he’s deep inside you.

“Look at you bouncing on it. Tits in my face, cunt stretched around my dick, making those pretty little noises like you can’t help it. You love this, don’t you? Love getting used by the bad guy. Love knowing I spent all day doing shit that’d make most people sick and then came straight here to bury myself in you.” He leans in, teeth scraping your earlobe. “I’m gonna come so deep you’ll feel me leaking out of you for days. And you’re gonna walk around town with my cum still inside you like a fucking brand. Say thank you.”

“Thank you—” The words break on a moan as he reaches between you and rubs your clit in tight, mean circles.

“Thank you, Deputy.”

“Thank you, Deputy—”

He laughs, dark and pleased, and fucks up into you even harder. “Good girl. Now come for me. Squeeze that pretty cunt around my cock and show me how much you need it.”

You do. The orgasm hits like a truck, white-hot and shaking, your whole body clamping down around him while he keeps thrusting through it, chasing his own. When he comes it’s with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering, flooding you so full you feel it immediately start to drip around his cock. He holds you there, still buried deep, one hand stroking up and down your spine while the other stays locked on your ass.

“Stay like this,” he murmurs against your neck, softer now but still rough. “I want to feel you full of me a little longer.”

Only after several long minutes does he finally lift you off, lay you down, and clean you up with a corner of the sheet. Then he pulls the vape out again, takes a slow hit, and talks about the night he killed Irma. How she came outside at the wrong second after he shot the decoy, how he didn’t even think, just grabbed her and smashed her head against the curb until she stopped moving. He says it like he’s telling you about a shift at work. Then he turns his face into your hair and mutters, almost too quiet to hear, “I’m bad, you know that? I’m a hustler. A loser. A sucker with a gun. And you still let me in.”

You don’t answer. You just press closer, feel the thrum of his heartbeat under your palm, and let the song play in the back of your head the way it always does when he’s like this.

Mama, I’m in love with a criminal.

-

The last time is after the ranch starts falling apart.

Gator shows up at two in the morning, rain-soaked, eyes wild, blood on his knuckles that isn’t his. He doesn’t speak. He just kicks the door shut, crosses the room in three long strides, and kisses you like he’s drowning. Then he’s tearing at your clothes, at his own, pushing you back against the wall hard enough that the cheap paneling creaks.

This time it’s different, desperate, almost frantic. He doesn’t talk much at first, just lifts one of your legs high against his hip and sinks into you in one long, smooth thrust, forehead pressed to yours. The angle is deep and relentless. Every snap of his hips drives a soft, punched-out sound from your throat. When he finally speaks it’s low and raw against your mouth.

“Need this. Need you. Only good thing left.”

He fucks you standing until your leg starts to shake, then carries you to the bed without pulling out, drops you onto your back, and keeps going, slower now but just as deep, one of your knees hooked over his shoulder so he can watch every inch of himself disappear inside you. His free hand finds yours and laces your fingers together against the mattress, the only soft thing in the whole exchange.

When he comes he does it with his face buried in your neck and your name in his mouth like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

You both end up tangled afterward, breathing hard. He traces the fresh bruises on your hips with careful fingers, the only gentle thing he’s done all night.

“I’m going to prison,” he says eventually, voice flat. “When this is over. I already know it. Dad’s going down and I’m going with him. Or worse.”

You don’t tell him it will be okay. You don’t make promises. You just pull him closer, let him bury his face against your chest, and hold him while the rain hammers the trailer roof.

Outside, the county is burning in slow motion. Inside, Gator Tillman, deputy, son, criminal, the bad boy with the tainted heart falls asleep with his head on your stomach and one possessive hand still resting low on your belly, like even now he’s claiming what’s left.

And you stay.

Because this type of love isn’t rational.

It’s physical.

And you already know how the song ends.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

You were the outsider who’d somehow become family when your mom married Roy a couple years back. Not blood, thank God, but close enough that Roy treated you like another extension of his empire: quiet, obedient, useful. Gator, though? Gator treated you like something he wanted to poke at until it squirmed.

Dinner had dragged on with Roy droning about some case, his voice all gravel and authority, while Gator slouched in his deputy uniform, vape pen tucked behind his ear like a trophy. He’d been watching you the whole meal, those restless hazel eyes flicking from your face to your hands and back again. You tried to ignore it, focusing on scraping the last bit of color from your lips with the cheap drugstore lipliner you’d been nursing for weeks.

The tube was ancient, the product worn down to a nub. You twisted it up one final time, angling the mirror of your compact under the table so no one would notice, and swiped it across your lower lip with a quick, practiced motion. The color came out patchy, more habit than pigment at this point. You pressed your lips together, blending, then capped it with a soft click that somehow cut through the low hum of conversation.

Gator’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. His lips twitched into that crooked, shit-eating grin he wore like armor. “Well, shit,” he drawled, loud enough for the table to hear but casual enough that Roy just grunted in annoyance. “You finally killed it, huh? That poor little pencil’s been hangin’ on by a thread for months.”

Heat crept up your neck. Everyone glanced over, Roy with his perpetual scowl, your mom offering a polite but tired smile, even the distant cousin who’d shown up uninvited. You shoved the empty tube into your pocket, muttering, “It’s fine. I’ll get a new one tomorrow.”

Gator leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He was built like someone who spent more time lifting weights in the station gym than actually doing paperwork: tall, broad-shouldered, with that messy dark hair he kept pushing back like he was in a damn cologne ad. “Nah, don’t bother with that cheap crap. I got somethin’ better.”

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his tactical vest, because of course he wore the damn thing to dinner and pulled out a sleek black tube. It looked expensive, the kind of brand you’d see in those glossy makeup ads with models pouting in infinity pools. Gator twirled it between his fingers like a cigarette, his eyes never leaving your mouth.

“New lipliner,” he said, voice dropping just a notch, that pervert edge slipping in like smoke. “Saw you finishin’ the old one right here in front of God and everybody. Figured you might need a refill. This one’s the good shit—long-wear, won’t smear when you’re… y’know. Eatin’. Or whatever.”

The “whatever” hung there, heavy and suggestive. Your mom cleared her throat, but Roy just chuckled low, like his son’s weird little gifts were normal bonding. Gator’s knee pressed firmer against yours now, deliberate. You could feel the heat through his jeans.

“Thanks,” you said flatly, reaching for it.

He pulled it back just out of reach, grinning wider. “Hold up. Lemme see if it matches first. C’mere.”

Before you could protest, Gator scooted his chair closer, the legs scraping loud against the linoleum. His free hand cupped your chin, fingers rough from years of gripping steering wheels and guns, but surprisingly gentle as he tilted your face toward the light. The table went quiet again. Roy muttered something about “kids these days,” but didn’t stop him. Gator’s thumb brushed just below your lower lip, wiping away a nonexistent smudge.

“Open up a little,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear the pervert lilt in it. His breath smelled like the mint vape he’d been hitting earlier mixed with the faint tang of the beer he’d snuck despite Roy’s rules. “Gotta make sure it don’t look like clown paint on you.”

Your heart hammered. This was classic Gator, pushing boundaries in front of everyone because he knew no one would call him on it. Not really. He was Roy’s boy, the deputy who could flash a badge and make problems disappear. You parted your lips slightly, more out of shock than obedience, and he uncapped the liner with his teeth, the plastic clicking softly.

He leaned in closer than necessary, his face inches from yours. Those eyes, dark and hungry locked on your mouth like it was the only thing in the room. The tip of the pencil touched your cupid’s bow first, cool and waxy, gliding with a precision that surprised you. Gator’s hand was steady, but his breathing wasn’t. You could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the faint flush creeping under his stubble.

“Stay still, sweetheart,” he whispered, the word dripping with that fake-sweet tone he used when he wanted something. “Wouldn’t want to mess it up. Though… bet it’d look pretty smeared anyway.”

Your stomach twisted, half embarrassment, half something warmer and more dangerous. The rest of the family was pretending to eat, forks clinking awkwardly, but you felt their eyes. Gator didn’t care. He traced the liner along your upper lip with agonizing slowness, then the lower, his thumb still anchoring your chin. When he finished, he didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he rubbed his thumb across your bottom lip, “blending” it, pressing just hard enough to feel the give of soft skin.

“Perfect,” he said, voice husky. “Matches your pretty little mouth just right. Bet it tastes good too.”

“Gator,” your mom started, half-scolding, but Roy waved her off with a grunt.

“Boy’s just bein’ helpful. Ain’t that right, son?”

Gator finally leaned back, but not before his fingers lingered a second too long, brushing your jaw. He capped the liner and tossed it into your lap under the table, where it landed warm from his pocket. “Keep it. I got more where that came from. Figured you’d run out eventually, the way you’re always playin’ with your lips at the table.”

You clutched the tube, cheeks burning. Dinner resumed in strained silence, but Gator’s gaze stayed glued to you. Every time you licked your lips, testing the new color, the smooth glide, he smirked like he’d won some private game.

Later, after the plates were cleared and Roy had retreated to his study with a cigar, you escaped to the upstairs bathroom to wash up. The house was old, creaky, full of shadows and the faint smell of gun oil and leather. You stared at your reflection: the lipliner looked expensive on you, a deep berry shade that made your mouth look fuller, poutier. It suited you too well.

The door clicked open without a knock. Gator slipped in, locking it behind him with a soft snick. He filled the small space immediately, tall frame, broad chest in that tight black tee under the unbuttoned deputy shirt, jeans slung low on his hips.

“Couldn’t wait to see how it looked up close,” he said, leaning against the sink beside you. His voice had dropped the dinner-table casualness; now it was all raw, needy edge. “Fuck, it does look good. Real good.”

You tried to step back, but the wall was right there. “Gator, what the hell? Dinner was bad enough.”

He chuckled, low and rough, crowding you without quite touching. “Aw, c’mon. You know I was just lookin’ out for my little stepsis. That old liner was pathetic. This one…” His eyes dipped to your mouth again, dark and heavy-lidded. “This one won’t budge even if you’re on your knees suckin’ cock or somethin’.”

The words hit like a slap, crude and deliberate. Heat pooled low in your belly despite yourself. Gator had always been like this: pervy comments wrapped in “brotherly” concern, lingering stares when you changed clothes, “accidental” brushes in the hallway. He was insecure as hell underneath the swagger, desperate for any scrap of attention that wasn’t Roy’s disappointed glare. And right now, that desperation was aimed square at you.

“Shut up,” you hissed, but your voice lacked bite.

He grinned, stepping closer until his boots bracketed yours. One hand came up to trace the liner on your lip with his thumb again, pressing in until your mouth parted. “Make me. Or better yet… lemme see if it smears.”

Before you could protest, Gator dipped his head and kissed you, hard, hungry, nothing like a stepbrother should. His mouth was hot, insistent, the faint taste of mint and meatloaf mixing with the waxy berry of the liner. He groaned into it, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you in place while the other gripped your hip, fingers digging in possessively.

You gasped, and he took the opening, tongue sliding in to taste you properly. The kiss turned filthy fast, wet, open-mouthed, his teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’d been thinking about it all through dinner. When he pulled back, the liner was slightly smudged at the edges, but mostly intact.

“See?” he panted, forehead against yours. “Told you it’s good shit. Stays put even when I’m fuckin’ your mouth with my tongue.”

“Gator…” Your hands were on his chest, not pushing him away as much as you should’ve.

He smirked, that crooked charm cracking open to show the pervert underneath. “What? You gonna tell Dad I’m bein’ inappropriate with his new daughter? Go ahead. He’ll probably just tell me to ‘handle it like a man.’” His hand slid lower, cupping your ass through your jeans and squeezing. “Or maybe you like it. Bet you do. Always catchin’ you starin’ when I’m out in the yard liftin’ or comin’ back from a shift all sweaty.”

You swallowed, the new liner making your lips feel slick and sensitive. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I’m your asshole stepbrother.” He kissed you again, slower this time, grinding his hips forward so you could feel the growing hardness in his jeans pressing against your thigh. “Been watchin’ that mouth all night. The way you licked the fork, finished that liner like it was nothin’. Got me thinkin’ about other things you could finish with those pretty lips.”

His free hand wandered up under your shirt, calloused palm skimming your stomach, thumb brushing the underside of your bra. Gator wasn’t smooth, he was eager, a little clumsy in his desperation, like he needed this validation more than air. Roy never gave him enough, so he took it wherever he could. Right now, that was you.

“Gator, someone could hear,” you whispered, even as your body arched into his touch.

He laughed softly against your neck, nipping the skin there. “Let ’em. Whole damn family knows I’m a fuck-up anyway. Might as well be a pervert too.” His fingers found the button of your jeans, popping it open with practiced ease. “C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme show you what else this liner can handle. On your knees for me? Just for a minute. I’ll be quick.”

The bathroom felt too small, too hot. You should’ve shoved him out, told him no, reminded him of the thousand reasons this was messed up. But Gator’s eyes were wide and hungry, that insecure boy peeking through the cocky deputy mask. He wanted you to want him. Needed it.

You sank down slowly, the tile cold through your knees. Gator’s breath hitched, hands fumbling with his belt like he couldn’t believe his luck. “Fuck yeah. Good girl. Knew you’d look perfect down there.”

He freed himself, thick and already leaking, and guided your head forward with a gentleness that contrasted the filth coming out of his mouth. “Open up. Let me see that new color wrapped around me. Bet it’ll look even better smeared all over my cock.”

You took him in, the taste of salt and skin mixing with the berry wax. Gator groaned loud enough that you worried about the walls, his hips jerking shallowly as he tried not to thrust too hard. “Shit… just like that. Your mouth’s so fuckin’ warm. Been jerkin’ off thinkin’ about this for weeks. Ever since I saw you puttin’ on lip gloss in the hallway mirror, all innocent-like.”

He talked the whole time. Pervy ramblings mixed with praise, his hand gentle in your hair even as his words turned nasty. “Swirl your tongue—yeah, fuck. You’re a natural. My perfect little stepsis slut. Roy’d kill me if he knew, but goddamn, it’s worth it.”

The liner held surprisingly well at first, but as he got closer, it started to smudge at the corners of your mouth, glossy and messy. Gator’s eyes were glued to it, pupils blown wide. “Look at that… perfect. Just how I imagined.”

He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering, spilling hot across your tongue and a little on your lips. You pulled back, breathing hard, the berry color now artfully wrecked: smeared at the edges, mixed with spit and him.

Gator hauled you up immediately, kissing you messy and grateful, tasting himself on you without a care. “Fuck, you’re amazin’. Knew that liner was a good pick.” His hand slipped back into your open jeans, fingers finding you wet and sliding through slick heat. “Now it’s your turn. Gotta return the favor, right? Can’t have my girl unsatisfied.”

You didn’t correct the “my girl.” Not yet.

He fingered you right there against the sink, two thick digits curling just right while his thumb rubbed your clit in messy circles. His mouth stayed on yours, or on your neck, whispering more filth: how pretty you looked with his cum on your lips, how he’d buy you a whole set of makeup just to ruin it all over again, how no one else got to see you like this.

You came hard, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound, body shaking against his solid frame. Gator held you through it, murmuring soft praises now that the edge was off. “That’s it, baby. So good for me. My secret little thing.”

After, he helped clean you up with a warm washcloth, surprisingly tender. The liner was a lost cause, smeared beyond repair but he just grinned and pulled out another tube from his pocket, same brand.

“See? Told you I got more. Keep this one in your room. I’ll check on it tomorrow night. Make sure you’re usin’ it right.”

You rolled your eyes, but took it. “You’re such a pervert, Gator.”

He winked, adjusting his uniform like nothing happened. “Only for you, stepsis. Only for you.”

As he slipped out the door, checking the hallway first, you stared at your reflection again. Lips still tingling, new liner clutched in your hand like a dirty secret. Downstairs, Roy’s voice boomed something about patrol schedules. The house felt heavier now, charged with whatever this was becoming.

Gator wasn’t done. You knew that much. He’d find excuses, another “gift” at breakfast, a late-night knock on your door after Roy passed out from whiskey, more pervy comments disguised as brotherly advice. And part of you, the part that craved the attention in this cold, fucked-up house just as badly as he did, was already wondering what color he’d pick next.

The days blurred after that. Gator made it his mission to “help” with your makeup routine. Mornings, he’d corner you in the kitchen while your mom was out and Roy was at the station, pressing you against the counter to “test” the new liner by kissing it off. Afternoons, when he came home from a shift, he’d drag you into his truck in the driveway, tinted windows hiding the way he’d pull you into his lap and grind against you until you were both breathless, his hands under your shirt, mouth on your neck leaving marks he’d cover with more “helpful” suggestions.

One night, after a particularly tense dinner where Roy had chewed Gator out for botching a simple traffic stop, Gator showed up in your room at 2 a.m., eyes wild and needy. “Dad’s asleep. C’mere. Need you.”

He was gentler that night, the insecurity raw after Roy’s words. Instead of the usual rush, he laid you out on your bed and took his time kissing down your body, murmuring how soft you were, how no one else made him feel like this. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, hips rolling steady. “Tight little pussy clenchin’ around me like you were made for this. My stepsis… shit, we’re so fucked up, but I don’t care. You’re mine.”

You came together, his hand over your mouth to keep quiet, bodies slick and tangled in the dark. Afterward, he didn’t leave right away. He stayed curled around you, tracing patterns on your skin with those rough fingers, the empty lipliner tube from dinner sitting on your nightstand like a trophy.

“You know I ain’t good at this shit,” he admitted quietly, the tough-guy mask slipping. “Roy says I’m a disappointment every damn day. But with you… feels like I’m doin’ somethin’ right.”

It was messed up. Deeply, undeniably. Step-siblings in a house ruled by a corrupt sheriff who’d probably lose his mind if he found out. But in the quiet moments, Gator wasn’t just the pervert deputy with the ego and the daddy issues. He was the guy who noticed when your old makeup ran out, who bought something nice because he paid attention. Who craved touch and validation so badly he’d risk everything for it.

And you? You kept using the liners. Kept letting him “test” them. Kept falling a little deeper into whatever this toxic, heated thing was.

Weeks turned into a secret routine. Gator would text you from the station crude photos of new makeup hauls he’d “confiscated” (stolen from some evidence locker, probably), followed by promises of what he’d do when he got home. At family barbecues, he’d sit beside you, hand on your thigh under the table, whispering how he couldn’t wait to smear that pretty color all over his dick again.

One evening, Roy was out of town for some law enforcement conference, leaving the house empty except for the two of you and your mom, who’d gone to bed early with a migraine. Gator wasted no time.

He found you in the living room, flipping through channels, and hauled you upstairs to his room without a word. It was messier than yours. Posters of bands he barely listened to, empty vape cartridges, his deputy gear slung over a chair. He pushed you onto the bed, crawling over you with that predatory grin.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he said, stripping off his shirt to reveal the lean muscle underneath. “You in that little sundress at dinner, lips all shiny with my gift. Drove me fuckin’ crazy.”

He didn’t bother with slow this time. Clothes came off in a frenzy, your dress hiked up, panties shoved aside, his jeans barely pushed down his thighs. He thrust into you hard, the bed creaking under you both, his mouth latching onto yours in a bruising kiss that destroyed the fresh layer of lipliner you’d put on just to tease him.

“Gator—ah—slow down,” you gasped, but your legs wrapped around his waist anyway.

“Can’t,” he panted, hips snapping relentlessly. “Too good. Too fuckin’ tight. Gonna fill you up, make you walk around tomorrow with me still leakin’ out. Bet you’d like that, huh? My dirty little secret.”

His hand found your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing over the pulse point as he fucked you deeper. The pervert in him loved the control, the risk. But underneath, there was that desperate edge: the way he buried his face in your neck afterward, whispering “Don’t leave me, okay? Everyone else does.”

You held him close, fingers in his hair, the smeared berry color staining his lips now too. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It wasn’t love. Not the clean kind, anyway. It was need and rebellion and the twisted comfort of two broken people finding solace in the one place they shouldn’t. Gator kept buying more lipliners: different shades, different brands, leach one an excuse to watch your mouth, to ruin it, to claim it as his.

And every time, at dinner or in the truck or in the dead of night, he’d lean in with that crooked smile and say, “Open up, sweetheart. Let’s see how this one holds up.”

The Tillman house kept its secrets, just like it always had. But yours and Gator’s? They were written in smudged berry and desperate moans, in the quiet aftershocks where a pervert stepbrother became something dangerously close to yours.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

Walter McKey “Keys”, he said, because everyone called him that, stood there in a faded black hoodie, glasses slightly crooked, dark hair a little too long and curling at the ends like he’d forgotten to cut it. He had the softest voice you’d ever heard from someone who looked like he spent most of his time under blue screen light. He took the box without waiting for an answer, set it inside your doorway, and then crouched immediately when Buddy lunged forward, tail a blur.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmured, and the dog, your slightly chaotic, eternally optimistic mutt tried to climb into his lap like they’d known each other for years.

That was the first time you saw Keys smile. Small. Almost private. Like the dog had told him a joke only the two of them understood.

You didn’t think much of it at the time. New neighbour. Nice guy. Probably worked from home, given the way he was still in socks at four in the afternoon and the faint sound of mechanical keyboards that sometimes leaked through the shared wall.

You were gone a lot. Long hours. Early mornings. The kind of job that left Buddy staring at the door for stretches that felt unfair. You’d come home to a sad, wiggling greeting and a note of guilt that sat heavy in your chest.

It was a Thursday three weeks later when Keys knocked.

You’d just gotten home, keys still in the lock, when his door opened and he leaned against the frame, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, one hand holding a half-empty energy drink like it was an apology.

“Hey,” he said. “I, uh… I’ve been hearing him sometimes. When you’re gone late. He does this little… howl? Not loud. Just… lonely.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but your face. “I work from home mostly. Coding. Game stuff. I’m around. If you ever want—I could walk him? Or hang out with him for a bit. No pressure. Just… he seems like a good dog. And I’m right here.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Buddy was already pressed against the crack of the door, nose working overtime, tail thumping the wall.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Keys said, and the soft smile was back, smaller this time. “But I don’t mind. Really. It’d be… nice. To have a reason to leave the desk.”

You handed him the spare key the next morning.

-

It started practical.

You texted him the schedule. He texted back a simple “Got it” and a photo an hour later of Buddy sitting obediently at the crosswalk, leash held loosely in Keys’ hand, both of them looking mildly surprised by the camera.

Keys: He tried to eat a cigarette butt. I redirected. We’re learning.

You: You’re a hero.

Keys: He’s very persuasive. I’m weak.

The photos became a habit.

Buddy in the park, tongue out, Keys’ sneakers visible at the edge of the frame.

Buddy mid-zoom across the grass.

Buddy sitting on Keys’ feet while Keys sat on a bench, laptop open but clearly ignored.

One afternoon: Buddy curled against Keys’ side on a bench, both of them dozing in the weak spring sun. Keys had sent it with no caption. You stared at it for a long time before replying with a simple heart.

The dog learned his schedule faster than you did.

By the end of the first month, Buddy would lift his head the second he heard Keys’ door open across the hall. By the second month, he was at your door the moment Keys’ footsteps hit the hallway, nails clicking, whole body vibrating with the pure, uncomplicated joy of him.

You came home early one day and watched it happen through the peephole like a creep.

Keys stepped out of 4A in his usual hoodie, headphones around his neck, phone in one hand. Buddy heard the soft click of the lock and launched himself at your door with a single, desperate woof. Keys froze for half a second, then smiled, the real one, the one that made the corners of his eyes crease, and crossed the hall.

“I know, I know,” he murmured as he unlocked your door. “I’m late. Traffic was terrible. There were… stairs.”

Buddy exploded out of the apartment like he’d been shot from a cannon, all four paws off the ground for a second, and Keys laughed under his breath as he caught the leash and let the dog climb him.

You closed the peephole and leaned your forehead against the wood, smiling so hard your face hurt.

-

The first time he stayed for dinner it was raining.

Hard, the kind of spring storm that turned the streets into rivers and made the hallway smell like wet concrete. Keys brought Buddy back soaked and apologetic, both of them dripping on your doormat.

“I tried the towel,” Keys said, holding up a soggy microfiber like evidence. “He shook. Twice. I’m… partially responsible for the state of your entryway.”

You handed him a dry towel and told him to stay. He hesitated in that particular Keys way: shoulders a little too high, eyes flicking to the door like he was calculating the social math of overstaying.

“I’ve got leftover takeout,” you said. “And the dog clearly isn’t done with you.”

Buddy had already claimed Keys’ left shoe and was attempting to drag it toward the couch.

Keys stayed.

You ate on the couch because the table felt too formal. Buddy sprawled across both your feet like a furry bridge. Keys talked about the game he was debugging, something about pathfinding AI that kept getting stuck on invisible walls and you watched the way his hands moved when he got excited, long fingers sketching invisible code in the air. He kept glancing at you like he was checking whether he was allowed to keep talking.

You told him about the ridiculous email chain from work. He laughed with his whole body, quiet but real, and when Buddy shifted and shoved his head into Keys’ lap, Keys’ hand settled into the fur like it had always belonged there.

At some point the conversation slowed. The rain kept going. The only light came from the kitchen and the soft glow of the muted television you’d turned on for background noise.

Keys’ knee was touching yours.

Neither of you moved.

When he finally stood to leave, Buddy made a sound of pure betrayal. Keys crouched, pressed his face briefly into the dog’s neck, and murmured something too quiet for you to catch. Then he looked up at you from the floor, glasses a little fogged, hair damp from the earlier rain, and said, “Same time tomorrow?”

You nodded.

He lingered in the doorway for three full seconds longer than necessary.

It became a rhythm neither of you named.

Keys walked Buddy every day you were gone. Some days you came home to find them already back, Keys sitting on your couch with his laptop open and Buddy draped over his legs like a living weighted blanket. He’d look up, startled, and say, “I was just—finishing this function. He refused to let me leave.”

You started leaving dinner in the fridge with a note.

Eat something that isn’t caffeine.

He started bringing over takeout on the nights you both got home late.

Thai. Then pizza. Then the good ramen place three blocks over that required a twenty-minute wait he claimed was “for the dog’s enrichment.”

You watched shows together. Keys had strong opinions about world-building and weaker opinions about his own comfort; he always sat a careful half-cushion away until Buddy inevitably climbed between you and forced the issue. Then Keys’ shoulder would brush yours, warm even through the hoodie, and he’d go very still, like any sudden movement might break whatever temporary truce the dog had negotiated.

He fixed your Wi-Fi when it started dropping every evening at seven.

He replaced the battery in the smoke detector that had been chirping for three days while you pretended it wasn’t happening.

He taught Buddy a new trick: spin, and then looked so quietly proud when the dog performed it for you that you had to leave the room for a glass of water before you did something stupid like kiss him in the middle of your kitchen.

The touches accumulated like dust in sunlight. Hard to notice until the room was full of them.

His fingers brushing yours when he handed over the leash.

The way he’d reach past you for a mug and pause, breath held, when your backs almost touched.

The afternoon he helped you hang a shelf and his chest pressed briefly against your shoulder as he steadied the level. He stepped back so fast he nearly dropped the drill.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I—sorry.”

You wanted to say don’t be. You said, “It’s fine,” instead, and watched him retreat into his hoodie like it could protect him from whatever was happening in the quiet spaces between you.

-

Spring turned into early summer.

The days got longer. The hallway got warmer. Buddy’s enthusiasm for Keys reached critical levels.

You came home one evening to find the door to 4A open and your dog sprawled across Keys’ gaming chair like he paid rent. Keys was cross-legged on the floor with two laptops open, headphones on, completely absorbed until Buddy let out a happy boof at the sight of you.

Keys pulled the headphones down, cheeks pink. “He, uh. Let himself in. I think. Or I left the door unlocked. We’re still investigating.”

You leaned against the doorframe. “He has a key now?”

“Emotionally,” Keys said, and then looked horrified at his own honesty. “I mean—he’s persuasive. I told you I’m weak.”

You stayed for dinner that night in his apartment instead. His place was exactly what you expected: neat in the way of someone who lived mostly in his head, monitors everywhere, a half-built mechanical keyboard on the coffee table, a single plant that was somehow still alive. Buddy made himself at home immediately, claiming the exact center of the couch.

Keys cooked actual food, stir-fry, simple but good, and kept glancing at you like he couldn’t believe you were real in his space. When you reached for the same spatula at the same time, your fingers tangled. He didn’t pull away immediately. His thumb brushed the side of your hand, once, deliberate enough that it couldn’t be an accident, soft enough that it still might have been.

Then he cleared his throat, stepped back, and started talking about frame rates like the universe depended on it.

You let him.

You were learning the shape of his fear. It lived in the spaces where things got too easy, too warm, too much like something that could be lost. He had the dog. He had the routine. He had the quiet companionship of someone who didn’t need him to be louder or cooler or less himself. Crossing the line risked all of it.

So he kept the line carefully drawn, even as everything else blurred.

The almosts got heavier.

One night in late June you fell asleep on his couch during a movie neither of you were watching. You woke to the feeling of fingers in your hair, gentle, absent, like he’d forgotten he was doing it, and the solid warmth of Keys’ thigh under your cheek. Buddy was a dead weight across both your legs.

Keys was staring at the paused screen with the expression of someone trying very hard not to breathe too loud.

You stayed still for a long time, cataloguing the moment. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The way his other hand rested on Buddy’s back. The faint scent of his laundry detergent and the coffee he’d made earlier.

When you finally shifted, his hand froze, then retreated like he’d been burned.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “You—you looked uncomfortable. I was just…”

“It’s okay,” you said, and meant please don’t stop.

He walked you and Buddy back across the hall at midnight. Stood in your doorway with his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, voice careful.

You nodded.

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Buddy sat between you, looking from one face to the other like he was waiting for the adults to figure it out already.

Keys exhaled, soft and defeated, and took a step back. “Night.”

You closed the door and leaned against it, heart doing something complicated and hopeful and frustrated all at once.

By July the tension had a texture. You could feel it in the air whenever you were in the same room. Lingering looks that lasted a second too long. Conversations that drifted into comfortable silence and then into something charged. The way Keys would start to say something, something real, and then swallow it, redirecting to safer ground: the dog’s latest crime, a bug in his code, the new coffee place that had opened down the block.

You were tired of safer ground.

You were tired of the careful almosts and the way he looked at you sometimes like you were the only real thing in a world made of pixels and late-night commits.

So you made a plan.

It was, by design, a little chaotic. Gentle. Dog-assisted.

You waited until a Friday when you both had the evening free. You texted him mid-afternoon.

You: Buddy’s being weird. Keep looking at your door and making this sad little sound. Think he needs a longer walk? Or company? I don’t know. You’re the expert.

Keys: On my way.

He arrived in under four minutes, which would have been impressive if you weren’t already braced for it. Buddy performed his usual ecstatic greeting, then on cue, because you’d been practicing this with high-value treats for three days, bolted past Keys into the hallway and sat pointedly in front of 4A, staring at the door like it had personally offended him.

Keys laughed, soft and helpless. “Okay, message received.”

You followed them into his apartment. Buddy immediately claimed the couch. Keys dropped his keys on the counter and turned to you, already reaching for the leash.

“Longer route today?” he asked. “We can do the park and then the long way by the river. He likes the ducks, even though he’s not allowed to—”

“Keys.”

He stopped.

You closed the door behind you. Not locked. Just closed. The soft click felt louder than it should have.

Buddy, the traitor and the genius, hopped down from the couch, walked over to Keys, and sat on his feet. Then he looked at you with the smug expression of a dog who knew exactly what he was doing.

Keys looked down at the dog, then up at you, and something cautious flickered across his face.

“What’s going on?”

You took a breath. Your hands were steady. Your heart was not.

“I’ve been trying to wait,” you said. “For you to be ready. Or for it to stop feeling like this. But it’s been months, and you keep looking at me like that, and then pulling back, and I—” You gestured helplessly at the space between you, at the dog, at the entire ridiculous soft domestic life you’d accidentally built. “I’m done waiting. So I’m just going to say it.”

Keys had gone very still. The only movement was his hand, which had settled automatically on Buddy’s head.

“I like you,” you said. Simple. Clear. No room for the kind of gentle misdirection he was so good at. “I like coming home to you already here. I like the texts. I like the way you talk about code like it’s poetry. I like that Buddy chose you immediately and never looked back. I like you. And I think you like me too, but you’re scared it’s going to ruin this.”

Silence.

Keys opened his mouth. Closed it. His ears were pink. His eyes, behind the glasses, were wide and carefully guarded.

“I am,” he admitted, voice low. “Scared. This is… the best thing I have outside of work. You. Him.” He glanced down at Buddy, who was leaning against his legs with the serene confidence of a creature who had never once doubted the outcome of this conversation. “If I mess it up—if I want too much and you don’t—then I lose the easy thing. The daily thing. And I’m not… I’m not good at risk. Not with people. Code breaks and you fix it. People are harder.”

“I’m not asking you to gamble everything,” you said. You took one step closer. Buddy shifted to make room, the absolute wingman. “I’m asking you to stop pretending we’re still just neighbours who share a dog. We’re not. We haven’t been for a long time.”

Keys’ breath hitched.

You reached out, slow enough that he could step back if he needed to, and took his free hand. His fingers were warm. A little calloused from years of keyboards and controllers. They curled around yours almost immediately, like his body had decided before his brain could catch up.

“I already feel like I live with you half the time,” you said, quieter now. “I already look for you when I get home. I already miss you on the days our schedules miss each other. The only thing left is the part where we stop being careful.”

Keys stared at your joined hands. Then at Buddy. Then at you.

The smile that spread across his face was slow and disbelieving and so soft it made your chest ache.

“You’re really doing this,” he said. “With the dog as backup.”

“He was very invested in the plan.”

“I can see that.” Keys huffed a quiet laugh, then sobered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles once, twice. “I’ve wanted to… for months. Every time I almost said something I talked myself out of it. Told myself the friendship was enough. That having this—” he gestured vaguely at the apartment, the dog, the two of you standing too close in his living room—“was already more than I usually get. I didn’t want to be greedy.”

“You’re allowed to be greedy,” you said. “With me, at least.”

He made a small, wounded sound and stepped into your space. Buddy, sensing the shift, finally moved out of the way and flopped onto the rug with a dramatic sigh, as if the emotional labour of the evening had exhausted him.

Keys’ free hand came up to your face, hesitant, then surer when you leaned into it. His palm was warm against your cheek. His eyes searched yours like he was still looking for the exit ramp and slowly realizing he didn’t want one.

“I’m going to be bad at this,” he warned, soft. “I’ve never… I don’t know how to do the soft stuff out loud. I just know how to show up. And stay. And fix the Wi-Fi. And walk the dog. And think about you when I should be debugging.”

“That’s enough,” you said. “That’s more than enough.”

He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for every single one of those months.

Careful at first, testing, asking, then deeper when you made a small sound against his mouth and fisted your hand in the front of his hoodie. He tasted like the coffee he’d been drinking earlier and something sweeter underneath. His glasses bumped your cheekbone; he laughed under his breath without pulling away, then reached up to take them off one-handed and set them somewhere behind you without looking.

When you finally broke apart, both of you a little breathless, Keys rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi.”

Buddy chose that moment to shove his nose between you, insistent, and Keys laughed, real, unguarded, the best sound you’d heard in months, and dropped to his knees to give the dog the attention he was so clearly owed.

“Yes, okay, you were right,” he told Buddy, voice fond and a little wrecked. “You’re very smart. We’re very slow. Thank you for your service.”

You sank down beside them on the floor. Keys’ shoulder pressed against yours, solid and warm. His hand found yours again without looking, fingers slotting together like they’d been practicing in secret.

Outside, the summer evening was still bright. Inside, the apartment felt quieter somehow. Softer. Like something that had been holding its breath for a long time had finally exhaled.

Keys turned his head and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the corner of your mouth, like he was still making sure he was allowed.

“Stay,” he said. Not a question. “For dinner. And after. I’ve got that show you like queued up. And… I don’t want you to go back across the hall yet.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Okay.”

Buddy climbed into both your laps at once, a warm, heavy bridge, and sighed the deep, contented sigh of a dog whose work here was done.

Keys looked at you over the top of the dog’s head, glasses still abandoned somewhere on the counter, hair a mess from your hands, soft smile pulling at his mouth like he couldn’t quite believe the shape of the evening.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, and this time the words carried everything he’d been too scared to say before.

You leaned in and kissed him again, slow and sure, while Buddy grumbled happily between you.

“Every day,” you said against his mouth. “For as long as you’ll have us.”

Keys’ answering smile was the brightest thing in the room.

-

The routine didn’t change so much as it deepened.

Keys still walked Buddy every day you were gone. He still sent photos now with occasional captions that made your ears burn in the best way (Missing you. He’s not as good at conversation.). He still fixed things in your apartment and stayed for dinner and fell asleep on your couch with his laptop open and the dog using him as furniture.

But now when you came home he met you at the door with a kiss that tasted like whatever he’d been drinking and the quiet certainty of someone who had finally stopped running the risk assessment on his own heart. Now when Buddy forced you together on the couch, Keys didn’t go still with panic; he simply settled closer, arm along the back of the cushions, fingers playing absently with the ends of your hair while the show played on mute.

Now when the hallway was quiet and the world outside felt far away, he would look at you like you were the best line of code he’d ever written, something that compiled clean on the first try, against all odds, and say, soft and a little awed, “I’m really glad you moved in next door.”

And you, with Buddy snoring between you and Keys’ heartbeat steady under your ear, would answer the only way that made sense anymore.

“Me too.”

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

He was leaning against the counter in his kitchen, hair still messy from the pool earlier, sipping a Coke like he had all the time in the world. No sigh. No glazed look. No “can we talk about something normal?”

“Keep going,” he said, nudging the bowl of pretzels closer to you. He knew you liked the crunch when your brain got loud. “The part about the antenna thing. That’s wild.”

You blinked, the words tumbling out faster now that the permission was there. No filtering. No shrinking yourself down to fit the version of you that made friendships easier. Steve just listened, nodding at the right parts, asking actual questions that proved he was following. Sometimes he repeated things back in his own words just to make sure he got it right, and something warm and safe settled in your chest every single time.

It hadn’t always been like this.

You’d spent most of your life watching people slowly drift away. The “too much” comments. The missed social cues. The way your special interests made you “weird.” The shutdowns after parties where everything: lights, noise, eye contact, felt like sandpaper on your soul. Making and keeping friends was exhausting. You’d gotten really good at being alone.

Then Steve Harrington happened.

It was a bad night. Robin’s group hangout at the quarry had spiraled into something louder than you could handle. You’d slipped away with your headphones on, sitting on a flat rock, rocking gently as the world pressed in too hard. The music helped, but not enough.

Footsteps. You didn’t look up.

A soft rustle, and then something small and squishy landed in your lap, one of those good memory foam earplugs.

“No big deal,” Steve had shrugged when you finally pulled one headphone off and stared at him. “My head gets loud too sometimes. After everything with the… y’know.” He gestured vaguely, the Upside Down still a shadow they didn’t talk about much anymore. “Figured you might want backup.”

He didn’t ask why you were out there alone. He didn’t try to fix you or tell you to “just push through it.” He just sat a respectful distance away, skipping stones across the water in a steady rhythm that matched your rocking.

That night turned into late-night drives. Then shared tapes. Then him showing up at your door with snacks when he knew your executive dysfunction had won the battle against doing dishes or eating real food. Steve learned your patterns without you having to explain everything in painful detail. He started carrying earplugs in his jacket. He kept a specific blanket in his car because weighted pressure helped when you were overstimulated. He never made it feel like charity, it was just what best friends did.

-

Tonight was one of the harder nights. Robin had invited a bunch of people over for what was supposed to be a low-key movie night. It turned into a very not-low-key gathering. Too many voices overlapping. Too much laughter bouncing off the walls. The string lights Robin had insisted on felt like spotlights. Your social script had run out after twenty minutes, and you’d retreated to the kitchen, heart racing, fingers twisting the hem of your shirt until the fabric threatened to tear.

Steve found you within five minutes. He always did.

“Hey,” he said softly, closing the door behind him so the noise dulled to a manageable hum. “You good?”

You shook your head, eyes fixed on the floor. Words were hard right now, that familiar shutdown creeping in. He didn’t push. Just grabbed your favorite mug (the one with the tiny stars he’d bought you after you mentioned it reminded you of a constellation you’d hyperfixated on last summer), filled it with cold water, and set it near you. Then he pulled out the little balancing bird toys fidget he kept in the junk drawer specifically for you. The rhythmic clicking helped your nervous system settle almost immediately.

You took it gratefully, shoulders dropping a fraction.

“I hate that I’m like this,” you muttered eventually, voice small. “Everyone else can just… handle it. Make friends. Be normal. I feel like I’m always one wrong comment away from scaring people off. Like I’m broken wiring or something.”

Steve leaned on the counter again, close but not crowding, he’d learned exactly how much proximity felt safe. “You’re not ‘like this.’ You’re you. And I like you. A lot. More than a lot, honestly.”

Your hands stilled on the fidget for a second. That was new. The “more than a lot” part.

He noticed your pause and rubbed the back of his neck, a little shy. “I don’t have to understand every part of how your brain works to know you’re awesome. The way you light up when you talk about moths or that one band with the weird album art? Or how you’ll reorganize my tapes better than I ever could because the colors bother you otherwise? That’s not weird. That’s you. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ve seen the Upside Down, okay? Your brain is way less scary than that.”

A tiny laugh escaped you despite everything. Steve’s shoulders relaxed at the sound.

“Besides,” he added, voice lighter now, “who else is gonna explain why that one song slaps so hard at 3 a.m. when my brain won’t shut up? Or remind me to eat actual food instead of just leftover pizza? Or help me pick out new sunglasses because the old ones give you a headache when we drive? We’re a team.”

You huffed another laugh, the tension cracking further. “You’re such a sap, Harrington.”

“Only for my favorite person.” He bumped your shoulder gently, careful not to startle you. “Wanna bail? We can go sit in my car, windows down, listen to that tape you made me last week. Or if you’re up for it, we can drive out and look for those moths. I’ll hold the flashlight. No pressure either way.”

You nodded, relief flooding through you like cool water. No guilt trip. No “but everyone’s having fun.” Just Steve, ready to accommodate without making it a production. He grabbed a couple of your favorite snacks from the pantry (he’d started stocking them after the third time you’d mentioned them) and followed you out the back door.

As you slipped outside together, his pinky brushed yours , never full hand-holding unless you initiated. He’d learned that boundary early on too. The night air felt softer already.

The car ride was quiet at first, just the tape playing low. Steve kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly on his thigh in a rhythm he knew you found soothing. Eventually you started talking again, about the moths, about how the documentary had sparked this weeks-long research spiral, about the frustration of not being able to share it with most people without them tuning out.

He listened the whole time, pulling over at one point so he could face you properly when you got really animated.

“You know,” he said when you finally paused for breath, “I used to think I had to be this perfect King Steve version of myself to be worth anything. Popular. Good at sports. All that crap. You showed me it’s okay to just… be. Messy brain and all. So yeah. I’m here for every hyperfixation, every shutdown, every time you need to info-dump at two in the morning. All of it.”

Your chest felt tight again, but in the best way. You reached over and linked your pinky with his this time. He smiled, that soft, real Steve smile that made your stomach do flips you were still trying to understand.

“Can we… maybe try holding hands for a little bit?” you asked quietly. “If that’s okay.”

His fingers slid between yours immediately, warm and steady. “More than okay.”

You stayed like that for a while, parked under the stars, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about his own rough days, the nightmares that still lingered, the way he sometimes felt like he was failing everyone. You listened just as patiently as he did for you, offering the same acceptance he gave so freely.

By the time you got back to your place (the party long over), the knot in your chest had fully loosened. Friendship, real, deep friendship, had always felt impossible. But with Steve, it felt like finally being handed the right instruction manual for your own brain. One that said you didn’t have to change the wiring. You just needed someone willing to learn the language.

And Steve Harrington was fluent.

He walked you to the door, still holding your hand. “Same time tomorrow? We can reorganize the rest of my tapes. Or do nothing. Whatever your brain needs.”

You smiled up at him, feeling seen in a way you’d never been before. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

As he drove off, you realized something: maybe “favorite person” was starting to mean something even bigger than best friend. And for once, that didn’t scare you. It felt right.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

She smiles when she sees you and lets out a whistle. “Look at you, babe!” You roll your eyes back at her playfully. “Yeah, yeah far removed from a school-approved outfit,” you say.

She pats your shoulder. “You look great, hon. Okay! You had your training session two days ago right? Do you have any questions?”

You lace your hands together in front of you surveying the bar. The Goldfinch is one of Chicago’s prime evening entertainment locations, quickly gaining popularity for its ability to strike a balance between the smooth luxury of a cigar club and the breeziness of a patio bar. Bottle service without the tacky sparklers or signage; just an employee there to chat with, keep the drinks flowing, and celebrate events with class. People came by for all sorts of things: birthday parties, work promotions, bachelorettes, and just casual time-pass.

You drew in a breath. “So, I’m a bottle girl… but not a bottle girl? I guess I just don’t know how this whole thing works.”

Becca chuckles at that as she grabs a rack of whiskey glasses and starts polishing them one at a time. “Think of it like, a full-time room reader and sales lady. Your whole goal is to get people to order just one more round of drinks or food that they normally wouldn’t have. If you see a birthday party, send over a glass of champagne for the birthday girl only. The rest of the guests will order a bottle. If you have a couple, send over a free dessert and they’ll order an extra drink. If someone’s drinking on their own, go see if they want someone to chat with. Flirt a little, get ‘em interested, and they might turn one drink after work into dinner.”

You nodded slowly. “But I’m not supposed to go home with anyone,” you say it as a statement. Becca’s eyes widen as she finishes the last whiskey glass and sets it down.

“Absolutely not, that’s actually like, the one no-no of working here. If a guy asks you to leave with him, you have to make it abundantly clear that you’re going out with him as yourself, after your shift is over, and you can’t accept any tips from him for the night. And absolutely no being seen outside of here with a man in your uniform. Boss is super particular; he doesn’t want people thinking this is a… like, sex house, or whatever.”

You nodded again, slowly. “Okay. I think i got it. And Becs?” She cocks her head, green eyes sparkling. “Thanks for getting me this job. Seriously.”

She smiles, pulling you in for a hug. “You’re gonna do great, hon.”

-

The first hour and a half of your shift go by fairly smoothly. You convince a bachelorette party to splurge on a bottle of dom instead of the house champagne, gushing over the bride-to-be’s ring and complimenting her friends’ outfits. You get a group of middle aged men to order black label after fawning over their company “going public,” whatever that means.

You settle into a rhythm, collecting tips and feeling slightly less out of your depth. You get a small break in between patrons and sit at the bar where Becca makes you a Moscow Mule. You sigh in relief when you take a sip, sharp and tangy notes of ginger and lime hitting your tongue. “Got another for ya,” Becca says, nodding towards one of the high tops in the corner, overlooking the busy city streets below. You follow her gaze to find a man, maybe a few years older than you, sitting by himself in a brown suit. He’s nursing a miller lite, surveying the city. You can tell he’s around the same age as you, maybe a little older as you slowly make your way towards him, taking in his perfectly imperfect brown hair, the small sun spots dotting the exposed skin on his neck.

“Hi,” you say, softly. He turns and looks at you, eyebrows raised slightly and a smile already crossing his features.

“Hello,” he says, expectant.

You sigh, gesturing towards his drink. “I just, uh, noticed you’re drinking maybe the safest option on our menu, and wanted to see if you’d be interested in trying a Chicago handshake? On the house.”

He breaks out into a full grin, eyes still reserved. His shoulders shrug up a little in surrender. “I’d say yes but I wouldn’t know what I was getting myself into.”

“Oh! Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed you were local. It’s a shot of Malort and a tall can of Old Style. I’d do the shot with you, nobody should try malort for the first time on their own,” you giggle, which draws a small laugh out of him, too. He lifts his hand slightly.

“You know what, sure, when in Rome, right?”

You throw a wink his way as you write “Chi shake - OTH” in pink glitter on your notepad and turn away to the bar to get him his order.

You walk back with it a few moments later and set the shot glasses and beer in front of him, asking if it’s okay for you to take the empty chair across from him, which he offers up in a heartbeat.

You sit and cheers him, taking the shot and feeling the familiar allspice burn down your throat. You chase it with a sip of your mule, which you’re all too grateful to Becca for at the moment.

You watch as Steve tries his best to cover up how unpleasant he finds the liquor, his large gulps of old style giving him away and making you let out a quiet laugh. “I-I thought you were supposed to get me to order more stuff from the menu,” he says between small coughs and laughter.

You raise your hand in mock surrender. “You got me there. It’s my first night, actually.”

“Ah,” he says. “Well I’m probably a good first customer. I’m here for a work conference—advertising stuff. I live in Indianapolis.”

You lean in a little. “Really? Do they have you on the greatest hits tour this weekend? the bean, the riverwalk, all of that?”

Steve chuckles. “You’ve lived here a while haven’t you?”

You nod. “Since college. Moving here uh… moving here kinda saved my life.” You’re not sure why you’re offering up such a deep part of you to this stranger a few minutes after meeting him. You decide to chalk it up to the alcohol and maybe the way his eyes feel scarily like home. You shake your head microscopically. Definitely the alcohol. For a horrible moment you felt like you’ve said too much.

But instead of recoiling at the vulnerability, Steve just smiles again, corners of his eyes crinkling. “You sound like all my friends. We’re all from a little town in Indiana. They all moved to the east coast after, uh, after high school. I-I don’t know, I guess I just found it harder to leave. Indy’s as far as my head let me go, I guess.” He sips his beer.

You reach over and place a gentle hand on his forearm. The sun is almost fully set outside of the window, golden hues of streetlights mingling with the red of car brakes. He looks down at the touch, and leans into it ever so slightly. “I get that,” your voice is quiet. “Honestly… as much as I’ve loved living here, there’s not much keeping me anymore. My uh… ex dumped me like two months ago, and then I lost my job almost immediately after. So, I’m uh, staying with Becs,” you nod towards her at the bar, “until I can get back on my feet.”

Steve nods, “Yeah, I’ve got what you’d call an extremely sorrowful dating history, too.”

You smirk at him. “What; no wife or girlfriend waiting for you in Indy?” You’re not really sure where the boldness is coming from, but Steve’s arm is warm under your arm and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world, and nobody’s looked at you like that in a long time.

He mirrors your expression. “No, just a lofty apartment that’s too quiet at night. I don’t know, I’ve tried so hard to find the one, you know? But none of it’s worked out. When I was 20 I thought I’d be married and on kid number four by now,” he shrugs, finishing off his beer.

You tighten your grip on his arm a bit at that, nodding sympathetically. “I hear you. I thought I would be getting married this year, too,” your voice drops to a whisper and you have to look away from his intense gaze so you don’t cry.

Steve shifts under you and you go to move your hand off of his arm but he covers it with his much larger one before you can; palm warm against your skin. “Can I ask you a kind of crazy question?”

You tilt your head towards him.

“Do you.. would you wanna get out of here? Go for a drive? You can show me the best sights Chicago has to see by nighttime,” the look on Steve’s face is one of pure hope.

You nod. “Yeah, but… there’s some conditions first.”

Steve agrees to wait until the end of your shift, nursing a beer for the remaining two hours until you finally emerge from behind the bar, dressed in your normal clothes; a pair of denim shorts and a tank top, backpack thrown over a shoulder. He holds his arm out for you to take, tipping his head a bit dramatically as you giggle and loop your hand through the crook of his elbow. You catch Becs’ eye as you’re leaving and expect some type of judgement from her, but she just smirks and winks and mouths be safe like this was her plan all along.

Steve leads you to his car, a maroon BMW in impeccable shape for its year make. He ducks his head when you compliment it and opens the door for you before rounding the hood to the drivers’ side. “So, any specific requests for what you wanna see?” You ask, looking over at him in the dark interior. You feel shy; the intimacy of the car and how it smells like Steve hitting you all at once.

“Where can I get a good view of the skyline?” He asks. You smile. “I know just the place.”

-

On the drive, Steve tells you about his closest friends from high school. “Wait, let me get this straight,” you say, eyes bright and a playful smile on your face. “Your closest friends are your ex-girlfriend, the girl you had a crush on after her that turned out to not swing your way, and the guy who beat you up in an alley, who’s dating your ex girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t say he beat me up, exactly,” Steve argues.

You laugh, high pitched. “That’s what you choose to focus on?”

Steve raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, you got me. It got… complicated for a bit there but, we’ve just ah- been through a lot together.” His voice softens on that last sentence and your heart swells for him.

You nod. “I get it, Becca’s my best friend but I’d be lying if I said we didn’t have our moments, too.”

He throws you a look of appreciation, for getting it, before focusing back on the road.

“Okay, turn right over here, and then park anywhere in this lot,” you say. Steve follows your directions, expertly parallel parking which you compliment. He blushes again, it reaches the tips of his ears and makes heat bloom low in your belly at the effect you have on him.

You lead him a ways away from the entrance and down the concrete steps, by the lake. You gesture out to the entire Chicago skyline that’s glimmering back at the two of you. “Ta daaa,” you hum a little, which makes him chuckle and put an arm around you, squeezing gently. You still for a brief moment and he pulls away, shoving his hands into his pockets as the two of you walk a little closer to the concrete edge. “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“No!” You interrupted, grimacing at your voice being louder than you wanted. “I mean, I didn’t take it as inappropriate or anything just um, I guess I’m a little out of practice, being down on my luck and all,” you shrugged, trying to play it off. Steve didn’t laugh with you or make a joke. He just looked at you with soft eyes that you could make out in the dim light of the trail, leaned closer and wrapped his arm back around you, allowing you to sink into his touch as you both looked out to the skyline.

“Hmm, which one’s your favorite?” He asked. You could feel the vibration of his voice through your body.

“My favorite building?”

“Mhm”

“Oh, it’s the one from adventures in babysitting,” you chuckled, pointing to it. “The diamond shaped one. It just draws my eye every time I look at the skyline.”

Steve hums next to you. “I love that movie,” he murmurs.

You turn slightly towards him in his hold. “Yeah?”

He nods, looking at the skyline for a moment before looking back at you. “So, if you had to say, completely objectively. Would this be a good spot to kiss a girl you met over drinks at some swanky bar a few hours ago?” His voice is lilting with the premise of a joke; something he can use as a cop out if he needs to, but his eyes give him away.

Normally, you’d say something snappy and end this right then and there, taking a taxi back to Becca’s and tucking in for the night with a pint of cookies and cream. Normally, you wouldn’t have stayed at Steve’s table that long or done a shot with him. But you’d been doing things normally for years and that had gotten you dumped, single, and out of a job you loved all before you turned 26.

Feeling a rush of confidence, you turn fully towards him, backing him to the edge of the concrete step behind him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, I’d say it’s perfect, Steve,” you’re sure your smile is a little too eager, but you can’t find it in yourself to care because every one of your senses is filled with Steve as he presses himself closer and captures your lips with his. He tastes like beer and mint and something unique to him entirely. You whimper when he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip, which makes him smirk into the kiss. You open for him, letting his tongue meet yours and explore your mouth, drawing out more sweet sounds from you as you move one of your hands from the back of his neck to the inside of his jacket, pulling him impossibly closer. His fingers tighten their grip on your waist to reciprocate, kissing you again and again before he finally pulls away.

You both let out incredulous laughs as you rest your foreheads together, lost in the moment and each other.

“You know, maybe I was wrong,” you whisper.

Steve hums in questioning.

“Maybe my luck’s starting to change.

You feel him smile as he presses another kiss to your mouth, leaving you chasing his lips for more as he pulls away.

“Can I ask you another crazy question?” He says, mirroring his question from earlier in the evening.

You nod, looking into his eyes.

“Will you stay with me this week? I have a suite that’s too big and lonely for me to survive by myself.”

You scoff a little. “Wow, use that on every girl, do you?”

His brows furrow. “What? N-no! I swear. This isn’t some ploy to sleep with you. If I wanted that I would’ve just asked but—look, we’re both a little sad and life’s not being so kind, and we clearly like each other enough to make out with each other and reveal our reasons for heartbreak so… I figured we could do something a little crazy.”

You mull it over in your head before a smirk creeps up your lips. “I think you’re on to something, Harrington. But there’s rules,” you say, quoting your earlier exchange playfully back to him as you peel yourself away from him and grab his hand, leading the way back to his car.

But none of that explained why his heart beat a little faster when you were near, why he felt so desperately sad when you didn’t stay the night or why when he saw you talking to Ryan Williams at a party he wanted nothing more than to punch the nearest wall (or Ryan, whichever was more satisfying).

He was being stupid—he knew he was. You were technically not even friends. In fact, when you weren’t fucking each—you two were arguing. Not only that but you and Steve were not together and you were able to talk to any guy you wanted.

But it didn’t mean it didn’t kill him a little inside when you laugh at something Ryan had said while Steve watches from across the room.

Fucking Ryan.

Steve was deep in some sort of twisted daydream of socking Ryan in the face when someone taps his shoulder.

He turned around and was met with a pretty brunette who looked vaguely familiar. Amy something, or maybe it was Amanda, some girl who he had gone to high school with. Some girl who was fluttering her lashes at him and giving him every opportunity to be his distraction for the evening. He briefly considered it, knowing it would have certainly made him feel a little better about you and Ryan.

But he didn’t give in. Because despite the fact you annoyed the fuck out of him, he loved you. He knew it now he had seen you with someone else. He really fucking loved you. And he knew fucking someone else wasn’t going to stop that.

And so, instead of going upstairs with Amy or Amanda or whatever her name was, Steve went home. Trying not to think about you going home with Ryan, trying not to think about Ryan kissing you or fucking you or—

The sound of his phone ringing as he grabs a drink of water pulls him out of his thoughts. He didn’t know how but he knew almost instantly that it was you calling. And so, Steve answers. Because of course he does.

“Hi,” was the first thing he says when he answers the phone, trying to keep his voice casual, normal, like his heart wasn't beating out of his chest already. 

“Where—wherey’d you g-go?”

From the sound of your voice, Steve could instantly tell that you had been crying.

He felt his stomach drop instantly,

“Home,” he says, sitting upright instantly and straining to listen to the sounds of the party around you. But there was none. No music, no drunken yelling, no Ryan—

“Baby, where are you?”

The petname slips out before he could stop it. He only ever used it when he was feeling particularly needy—when you were on top of him, tits bouncing in his face and fucking yourself on his cock. When you would slowly roll your hips just as he was about to cum, making him lose his damn mind. That was the only time he called you baby.

Until now, that was.

“I-I left,” you tell him in a small voice. “I sa-saw you g-go and I—”

“Where?” Steve interjects, already standing up and grabbing his car keys that lay nearby. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you and I—”

“—I th-think I love y-you, Stevie.”

Everything stills. Time itself seems to slow down. Steve feels as though he has forgotten how to breathe. Because you felt the same, you felt the same.

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. Not when you were god knows where, sad and probably alone.

“I—I’m sorry I just—I saw you and Amanda and I—I—it felt like my whole world ended and then you were gone and I thought—”

“Tell me where you are,” Steve demands of you somewhat gently, jaw clenched as the words you had just uttered make him feel things he had been trying to ignore for months. “C’mon baby, I—I just need to see you so tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you tell him you were at some payphone right outside of Melvald's and Steve tells you not to move, tells you to stay exactly where you were.

Steve drives to Melvald's, breaks a few traffic laws on the way that he wasn’t proud of but he makes it to the parking lot outside the store in less than five minutes. 

He spots you almost instantly, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs as if it could protect you from the cold.

Steve practically stumbles out of his car in his haste to get to you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking off his jacket without even a second thought and dropping it over your shoulders. “What were you thinking? Walking home alone like this, why didn’t you—”

“—be-because I thought you l-left,” you say quietly, your eyes shining as you look back up at him. “A-and I th-thought you left wi-with Amanda and—”

“—no,” Steve says with a shake of his head, dropping down onto the sidewalk beside you so he could cup your face with one hand to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen. “No, I didn’t go home with her. I-I wouldn’t do that.”

You breath hitches, you try not to think too much about the implication of those words but it was impossible not to do that when he was so close to you.

“Why?” You ask him quietly, barely daring to look away from him for even a second. “Why wouldn’t you—”

“—because I—because I love you too.”

Your eyes widen, lips part and Steve looks momentarily terrified that he’s said something insanely stupid, that perhaps maybe he had misheard you over the phone when you had told him you loved him.

But then you’re leaning in, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips firmly against his.

The kiss was anything but romantic—it was desperate, your fingers running through his hair as his hands roam over your body, grabbing at your thighs, your ass, anywhere he could touch, as though he was trying to map it out. It was the sort of kiss that left your core aching, made you want to pull him into his beamer and let him fuck you until sunrise. 

You weren’t sure how long you made out with Steve Harrington on the sidewalk but you knew it was Steve who was the first to pull away. You let out a noise of protest, something between a whine and a whimper as your eyes flicker down to his lips that were swollen from your kiss and covered in a mix of your spit. 

“Why did you—”

Steve presses his finger against your lips, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Because my girl deserves the best,” he tells you simply, the words making something in your gut squirm, the look in his eyes making your cunt clench around nothing.

You feel one of his hands brush along the bare skin of your leg. The subtle touch starts a fire in your gut, your eyelids flutter as he slowly drags his fingers up to your thigh in a tantalising dance that makes your blood hum with need.

“So let me take you home and then—”, he murmurs, fingers disappearing beneath your skirt and pressing his fingertips firmly against the damp patch that had formed in your panties. The moan that leaves your lips as a result should be embarrassing but you found that you didn’t care all that much when Steve’s fingers were circling your clothed clit, when you could see the thick outline of his cock through his jeans, “—then I’ll take care of you. Give my girl what she needs, yeah?”

You couldn’t do anything but nod your head frantically. Because he had called you his girl, his girl, his girl.

Steve wastes no time before he leans to kiss you again—this kiss much softer, gentler, everything you and Steve had never got the chance to be. He can’t help but smile into the kiss because when it came to you? It was hard not to fall but you had been right there to catch him.

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Your words turned him on further, his cock hardening beneath the restraint of his jeans. He would’ve taken you up on that offer long ago if he’d known how horny you felt around him.

“Well, I’m gonna go before you start drooling.” Nancy replied. Steve immediately hid himself behind the wall, he had a plan of confronting you, but wasn’t going to give himself away yet.

As soon as he heard the door shut behind Nancy, he stepped forward revealing himself. He didn’t speak a word, the only sound that alerted you of his presence were his heavy footsteps. You glanced upwards and jumped back immediately, caught off guard.

“Oh, Steve! You haven’t left yet?” You asked, trying to conceal how flustered you felt, having just talked about him in an intimate way.

Silence filled the space between you at first, he simply crossed his arms across his chest, raking his gaze over your body as he slowly unwrapped you with his darkening pupils. Then he titled his head at you, in that very Steve way, the one that usually meant he found something amusing. Though the words that came out were anything but.

“You wanna fuck me?” His voice was thick and syrupy, you instinctively took a step back, eyes widening.

“I—uh…I wasn’t—” you opened your mouth then closed it again, feeling like the room had become ten times more cramped.

Steve raised a brow, his posture stiff as if he was holding himself back from taking you right then. He had to admit, watching you stutter as your face flushed made his cock twitch, but he was going to drag it out as long as possible.

“You weren’t what? Because from what I heard, you were practicing moaning for me.” He scoffed, rolling his tongue into the side of his cheek.

You realized there was no escaping this, eyes flickering everywhere other than him. “Does it, upset you…that I said that?” You asked slowly, voice coming out weak and quiet.

You were shocked when Steve took a step closer, cornering you until you had to physically lift your chin to stare into his eyes. “You wanna fuck me, yeah?” He whispered, and when your gaze strayed lower, you caught sight of just how hard he was. “Then I’m gonna show you just how hard I fuck.”

Your breath hitched, goosebumps rising on your skin. “I…” you couldn’t speak, your mind only focusing on how you clenched around nothing, trying not to squeeze your thighs together in front of him.

“Say it.” He cut you off. “I want to hear you say to my face again how badly you want to fuck me.” Steve wasn’t asking, it was a demand, and who were you not to abide by his orders?

You swallowed heavily, he was staring at you like a wolf. “I want you to fuck me, Steve.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, he surged forward, taking you roughly by the jaw to smash his lips against yours.

His grip on you was bruising, if only you knew how much he’s wanted to fuck you too. Steve groaned into your mouth, biting on your bottom lip to slip his tongue inside. You didn’t even bother pausing for a moment to breathe, his kisses were intoxicating, deepening the desire you had for him.

You gasped when he suddenly pushed you back against a table, harder than you expected. There was no time for being gentle, Steve was seconds away from cumming in his pants every time he replayed your words.

“Bend the fuck over.” Steve rasped, turning you around by the hips to flatten you against the hard wood table.

Excitement racked through you, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, it was as though you manifested it. Steve flipped your skirt upside down, his palm coming down to rub against his own cock at the sight of you wet and waiting.

You shook your ass backwards, every moment where he wasn’t already inside you was torture. “Please, Steve.” You sighed, earning a harsh slap to your bottom.

“I’m going to give you what you deserve, talking so dirty about me while not knowing I was listening the whole time.” He narrated as he unbuckled his belt, taking his bare cock in his hands to slide the head through your slick folds.

You let out a quiet moan, you could already feel how big he was before he was even inside you yet. Your clit pulsated with need, when Steve finally decided to stop teasing you, he entered you with one long painful thrust.

“S-Steve—” you screamed, gripping the edge of the table. He threw his head back from how tight and warm you felt around him, unlike any other pussy he’s tried, fuck, he wouldn’t want a different one after this.

“That’s it.” He panted, staring down at where you were conjoined as he rocked his hips back out, just to force his cock back in deeply. “Taking me so well, baby. Knew this pussy would be made for me.”

You whimpered, jaw hung open as he pulled moans out from you. You struggled to breathe, every gasp of air was only met with another thrust. Steve held you firmer, quickening his pace as his balls smacked against your ass, plap plap plap echoed off the walls, the thick stench of sex surrounding you.

“Mmf—ohh—ahh,” you cried out, your obvious pleasure made him move impossibly faster, dragging the veins of his cock against the spongy spot inside you.

Steve took your hands behind your back, locking them together in his grasp to tug you back against him. “Fuck, mmm—just go dumb on my cock, sweetheart. You can’t even speak,” he laughed condescendingly, continuing to use you as his own fuck toy.

The pleasure inside you was building intensely, you couldn’t stop clenching around him, your hole sucking him back in with desperation. “Don’t—if you keep squeezing my cock like that I’m gonna cum.” Steve gritted out. You clenched around him again from the tightness in his voice. “I just said don’t fucking do that.” He brought a hand down onto your ass again, making you jerk forwards.

“Oh god!” you screamed, feeling him lift your right leg up, angling deeper into your pussy. The coil in your stomach was starting to tighten dangerously, you couldn’t help but grind your hips back against his, meeting him with each thrust.

“Fuck yourself on my cock, just like you wanted to.” Steve let you do all the work, until you started shaking and let out a final shout of his name, cumming all over his cock.

“Shit, I’m gonna, fuck—” your spasming hole and the added lubrication of your release sent Steve over the edge, leaning over you to push his sweaty chest against your back, keeping his cock still as he pumped his cum into you.

“Soo fucking good.” Steve sighed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder. You both stayed there for a moment, catching your breaths shakily.

You hadn’t even opened your eyes for a full minute when Steve was already climbing back off of you, starting to rock his hips slowly again.

You’d let him in without hesitation. Steve had become your person over the past couple of years. The one who always had your back, who made you laugh when the world felt too heavy, and who never treated you like you were just another girl from the past. Platonic, mostly. Sure, there were moments: the way his hand would linger on your lower back when guiding you through crowds, the late-night phone calls where his voice got soft, or how he’d stare a beat too long when you wore something that showed skin. But you both played it safe. Friends. Best friends.

The evening unfolded like so many others. You sprawled across the couch, legs tangled casually as the first horror movie played. Steve kept up his running commentary, mocking the bad special effects and dramatically pulling you closer during the jump scares “for protection.” Pizza grease on your fingers, stolen sips from each other’s drinks, laughter echoing through the house. By the second movie, the vibe had shifted into something warmer, lazier.

The final credits rolled across the TV screen as the second movie wrapped up with a ridiculous jump scare that made you both groan and laugh. Steve stretched his long arms overhead, his polo riding up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach, before shooting you that lazy, warm grin. “Alright, I’m officially wiped. Your couch is great but my back is not built for another horror marathon tonight.” You nodded in agreement, feeling the post-movie haze settle in, and stood up, tugging your shirt down. “Come on, let’s head upstairs to my room. Way more comfortable and I’ve got actual blankets that don’t smell like popcorn.” Steve didn’t hesitate, grabbing the last couple of sodas and following you up the stairs with easy familiarity, the two of you still trading jokes about the movie’s terrible plot as you pushed open the door to your bedroom. The cozy space felt even more inviting in the low lamplight, and Steve flopped onto the edge of your bed like he belonged there.

You slipped into the bathroom attached to your room to change into something more comfortable. The cute little top you’d bought on a whim was calling your name: soft fabric, a hint of stretch, and yeah, it dipped low in the front. You wiggled into it, adjusting the straps, but the way it sat on your chest was… a lot. The cleavage stared back at you in the mirror, full and impossible to ignore.

“Ugh, these things are just too much,” you blurted out loud, half to yourself, half because Steve was right there in the next room and you had zero filter with him anymore. “Taking up so much damn space, it’s annoying as hell while trying to wear something cute.”

The bathroom door was open a crack, your mistake. Or maybe not.

Steve had been lounging on the edge of your bed, flipping through an old magazine, but at your words his head snapped up. You caught his reflection in the mirror as he stood, drawn like a magnet. He pushed the door open a little wider, leaning against the frame with that effortless cool he always wore, even when his brain was short-circuiting.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, eyes widening. He didn’t even try to hide it. His gaze dropped straight to your chest, slow and deliberate, tracing the swell of your breasts pushed up by the top. A long, appreciative look that made heat rush to your face. “You really just said that out loud?”

You turned around, arms half-crossed under your boobs which only made them look even more prominent. “Steve! I thought you wouldn’t hear me. Perv.”

He laughed, that rich, warm sound that always loosened the tension in your shoulders, but there was a husky edge to it tonight. “Hey, I’m just a guy. And you can’t drop a line like that and expect me not to investigate.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours, brown and sparkling with mischief, but there was real heat there too. “Too much? Annoying? Sweetheart, you’re standing there looking like every guy’s late-night fantasy and complaining about it?”

He stepped fully into the bathroom doorway now, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of popcorn from earlier. Not touching, but definitely invading your space in that friendly-yet-not way he did so well. Steve Harrington had always been a flirt, but with you it stayed mostly harmless, teasing compliments, protective arm around your shoulders during movie nights, the occasional lingering hug. Tonight felt different.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “They get in the way all the time. Clothes don’t fit right, running sucks, and don’t even get me started on trying to sleep on my stomach.”

Steve’s smirk deepened. He leaned in slightly, gaze dipping again without shame. “Yeah? Sounds rough. Real tragedy.” His voice was lower now, teasing but sincere. “Mind if I… form my own opinion? As your very supportive, very platonic friend.”

Before you could protest, not that you wanted to he reached out, gentle fingers brushing a stray strap back into place on your shoulder. The touch was light, but it sent sparks down your skin. His eyes stayed locked on the cleavage, drinking in the soft curves, the way the fabric hugged you. You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re perfect. Not annoying at all. Just… a lot to handle. In the best way.” He straightened up, running a hand through his signature hair, but the flush on his cheeks gave him away. Steve was rattled, and he liked it.

You laughed, pushing at his chest lightly. “You’re ridiculous. We’re friends, remember? You’re not supposed to stare like that.”

“Who says?” He caught your hand before you could pull it back, holding it against his chest for a second. His heart was beating faster than normal. “Friends can appreciate… assets. Especially when said friend blurts it out like that. C’mon, you had to know I wasn’t gonna let that slide.”

The air felt thicker in the small bathroom. Steve didn’t back off. Instead, he tugged you gently toward the bedroom, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed with him. The radio kept playing softly in the background, some love ballad that felt way too on-the-nose.

“Seriously though,” he said after a beat, his usual cocky grin fading into something softer, more intense. “You’re gorgeous. All of you. If those are causing you trouble, maybe I can help test some solutions. Like… different tops. Or no tops.” He winked, but his hand stayed near yours on the bed, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You shoved him playfully, but stayed close. “Steve Harrington, king of smooth talk even when he’s half-hard from a wardrobe malfunction.”

He didn’t deny it. His laugh was a little strained this time. “Guilty. Can you blame me? You’re in my bedroom—well, your bedroom—looking like that and talking about your boobs being ‘too much.’ I’m only human.”

The conversation stretched from there. Steve kept the vibe light at first, cracking jokes about his own failed attempts at fashion advice back in his King Steve days, how he used to think he knew everything about what girls wanted. But the looks kept coming, quick stolen glances when you shifted, longer ones when you leaned forward to grab a water bottle from the nightstand. Each time his eyes would trace the cleavage, the soft bounce, the way the top clung.

Eventually you ended up lying back on the bed together, shoulders touching, talking about everything and nothing. The movie, the Upside Down scars you both carried, how nice it was to just exist without monsters for once. But the undercurrent was electric. Steve rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand, and let his free hand rest lightly on your waist.

“You know I’d never push, right?” he said quietly, sincerity cutting through the flirtation. “We’re friends. But… damn, if you ever wanted more than looking…” His eyes dropped again, hungry but patient. “I’d be there. Appreciating every inch.”

You turned to face him, the proximity making your pulse race. His breath was warm against your skin. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Steve leaned in, pressing a soft, testing kiss to your collarbone, right above the line of the top. Not demanding. Just… tasting the moment.

“See?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough.

The night didn’t end with clothes coming off completely, not yet but it evolved. Steve’s hands stayed respectful even as they explored, tracing the curves he’d been admiring, murmuring compliments between kisses along your neck and shoulder. “Too much space? Baby, they fit perfectly in my hands.” His touch was confident, gentle, the same Steve who’d swung a bat at demodogs now completely focused on making you feel wanted.

Hours blurred. Laughter mixed with heated whispers. He never once let the “just friends” line stop him from looking, touching, teasing. By the time the sun threatened to creep up, you were tangled in sheets, his head pillowed near your chest, fingers idly tracing patterns on your skin.

“Still annoying?” he asked sleepily, that smirk audible even in the dark.

You ran your fingers through his hair. “Maybe not so much anymore.”

Steve chuckled, pressing one last kiss there. “Good. Because I’m gonna need a lot more opportunities to study the situation. Friend’s honor.”

And just like that, the line between friends and something more had blurred, thanks to one blurted complaint and Steve Harrington’s inability to look away from what you were blessed with.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

You knew they were up to something. The “Polaroid challenge” had been their idea from the start. You’d done the boudoir shoot two weeks ago in a cheap motel room on the edge of town, the photographer a discreet friend of a friend who knew how to keep her mouth shut in a place where everybody talked. The photos were for Gator. Spicy. Playful. Yours. And tonight, the girls were delivering them.

Gator stood by the bar nursing a beer, his sheriff’s jacket slung over the back of a chair even though he wasn’t on duty. He looked good, too good, dark hair slicked back the way he liked it for special occasions, the sleeves of his button-up rolled to his elbows showing the ink on his forearm. He was laughing at something one of the groomsmen said, that big, cocky grin he wore like armor. But you saw the way his eyes kept drifting to you across the room, soft around the edges in a way only you got to see.

“Deputy Tillman,” your maid of honor, Jess, said sweetly, appearing at his elbow with two of the other girls. They looked like trouble in matching satin robes they’d changed into for the after-party vibe. “We got something for you.”

Gator raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Yeah? If it’s another round of shots, I’m tappin’ out. Gotta be sharp for tomorrow. Can’t have the groom lookin’ like shit walkin’ down the aisle.”

“Oh, it’s better than shots,” the youngest bridesmaid, Kayla, said, barely containing her grin. She thrust a thick, unmarked envelope into his hands. It was heavy. Polaroid-sized. “From the bride. Tradition. Don’t open it here. Go somewhere private. And… maybe lock the door.”

Gator stared at the envelope like it might bite him. His ears went pink under the bar lights. “The hell is this?”

“Open it and find out, big shot,” Jess teased, already backing away with the others. “And tell your future wife we said you’re welcome.”

They scattered before he could argue, leaving him holding the envelope like it was evidence in a case he didn’t want to process. He glanced around, Roy was across the room talking to some old deputies, voice booming about “law and order” and whatever bullshit he was spinning tonight. Gator’s jaw tightened the way it always did around his old man. Then his eyes found yours across the room. You gave him a little wave and a smirk that said everything.

He mouthed “what the fuck” at you.

You just blew him a kiss and turned back to your friends, heart pounding with anticipation and nerves. You’d seen the photos. You knew what was in there. And you knew exactly how Gator Tillman was going to react.

Gator didn’t wait. He grabbed his jacket, mumbled something about “groom shit” to the nearest groomsman, and slipped out the side door into the cold night. His truck was parked out back, the old Ford he’d had since he was nineteen, the one with the dent in the fender from that time he’d chased a suspect too hard and clipped a mailbox. He climbed in, slammed the door, and killed the engine after a second so the heat would stay on. The cab smelled like him: cologne that was too strong, leather, and the faint trace of the energy drinks he lived on.

He stared at the envelope in his lap for a long minute, thumb tracing the edge. “The fuck did she do,” he muttered to himself, that little self-deprecating laugh he used when he was nervous. “I’m a winner. I’m a fuckin’ winner. She’s marryin’ me tomorrow. I’m good.”

He tore it open.

The first Polaroid slid out into his hand.

It was you.

You were on your knees on the motel bed, wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties that barely counted as clothing and his deputy hat, the real one, the one with the Stark County Sheriff’s Department patch, tilted low over your eyes. Your hair was messy, lips parted, one hand resting on your thigh like you were daring him to come closer. The flash had caught the curve of your breast, the way your skin glowed warm under the cheap motel lights. On the white border at the bottom, in your handwriting: “Come get your deputy, baby. Badge and all.”

Gator’s breath left him in a rush. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

His cock twitched hard against his zipper. He shifted in the seat, one hand automatically going to adjust himself through his jeans. The photo shook a little in his fingers. He could see every detail: the little mole on your ribcage he loved to kiss, the way your nipples were tight from the cold or the pose or both. His hat on you looked obscene in the best way. Like you were claiming him. Like you knew exactly what it did to him when you played with his uniform.

He flipped to the next one.

You on your back on the same bed, sheets rumpled around you, one knee bent. You were in red lingerie this time, some strappy thing he’d never seen before that pushed your tits up and had little gold clasps that begged to be undone. Your head was tipped back, mouth open like you were moaning his name, one hand between your legs pressing over the lace. The note: “Thinking about your hands here. Hurry up and marry me so you can do something about it.”

“Fuck,” Gator groaned out loud, head thunking back against the headrest. His free hand pressed harder against his dick, heel of his palm grinding down for relief. He was half-hard already and they’d only given him two. How many were in here? He thumbed through the stack, had to be twenty, thirty photos. “She’s gonna kill me. I’m gonna die before I even say ‘I do.’”

He kept going.

Third photo: You standing in front of his truck in the motel parking lot at dusk, wearing his old leather jacket and nothing underneath. The jacket was open, just enough to show the swell of your breasts and the flat of your stomach. One hand rested on the hood like you owned it. Wind in your hair. You looked like every wet dream he’d ever had about claiming something good in this shitty town. Note: “Your truck. Your girl. Come claim both.”

He remembered that jacket. Wore it the night he first kissed you after pulling you over for going ten over on the county road. You’d laughed in his face when he tried to be all authoritative, called him “Deputy Pretty Boy,” and somehow that had turned into you in his passenger seat, his mouth on yours, hands everywhere. He’d never lived it down with the guys at the station.

Fourth: Close-up. You in his bed, his actual bed at the little house he rented on the edge of town, wearing one of his undershirts and the hat again, but the shirt was rucked up to your ribs. Your hand was down the front of a pair of his boxers you must’ve stolen. Eyes half-lidded, biting your lip. The note was shorter: “Smells like you. Feels like you. Miss you already.”

Gator made a wounded noise in the back of his throat. His hips bucked up into his hand without thinking. He was fully hard now, cock straining, a damp spot already forming on his boxers. He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop imagining walking in on you like that, pulling those boxers down with his teeth, burying his face between your thighs until you screamed his name loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

He went through more.

You in the shower at the motel, water sluicing down your body, one arm braced on the tile, looking back over your shoulder at the camera with a wicked little smile. Soap suds strategically placed but not really hiding anything. Note: “Wish you were here to wash my back… and everything else.”

You straddling a chair in the lingerie again, leaning forward so your tits almost spilled out, hands cuffed loosely with a pair of his old handcuffs (the fuzzy ones he’d bought as a joke after you teased him about “playing cop” in bed). Note: “Arrest me, Deputy. I’ve been bad.”

You on the hood of his truck again, this time in daylight, wearing his uniform shirt unbuttoned to the navel, no bra, panties only. Legs spread just enough. The flash made everything sharp: the curve of your hip, the way your skin looked against the dark fabric. Note: “I’m the law now. Come enforce it.”

By the tenth photo he was panting, one hand shoved down his jeans, stroking himself slow and desperate because he couldn’t not. The other hand held the stack like it was holy. His face was flushed, ears burning, that cocky mask completely gone. In its place was raw want and something softer, something that made his chest ache.

He loved you so fucking much it hurt sometimes.

You’d seen every ugly part of him, the way Roy still got under his skin, the nights he came home from a shift too wired to sleep and paced until you pulled him into bed and held him until the shakes stopped. The times he fucked up and lashed out because he didn’t know how to be soft. You never ran. You called him on his shit, kissed him after, told him he was more than his last name. You made him want to be better. Not for Roy. For you.

And now you were giving him this, letting him see you like this, trusting him with it, turning him into a goddamn mess the night before he got to call you his wife.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered to the empty cab, thumb brushing over a photo of you in his hat and nothing else, legs open, one finger tracing your own lips. “You’re gonna be the death of me. And I’m gonna thank you for it.”

He kept going until the stack was done. Every photo burned into his brain. By the end he was leaking into his hand, hips jerking, so close he had to stop himself from coming in his jeans like a teenager. He shoved the photos back into the envelope with shaking hands, zipped himself up with a pained groan, and sat there breathing hard for a long minute.

Then he pulled out his phone.

Gator: holy fucking shit

Gator: what did you DO to me

Gator: i’m in my truck hard as a rock lookin at these like a pervert

Gator: you in my hat??? the cuffs??? the truck hood??? baby i’m not gonna survive tomorrow

Gator: i love you so much it’s stupid

Gator: can’t wait to marry you. can’t wait to fuck you in that dress. can’t wait to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life

Gator: tell your girls they’re evil. i’m never recoverin from this

He hit send on the last one and stared at the screen, grinning like an idiot even as his dick throbbed. The replies came fast.

You: good

You: that’s the point deputy

You: you better not come without me

You: save it for the wedding night

You: i love you too. more than anything. now go to bed and dream about me

You: see you at the altar, husband

Gator groaned again, head falling back. “She’s evil. I’m marryin’ the devil herself. Best day of my fuckin’ life.”

He stayed in the truck a while longer, looking through the photos one more time slower, memorizing. Then he tucked the envelope into the glovebox like it was the most precious thing he owned, started the engine, and drove home with the windows down so the cold air would calm him down.

The next morning dawned clear and cold, the kind of North Dakota winter day that made everything look sharp and new. Gator woke up with your name on his lips and his hand already wrapped around his cock, the Polaroids spread across his kitchen table like evidence. He didn’t touch himself properly, he’d promised you but he edged himself thinking about every single one until he was shaking and had to splash cold water on his face.

He got ready in his dress uniform, the one he saved for ceremonies. Roy showed up early, already in his sheriff’s best, barking orders like it was a crime scene instead of his only son’s wedding.

“Don’t fuck this up, Gator,” Roy said, adjusting his son’s tie with rough hands. “She’s a good girl. Better than you deserve. You keep your head straight and your dick in your pants until after the vows. Hear me?”

Gator’s jaw clenched. Old habits. The need to snap back, to prove he wasn’t the fuck-up Roy always said he was. But then he thought of the photos in his glovebox. Thought of you waiting for him. “Yeah, Dad. I got it. I’m a winner, right?”

Roy grunted, something almost like approval in his eyes for half a second. “Damn right you are. Now let’s go make an honest man out of you.”

The ceremony was at the same community center, decorated with white lights and pine boughs because you’d wanted it simple and pretty. Gator stood at the front, heart hammering so hard he thought everyone could hear it. His groomsmen ribbed him quietly. One of them had seen the envelope exchange last night and was dying to know what was in it.

When the music started and you appeared at the end of the aisle on your dad’s arm, Gator forgot how to breathe.

You were stunning. The dress was simple but perfect: lace sleeves, fitted bodice, skirt that flared just enough. Your hair was down the way he liked it. And you were smiling at him like he was the only person in the room. Like he was enough.

He blinked hard, eyes stinging. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath. “I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

The vows were a blur. He managed to get through his without crying too much, though his voice cracked when he said, “You make me wanna be the man you see when you look at me. I’m a winner ‘cause I got you. And I’m never lettin’ that go.” You cried a little too, laughing through it, squeezing his hands so tight.

When the officiant said “You may kiss the bride,” Gator didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in and kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life, deep, possessive, a little filthy for a church-adjacent setting. The crowd whooped. Roy even cracked a smile.

The reception was a blur of toasts, bad dancing, and too much whiskey. Your bridesmaids kept shooting him looks, and at one point Jess slipped him another single Polaroid under the table, “For later,” she whispered. It was you in the red lingerie again, but this one had you blowing a kiss, middle finger up playfully. Note: “Husband privileges start now.”

Gator almost choked on his drink.

By the time you two slipped away, early because neither of you could wait anymore, the envelope was burning a hole in his pocket. He’d added the new one to it. You were in his arms in the truck, laughing as he drove too fast toward the little cabin you’d rented for the honeymoon night. Snow started falling, soft and perfect.

“Gator Tillman,” you said, voice warm and teasing, hand sliding up his thigh. “You looked like you were gonna combust last night. Did my girls behave?”

“Behave?” He barked a laugh, catching your hand before it could go higher. “They’re demons. Sent from hell to kill me. I almost came in my fuckin’ jeans lookin’ at those pictures, baby. You in my hat? The cuffs? Jesus Christ.”

You grinned, leaning over to kiss his neck. “Good. That was the plan. I wanted you thinking about me all night. Wanting me.”

“I always want you,” he said, voice rough. “Every second. But last night… fuck. I couldn’t stop. Kept thinkin’ about walkin’ in on you like that. About how you’re mine now. Officially. Legally. Forever.”

The cabin was small, cozy, one big room with a fireplace already lit by the caretaker and a huge bed. Gator barely got the door closed before he had you against it, mouth on yours, hands everywhere. The dress came off in pieces, careful with the buttons, desperate with the zipper. You helped him out of the uniform jacket, fingers working fast.

“Wait,” he panted, pulling back just enough to grab the envelope from his discarded jacket. “I need… I gotta show you what you did to me.”

He spread the Polaroids out on the bed like a fan while you watched, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. You looked at them with him, biting your lip.

“Which one was your favorite?” you asked softly.

Gator pointed to the one with his hat and the black lace. “This. You look like you own me. And you do.” He pointed to another, the one on the truck hood. “This. Reminds me of the night we met. How you didn’t take any of my shit. How I knew right then I was fucked.”

He turned to you, cupping your face. The cocky mask was gone. Just Gator, vulnerable, a little scared, so in love it made his voice shake. “I don’t deserve you. But I’m gonna spend every day tryin’ to. Roy… he always said I’d fuck up anything good. But you—you make me believe maybe I won’t. Maybe I can be good for you.”

You kissed him, slow and deep. “You already are. Now stop talking and fuck your wife, Deputy.”

That was all it took.

Clothes came off the rest of the way. Gator laid you back on the bed among the Polaroids, kissing every inch of skin like he was memorizing it all over again. He spent a long time between your thighs, licking and sucking until you came on his tongue, fingers tangled in his hair, moaning his name. He didn’t stop until you tugged him up, desperate.

“Gator—please—”

He lined up and pushed in slow, watching your face the whole time. The stretch, the heat, the way you clenched around him, it was better than any photo. “Fuck, you feel so good. So fuckin’ perfect. My wife. My girl.”

He started moving, deep and steady, one hand braced by your head, the other holding one of the Polaroids above you so you could both see it. The one with the handcuffs. “Remember this? You looked so fuckin’ hot. I wanted to cuff you for real. Keep you in my bed forever.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Do it. Cuff me. Anything. Just don’t stop.”

He didn’t have the real cuffs, but he pinned your wrists above your head with one big hand and fucked you harder, the headboard knocking against the wall. The Polaroids crinkled under you. He switched positions, pulled you on top so you could ride him while he held up another photo, the one of you on his truck. “Look at you. Ownin’ my truck. Ownin’ me. Goddamn, I’m the luckiest man alive.”

You came again like that, clenching around him, and he followed right after, burying his face in your neck and groaning your name like a prayer. “I love you—I love you—I fuckin’ love you—”

After, he didn’t pull out right away. Just held you close, both of you sweaty and shaking, the Polaroids scattered around like confetti. He traced lazy patterns on your back.

“You okay?” he murmured eventually. “Was that… too much? The photos and all?”

You lifted your head, smiling soft and sated. “It was perfect. You were perfect. I wanted you to have something fun. Something just for us. And I wanted to see you lose it a little.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Mission accomplished. I lost it completely. Almost called you from the truck and begged you to come outside so I could bend you over the hood right there.”

“Next time,” you teased.

“Next time,” he agreed, kissing your temple. Then quieter: “Thank you. For all of it. For choosin’ me. For seein’ past the Tillman bullshit and the badge and all the ways I fuck up. I’m gonna be a good husband. I swear it.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. His hair was a mess, eyes soft, that little scar on his cheek from some old fight catching the firelight. “You already are. And I’m gonna remind you every day until you believe it.”

He pulled you down for another kiss, slower this time. The fire crackled. Snow tapped the windows. Somewhere outside, the world kept turning with all its chaos and cruelty, but in this cabin, it was just the two of you.

Eventually you got up to clean up, Gator watching you with that dopey, lovesick grin. You came back with a warm cloth and cleaned him too, gentle, and he let you, because it was you. Then you crawled back into bed and he gathered all the Polaroids carefully, stacking them and tucking them into the envelope again like treasure.

“These are stayin’ in the glovebox forever,” he said. “Emergency spank bank. For when I’m on a long shift and missin’ my wife.”

You laughed, curling into his side. “As long as you come home to me after.”

“Always,” he promised. “Win or lose, badge or no badge… I’m comin’ home to you.”

You fell asleep like that, tangled together, the envelope on the nightstand like a talisman. Gator stayed awake a little longer, watching the firelight play over your face, one hand resting possessively on your hip.

He thought about Roy. About all the years of trying and failing and trying again. About how none of it mattered now. He had you. He had this. He was a winner in the only way that counted.

“I’m a winner,” he whispered into your hair, smiling. “Got the best prize in the world.”

Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the world in white. Inside, Gator Tillman held his wife and dreamed of forever.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Gator humming off-key in the tiny kitchenette, wearing nothing but his boxers and your favorite flannel. He brought you breakfast in bed: burnt toast, eggs, and a fresh Polaroid he’d taken with the old camera you’d packed: you, asleep and peaceful, one of the spicy ones tucked under your pillow like a secret.

“Figured we should start our own collection,” he said, climbing back in beside you. “This one’s for me. Proof that I get to wake up to this every day.”

You took the photo, smiling. Then you took the camera from him and snapped one of him, rumpled, happy, yours. “And this one’s for me. Proof that the cockiest deputy in North Dakota is secretly the biggest softie.”

He tackled you gently, laughing, and the camera ended up forgotten as the new husband and wife lost themselves in each other all over again.

By the time you checked out of the cabin two days later, the envelope had a few new additions. And Gator Tillman walked out into the snow with his arm around his wife, the cocky grin back in place but the eyes soft, the heart full.

He was a winner.

And he had the Polaroids to prove it.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

Your dad, Mark, glanced at you in the rearview mirror, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. “Almost there, kiddo. Steve beat us by about an hour. Said he already opened all the windows and got the grill going.”

Your mom, Laura, turned in the passenger seat with that soft, knowing smile she wore whenever Steve’s name came up. “It’ll be nice having him for the whole summer this time. He sounded like he really needed the break.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped. Steve Harrington had been part of your summers for as long as you could remember. Your dad’s best friend since college, roommates, then groomsmen at each other’s weddings (well, your dad’s wedding), then the guy who showed up for every birthday, every graduation, every random weekend when your parents needed an extra set of hands at the lake house. He’d taught you how to bait a hook when you were seven, how to drive the little motorboat when you were fourteen, and how to shotgun a beer when you turned twenty-one last year (much to your dad’s fake outrage).

But you were twenty-two now. And something had shifted the last time you saw him.

Last summer he’d only stayed for a long weekend. You’d caught him watching you when you climbed out of the lake in your new bikini, water streaming down your skin. His gaze had lingered a second too long before he looked away and cracked a joke about you finally learning how to do a proper dive. You’d told yourself it was nothing. He was Steve, charming, a little flirty with everyone, your dad’s oldest friend. Off-limits in every possible way.

Still, when your dad mentioned he’d invited Steve to stay the entire summer because Steve’s downtown apartment was being gut-renovated and he wanted somewhere peaceful to land for a few months, you’d felt that same flutter low in your belly. Three whole months. Under the same roof. On the same dock. In the same small lake town where everyone knew everyone.

The house came into view through the trees: big, weathered wood with a wide wraparound porch, string lights already glowing even though it was barely late afternoon, and the long dock stretching out into the sparkling blue water like an invitation. And there he was, standing on the porch steps with a beer in one hand, the other raised in a wave.

Steve Harrington at forty-two looked unfairly good.

The white t-shirt he wore stretched across broad shoulders and a chest that had clearly seen its share of gym time or manual labor over the years. There was a little more silver threaded through the dark hair at his temples, and the lines around his eyes were deeper when he smiled, but the smile itself was the same one that had always made people lean in closer. He wore faded navy shorts that showed off strong, tanned legs, and when he stepped down to meet the car you noticed the way the fabric pulled just slightly across his hips.

“Mark!” he called, voice warm and rough like it always was after a few hours on the lake. “Laura! Get your asses out here.”

Your dad laughed as he parked and climbed out, pulling Steve into one of those back-slapping bro hugs that men like them never seemed to outgrow. “You look like you’ve already claimed the best chair on the porch, you bastard.”

“Damn right I did.” Steve’s eyes flicked past your dad to where you were climbing out of the back seat. His smile softened, something warmer and a little more careful slipping into it. “Hey there. Long time no see.”

The sound of his voice did something stupid to your pulse.

“Hey, Steve.” You stepped forward and let him pull you into a hug. It was the same hug he’d given you a hundred times, strong arms, a quick squeeze, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sunscreen and whatever grill smoke clung to his clothes. But it felt different this time. Or maybe you were different. His hand lingered at the small of your back for a beat longer than necessary before he let go, and when he pulled back his eyes met yours and held.

“College treating you okay?” he asked, voice lower. “You look… grown up.”

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Yeah. It’s been good. Busy, but good. How about you? Dad said your place is getting torn apart.”

Steve huffed a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, the motion making the muscles in his arm flex. “Yeah, whole kitchen and both bathrooms. Figured it was a good excuse to disappear for a while. Your dad wouldn’t shut up about how perfect the lake is in June, so here I am.”

Your mom came around the car and gave him a quick hug too. “We’re glad you’re here, Steve. Really. It’s been too long since you stayed more than a weekend.”

“Tell me about it.” He glanced at you again, quick but deliberate. “Gonna be nice having the whole crew together again.”

Your dad started unloading bags from the trunk, and Steve immediately moved to help, grabbing the heaviest suitcase, yours, before you could reach for it. “I got it. You probably packed half your dorm in here.”

“I did not,” you protested, but you were smiling. “Just… essentials.”

“Essentials for three months look a lot like ‘I’m moving in permanently,’” he teased, but there was no bite to it. Just that easy warmth he’d always had with you. He carried the suitcase up the porch steps like it weighed nothing, and you followed, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders moved under the thin cotton.

Inside, the lake house smelled like cedar and the lemon cleaner your mom always used the first day. Sunlight poured through the big windows overlooking the water. The living room was open and airy, with the big stone fireplace that never got used in summer and the long dining table where you’d eaten every meal of every vacation since you were little. Steve had already put fresh flowers on the table, wildflowers from the side of the road, probably, and the fridge was humming with what looked like enough groceries for a small army.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said, setting your suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. “I hit the store on the way in. Figured nobody’d want to cook tonight after the drive.”

“You’re a saint,” your mom said, already heading for the kitchen. “I’ll get the grill going if you want to show her her room.”

Steve nodded and picked up your suitcase again without being asked. “Come on. I put you in the blue room this year. Better view of the dock.”

The blue room was the one at the end of the upstairs hallway, right across from the guest room Steve would be using. Your parents’ room was at the other end of the hall, with its own little sitting area. Thin walls, creaky floors. You tried not to think about how close his room would be to yours for the next twelve weeks.

He set your suitcase on the bed and turned, hands on his hips, looking around like he was making sure everything was perfect. “Brought some extra pillows down from the linen closet. And there’s a fan in the closet if it gets too warm at night. These old windows don’t always catch the breeze.”

“Thanks.” You stepped past him to open the window, letting in the sound of water lapping against the dock and the distant call of a loon. When you turned back he was watching you, expression unreadable for a second before the easy smile returned.

“So,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Tell me about school. Your dad says you’re killing it. Business major, right?”

“Marketing, actually. With a minor in communications.” You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of how small the room felt with him in it. “It’s been intense. Group projects, internships, all that. But I like it.”

He nodded, genuinely interested. “Yeah? What kind of stuff are you into? Like… campaigns? Social media stuff?”

“Both. I did an internship last semester with a small outdoor brand—kayaks, camping gear, that kind of thing. It was fun. Felt relevant up here.” You gestured vaguely toward the lake.

Steve’s smile widened. “Outdoor brand, huh? I could see you doing that. You always loved being out on the water more than anyone else in this family.”

The compliment settled warm in your chest. “What about you? Dad said work’s been crazy.”

He shrugged, the motion casual but his eyes a little tired around the edges. “Real estate’s been good. Busy. I closed on a couple big lakefront properties last year—ironic, right? But it takes a lot out of you. Long hours, clients who want everything yesterday. Figured I’d earned a summer where I don’t have to answer emails at seven a.m.”

You studied him for a moment. The Steve you remembered from your teens had always seemed larger than life, loud laugh, bigger personality, the guy who could charm anyone. This version was quieter in the spaces between words. Still charming, still magnetic, but there was something steadier underneath. Something that made you want to ask more.

“Dad mentioned you and… what was her name? The one from a couple years ago?”

Steve’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Vanessa. Yeah. That ended about eighteen months ago. She wanted the city life, the parties, the constant going. I wanted… this.” He gestured around the room, but you knew he meant the lake, the quiet, the slower pace. “We wanted different things. It’s better this way.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

“Don’t be. It was mutual. And honestly?” He met your eyes again, and there was something honest and a little raw there. “I’m not twenty-five anymore. I don’t have the energy to pretend I want something I don’t. I like my life. I like coming up here. I like being around people who know me without all the bullshit.”

The way he was looking at you made your breath catch. It wasn’t the look of an uncle or a family friend. It was something heavier. Warmer. You swallowed and looked down at your hands.

“I get that,” you said. “College is… a lot of pretending sometimes. Who you’re supposed to be, what you’re supposed to want. It’s nice to come back here and just… be.”

Steve pushed off the doorframe and took a step closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could see the faint scar on his jaw from some long-ago mishap he and your dad had never fully explained. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Never have.”

The air in the room felt thicker. You could hear your own heartbeat. Before either of you could say anything else, your dad’s voice boomed up the stairs.

“Steve! Stop flirting with my daughter and come help me with the grill, you lazy bastard!”

Steve laughed, the sound breaking the tension like a stone through still water. “Duty calls.” He winked at you, actually winked, and headed for the door. “Get changed if you want to swim before dinner. Water’s perfect today.”

You watched him go, heart still racing, and let out a shaky breath once his footsteps faded down the hall.

Dinner was loud and easy the way family dinners at the lake always were. Your mom had thrown together a salad while the guys grilled burgers and corn. String lights glowed along the porch railings. The sun was setting over the lake in streaks of orange and pink, turning the water gold. You sat between your mom and Steve, across from your dad, and tried not to notice every time Steve’s knee brushed yours under the table.

“So,” your dad said around a mouthful of burger, “remember that Fourth of July when Steve tried to impress that girl from the next house over by doing a backflip off the dock?”

Steve groaned. “Mark, come on. She doesn’t need to hear every embarrassing story from the nineties.”

“I do, actually,” you said, grinning. “Please continue.”

Your dad launched into the story with relish, how Steve had been twenty-three, cocky as hell, and had over-rotated and belly-flopped so hard the whole lake heard it. Steve took it with good humor, laughing along and adding details your dad conveniently left out (like how the girl had still gone home with him anyway).

“You were always such a show-off,” your mom teased Steve.

“Had to be,” Steve said easily. “Couldn’t let Mark have all the attention. He was the responsible one even back then.” He glanced at you. “Your dad was already talking about settling down and buying a lake house someday. I was still trying to figure out how to pay rent.”

“And now look at you,” your dad said, raising his beer in a toast. “Successful asshole with a fancy apartment and a summer off. Proud of you, man.”

Steve clinked bottles with him, but his eyes flicked to you again. “Yeah. Life’s funny like that.”

Later, after the dishes were done and your parents had gone inside to watch some old movie on the TV, you found yourself drifting down to the dock. The wood was still warm from the day’s sun under your bare feet. You sat at the very end, legs dangling over the water, and watched the moon rise over the far shore. Crickets sang in the trees. Somewhere across the lake a boat motor hummed and faded.

Footsteps on the dock behind you. You didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

“Mind if I join you?” Steve asked quietly.

You shook your head. He sat down a respectful distance away, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. He’d changed into a soft gray henley and another pair of shorts. His feet dipped into the water beside yours.

For a while neither of you spoke. It was comfortable. Easy. The way it had always been between you two, even when you were little and he let you “help” him fix the boat motor.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice low so it wouldn’t carry back to the house, “I used to look forward to these summers more than anything. Coming up here, seeing your family… it was like hitting reset. No matter how crazy work got, no matter what was going on in my life, this place was always the same.”

You glanced at him. The moonlight caught the silver in his hair and the strong line of his jaw. “And now?”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Now it feels like something’s different. Better, maybe. Or maybe I’m just finally old enough to appreciate it without needing to fill every second with noise.”

You swallowed. “I know what you mean. Last year at school I kept thinking about how quiet it is here. How you can actually hear yourself think.”

Steve turned his head to look at you fully. His eyes were dark in the low light, warm and intent. “You’ve always been good at that. Thinking. Feeling things deeply. Even when you were a kid, you’d sit out here by yourself sometimes, just watching the water like it had all the answers.”

A soft laugh escaped you. “I still do that.”

“I know.” His voice had dropped even lower. “I’ve noticed.”

The admission hung between you. You could feel the heat of his body even though he wasn’t touching you. The air felt charged, like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

“Steve…” you started, not sure what you were going to say.

He shook his head gently, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s okay. We don’t have to… I’m not trying to make this weird. You’re Mark’s daughter. I’ve known you since you were in pigtails. I just…” He exhaled. “You’re not a kid anymore. And I’m not blind.”

Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. “I’m not either.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Steve went very still beside you. For a second the only sound was the gentle lap of water against the pilings and the distant hum of night insects.

Then he let out a low, rough chuckle and ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus. This is dangerous territory.”

“I know.” You looked down at your hands, twisting in your lap. “I’m not… I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know that when you look at me like that, it doesn’t feel like it used to.”

He was quiet again. When he spoke, his voice was careful. “I’ve been trying really hard not to look at you like that.”

“Why?”

“Because your dad is my best friend. Because I’m supposed to be the responsible one who doesn’t cross lines. Because you’re twenty-two and I’m forty-two and there are about a hundred reasons this is a bad idea.” He paused. “And because if I let myself think about it too much, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”

The honesty in his voice made your throat tight. You wanted to reach for him. You wanted to lean in and see what would happen if you closed the distance. Instead you stayed where you were, feet in the cool water, heart in your throat.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered.

Steve made a sound low in his chest, half groan, half laugh. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

Before either of you could do something you couldn’t take back, the porch light flicked on behind you and your dad’s voice carried across the yard. “You two still out there? Don’t stay up too late—we’re doing the boat in the morning!”

Steve cleared his throat and stood, offering you a hand up. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and solid, and he held on for just a second longer than necessary when you were on your feet.

“Night,” he said softly. “Sleep well.”

“You too.”

You watched him walk back toward the house, broad shoulders silhouetted against the lights, and felt the ache of something unfinished settle deep in your chest.

Upstairs in the blue room, you changed into an old t-shirt and shorts and climbed into bed. The sheets smelled like lavender from the dryer sheets your mom used. You left the window open, letting the night air and the sound of the lake fill the space. Somewhere down the hall you heard Steve’s door close, then the low murmur of his voice, maybe on the phone, maybe just talking to himself. Then silence.

You stared at the ceiling for a long time, replaying every moment of the day. The hug. The way he’d carried your suitcase. The look in his eyes on the dock. The way his voice had gone rough when he admitted he’d been trying not to look at you.

This summer was going to be different. You could feel it in your bones.

And as sleep finally pulled you under, you wondered, not for the first time, how long either of you would be able to keep pretending it was still innocent.

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