For fox sake

Your daddy would drop you off at the ranch at the crack of dawn, muttering a few words to you before hopping into Roy’s truck and rushing off. You never thought about your daddy’s quietness too much, you shrugged it off as it being important business, and he was focused on getting you somewhere where you could be watched over before leaving.

Roy never paid much attention to you when you were growing up, even though you were on his land every day, and with how close he was with your daddy. Being around him was unsettling, especially in the early days when you were getting used to the new environment. You would hide behind sofas or tighten your grip on your daddy’s hand. Roy would laugh at you, telling you that you’re being silly.

Sometimes Roy would invite your daddy around for dinner when he wasn’t occupied, which meant you were always invited too. It would be the same thing for dinner every time that his wife, Linda, would make for everyone. A juicy, finely cut steak with asparagus to the side, which you could never complain about. You’d settle down at the dining table and say a prayer before tucking in.

You weren’t allowed in Gator’s room, a rule set by Roy because time together was more important than being lazy and sitting in a dark room for hours. That rule had been broken many times when your daddy and Roy were out together because nobody found out.

You’d been sitting at the dining room table together, you and Gator already licked the plates clean half an hour before, and you were both clearly fidgety, wanting to stretch your legs. You stared at your daddy for a moment to get his attention and he turned to you, raising his eyebrows.

“Please may me and Gator be excused from the table?” You asked with a sweet smile. “I’ve finished all my dinner.”

He glanced at Roy, then back at you. “I think it’s best ya sit here until we have all finished.” He said before he was cut off by Roy.

“May as well excuse yourselves. Me ‘n your daddy oughta have a catch up.” Roy said gruffly, patting his hand on your daddy’s shoulder.

“Can we go upstairs?” You asked, a little quieter, unsure if that’s a good question to ask.

Roy huffed out a breath, glancing between the two of you. “Alright, but only for twenty minutes. Ya hear me? Anymore ‘n I’m draggin’ the both of ya out by your feet.”

“Yes, daddy.” Gator nodded. “Twenty.”

“Go on then. ‘m counting.” Roy raises his eyebrows, gesturing for you to wander off.

You grin at Gator and push your chair back as it squeaks against the floorboards, pushing it back under the table and dashing to the stairs. Your head popped out from the wall before you headed upstairs, looking at Linda who’s already washing the dishes, because Roy never did them, at least from what you saw.

“Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.” You whispered from across the room.

She offered you a small smile. “Thank you, sweet.”

Gator was already at the top of the stairs when you finally started going up, and he turned on his heel, pushing his bedroom door open. His walls were filled with posters barely an inch of his wall could be seen. He had different types of cars on his shelves, which you never saw the point in them because he never played with them.

You stepped into his room, and his blinds were shut, the room barely lit up. He shuffled along his bed, folding his arms over his chest and resting his back against the headboard, nodding his head to his left to gesture you to sit beside him. You slid onto the bed beside him, staring off at the Metallica poster on his wall.

Your eyes darted back to him. “You’re lucky your daddy lets you have all these posters on your walls and stuff in your room. My daddy would tear anything off my walls if I put anything up.” You mumbled.

“I mean, he doesn’t care too much ‘bout what goes on in my room. He never comes in here anyway, so I can do what I like really.” Gator shrugged, crossing his leg over to get comfortable.

“He doesn’t even come in to tuck you into bed?” You asked.

“Never done that shit.” He laughed, shaking his head. “My mom years ago when I was five maybe, but nobody comes in here. I like that though. I’s like my own cave.”

You grinned. “Sure does look like one.”

He rolled his eyes at your comment. “Your room is full of fuckin’ plushies everywhere. What are ya, like, four or some shit?” He laughed.

You swatted his shoulder, not too forcefully. “I’m fifteen, thank you very much.” You rolled your eyes. “I just like having ‘em, that’s all. You let no light into your room at all, fuckin’ grotty vampire.”

“Light gives me a headache, ain’t letting nothin’ in.” He huffed.

“Yeah, exactly. Proved my point. Vampire.” You poked your finger against his chest, gently pushing him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Where have your manners gone, hm?”

“Can’t say out your window because you never open it.” You quipped with a grin.

“Ouch.” He laughed.

Roy’s truck pulled up outside and you pushed yourself up from the sofa, peeking through the curtains. He slams the truck door shut, shoves his hands into his pockets and grunts to himself as he walks to the front door. Your daddy was still in the truck, packing some things into a bag.

You tilted your head towards Gator who’s completely absorbed in the shit he’s been watching on the TV for the past hour, a tub of leftovers from the fridge on his lap. Your hand comes to his arm, gently tapping him.

“Your daddy’s back.” You sigh. “He looks pissed off.”

He shrugs. “Sounds ‘bout right, nothing new in that.”

“No, like, he looks like he’s about to break anything that comes in his path.” You mutter, peering to look out the window again.

“Like I said, nothing new.” He repeats, and your heart thumps in your chest hearing him say that so casually.

Unless you took his words the wrong way, you were terrified. You curled your legs underneath you, trying to focus on everything but Gator’s words and Roy storming over to the house, looking like he’s about to take whatever anger he has out on anyone.

The front door slams open, hitting the wall, sounding like he’s definitely put a dent in it. His boots come through the hallway as he shrugs his jacket off, not bothering to take his boots off. A loud groan leaves his mouth, and it’s clear he wants everyone to know that he’s had a shit day.

You helplessly look at Gator, and he glances at you with a worried look in his eyes that only makes you feel more anxious. Roy opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and taking a swig. He walks into the living room in long strides, glancing at the TV, then at Gator.

“This what you’ve been up’ta all day, boy?” He scoffed, sucking his teeth. “Never seen anyone so fuckin’ lazy, you live like you’re rottin’ in a pigsty, ya hearin’ me? Your old man has to work his fuckin’ ass off, and comes home to you sat on your ass, doing nothin’.”

Gator stays silent, though his attention is now on his dad instead of on the TV. You can see how nervous he looks, something that you’ve never seen in him before. Usually, he has an attitude on him, making sarcastic remarks wherever he goes, but that has been completely dropped.

“Ya never tidy up after you’ve made a mess, ‘n I have to come home to it. D’ya have any idea what I do for work? How exhausting it is for me? You get to sit here, bein’ all sloppy ‘n lazy whilst I do work that real men do. Tough up, boy.” He points at Gator, then turns to point at Linda. “Same for you, woman. I expect you to clean up jus’ as much.”

There it is, throwing all his stress and anger at everyone else whilst nobody has said a word to him. Gator has mentioned to you a few times that his dad could be a dick, but you never realised how badly he meant it.

“Bad day?” Gator asks without thinking.

Roy whips his head around. “Say that again.”

“Did you have a bad day?” Gator repeats.

Roy storms over to Gator, and he slowly pushes himself to straighten up. A harsh slap comes to Gator’s face and your eyes widen, watching as Roy’s shoulders move up and down from his heavy breathing. Roy doesn’t look guilty of it for one second, and the look in Gator’s eyes has your heart twisting.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth and attitude, boy. Quit it.” Roy snaps, turning around and storming back into the kitchen, muttering to himself.

The house goes quiet other than Linda running the tap to wash the plates. Your eyes stay on Gator, watching for any slight change. He’s staring at the floor, hands trembling against his legs, and then he brushes his hands against his thighs like he’s trying to hide himself from you.

You shuffle closer to him, gently resting your hand on his upper arm. “Would you like to go up to your room?” You ask, knowing that Roy wouldn’t like that, but you’re hoping that he’s too occupied with drinking.

It was the only question you felt like you could ask, because asking if he was okay or if he was hurt was going to have a very obvious answer. He uncomfortably shifts on the sofa, slowly tilting his head to look at you, his eyes glossy.

“Yeah.” He mutters, nervously glancing at the kitchen.

Roy’s leaning against the counter, the bottle in his hand as he stares out the window. Your daddy walks into the house, glancing over at you, raising his eyebrows as if to try work out why it’s so silent. You nod your head towards Roy, and he glances at him, slowly nodding.

You stand up and Gator immediately follows, almost pressed up against you. He follows you up the stairs and slightly closes his bedroom door behind the two of you, not fully just in case Roy decides to make another problem up like he usually does. You silently walk over to his bed, settling yourself down against the pillows and he sits beside you.

“I’m so sorry, Gator. I had no idea he was going to do that. That was so fucked up.” You manage out.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothin’ that hasn’t happened before.”

“This shouldn’t happen. It’s not normal.” You whisper.

“It’s how he toughens me up, I need it. Like he said, he’s a real man, and I need to be a real man too.” He mutters.

You raise your eyebrows, realising how much his daddy has brainwashed him. “Gator.” You say firmly.

“Yeah?” He says, completely oblivious.

“If you think Roy is a man after doing that, I think you’re insane.” You shake your head.

“Discipline.” He shrugs, sliding his hand over his gelled hair.

“Which isn’t necessary at all.” You reply, huffing out a breath. “Nothing you did or said deserved that. Not that you should get slapped if you say something awful anyway.”

He groans, gently pressing his hand against the pink mark on his cheek. “Whatever. It happened, and I shouldn’t be a fuckin’ wimp about it.”

“Your daddy hit you, Gator. I’m not saying that you’re a wimp, but you’re allowed to show me that it at least hurt you, because it sure looked like it did.” You sigh.

“I have t’be strong.” He mumbles, more to himself.

“You don’t. Not all the time. I saw how scared you looked, Gator. I’m not blind.” You say, gently brushing your hand over the mark on his cheek, watching his face to see if he’s uncomfortable.

He slowly shifts his position, scooting down the bed a little and resting his head on your lap, settling his hand on the side of your thigh. Your hand comes to his hair, messing up his gelled hair, slowly slipping through the strands. You can feel him still trembling against you, and you don’t move, because he’s letting you into something that he probably never wanted anyone to see.

His voice breaks. “I don’t wanna be scared. I hate that word. I want t’be a man.”

“You are a man, Gator.” You whisper, brushing your hand through his hair as his breath tickles against your skin.

His head stays on your lap for a while until your dad calls for you, and he hesitantly lifted his head up, giving you a pleading look. He followed you down the stairs, leaning against the front door as you said goodbye. You felt guilty having to leave him now that you knew how his dad treated him. The look on his face when his dad stomped over to him was something you knew you weren’t going to forget.

Every time you saw Gator after that, every small thing that Roy said started to make everything a whole lot more obvious. He never called Linda by her name, it was always ‘woman’, he expected everyone to clean up for him, his tone raised a lot more, even with you around, and he hit Gator in front of you multiple times when he took something Gator said the wrong way.

All the rumours you would hear about Roy from your friends and at social gatherings were true, and you hated that it took you so long to realise, even when you were always at the ranch. You wondered if your daddy knew about how Roy treated his family the whole time, and the thought made you feel uneasy.

You’d been used to helping Gator when you were younger when he scraped his knees on the ground, the times he would be pissing around and getting hit foot walked on by one of the horses, when he’d be a little too curious and almost get himself into trouble. He had no sense of danger, and that always worried you.

You’ve been cleaning out in the barn on the ranch, restocking the hay bales, brushing down the horses when Roy and the deputy sheriffs came back from a trip, cleaning their hooves, making yourself busy so that you had an excuse to be away from the house. You’d rather have your back aching than spend one second around Roy.

The door into the barn creaks open and you whip your head around, brushing the dirt from your knees and straightening up. Gator walks over to you, his eye half-open and bloodshot with a bruise forming under his jaw. He rests his hands on his vest jacket, standing in front of you in a wide stance, grinning at you.

Your eyes flick down to his hands, his knuckles bright red. “Jesus Christ.” You mutter.

“Yeah, could do with him turnin’ up right ‘bout now.” Gator huffs out a laugh.

“What could’ve possibly happened in twenty minutes time?” You ask, dropping the reins in your hand on the floor and stepping closer to him.

He shrugs, glancing around the barn. “Apparently daddy is in a bad fuckin’ mood today, if that’s not obvious.” He says, pointing to the bruise on his jaw.

“Think he’s in one daily.” You reply. “Think someone should be slappin’ the attitude out of him instead. Give him what he deserves.”

“In what world would than happen?” He mumbles.

“This one, hopefully.” You sigh, reaching your hand up to rest on his jaw, carefully tilting his head to the side to get a better look. “Pretty harsh, that. Let’s get you sorted with some frozen peas, yeah?”

He shakes his head, taking a step back, tightening his grip on his vest jacket. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone to sort me out. I’m a man, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Yeah? So why’d ya come to me then?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Just to see you, that’s all. You’ve been hidden in here.” He says, lying through his teeth.

Since the first time you saw Gator get slapped by Roy, he’s been lying to you, telling you that he’s fine and he deserved it. You were shocked he opened up to you it all in the first place, so it wasn’t too much of a shock that he’s shutting down any attempt to talk about it.

You’ve known Gator since you were kids, running around the ranch, saying ‘just pretend’ to each other when a game wasn’t going your way. You know when he’s lying, and he’s pretty fucking obvious about it. He never sounds confident when he lies, always the same tone that gives it away.

“I’m hidden in here for a reason, and you’re the most awful liar I’ve met.” You laugh. “Don’t know how no one else sees it. You came to me for help, so I’m going to give you it.”

He groans. “You’re bein’ soft.”

“And you came to me. We’re on the same boat.” You shrug, making your way out the barn.

He follows behind you as you walk back into the house, quietly opening the front door and peeking inside to check who’s around. You make your way into the kitchen, crouching down to open the freezer. The drawer shrieks as it slides against the ice, and you grab a bag of frozen peas.

Gator leans against the counter with a loud huff, folding his arms over his chest, directing his gaze away from you. You kick the freezer door shut and bring the frozen peas up to his jawline, gently pressing down. He sucks in a breath, his hand grabbing onto yours as you keep the peas against his jaw.

“Fuckin’ Christ. Hurts like a bitch.” He groans.

“It’s either dealing with this bruise or keeping some peas on there for a few minutes.” You mutter.

“The peas any day.” He whispers, looking into your eyes.

You peel the bag of peas back for a second to check his jaw and place it back down, glancing at his eye again. The punch must’ve been powerful, because he’s clearly struggling to keep his eye open. Roy’s getting more aggressive with Gator as time goes by, and it only makes it worse that you can’t do anything about it because Roy has power over everyone, especially Gator.

“I worry about you sometimes.” You sigh.

He flashes you a crooked grin. “That’s my job.”

“Not a very fun one. These heart palpitations are going to get me in hospital at some point.” You shake your head.

“Blame my daddy, not me.” He huffs, leaning into the frozen peas.

“What caused him to get so angry today, anyway? He didn’t look too annoyed when he walked into the barn before, for once.” You ask.

He sighs, shifting his weight onto his other leg. “He thinks I’m weak, says I’ll never be a man. He wants to take the deputy sheriff title away from me. I’m not what he expects of me when he wants me to follow orders. I hadn’t said anythin’ to him, by the way, if you’re goin’ta say somethin’ ‘bout that.” He looks away from you. “He was probably talkin’ ‘bout the order I followed the other day. Got the wrong person and was scolded for it. Don’t know why he’s gotten angry about it now, happened days ago.”

“I think it’s unfair he wants to take your title away from you. He’s acting like he’s never slipped up on something in his life. Roy’s not even close to being perfect, he never will be.” You whisper, brushing your thumb under his eye. “He always needs a reason to be angry, and he’ll hold things against you until you die.”

“It’s weird that ya know all this. You shouldn’t have to.” He mumbles.

“I’ve really seen it all, Gator. Seen this with all three of Roy’s wives, seen it happen to you and the twins, and you’ve seen it all as well.” You reply. “He’ll keep going as long as it makes him feel something. He knows that he can get away with anything. He’s the law and whatever the fuck he rambles on about.”

“Karma will kick at him real hard, he won’t see it comin’.” He says through his teeth. “He’ll deserve anything that comes for him.”

You nod. “Been counting the day’s since I’ve known about this. Your daddy is dangerous, and everyone deserves to know it.”

“Think most people know, they jus’ can’t do anythin’ to stop him. If they could’ve stopped him, I would’ve been safe, what, over ten years ago.” He says quietly.

“I knew what type of person Roy was when I was five, heard ‘bout it when I was in school. Loads of rumours went around about him, yet I hadn’t seen him do anything yet. Thought these people were lying to me, but they weren’t.” You sigh.

“Too young to be havin’ to think about that shit.” He whispers.

You slowly take the bag of frozen peas away from his jaw, looking at the bruise and placing the bag on the counter. He keeps still as your fingers brush over the bruise, not flinching.

“There we go, should be good now. Might need to take painkillers if it starts stinging again.” You say, crouching back down to place the bag of peas back into the freezer.

He follows your movements, stepping closer to you. “Thank you.” He whispers.

“Come to me if it happens again, not that it should have to happen again.” You sigh.

“Will do, nurse.” He grins.

You roll your eyes with a small, sweet smile, walking back out the front door and he follows behind, whistling to himself as he holds onto his vest.

When Roy finally got arrested and locked up, Gator had the freedom he’s never had. He moved out of Lehigh with you into another town where you settled down into a small, one-bedroom house. It wasn’t anything fancy, you didn’t bother with looking around multiple houses, it just needed to be far away from the ranch.

During Roy’s arrest, you all got questioned as you were closely associated with him, which gave Gator the chance to tell them everything he’d been wanted to spill out for years. Your daddy stayed in Lehigh to carry on with sheriff business, and he understood the need for you and Gator to move away.

Gator got himself into different jobs that he was struggling to settle into whilst you were doing a degree in history at a university nearby. He found it uncomfortable at the start, having to start up a new life away from his home, but he knew he couldn’t stay at the ranch after everything.

You encouraged him to go to therapy, which took a lot of convincing and groaning every time you brought it up. He did a few sessions with his therapist, finally opening up during a session after weeks of keeping the conversations shallow and then ending therapy early because he told you he could do everything on his own.

You believed he was going to help himself until the started to come home and head straight to the fridge to drink. His strategy to heal from years of trauma was to drink it away, and it clearly wasn’t helping him. No matter how much he tried to convince you that it was helping, you couldn’t believe it.

After a boring, dragging day at work, Gator walked through the front door, slipping his jacket off and hanging it up. He didn’t bother taking his shoes off and walked straight over to the fridge and opened it up to see no bottle, and he whipped his head around to look at you, raising his eyebrows.

“Where’s it at?” He asks, leaning against the counter.

“Where’s what at?” You ask, acting clueless.

He huffs. “You know exactly what I mean, where’s my Jack Daniel’s at?”

“You drank it all.” You reply with a shrug. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“No, there were two bottles in there last night. I had one, so where’s the other one at, hm?” He asks.

You sigh, shifting from your position and walking over to him. “If you’re going to drink irresponsibly, you won’t be having any more. It’s not healthy, Gator.”

“Look, I’ve had a rough day, baby, and I jus’ wanted to come home to a drink, is that okay?” He says, and his sweet tone should’ve made you give in, but you weren’t going to budge.

“Gator.” You say firmly. “You said no more therapy and told me you’d help yourself, so I’ve let you off because sometimes therapy doesn’t work easily for others, and I understood that. When you said you were going to help yourself, I didn’t think you meant drinking.”

“It is helpin’, it helps me to forget.” He says with a positive tone.

“Yeah, for a few hours maybe. Then you remember again and then have another drink. Notice a pattern?” You ask.

“Well, I’m not gonna go back to fuckin’ therapy, am I? It was the most unhelpful shit ever. It’s a cash grab.” He mumbles.

A huff leaves your lips. “If you think therapy is unhelpful, then drinking is even worse.”

“Cheaper.” He mutters.

“At least therapy is healthier.” You sigh, rubbing your forehead.

The house goes silent for a while other than the radiator in the other room clanking. His eyes are everywhere but on you, tapping his fingers against his upper arms. He seemed exhausted, his shoulders slumped and his eyelashes fluttering, but you weren’t going to let him drink.

He gets distant from you when he’s drunk, his eyes always glassy. He’ll move himself into another room, not letting himself get close to you. When he slips into bed hours after you’re asleep, he scoots himself to the edge of the bed so that he’s as far away from you as he can be. Sometimes he’ll sleep on the sofa if he’s too tired to move himself into the bedroom.

“I can’t let you keep doing this to yourself.” You shake your head. “I hate seeing you drunk.”

“You’re not my mom, baby. I don’t need babyin’. If a man needs a drink, then let him have a drink.” He mutters, turning on his heel and searching through the cupboards.

You stand still, glaring at him as he searches for the bottle that you hid. “You’re being everything but a man right now, Gator.”

He flinches at your words, even with how calm they were. Roy told him many times that he wasn’t a man, but this was a different context that he needed to take seriously.

“I’m a man.” He says to himself.

“No, you’re acting like a boy. You’re not listening to me, Gator. I love you and I really care about you which is why I don’t want you getting into an unhealthy habit.” You say in a softer tone, but he takes it another way.

“I don’t need to listen to ya. You’re talking like how Roy spoke to me. I’m doin’ completely fine.” He says, opening a cupboard and moving things around, pulling out the bottle that you hid with a grin. “Amazing hiding spot, well done.”

His words hit you, and you shake your head slowly, watching him pop the bottle open. “At this rate, you’ll be acting like Roy if you don’t stop.” You manage out.

“Am I fuck goin’ to end up like him. You’re bein’ silly.” He sighs, taking a swig.

“This isn’t normal and I don’t like it. You’re damaging yourself instead of helping yourself. You think this is helping, but I’m watching you get more distant from me the more that you drink. You haven’t thought once that this is affecting me too.” You choke out, tears welling in your eyes. “I don’t want you to end up like Roy, it scares me and you don’t listen.”

His gaze goes to the floor, swishing the alcohol around in the bottle. He doesn’t say anything to you, and he doesn’t look at you once. Whatever he’s thinking about, you hope that it’s what you said to him.

“If you really think drinking is more important, then you can go ahead and think that, Gator. You can ignore me now all you want but I want you to remember everything I just said to you. You’ll end up losing me if you don’t stop, whatever way that may be.” You say as a sob slips from your lips, walking away from the kitchen and out onto the porch.

You sit down on the top step, resting your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. Your breathing is shaky, and your shoulders tremble with every sob. There will be people driving by, but you couldn’t get yourself to care. You liked not knowing what Gator was doing inside the house. If he’s drinking, you’re glad you’re not there to see him get all distant with you.

You’ve been sitting on the top step on the porch for at least fifteen minutes, watching as the cars drive by and the sky starts to get darker. The fluorescent lights have automatically switched on down the front garden. You settle your hands either side of you, gripping onto the step once your tears have dried.

You never usually leave when Gator starts drinking because it wasn’t a bother at the start, you had drunk when you needed to get your mind off things too, but he crossed a line. You’d curl your legs underneath you on the sofa, keeping your focus on the TV show instead of on Gator. He wasn’t listening, so you figured you’d both need space away from each other.

The front door slowly squeaks open and Gator steps outside. It was never hard to hear when someone was walking in or out with how old this house is. His shoes pad against the floorboard and he sits down beside you with his shoulder pressed against yours, sitting at close as he can get to you.

He doesn’t smell of alcohol, and that’s the first surprise. His arm comes around you, gently rubbing your upper arm. Your head comes to rest on his chest, in a bit of an awkward position, but he rests his chin on top of your head. You can hear how his breathing wavers, his heartbeat unsteady.

“’m not like or goin’ to be like my daddy, I mean, I should be sayin’ Roy. He was never like a dad to me.” He admits quietly, brushing his thumb over your arm. “I’m not like Roy, baby. I don’t like that you’re worried I’ll turn out like him.”

You tuck your head further into his chest. “You won’t, but I just worry about it every time you start drinking.”

“I’d never hurt you. I don’t have any reason to. I dealt with Roy hittin’ me for years over small things, makin’ me feel small. Hurtin’ people has no benefit.” He whispers. “He’s the last person I’d want to be like. I don’t look up at him like I used to.”

You slowly lift your head up to get a better look at him. His eyes are glassy, and it’s clear he was crying before he came to you, but you don’t mention it to him. “I understand why you’d want to drink. I get your reasoning, I really do, but it’s a temporary thing that’ll only make it worse.” You sigh.

“It feels like the easiest option. Helps me more than therapy did.” He says, brushing his fingers through your hair. “Therapy was like havin’ a random person who knows nothin’ about me trying to dig into my whole life story. He’d give me some techniques to walk away with that sounded too pathetic to try out.”

“Did you ever try them out?” You ask.

“Did I fuck?” He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Like I said, the techniques sounded pathetic. I’d be making a right fool out of myself if I tried.”

“If you never tried out what he told you to do, how would you know that therapy never worked for you?” You ask, and he goes quiet. “Maybe they did sound weird to you, but therapy is supposed to be uncomfortable. If it was easy, they you wouldn’t need to be there.”

He holds you close to himself, staying silent for a moment as he makes sense of your words. “I jus’ don’t think therapy was for me.”

“Therapy doesn’t work for everyone, like I said, but you can’t know that if you don’t try it out.” You say with a sweet smile.

He groans, resting his chin back on top of your head. “I feel too vulnerable talkin’ to someone about my life. Y’know how much I hate being vulnerable.”

“That’s the point of it, though, Gator.” You say quietly, gently brushing your hand up and down his chest. “I’d really like for you to go back and try it. If you hate it that much, then we can scrap it, but you also need to scrap the drinking too.”

“I don’t know.” He mutters.

“Just try it out for a few weeks, listen to what they have to say. You can pull out if you don’t like it. We’ll try something else.” You say, trying your best to convince him.

He sighs. “Would I have to go back to the same guy? I didn’t like how bored he looked when I was talkin’, and he was talkin’ a whole load of shit to me.”  

“I’ll ask for you to have someone else.” You nod quickly. You’d do anything for him to go back. If it means changing up his therapist, then you’d happily do so.

“Fine, but if I don’t like it, I’m pulling back out.” He says with a defeated look.

“Thank you.” You whisper, pressing a quick kiss to his neck. “I appreciate you doing this more than you know, baby.”

His hands come to your hips, carefully lifting you up from the step and settling you down on his lap, setting his hands on your thighs. You adjust on his lap, your legs either side of his thighs, resting your hands flat on his chest. He presses a kiss to your cheek and another to your neck, just underneath your ear.

For a moment, you sit in silence, letting him press kisses all over you. “I like your hair when you’ve not got it slicked back in a whole tub of gel.” You admit, lifting your hand to slide through his hair.

“I like it being out of my face.” He sighs, leaning into your hand.

“Still think looks nicer like this though.” You whisper.

He shakes his head with a grin, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips. A quiet sound slips from your mouth, and he only pulls you closer to him. It’s clear he needed this more than he could say. His hands slide up to rest on your lower back, and you sigh into his mouth.

You slowly pull away from his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, his loose strands of hair tickling your skin. Your lips are wet and glossy, and you can’t help but want more.

Gator clears his throat and keeps you close to himself, tucking your head underneath his chin. “I wanna be good for you, baby.” He says quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I don’t wanna see ya disappointed in me. Already disappointed Roy many times, so I want to do my best. Not to be too soft, but I really love you, and ‘m glad that someone at least believes in me.”

“You’ll never disappoint me, Gator.” You say, gently gripping onto his shirt. “Whatever expectations Roy had of you aren’t a thing anymore. I saw every part of you back at the ranch, and you’ll never feel like that again. You’re safe from Roy now. No one will ever harm you again.”

A small smile twitches at his lips. “You’re really precious, y’know that?”

You laugh, slightly tilting your head up. “You can be adorable, sometimes.”

“Never say that again.” He rolls his eyes with a grin.

“I’m proud of you, Gator. Even when you’re feeling like shit and you think the world’s gonna end, I’m proud. You’ve been through so much and you’re still trying.” You say, leaning up to kiss his jaw a few times.

“If you hadn’t been with me on the ranch all the time, I would’ve been in real trouble. You saw a lot too, a lot that you shouldn’t have seen. I’m just as proud of you as you are of me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, holding you close.

His hand stays on your lower back, keeping you on his lap for a while. It had been a long night, he was exhausted from work, and he’d opened up to you again. He presses gentle kisses to you before taking you back into the house when it started to get cooler outside. He brought you over to the sofa, letting you curl up against him, burying his head into your shoulder for a while.

Thank you for reading!! Liking and reblogging is very much appreciated!! 💕 Suffered through a writer's block, but I ended up getting this done eventually. Longest fic I have ever done, woopwoop

The first time it happens, Steve is three beers deep at The Hideout, loose-limbed and laughing at something Robin just said—something crude, probably, given the way Eddie’s wheezing into his whisky, shoulders shaking. Steve’s still grinning when he reaches into his jacket pocket for his lighter, fingers searching for the familiar shape.

Instead, they brush against something stiff.

What the hell?

He pulls it out under the dim, beer-stained lights of the bar, and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

It’s you.

Not just you—your bare skin glowing in the grainy tint of a Polaroid, the flash catching every curve, every shadow. One knee is drawn up, giving way to the perfect view, and your arm is thrown across your face like you couldn’t bear to be seen. But your mouth—Christ, your mouth is open in silent ecstasy, lips swollen and parted, and your fingers—

Jesus Christ.

Your fingers are buried in your cunt, working deep like you’re trying to feed an insatiable ache, the wet shine unmistakable even in the cheap film. His throat goes dry. His pulse kicks so hard he can feel it in his fucking teeth. Eddie says something then, some smartass remark that has Robin snorting into her drink, but Steve doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care. All he can think about is how you’re sitting right across from him, legs crossed, sipping your drink and quipping back like it’s the most normal evening in the world. He slaps the photo face down against his thigh, grip so tight the edges crumple.

How the hell did this get in here?

He doesn’t remember you giving it to him. Doesn’t remember touching it, period. But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it—the curve of your hip, the desperate arch of your back, the way your brows were scrunched together like you were right on the edge—

Stop.

He shoves it back into his pocket, but it’s too late. The image is seared into his skull—it’s just a stupid Polaroid, but now it’s all he can think about. His pulse thrums under his skin, restless and too warm. He shouldn’t be this affected. He shouldn’t. But his traitorous mind keeps circling back to it— how easy it would be to move closer, to let his hands settle where they’ve been itching to go, to see if your breath would catch the way he imagines it would. All he can think about is how badly he wants to tiptoe that thin line between friendship and sex, but it’s a dangerous game. One he’s played before and lost spectacularly. He knows the rules—knows how quickly almost turns into too much, how just friends becomes we shouldn’t have done that in the space of a single reckless moment.

But god, the temptation is killing him.

The way your knee brushes against his under the table like it’s an accident, but he knows it’s not. The way you lick salt off the rim of your margarita, eyes locked on his, like you’re waiting for him to break first. The way you shift just slightly, just enough for him to catch the ghost of a smirk—like you know exactly what he’s picturing.

It’s a slippery slope he’s sworn off.

Or at least, he tried to. But then you catch his eye, lips quirking like you can read every filthy thought racing through his head, and—Fuck. He’s too far gone already.

The following four days, Steve lives in a special kind of hell. The photo should’ve been forgettable. Just some stray Polaroid lost in the chaos of his life—another piece of clutter tossed onto the pile of things he doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

But it’s not. It’s you, branded into his brain with the precision of a lit match pressed to skin. No amount of pretending—no amount of jerking off in the shower with his forehead braced against the tile, teeth gritted around your name—dulls the ache. If anything, it makes it worse. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are.

The worst part?  Nothing’s changed. You still sling your legs over his lap like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t ruined him with a single fucking square of film. No sly glances, no secretive smirks. Just normal, like you haven’t been haunting his dreams with your fingers between—

God. He’s losing his goddamn mind.

The next one hits him like a slap to the face. He’s rummaging through the disaster zone of his coffee table—shoving aside empty beer cans, a half-eaten bag of chips, a crumpled pack of cigarettes—when his fingers brush against something that isn’t his keys. Cold dread slithers down his spine even before he pulls it free.

Another fucking picture.

It steals the air from his lungs.

You.

On your back, sheets a mess beneath you, your hair fanned out like some kind of halo. The angle is intimate, almost reverent—the curve of your bare hip, the dip of your waist, the way your fingers dig into your own thighs, holding yourself open.

Wet.

Exposed.

Your head is tipped back, lips parted around a moan he can almost hear, eyes half-lidded, lost in it. The flush on your chest, the way your body arches—like you’re caught in the thick of pleasure, like you’re drowning in it. Steve’s not sure if he’s surprised or jealous or just furious that he wasn’t the one to pull that expression from you.

He knew you were beautiful—that wasn't news. Everyone with working eyes and half a brain could see that. But this? The way golden light caressed the sweat-slick curve of your throat, the way your pleasure wasn't performative but private, intimate, real—

Christ.

It wasn't just erotic. It was sacred.

The Polaroid nearly slips from his trembling fingers before he catches it, the glossy surface warping slightly under his desperate grip. He forces himself to relax, to breathe, but the damage is done—the image already tattooed behind his eyelids.

Are you leaving these on purpose?

The question claws its way up his throat like a living thing.

It can't be.

But God help him, he needs it to be

His thumb traces the edge of the photograph as he drinks in the details: Your lips—swollen, glistening, the faint indentation of teeth where you'd bitten down to silence yourself. Your eyes—black as spilt ink, heavy-lidded yet startlingly aware, staring through the lens like you were seeing him, like you wanted him to witness this unravelling. A voice whispers through the static of his thoughts: You're missing something, and the realisation hits like a sucker punch—he's been here before, trapped in this limbo between wanting and having, between friends and something else. He remembers the exact moment he first knew you held his heart: The air in family video had been thick with the scent of stale popcorn and the hum of the ancient AC unit fighting a losing battle against the summer heat. You'd laughed at something he had said—and the sound had punched through him like a bullet. Your tongue darted out to catch a drop of Cherry Coke from your lower lip, and suddenly his hands were sweating, his collar too tight, his entire body electric with the need to move, to touch, to— "Steve?" You'd caught him staring, your head tilting in that way that made his ribs ache. "You okay?"

Now. Say it now.

But his tongue had turned to lead. Three words lodged in his throat: I want you. Then the bell chimed, Robin bursting in with arms full of candy, grinning as she spoke, “Okay, who wants to bet Eddie eats all the Red Vines before the movie even starts?” and the moment shattered like dropped glass.

Now, staring at this damning photograph, the same fear coils in his gut—what if he's wrong? What if these Polaroids aren’t for him?

What if they’re just—

Lost.

Left behind.

Not meant for his insatiable eyes.

The thought sends acid flooding through his veins. Because the alternative—that you planted these for him to find, that you wanted him to see you like this—that wasn't just hope. It was arson. And he was already burning; the way you look at him sometimes, like you’re waiting for him to figure it out; the way your fingers linger when you pass him a drink; the way you smile when he stumbles over his words, like you like that he’s flustered.

And now—

The Polaroids. Left where only he would find them.

Taunting him.

Testing him.

Tempting him.

The third Polaroid nearly fucking kills him. By the time your group crowds into the diner booth, Steve's almost convinced himself he imagined it all. Almost. But then, after about an hour of comfortable familiarity, his fingers brushing the edge of his milkshake glass, the coaster shifts –

There.

Tucked beneath it, glossy and damning. He chokes so hard Eddie has to thump him on the back. "Jesus, Harrington, are you allergic to strawberries now?" Eddie's voice is all amusement, but Steve barely hears it over the blood roaring in his ears. He doesn't answer. He's too busy slipping the picture under the table, pulse hammering in his throat as he glances at you across the booth. You're stirring your drink absently, the neon diner lights catching in your hair. And then he risks a look at the Polaroid.

Fuck.

This one's... worse. Or better. He doesn't fucking know anymore. It's a close-up. Your face, tilted up toward the camera, tears streaking through smudged mascara, pupils blown wide. And Christ— there's cum dripping off your chin, your lips parted like you're showing off. The flash had caught every detail: the wet shine on your bottom lip, the way your eyelashes stick together, the way you look up with a glint in your eyes like you were looking at him, like you wanted him to see – His jeans grow uncomfortably tight. He shifts in the booth, pressing his thighs together as heat floods his face. It turns his brain to static.

Obscene. Perfect.

No.

Across the table, you tilt your head, voice dripping with sweet concern. "Steve? You okay?"

That's what really drives the stake in. The way you sound normal, like you're not the same person in the photo — wrecked and wanting. Like you haven't been systematically dismantling his self-control. He forces a smile, fingers twitching against the sticky diner table. "Peachy." His voice comes out strangled. Robin kicks him under the table, her eyes sharp with knowing.

He spends the rest of the evening in quiet agony, debating whether to bring it up, tearing himself apart for an answer that won't come. Every time you laugh at something Eddie says, your throat bobbing, he remembers how it looked in the photo – stretched taut as you tilted your head back. Every time you lick ice cream off your spoon, he thinks about your lips, shiny and parted. His mind drifts back to the first time he met you — Robin's bright smile as she introduced you, her "You two will get along so well!" ringing in his ears like a prophecy. Then, the first flicker of something more – that slow, dawning realisation as you sat there, a giggling mess from the joint he'd rolled, clumsily teaching him pat-a-cake like it was the most crucial lesson in the world. Your fingers had brushed against his palms, warm and sure, and something in his chest had clenched tight. Every moment since has been hidden torment. Every glance across the Family Video counter when you'd come to visit Robin, your eyes lingering just a second too long. Every laugh you'd smothered behind your hand when he'd fumbled his words. Every time he'd caught himself staring at the curve of your neck, wondering how you'd sound if he pressed his mouth there. Every time he caught himself wondering if you felt that same invisible pull.

And now?

Now he's stuck with this.

What the hell is he even supposed to say? "Hey, so, funny story—I found a Polaroid of you fucking yourself the other day. Any reason that might be lying around?"

Yeah. That’d go over real fucking well.

But who else would be leaving these? He knows it has to be you. Because no one else looks at him like that. No one else smirks like that when he stumbles over his words. And God help him—he loves it. But he's Steve Harrington, and Steve Harrington doesn't ruin good things. Doesn't risk friendships for fleeting moments of pleasure, no matter how badly his hands itch to touch. So he tucks the Polaroid into his pocket, lets Eddie tease him about spacing out, lets Robin shoot him looks that promise future interrogation, and pretends his heart isn't pounding loud enough for the whole diner to hear. And when you brush your foot against his under the table, he doesn't pull away; he wonders.—

How much longer can he keep pretending before he snaps and does something stupid? Like pin you against the nearest flat surface and find out if you taste as good as you look in those photos. The thought sends another wave of heat through him. He takes a too-big gulp of his milkshake to hide the way his breath hitches. You smile at him over the rim of your glass, all innocence and sharp edges, and Steve realises with dawning horror that he’s already in too deep to climb back out.

The fourth photo is the last straw. He finds it in his glove compartment that same night, the edge jutting out like a taunt as he sits there, engine off, the silence of the parking lot pressing in around him. For a second, he just stares.

Jesus.

A mirror shot—the kind that feels private.

Except now it’s in his hands.

And fuck, it’s— You’re on your knees, but you’re not facing the glass. No. Your face is tilted up, lips stretched obscenely around your own fingers, glistening with spit, your tongue pressing against the pads like you’re imagining them as something else—someone else. Your lashes flutter, heavy with the kind of pleasure that borders on pain, like the strain is its own sweet torment. And shit, your ass—arched high, round and perfect, the curve of it taunting him, the dimples at the base of your spine begging for his thumbs to press into them. The way your hips tilt just slightly, like you’re already waiting, already needing the sharp bite of a handprint blooming across your skin. He can almost hear the sound it would make—the sharp crack of his palm meeting your flesh and the punched-out whimper you’d choke on right after. Your other hand claws at your own tits, fingers digging in, squeezing hard enough to make your breath hitch. The fabric of your shirt is rucked up, your bra shoved aside, and the sight of your nipple pebbled tight under your own touch—

Christ.

His hands shake. The photo nearly slips from his grip, and he has to white-knuckle the steering wheel just to steady himself. His throat is too tight. His jeans are too fucking tight; he shifts, grinding his hips down against the seat just to relieve the pressure, but it’s worse—so much worse—because now he can feel the rough drag of fabric, the heat of his own desperation, and God, he’s dripping, already slick with the image of you burnt into his skull. This isn’t—

This isn’t fair. He’s imagined it a hundred times. Fantasised about the way your mouth would look wrapped around him, the sounds you’d make when he finally got his hands on you. But never like this. Never with the cruel twist of being nothing more than a spectator to his own undoing.

Fuck.

His head thuds back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut like he can erase the image burnt into the backs of his eyelids. But it doesn’t help. The photo is branded into his soul.

He should stop looking.

He should.

But he can’t.

Because this isn’t just some fantasy anymore. This is proof. Proof that you think about this. Proof that you want this. Proof that you might—

Might—

Want him.

And that’s what terrifies him. Because if he’s wrong— If he misreads this—He’ll ruin everything.

But God, the way your back curves in the photo. The way your lips glisten. The way your fingers dig into your own skin like you’re aching for someone else’s touch. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He could—

He could find you.

Right now. Pull you into the backseat. Make that look in the photo a reality. But what if he’s just—

Projecting. Hopeful. Pathetic. His jaw clenches. He can’t risk it. He won’t. The photo goes back into the glove compartment. His keys twist in the ignition. The engine roars to life. But he doesn’t drive away. Not yet. Because one thought won’t leave him alone—

What if she wants you to come find her?

So he plans to ask you about the Polaroids—if he can ever figure out how the hell to bring it up without sounding like a complete creep.

His apartment is spotless, scrubbed down in a frenzy of nervous energy. Just a regular movie night, he tells himself. You’d had dozens. Nothing to panic about. And for a while, it is normal. You steal his fries, mock his shitty taste in films, and press your ice-cold hands against his thigh just to hear him yelp. It’s easy. It’s you.

But then—

Halfway through, as he gathers empty food containers, something flutters to the floor. Upside down. He knows what it is before he even turns it over. His heart stops. You’re still on the couch, laughing at something on screen—but he can’t help himself. He picks it up. And—

Fuck.

It’s you—sinking down onto a toy like you need it, like you’d die without it. Your eyes are closed, lips parted in relief. One hand braces against the bed, the other at your throat, fingers pressing in like you’re chasing more, like you want to feel it everywhere. The angle is obscene, the slick shine of your arousal glistening where you’re spread open for the camera. Steve swears he can feel it—the phantom roll of your hips, the way you’d clench around him if it was his cock instead— "Something wrong?"

Your voice is too soft, too normal, and it guts him. The photo sticks to his sweat-damp palm as his brain short-circuits between this you—wanting, wrecked, fucking yourself like it’s your only salvation—and the you standing in front of him now, all wide-eyed concern and bitten-pink lips. Ask her. The thought burns through him. Just fucking ask her. But what comes out is, "Nah, just—uh—dropped a napkin." God fucking damnit. You tilt your head, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you know. That you’ll smirk, step closer, and whisper, "Like what you see, Harrington?" But you don’t. You just hum, "You’ve been weird all night."

Weird. Yeah. That’s one word for it.

He shoves the Polaroid into his back pocket like it’s evidence of a crime. His crime. Because, Christ, he shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t be hard right now, straining against his sweatpants as you blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him. He forces himself to step around you, putting the couch between you like it’ll save him. "Just tired," he mumbles, grabbing his half-finished beer. The bottle is slick with condensation, and he clings to that—the cold—instead of the sliver of skin exposed when you stretch, the curve of your waist he knows by heart. Intimately. He’s catalogued every dip and slope of you—the way your hip fits perfectly under his palm when he guides you through a crowded room, the way your waist nips in just enough for his fingers to span it. He’s thought about it. Too much.

You don’t push. Just flop back onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. "Well, hurry up. This movie’s shit, but I want to see how it ends." Steve exhales through his nose. Right. The movie. Except all he can focus on is the weight of the photo in his pocket. The way you’d looked—fuck—like you were made to take cock, like you’d beg for it, like you’d whimper his name if he just—

That’s the problem, isn’t it? He knows you. Knows the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. Knows how you cling to your coffee mug in the morning, both hands wrapped around it like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Knows the way you’d held his hand that one time he got too high and swore the ceiling was breathing, your thumb brushing over his knuckles like you were anchoring him. But this?

This is a version of you he isn't allowed to have, isn’t allowed to need.

One he is desperate for.

The movie drones on, some cheap horror flick with terrible effects, but Steve’s pulse hasn’t slowed since he found the damn photo. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, fingers idly tracing the rim of your soda can. Innocent. Bored.

Too innocent.

Because he’s seen the way your gaze lingers on him when you think he’s not looking. The way you bite your lip when he rolls his sleeves up. The way you lean in just a little too close when you laugh. Steve exhales, rough, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck.

He should say something. Should’ve done something. But the truth is, he’s fucking scared. Terrified of being wrong. Terrified of ruining this—whatever this is—with his stupid, greedy hands. Because what if the Polaroids aren’t for him? What if the way you look at him, all slow smiles and heavy-lidded glances, is just him, reading into things? What if he reaches for you, and you pull away?  Every time you shift, his gaze flicks to your thighs. Every time you laugh, he imagines the way your breath would hitch if he dragged his teeth over your pulse. Every time you look at him, he wonders—

Is this a game to you?

Are you waiting for me to break?

Because he’s close. So fucking close.

When you leave, you linger in the doorway—just a second too long. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, the fabric slipping between them like a secret. It’s innocent. It’s not. The way your knuckles brush against his hip, featherlight, makes his breath catch.

You’re tempting fate.

You’re torturing him.

"Night, Steve," you murmur, lips quirking in that way that drives him insane—like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And for a wild, reckless moment, he considers it: Pinning you against the door. Trapping you with his body. Letting his mouth finally, finally ask the question that’s been clawing at his ribs for weeks—

Are you doing this on purpose?

But then you’re gone. The door clicks shut. And all he’s left with is the ghost of your perfume—something sweet and sharp, clinging to his clothes like a promise—and the Polaroid in his pocket, burning a hole straight through to his skin.

The get-together on Friday is a grand fucking disaster from minute one. Steve's apartment swims in a haze of cigarette smoke and the stale tang of spilt beer, the kind of party atmosphere that usually feels like second nature but tonight just makes his skin itch. The laughter rings too loud in his ears—Eddie's wheezing cackle from the couch, Robin's snort-giggle as she loses at poker again. Normally, he'd be right there with them, tossing out stupid jokes and soaking up the chaos. But tonight, every word sticks in his throat like gum, and every forced smile makes his jaw ache. And you.

Fucking hell, you.

You're everywhere. Perched on the arm of Eddie's chair, your knee brushing his. Leaning over Robin's shoulder to peek at her cards, your hair falling in a curtain that smells like vanilla when it grazes Steve's arm. Laughing at some stupid story Nancy's telling, your head thrown back, the column of your throat working as you swallow your drink. Every glimpse is a fresh punch to the gut. He's two beers deep and still wound tighter than a spring when it happens. You turn just as he steps forward, and his drink sloshes over the rim, drenching the front of your shirt in cold amber liquid. "Shit—fuck, I'm sorry—" Steve stammers, already grabbing for napkins he knows won’t help.

You look down at the mess, then back up at him with an expression he can't quite read. "Real smooth, Harrington," you deadpan, but there's no real heat in it. Just that same unreadable something that's been in your eyes all night. The fabric clings to your skin as you peel it away, and Steve's mouth goes dry. He forces his gaze up to your face, but it's too late—he's already seen the way the wet cotton moulds to the curve of your breast, the shadow of your nipple through the thin material. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" you ask, and your voice is so normal, so casual, like you didn’t just notice him staring. Like you're not standing there half-drenched because of him.

Steve swallows hard. "Yeah, no, I mean—go ahead." He gestures vaguely down the hall, his face burning. "Towels are under the sink if you... you know." You nod, sliding past him so close the heat of your body sears through his shirt, your arm brushing his in a way that sends sparks skittering down his spine. The party's dying embers surround you—empty cups littering sticky tables as the four of you remain in the hollowed-out quiet of the now-empty apartment, and when you disappear into the bathroom, Steve exhales like he's been holding his breath for hours.

Robin materialises at his elbow like the world's smuggest ghost. Her grin vibrates with barely contained glee, fingers digging into his bicep hard enough to leave crescent moons in his skin. "Dude," she stage-whispers, her breath scalding his ear, "you're a walking fucking disaster." Steve doesn't deny it. He's been digging his own grave for weeks – every aborted reach across the Beemer's console, every confession drowned in stale beer, every time he's nearly had you pinned against the Family Video horror section only to choke at the last second. "Christ, Buckley," he hisses through gritted teeth, "not now—" The bathroom door creaks open. You. Polaroid pinched between your fingers like an executioner's blade, edges worn soft from how often he's traced them. Steve's stomach plummets through the scuffed floor.

Oh, fuck.

Oh fuck, oh fuck—

The drawer. He'd forgotten about the goddamn bathroom drawer he left the Polaroids in.

Your approach is lethal. Purposeful. The sharp staccato of your boots on hardwood echoes like a firing squad cocking their rifles. The air between you curdles – thick with tension and something darker, something that makes Steve's pulse stutter in his throat. When you speak, your voice drops to that register—the one that turns his bones to liquid, something that makes the fine hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand at attention.

"Where did you get these?" Not a question. A goddamn death sentence.

Robin's nails bite deeper. "Holy shit," she breathes, eyes darting between you like she's watching the best tennis match of her life. "This is better than my parents' divorce." Steve's heartbeat riots against his ribs as you stop just beyond reach—close enough that your perfume coils around him. The Polaroid dangles from your fingers, the image facing him like an indictment: your lips swollen, lashes fluttering against tear-stained cheeks, fingers twisted in sheets that should be his. The lights hum overhead as you tilt your head, catching the sharp challenge in your gaze. "Where did you get these?" you repeat, each word dripping with deliberate intent. Steve's throat seals shut. Every lie he'd prepared withers under your burning stare, under Robin's vibrating presence at his side, and under the way his body betrays him with every inch you close between you.

"I—" His voice cracks like dry kindling. "My jacket. And—fuck."

You step closer. The brush of your knee against his sends electric currents through the denim. "And?"

"My glove compartment." The admission tears from him like flesh from a wound.

Robin makes a sound between a wheeze and a dying air horn. Your smirk could strip paint from walls. "Interesting."  Another step forward, and now your chest nearly grazes his with each breath. He can't tell if you're moving in for a kiss or a kill shot.

"And what were you planning to do with them, Steve?" His mouth floods. A dozen filthy images flash through his mind—his teeth marking your thigh, your back arching against the employee break room wall, that broken moan you'd make when—

You lean in. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, hot and deliberate: Steve's vision tunnels to pinpricks. "You—you've been—" Your grin cuts deep. "Leaving them for you?  Yeah." The world tilts on its axis. Steve stares at you, caught between outrage and a hunger so deep it terrifies him. "You've been messing with me this whole time—"

A careless shrug as you step closer—so close your thighs slot between his, your skirt riding up just enough to make his hands twitch with the need to touch. "Maybe I wanted to see if you'd crack."

"Why?" It's barely more than a breath. Your expression turns sweet, soft. "Because I like how you look at me when you think I'm not watching." A heartbeat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

"Did you like them?"

The question hangs suspended, heavier than the humid air between your bodies. Steve's control shatters. “I hated those photos,” he grits out, voice shredded.  “Not because—fuck, not because I didn’t want you. But because every time I looked at them—”  His jaw clenches so tight it aches. “All I could think was it should’ve been me making you look like that.”

Your lips part, just slightly, and you step closer. Just one more step. But it’s enough to make his pulse riot. “Prove it,” you murmur, your lips brushing his with provocation.

His hands find your waist.

Your breath hitches.

The space between you collapses. And when he kisses you, it’s not sweet. It’s desperate. It’s what I’ve wanted forever. It’s why the hell did we wait so long? You gasp against his mouth, fingers twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, every desperate inch of his body imprinting itself on yours like he’s trying to melt into your skin. Then his mouth crashes down—hot, demanding, lips moving with a possessive hunger that rewrites your pulse into something wild. You whimper into the kiss, fingers scrambling at his shoulders as Steve licks into your mouth like a man starved. There's nothing gentle about it – he kisses like he's determined to rewrite your DNA with teeth and tongue and the relentless press of his hips until every cell in your body sings his name. It's everything he's fantasised about and so much more – the heat of you pressed flush against him, the crescent moons your nails carve into his shoulders, and the broken little whimper you make when he nips at your bottom lip. When he finally tears away, you're both panting, foreheads pressed together, his ragged breaths scalding your swollen mouth.

"Took you long enough," you murmur, voice wrecked. Steve huffs a laugh, thumb swiping across your kiss-slick lips with a reverence that belittles the hunger in his eyes. "Yeah, well. You could've just told me."

You grin, all teeth. "Where's the fun in—" "Hell no," Eddie's voice cuts in, strangled. "I am not witnessing Harrington's sexual awakening live and in colour—" Robin's already dragging him backwards by his collar. "We're leaving! Enjoy your— Jesus Christ, Steve, just— use protection—!"

The door slams. Steve's on you before the latch clicks – no hesitation, no space between. He pins you against the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his body a furnace against yours. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides up your thigh with deliberate roughness, calloused fingers branding your skin through the fabric. "Should've done this years ago," he growls against your throat, thumb circling your nipple with just enough pressure to make you arch into him. "Why the hell didn't we?"

His forehead drops to yours. The warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips as he confesses, "Because you're Robin's best friend. Because Eddie would've never shut up about it." His hips grind forward, the hard line of his erection leaving no room for doubt. "Mostly because I was fucking terrified of losing you."

"You?"

"Thought you'd get bored of me," you admit, the wall biting into your shoulder blades as he presses closer. "Worried I'd just be... another conquest." Steve goes utterly still. When he meets your eyes, the raw intensity in his gaze makes your stomach flip. "You were never just anything." His whisper is rough, like the words were clawed from his chest. "I've been in love with you since you beat me at Mario Kart drunk off your ass in '86." A surprised laugh punches out of you. "That was like our fifth hangout."

"Yeah." His grin is all boyish charm, obscenely at odds with the filthy drag of his fingers on your inner thigh. "Fucking devastating." Then his mouth is at your ear, teeth scraping that sensitive spot that makes your knees weak. "Gonna spend the rest of the night proving it to you," he promises, voice dark with want. Something feral flashes in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he hauls you up — arm hooked under your thighs — and carries you toward the bedroom, your laughter dissolving into a moan as his mouth finds yours again. The last coherent thought you have before he drops you onto the mattress is that you should've let him find those Polaroids much, much sooner.

The hallway smelled like woodsmoke and something fried a few hours back. He led you upstairs, past two closed doors to a third at the end, pushed it open with his shoulder, and reached for the light switch without a second thought, like it hadn't once occurred to him there was anything to think twice about.

You stopped in the doorway.

The walls were dark, wood paneling gone nearly black with age, and every inch of it was covered. A wolf's head mounted over the headboard, glass eyes catching the lamp. A bleached skull beside it, horns still attached. A Metallica poster tacked up crooked. And past that, taped edge to edge with no logic you could find, a spread of pinup photos, women in bikinis and less, alongside a Confederate flag with a coiled snake stitched over the stars and DON'T TREAD ON ME in block letters underneath. An iron bed frame with a thick mattress covered in a heap of blankets that hadn't been made in what looked like a long time, a set of handcuffs hanging suspiciously from the one corner. A bottle of Jack sat on the nightstand, half gone.

He caught you looking. You watched something shift in his face, quick, there and gone, a kid caught out before he could sweep it under the bed.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, stepping half in front of you like that would fix anything. “I know how it looks.”

“Gator…”

“Been my room since I was ten. Never really saw a reason to redo it.” He was already moving past you, yanking the wolf's glass eyes into a different angle for no reason at all, like adjusting a mounted head two inches to the left might undo the whole wall. “Some of it was my Dad's, some of it's mine, I don't know, it just sorta built up over the years.”

“Hey.” You caught him by the wrist, and he went still the way he had at the door earlier, like you’d found the one switch in him that worked that fast. He stood there holding nothing, just his own hand suspended in the air, looking like he'd rather be back in the truck.

It undid you a little, watching it happen. Five dates running you’d had him pegged as a man built entirely out of nerve, the kind who walked into a bar like he'd bought the deed to it, who put a hand on your back like there'd never been a version of the world where you might have told him not to. And here he was in his own childhood bedroom with his ears going red over a flag and a taxidermied wolf, like your opinion of his walls was the one thing that could actually take him down.

“I don't care about the shit on your walls,” you told him, tugging on his arm.

“Maybe you should. It's a lot.”

“It's a lot,“ you agreed. “I still don't care.”

He looked at you like he was deciding whether to believe that. Whatever he found, it let something out of his shoulders. He dropped his hand from the wolf's head, let the whole display go back to whatever it had been before he touched it, and crossed back to you, hooking two fingers into the front of your jacket, not pulling yet, just holding on.

“Well…” His voice found its usual pitch again, easy, sure of itself. “Room's not the reason you came out here anyway.”

“No,” you smirked up at him. “It really wasn’t.”

That got the corner of his mouth working, the confidence sliding back into place now that it had a reason to. He kissed you slow, like picking up a conversation from somewhere else, one hand sliding into your hair while the other worked your jacket off your shoulders and let it drop to the floor. You didn't look to see where it landed - you had better things in front of you.

“Bed's not much either,” he murmured against her mouth. “Fair warning.”

You looked at the ancient-looking frame. “Looks noisy.”

“Y’got no idea.”

“Think I’m about to find out, right?”

He laughed under his breath, low, and it loosened the last of the tension out of him. He walked you back toward the bed with his hands doing most of the talking, catching the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head, tossing it toward the chair already buried under clothes. You got his flannel shirt open button by button while he stood there and let you, watching your hands with more attention than something that small should have gotten.

“You always this patient?” you asked.

“With clothes, no.” He shrugged out of the flannel, and pulled his undershirt off in one motion. “With you, though? Seems like I am.”

The backs of your knees found the mattress. He eased you down onto it, ignoring the wolf's head glaring down from above, and followed you, one knee braced beside your hip. For a second he just looked at you there against the old iron frame, under the flag and the mounted skull, like he still couldn't square the two things sitting in the same room.

“What?” you asked him

“Nothin'.” He bent to your collarbone, your throat, slow with his kisses on you. “Glad you're not headed for the truck, is all.”

“Give me a reason to go and maybe I will.”

“Bad time to threaten me. I'm bein' very charming right now.”

“You're really not.”

“Workin' up to it.”

He worked up to it. His mouth found your breasts and stayed there long enough your hands twisted in the blankets, long enough his name came out rough, and only then did he move lower, hooking his fingers into your jeans and dragging them down your legs with an efficiency that undercut every bit of the fumbling he'd done over a wolf's head five minutes earlier. He got you bare and settled his weight between your thighs and looked up at you with all his usual cockiness fully restored.

“Gonna need you to be a little patient right back,” he smirked, and put his mouth on you before you could answer.

You lost track of everything after that. He was thorough in a way that didn't match the chaos of the walls around them, adjusting when your hips told him something before your mouth caught up. Your hand found his hair and stayed there, tugging harsh enough to make him hiss against you. When he finally drew back your thighs were shaking and his mouth was glistening wet and he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Yeah,” he said, mostly to himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay. Shoulda done this sooner.”

“Get up here.”

“You’re fuckin’ bossy -”

“Gator.”

He came up over you, reached blind for a box on the nightstand, and tore the foil wrapper with his teeth without breaking eye contact. He rolled the condom on, then went still for a second, head tilted just slightly toward the window, listening. No tires on the gravel, no doors, nothing but the house settling around them. Whatever he was checking for, it didn’t come, and he settled back over you, and pushed inside you slowly, his forehead dropping to yours once he was fully settled inside you.

“Christ,“ he hissed, sharp and already a little wrecked with it. “Jesus, you feel fuckin’ good. Tight- tight an’ soaking fuckin’ wet for me…”

You pulled him closer, your legs around his hips. “You always talk this much?”

“Y’say that like y’don't like it.”

You didn't answer with words, just pulled him down by the back of the neck and kissed him while he started to move, slow at first and then not, one hand braced by your head and the other finding yours and lacing your fingers together against the sheets like it was nothing, like it wasn't the kind of thing his whole personality was built to avoid. You felt him notice himself doing it. Felt him decide not to stop.

The iron frame complained, old joints with old opinions, and he adjusted his rhythm without being asked, slower, quieter, like some part of him was still tracking the door down the hall even now. When you came apart under him it was with his name caught low in your throat and his hand tightening around yours, and he followed not long after, face buried against your neck, the sound punched out of him, barely more than a breath.

For a while neither of you moved. His weight was warm and you didn't mind it. Above the bed, the wolf watched the whole thing with the same glass-eyed indifference it had probably watched thirteen years of his life, and neither of you looked up at it after that.

“So,” he said eventually, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “Room's still a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Gonna hold that against me, long term?”

“Little bit.”

He huffed something close to a laugh, rolled onto his back, one arm coming up automatic to pull you into his side like you’d done this a hundred times instead of once. “Might take some of it down,“ he said, like it took a lot for him to admit. “Eventually.”

“There's an eventually?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

Currently it was over your Wi-Fi that you had tried and failed to install. 

“Shane didn’t know how to do it?” Keys pushed his glasses up as he joined you on the floor, then held his hands up innocently at the look you sent him. He thought it was a fair question. Surely your boyfriend would know better than your step brother. And yeah, maybe he was slyly pointing out that Shane was useless, but he really was. 

“I don’t know,” you shrugged your shoulders, “I mean you work in tech. Isn’t this like your whole thing?” You weren’t wrong, but you weren’t necessarily right either. 

“I do more than set up routers.” He mumbled as he shook his head, taking the phone from your hand to see what step you were on. He shifted again, pushing another box out of the way. It was insane to him that you had so many things. 

“So it should be simple,” you replied with a laugh, “help me, please. I’m clueless, and you’re the best big brother ever.” Something inside of him stirred as you pouted your lips out, clasping your fingers together, and fluttering those pretty eyelashes at him. 

“Step brother.” Keys corrected quickly as he shook his head, trying to ignore the warmth that was spreading inside of him. Your eyes locked on his for a moment too long. 

“Is there really that much of a difference?” You raised your brows, giving him a knowing look as he shook his head. 

“Sorta, yeah.” There needed to be, otherwise he had no way of explaining his attraction towards you. Neither of you were related, so that totally made it alright.

Sure. 

You lingered as he worked, your scent lingering across him as you hummed softly to the music playing in the background. With anyone else he would be irritated with how close you were, but he didn’t mind. You were an exception. 

It took him nearly thirty seconds to realize where you’d gone wrong as he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. It was hard to believe that someone who was always on their phone could struggle this much with technology. But oh boy, did you. 

“What’s wrong?” You moved even closer, your skin brushing against his. He shook his head as he pulled the ethernet cable free. 

“Well, you have the ethernet in the wrong slot.” Keys scoffed as he turned towards you, lips curled up in amusement. 

“No, it says to put it in any of them.” You argued, pointing back towards the directions on your phone. He nodded his head. 

“Uh, yeah the yellow one. Woah, I think it’s even bolded.” He responded sarcastically, laughing at the way you rolled your eyes.

“You’re such an ass.” You wrinkled up your nose as you shoved at his shoulder hard enough to make his hair fall in front of his eyes. 

“I’m an ass? I think I just fixed your Wi-Fi.” He responded quickly, about to push his hair back into place when you beat him to it. His heart lurched inside of his chest as you gently brought your fingers up, pushing his thick hair out of the way. 

Your fingers lingered against his skin for a moment too long, just enough to leave an electric sensation burning through his body. His heart was hammering so roughly inside of his chest that he was afraid you’d see the outline, or at least be able to hear it. No relief found him when he pulled away, a breathless laugh leaving him. 

“It’s not up yet.” You pointed out in a matter of fact way, though your expression was softer. A nervous chuckle left him as he glanced back down at your phone, confirming that it was connecting. 

“It’s connecting,” he pointed out as he shook his head, “see, says it right there. You’re lucky you’re pretty.” The compliment slipped off of Keys tongue without him fully realizing it.

“You think I’m pretty?” Delight trickled onto your stunning features, your eyes twinkling, and brows raising like you weren’t quite sure if you’d heard him right. 

“Mhm.” Keys distracted himself from the way his cheeks flushed by pulling his glasses off and pretending to scrub a smudge away from the lens. Your gaze on him lingered, burning the side of his face. 

“You’re still mean, but thank you for that compliment. I really appreciate it, Walter.” A groan slipped free as you said his name, knowing how much it annoyed him. You really liked to get under his skin by doing that, always had. 

“I’m not just mean,” he corrected, heart thumping as you leaned in closer, “I’m your mean big brother.” He teased back, bumping his shoulder against yours softly. 

Something in your expression changed, just a slight flicker as the tension in the room grew thicker too. Your eyes drifted across his features for the longest time, then lingered against his lips. The air between the two of you felt electric, heavy as he found himself leaning towards you. 

Your breath was warm, slightly minty from the gum you’d been chewing earlier. Your eyes were hazy, warm, and filled with adoration. The tip of your nose was cool against his as he closed the gap between the two of you, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering roughly as your lips fell against his softly. 

Sparks amplified when your lips grazed against his, kissing him soft and gentle as his hand reached up to cradle the side of your face. Desire burned inside of him as his mouth dragged against yours passionately, tugging you even closer. He poured everything unsaid into that kiss, everything that he wished he could communicate with you. 

Realization dawned inside of him as he realized who he was kissing. He pressed his hands against your shoulders as he forced himself away, afraid that he’d end up making a mistake. The two of you already had.

“Shit,” Keys cursed as he shook his head, licking his bottom lip as you looked up at him with those pretty eyes, “we can’t–, we shouldn’t–,” he trailed off again, sighing at the intense way you were watching him, “fuck it.”

He didn’t care anymore as he brought his lips against yours again, kissing you even deeper as you melted against him. You felt so soft, smelt so good, and tasted even better. You molded against him perfectly, your kisses just as urgent. 

No thoughts of how wrong it was crossed his mind as you pulled yourself onto his lap, making him gasp as your fingers twisted through his thick hair. A moment later you were tugging his glasses off, and discarding them somewhere within the room. They could’ve hit the floor, or perhaps fallen into a box, but he couldn’t care at the moment. Not when he could taste you, feel you. 

Keys groaned as you pushed him until his back hit the floor, your body looming over his as the tip of your tongue dragged against his bottom lip. He eagerly licked at your mouth, just as desperate as you began to rut yourself against his hardening cock. His large hands fell to your waist, helping you move against him as pleasure rippled down his spine. His cock was aching in his pants, leaking against his skin as the want burned deep inside of you.

A brief moment of clarity hit him as you began to fumble with his belt, then tugged his pants down to his knees. You giggled lowly as you cupped your hand against his aching bulge, making him hiss as you locked eyes again. Only in his deepest, dirtiest imaginations had he pictured you like this. His little sister. 

And God, that only made him press himself closer to you. 

“What about-?” Keys began to mumble as the haze continued to grow inside of his mind. He didn’t know if Shane would be back soon, or if anyone else was coming over. Not to mention that your curtain was open, exposing you both to whomever walked by. You shook your head, leaning down towards him again. 

“Don’t talk about him,” you mumbled against his mouth, moaning as you bit down on his bottom lip, “I don’t wanna hear about him. Just wanna feel you.” You whispered as you slowly released his lip, keeping your hand against his chin. 

Keys melted against your touch, skin burning as you slowly fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He shifted enough to help you tug it off of him, his lips finding the crook of your neck as he began to strip you of your layers. 

“Keys,” you whispered softly, tilting your head as a heavenly moan slipped from your pretty lips. A breathless sigh left him as he searched your body, admiring your curves as his hands traced your body, “you’re so pretty.” You mumbled, taking him by surprise as a flush settled over him.

“You are,” he answered quickly, fingers brushing against your nipples softly. It’d be easier to admire you with his glasses, but relying on the feel of you did just as much. You crooned as you leaned into his touch, whining as he pinched at them gently, “Christ, I’ve dreamt of this.” He told you truthfully, reaching down to push his boxers down. 

“Pervert.” You teased, biting down on your bottom lip. He chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.” His hand fell against your ass, the sound echoing in the room as you gasped. A mischievous look crossed over your features, a daring look in your eye. 

“You gonna make me?” You challenged him. A squeal left your lips a moment later as he pushed you onto your back, his hands heavy on your waist as he brought his lips against yours again. 

He kissed you deeply, passionately as little moans from you vibrated across his mouth. He reached down slowly, dragging his fingers softly through your soaked folds. You jolted at the sensation, whining as he circled his thumb across your sensitive bud. 

Keys admired you for another moment as he spread your legs apart, getting a good look at your cunt before he pressed a long finger into your slick pussy. His cock was aching, desperate to feel you wrapped around his girth instead of his finger. He curled it deep inside of you, dragging it in and out slowly as pleasure burst across your features. 

“Christ,” he shook his head again, licking his bottom lip as he savored the way your cunt squeezed his finger, “look at you, baby. You’re so wet, you really are desperate for my cock.” He teased as he slipped another finger in, chuckling at the way you shivered around him.

“Oh my God,” you whined underneath him, rocking your hips up to meet his motions, “you feel so good.” You spoke breathlessly, moaning as he curled both fingers deeper inside of you. Your spongy walls were squeezing him tightly, leaking down his digits as he continued to fuck his fingers into you. 

A low groan left him as he tilted his head down to lick at your slick folds, moaning at the taste of you. His brows furrowed together as pure bliss filled him, his fingered curling up against your bundle of nerves as he wrapped his lips around your pretty clit. 

“Fuck!” You squeaked as you reached down to grab his hair, tugging on his thick strands as you rutted your hips up against his face. He eagerly moved his tongue in unison, enjoying the way you were getting yourself off on him. It was hot, sexy. 

He wanted more. 

The tip of Keys tongue lapped against your swollen clit slowly, rolling against your sensitive bud as you continued to croon underneath him. Your grip on his hair grew tighter as you continued to fuck yourself against his face and fingers, whining loudly. 

He sloppily licked at your cunt, kissing at your pussy in a similar way he’d kissed your mouth. The taste of you was overwhelming, made him feel all hot and needy. He liked knowing that he was pleasing you, that you were desperate for him. 

The sounds you were making made his cock twitch, his pulse quickening as the pleasure grew deeper on your features. He was staring up at you in bliss as he slowly rutted his hips into the carpet, hissing into your cunt at the friction. You looked ethereal, like you were glowing. Never before had he needed someone so badly. 

You squirmed underneath him, tugging at his shoulders like you were thinking the same thing. Desperation was etched all across you as you gasped, sliding him between your legs. 

“C’mon, I wanna feel my big brother's cock. Pretty please.” You begged at him, eyes hazy with awe as a whine left his lips. The pleasure he felt now was so intense, something that he’d never felt before. It was unexplainable, passionate. 

Keys was kissing you again, tasting the moans that rolled from your tongue. Your lips were soft and smooth against his, your mouth molding against his perfectly. Your moans mingled with his as he curled his fingers deep inside of you one last time, savoring the way your body squirmed before he pulled his hands free.

You worked quickly to tug his boxers down, your lips hungrily moving against his as you blindly stripped him. A moment later his skin flushed at the way you admired him, eyes lingering against his cock. 

“You’re big,” you pointed out breathlessly, already looking spent as he rubbed his palms across your thighs, “God. Of course you are.” You shook your head as you reached down, fingers wrapping around his thick girth. 

Keys groaned deeply as you spread his precum down the curve of his cock, stroking him slowly. His dick lurched at the sensation as you pressed his round tip against your slick hole, making both of you moan from the sensation. 

You were so slick that the tip of his fat cock slid into you easily, making both of you croon as your thighs trembled around him. Your walls were slick and smooth as he pressed himself deeper inside of you, hissing at the way your cunt wrapped around his girth. Rough pants left your lips as you furrowed your brows together, breathing in deeply as he bullied his cock into you. 

“Slow down, baby,” you told him softly, making him whine at the little pet name, “Christ, you feel so good. Just go slow.” You nodded your head reassuringly, fingers digging into his hips so he was unable to move away. 

Keys felt his lips curling into a grin as he savored the pleasure that was etched across your features, leaning down to gently kiss at the corner of your lips. Your breath was warm against his face as your nipples brushed against his chest, electricity fizzling between the two of you. He was struggling to keep his composure, his heart hammering roughly against the side of his neck as he brushed his lips against yours again. 

Tasting you made his eyes roll into the back of his head as he desperately deepened the kiss, licking away anything that you offered him. You were slowly rutting your hips up in the process, nails digging into his skin as you worked yourself up against the curve of his cock. Keys was breathing deeply as he let you use him, let you get yourself adjusted around his thick girth. 

“Can’t believe I’m–,” he inhaled sharply, voice shaking as he groaned deeply, “fuck, inside of you. You feel so good, baby sister.” The filthy worse rolled off of his tongue with ease, making both of you moan in unison. 

“God,” you cried out, whimpering and crying as he slowly bottomed out inside of you. You looked up in awe, desperation lingering on your features as you clung to him, “you feel so good, baby. Oh my God.” You cried out as you looked down between your bodies, whining at the way you two met. Your spongy walls wrapped around him perfectly, pulling him in deeper each time you inhaled sharply.

He inhaled deeply, nose pressing against yours as a loud whine left his lips. You were so wet around him, so tight that he could feel himself melting into you. Electricity poured through his body, racing up his spine as he looked at you in awe. 

“Fuck,” Keys groaned as he slowly began to drag his cock in and out of your slick cunt, moaning as your nails dug deeper into his skin, “you feel so good, holy fuck. Oh my God.” His nose brushed against yours as your hands moved against the back of his neck, threading through his thick locks. 

Moans rolled off of your tongue as you stared up at him with half lidded eyes, pleasure etched on your features as you rocked your body up to meet his motions. The tip of his cock pressed against your bundle of nerves with each thrust, making you cry out each time. All of this was so intense, so excruciating. 

The passion grew between the two of you as he continued to fuck into your slick cunt, his thumb pressing against your bundle of nerves as you dragged your hips up to meet his motions. Your nails dug into his skin as you peered at him in awe, brows furrowing, and swollen lips parting in bliss. 

“You like that, baby?” Keys cooed as his lips dragged against yours, savoring the little moans that left you. You fit perfectly around the curve of his cock, just like you were made to be a part of him. 

“I love my big brother’s cock,” you corrected in a wanton way, arching your back, and moaning as his thrusts grew rougher, “oh God. Just like that, baby. Oh God.” You cried out, pleasure etched deep between your brows as he continued to fuck himself into your slick cunt. 

Your fingers wrapped desperately around his, squeezing roughly as you dug your heels into the floor and rocked yourself up against him. The pleasure was intense, deep as you continued to squeal around him. He didn’t know how he’d be able to only have you once, to only ever get to feel you this one time. He couldn’t imagine it. 

Sweat formed on the back of his neck as he messily kissed the side of your mouth, his tongue flicking out against your bottom lip as you whined against him. Your lips were sloppy against his mouth as your cunt clamped down around his girth, quivering as you began to tremble underneath him.

You were gripping a hold of him tightly as you came, shivering and whining as your back arched off of the ground. Keys groaned deeply as he squeezed your hands even harder, licking away your moans as he continued to drag his cock in and out of your slick cunt. You were leaking around him, your cum drenching his balls as he felt his high growing nearer and nearer.

“You feel so good, so fuckin’ good,” you were mumbling against his mouth, your fingertips digging into his flesh as you continued to rock yourself against him, “oh my God, Walter. Just like that, baby.” You praised him softly, still reeling in from your orgasm. 

He whined loudly as he buried himself deep inside of you, hips stuttering as his cock throbbed from the sensation of your slick walls. The pleasure burned inside of him like electricity as he moaned louder, clinging to you as he came inside of your pretty cunt. 

You clawed at him desperately, mouth open against his as your chest rose and fell against his. Your fingers rolled down his spine gently as you peppered little kisses against the corners of his mouth, his nose, and his cheeks. His skin was flushed, coated with a thin layer of sweat as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Fuck,” Keys sighed deeply as he looked down at where your bodies were connected, how the mixture of the two of you was leaking from your cunt, “look at that. God.” A shiver of lust raced through him again, his cock throbbing even though he’d just came. You drove him insane. 

“You’re such a pervert.” You whispered again, grinning as you tugged at the hair on the nape of his neck again. It felt nice, really good. 

A breathless laugh left him as he rubbed his fingers down your face, admiring your pretty expression. He lingered there for a moment too long as he admired you, trying to keep his mind from racing. You were stunning, incredible. 

“Fe-feels too good,” you manage to say, one hand still wrapped around his tie while the other fists the front of his once neat shirt. “I’m gonna—”

The sound of the bathroom door opening reaches your ears, the voices of a few of your colleagues spilling in and Steve was quick to cup his hand over your mouth to stop those pretty whimpers falling from your lips.

But does he stop fucking you with those thick fingers of his? Absolutely not. He wouldn’t dream of it.

His hazel eyes were locked with yours, his palm covering your mouth as he watched the way your brows furrow, the way your face was twisting with pleasure.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, the coil in your lower stomach tightening and tightening with every pump of his fingers, every curl against that spongey soot inside of you that Steve always seemed to find with ease.

“—he’s taking me to that new restaurant that just opened up,” a voice you recognise to be of your co-workers, Lisa, coming from just outside of the stall you and Steve were crammed into. “So I hope this hearing doesn’t drag out so I can rush home and get changed. I’d rather not wear my work clothes out on a date.”

“You look great though,” another voice you don’t quite recognise due to your lust filled haze tells Lisa encouragingly.

“You’re just saying that, Ruth!” Lisa replies with a laugh before the sound of her heels clicking into the stall right next to yours causes Steve to press his palm more firmly over your mouth as he continues the steady, torturous pump of his fingers into your heat.

You shouldn’t be so turned on, you should be pushing him away and remind him you weren’t just in a public bathroom—you were in a bathroom in a damn courthouse. You should tell him it was inappropriate and reckless and stupid. That you both had a hearing to get to in ten minutes. But you don’t, instead you hold onto him tighter and grind yourself against his hand, a silent plea for him not to stop. To keep going as heat like molten lava surged to your core, the coil inside you tightening, threatening to snap.

Steve smiles, biting his wet and swollen bottom lip between his teeth before he leans in to whisper, his breath hot in your ear, “don’t make a sound, baby.”

And then he withdraws his fingers.

You had been so close, so fucking close that you can’t help the small, desperate that escapes you. Thankfully, it was muffled by Steve’s hand that was still covering your mouth.

He tuts quietly, smiling at you in a way that makes your pussy clench around nothing before bringing his fingers coated with your slick to his lips and licking them clean. You watch—utterly transfixed by the way lips wrap around the digits, the way his tongue swirls around them to lick away the wetness he had collected from you.

You felt so turned on that the sound of the toilet flushing from Lisa’s stall did nothing to deter you.

“What’d I say?” He whispers, the sound of your colleagues laughing together at the sinks masking the sound of Steve hastily unbuckling his belt, of you whimpering against his palm at the sight of his cock—thick, heavy, the ruddy tip already glistening with pre cum from fucking you with his fingers. “I said—don’t make a sound.”

But it was hard not to when your pussy was aching for him. Thankfully, Steve doesn’t let you wait long.

Steve tugs your skirt up over your hips, pulls your ruined panties to the side before he pushes himself in deep with one thrust that has your eyes rolling back. The stretch of his cock was delicious as always and you were grateful for the loud noise of the hand dryer to cover up your muffled moans.

“Look at you,” Steve husks in your ear, setting a torturous pace from the offset while still being conscious of the wet sounds coming from his cock bullying its way into your pussy. “Letting me fuck you in the fucking court bathroom. You like this, don’t you? Knowing we could get caught? Fuck, you love it. Don’t you, baby?”

Almost each word was punctuated with a deep thrust that caused the fat head of his cock to kiss your cervix and it took everything in you not to moan out.

The sound of your colleagues leaving the bathroom allows you some reprieve, Steve’s hand remains over your mouth but he no longer cares about the noises your bodies make. In fact, he seems to revel in it—the way your cunt was almost crying for him, the way his cock could slip in and out of you seamlessly, the wet noises of your mixed juices filling the stall. It lewd and obscene and it was enough that even he allowed himself some desperate groans to slip from his lips as he fucked you against the wall of the stall.

“Can’t get enough of this,” he grunts as he lifts one of your thighs over his hip to allow himself to fuck his cock into you deeper, causing you to mewl in response. Heat was surging through you, so intense that you felt tears welling up in your eyes. “Can’t get enough of this pussy. Of you. Shit—you’re squeezing me so tight. Like you don’t want me to leave. Are you going to—”

You had no way to warn him, no way to tell him you were seconds away from tipping over the edge but the slight tug at his tie, the wild look in your eyes was enough for him to take the hint.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock, that’s it.”

And you do—with an orgasm that hits you like a damn tidal wave. It was the sort of orgasm that you felt in every cell throughout your body, the sort of one you felt from head to toe. It was so intense that you may have collapsed from the intensity of it if Steve hadn’t had such a tight hold on you. Your pussy gushes around him, your release completely soaking his cock and it was that—your essence dripping down, right onto his balls—that made him tip over the edge right after you.

Steve came with a groan of your name that he muffled by him sucking at the skin of your neck. You feel his cock twitch inside of you before he paints your walls white with hot spurts of his come, his hips still thrusting as he fucked his release into your spent pussy.

“Take it,” he murmurs against your neck, his lips against your skin sending a jolt through you. “Take it all, baby. Stand in front of the judge while you’re full of my cum. Let the whole damn courtroom know how good of a girl you are for taking every last drop.”

He finally releases his hand from over your mouth so that he could swallow your whimpers with his lips in a searing kiss, his thrusts finally coming to a stop so that he could pull out his softening cock.

You can’t help but whimper at the loss but Steve doesn’t leave you empty for long, two fingers replacing his cock so that he could continue to fuck it into you, the sound so obsence that you were grateful for the empty bathroom.

“Good girl, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, a final pump of his fingers before he withdraws them completely, pulling your panties back in place with a loud snap.

You readjust your skirt back over your hips with hands that shook slightly, smoothed down your blouse and your hair before you looked back at Steve, who was tucking himself back into his boxers.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” You say, still a little breathless as grab your blazer and workbag from the hook on the door of the stall. 

“Yeah,” Steve smiles back at you like he hadn’t just fucked your brains out. “Later.”

You smile back at him before you carefully and quietly leave the stall. You quickly check your reflection in the mirror before leaving the courthouse bathroom, hoping that no one had noticed your absence and praying Steve would be subtle when he left the bathroom. It wasn’t often that you and Steve were so reckless but since your little arrangement began over three months ago, you hadn’t been able to resist each other for more than a few days. And so—when you found out that you both had hearings in court today, you couldn’t resist.

You can still feel Steve’s cum, flooding from your cunt and into your panties as you make your way to courtroom five. The thought of his release remaining there throughout the course of the hearing made heat course through you. There was a part of you that wanted to head right back to that bathroom and beg him to fuck you again and again and again. But the sight of Lisa waiting for you outside the courtroom stopped you.

“Ready?” She asks, seemingly completely unaware of where you had been for the past fifteen minutes.

You nod, leaving any thought of Steve Harrington at the door as you head inside. Because nothing—absolutely nothing—could throw you off doing your job and doing it well.

The courtroom was quiet, the way it always was. You have grown accustomed to it over the years. You were used to being able to hear your client breathing heavily beside you, the scratch of the journalist’s pens, the defence shifting in their seats.

Today, you and Lisa were representing your client to discuss their bail conditions. In theory, it should be straightforward. You expected you’d be out of court within the next hour or so.

You glance towards the district attorney’s table but see it was empty.

“Reckon they’re having a late lunch?” You whisper to Lisa with a small smile.

“Probably,” she whispers back as you approach the defence table, greeting your client before taking a seat.

You pull out your notebook, taking the few minutes you had before the judge arrived to look over the bail conditions you had proposed. The sound of the courtroom door opening doesn’t even really register. Not until someone clears their throat right in front of you.

“Sorry,” you say, smoothing down your shirt before you look up. “I was just—”

But at the sight of the man in front of you—you freeze. For the first time in your professional career. You freeze.

Because the man standing in front of you was the same man whose cum was still inside of you. The same man who had fucked you stupid in the courthouse bathroom. The same man you had been secretly fucking for the past three months.

District attorney—Steve fucking Harrington.

As the bailiffs announced the arrival of the judge, you stood on shaking legs.

And as you felt a dribble of Steve’s cum leak out of you, you realise that you were fucked. You were completely and utterly fucked.

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You had hardly slept. Every time you drifted off, your brain seemed determined to drag you back to the same place. Noah. Maggie arriving with answers that somehow only seemed to create more questions. You had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all and failing every single time. The thing that kept snagging in your thoughts wasn't even the betrayal itself, although that was bad enough. It was the why. You couldn't stop asking yourself why Noah would do something like this.

A drug debt. That was what the bikers had told Maggie.

You sat on the edge of your bed for a moment, staring out through the bedroom windows at the ranch beyond. The sun was only just beginning to rise, painting the fields in soft shades of gold, but the view did little to settle the restless knot sitting in your chest. A drug debt implied drugs, and drugs implied Noah had been using or dealing or both. Yet every time you tried to fit that version of Noah into your head, the pieces refused to line up.

Then again, when you thought about it, how well did you really know Noah anymore?

It wasn't that Noah was secretive exactly. He had never struck you as somebody deliberately hiding things. He was just... absent. Noah had a habit of existing around the edges of things. Most of your recent memories of him involved Sunday lunches, sitting quietly at the far end of the table while the rest of the family filled the room around him. He'd always been reserved. Easy to miss in a family full of larger personalities. It had never occurred to you before now that maybe there had been a difference between being private and being invisible.

Had he really been hiding all this time?

The thought followed you everywhere. The house was still quiet when you reached the kitchen. Not silent, because silence didn't really exist in the Big House, but quiet enough that most of the kids must still be asleep. The familiar smell of coffee greeted you before anything else, and you found Ford standing at the island with Josie already installed in her highchair beside him. She was happily working her way through a bowl of strawberries, although judging by the amount smeared across her cheeks and tray, eating them seemed to be only one part of the activity. Ford looked up when you walked in.

"Morning, Baby. Coffee?" He got a proper look at your face and his expression changed. "Looks like you need it."

You huffed a tired laugh as you crossed the kitchen.

"Yeah, thanks."

Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to the top of Josie's head just in time to catch her attempting to shove a strawberry into her mouth leaves and all. You plucked the leafy top from her fingers before she could manage it, earning a deeply offended look from the little girl as Ford poured coffee into a mug and slid it across the island towards you. The warmth felt good against your hands. You took a sip before looking down into the mug.

"I just don't get it. Noah? Why would he do that?"

Ford was quiet for a moment. He rested his forearms against the counter and watched Josie as she aggressively squashed a strawberry between both palms, his expression thoughtful rather than angry.

"I honestly don't know," he admitted. "But if he did, he was desperate."

You looked up as Ford shrugged one shoulder.

"Noah's always been a mystery to me, but he isn't some traitorous spy. Maggie'll sort it out."

"Ever notice how much we all say that?" You said with a faint smile.

"Well, it's accurate. Maggie does always sort it."

Ford huffed a laugh and finally looked over at you. You couldn't really argue with that. Over the years you had watched Maggie untangle financial disasters, family disasters, legal disasters and the occasional actual disaster. She seemed to approach every catastrophe with the same calm determination most people reserved for grocery shopping.

"Maggie would quite like a day off from sorting it, if that's ever possible."

The voice arrived from the hallway behind you, dry enough that you immediately smiled into your coffee. Ford laughed outright as Maggie appeared around the corner, already dressed for the day in a cream silk blouse and tailored trousers.

"Morning, Ma."

"Morning."

Ford automatically reached for another mug. Some habits were so ingrained in this family nobody even thought about them anymore. Maggie crossed the kitchen while he poured, stopping first beside Josie to press a kiss into her hair before leaning over to kiss your cheek. The gesture was brief, familiar, accompanied by the faint scent of expensive perfume.

"I've called Noah. He's on his way over."

The statement settled over the kitchen. You weren't entirely sure there was a more terrifying thing in the English language than a summons from Maggie Heaton. It didn't matter if you were family. If anything, being family probably made it worse. Maggie was many wonderful things, but when she decided she needed answers from someone, she had all the subtlety of an approaching freight train.

Beside you, Josie began enthusiastically mashing another strawberry between both hands. Ford caught her wrists.

"Nope."

Josie squealed in protest. Maggie ignored her, her eyes focused on you.

"I think you should sit in while I talk to him."

"Me? Why?" You blinked.

"Because I'm not stupid. I know he's probably terrified right now, especially getting a call from me."

At least she knew she was terrifying. The fact she said it so matter-of-factly suggested she had long ago accepted it as simply another personality trait, somewhere between organised and punctual.

"You will calm him down."

You weren't entirely convinced that was true. Right now you weren't sure anyone could calm Noah down. Still, you understood what she meant. You had always occupied a different role within the family than Maggie. People came to Maggie for solutions. They came to you when they needed comfort. But Maggie must have caught the hesitation on your face because she softened slightly.

"You don't have to--"

"No, it's fine." You shook your head. "I'll do it."

The tension around her eyes eased just enough for you to notice.

"Thank you."

The conversation drifted after that, though not very far. None of you seemed particularly capable of thinking about anything except Noah. Ford eventually lifted Josie from her highchair and carried her over to the sink, where he began the impossible task of removing strawberry from places strawberry should never have reached in the first place. You were halfway through your coffee when the sound of the front door closing drew your attention.

For a moment, nothing seemed unusual. It was just Noah. Then, because you were looking for it now, you started noticing things. His shoulders seemed narrower than you remembered. There was a pallor to his complexion that the summer sun should have prevented, his skin almost washed-out beneath the morning light. His eyes looked tired too. Not the ordinary tiredness of somebody who'd had a late night, but the deep, lingering exhaustion of someone who hadn't been sleeping properly for a very long time. You suddenly found yourself wondering how many times you'd seen those same signs before and dismissed them.

"Morning," Noah said quietly as he stepped into the kitchen.

His gaze flickered briefly around the room before settling on Maggie. She set her coffee down. The mug made a soft click against the countertop. Then she snapped her fingers once and nodded towards the hallway.

"Office. Let's go."

Noah swallowed. You watched him for a second longer, offering what you hoped was a reassuring smile. It didn't seem to help much, but he managed the faintest nod in return. Then you placed your own coffee down beside Maggie's and followed them to the office.

The office always felt strangely small with the door closed. You weren't sure whether that was because the room itself was small or because nobody seemed capable of relaxing. Maggie moved behind her desk as though this were any other morning, taking her usual seat and folding her hands neatly in front of her, while you settled into one of the armchairs opposite. Noah took the other. For a few moments, nobody spoke.

You found yourself watching him. Not intentionally at first. Your eyes simply kept drifting back to him, picking up on details you weren't sure you would have noticed a week ago. His fingers were a mess, the skin around his nails chewed raw in places. One hand repeatedly scratched at the knee of his jeans before moving away, only to return a few seconds later. His leg bounced relentlessly, a restless movement. The more you watched him, the more uncomfortable you became.

Maggie let the silence linger for a moment before speaking. Her voice, when it came, was calm and measured, carrying none of the anger you knew she must have been feeling.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, Noah. And you can lie to me, but that will be a waste of everyone's morning."

Noah swallowed hard. His eyes remained fixed somewhere around the edge of Maggie's desk and his leg continued bouncing. You weren't entirely sure he was even aware he was doing it.

"Max Porter," Maggie said. "What do you know of him?"

The name meant nothing to you at first. Then you remembered. The alias. The name Blackridge knew him by. Noah's shoulders tightened.

"I... uh..." He cleared his throat. "I don't know the name."

If Maggie was disappointed by the answer, she didn't show it. She simply reached for her phone, unlocked it and slid it across the desk towards him.

"Well, maybe you don't know the name. Would a photo help?"

Noah barely glanced at the screen. His eyes flickered towards it before dropping straight back down again.

"I didn't..." He rubbed his hands against his thighs before catching himself and curling them into fists. "It ain't like that. I didn't... I didn't have a choice."

The words hung in the room. You watched Maggie closely, looking for some crack in her composure, but there was nothing there.

"You put this family in danger."

The bluntness of it made you shift slightly in your chair. Noah looked up then, meeting her eyes.

"It wasn't like that."

"No?" Maggie asked. "So you didn't lead a drug organisation straight to our front door? You didn't sell out your father? You didn't open the door for some sort of hostile takeover?"

"I didn't...I didn't know that was going to happen."

His voice cracked and he looked away again. A tear slipped free before he could stop it. He scrubbed at his face, embarrassed by it, but another followed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and when he spoke again his voice sounded even smaller somehow.

"I didn't have a choice."

You felt something twist painfully in your chest, because he sounded like he believed that. Maggie sat back slightly in her chair.

"This family always has a choice," she said matter-of-factly.

Noah wiped at his face again, his leg still moving. The sight of him struggling so openly made you instinctively lean forward, your hand lifting slightly as though you might reach for him, but Noah pulled away before you could.

"What are you taking?" Maggie asked.

The change in Noah was immediate. His restless leg stopped as his entire body seemed to freeze.

"I'm not--"

"What are you taking, Noah?"

This time there was a slight edge to Maggie's voice. Not anger exactly. Certainty. For a moment Noah said nothing. Then he seemed to collapse inward. His elbows landed on his knees, and he pressed both palms hard into his eyes.

"Oxy," he whispered, his voice low and embarrassed.

The room went silent. You stared at him, then Maggie, then back at him. Oxy. The word seemed too small for the weight it carried. Suddenly your mind was rifling through memories. Noah arriving late to Sunday lunch. Noah looking exhausted. Noah disappearing early. Noah sitting quietly while everyone else talked around him. Things that had seemed insignificant at the time. Things you had barely registered. All those little moments began rearranging themselves into something else.

"How long?" Maggie asked.

"I just need--" Noah shook his head.

"How long?"

Her tone never changed. Even now she was managing to stay calm, clinical. Her voice was steady and firm. Noah's shoulders sagged.

"A bit more than a year."

You felt your breath catch. More than a year. You couldn't stop staring at him. How had nobody known? How had you not known? He was family. Not distant family. Not relatives you saw once at Christmas. Family. The kind of family who ate together every Sunday. The kind of family who knew one another's coffee orders and favourite meals and childhood fears. Yet somehow Noah had been drowning for over a year, and nobody had noticed. The guilt settled heavily in your chest.

"I can stop," his words came quickly, desperately.

Maggie shook her head.

"No, you can't."

For a few seconds nobody spoke. Noah sniffled, dragged his hands down his face.

"When was the last pill?" Maggie asked.

"Last night."

"How many a day?"

Noah closed his eyes. His hands pressed against them again as though he could somehow block all of this out if he tried hard enough.

"Please don't tell Dad. Or Mom. Please. I can't..."

He was crying properly now. It wasn’t loud, just broken. So deeply ashamed. Maggie remained perfectly still behind the desk.

"You're not in a position to make demands, Noah. You brought this on yourself."

You turned towards her. That had been harsh, her composure briefly dropping. Her eyes were fixed on Noah.

"Maggie--" you frowned.

But, she ignored you. Her attention never left Noah. For a moment she simply watched him, taking in the trembling hands, the tears, the exhaustion. Then she folded her hands together once more and spoke with the same calm certainty she had carried into the room.

"You're not going to like the next bit, Noah."

・❥・

Walking back into the kitchen felt strangely surreal after the conversation you'd just had. The rest of the world had carried on while the three of you had been shut away in Maggie's office.

The kitchen was alive now, full of noise and movement and the familiar chaos that seemed to follow the Heaton family wherever they went. Ford stood at the stove cooking breakfast while Tucker and Walker occupied two stools at the island, arguing over something entirely inconsequential with the sort of passion only teenage boys could muster. The smell of bacon and coffee filled the room. Somewhere in the background Josie was babbling away happily from her playpen.

It felt wrong somehow. After what you had just learned, it felt like the world should have stopped for a minute. Instead, Rhodes was trying to convince Tucker that dinosaurs would beat superheroes in a fight.

Maggie walked straight through the middle of it all. If the conversation in the office had affected her, she gave no sign. She paused only long enough to say good morning to the kids as she passed, her voice carrying the same warmth it always did. Noah followed several paces behind her, shoulders rounded, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. He barely acknowledged anyone.

You wondered if the kids noticed, suspected they probably did. Children had a habit of sensing when something was wrong long before adults realised they were paying attention.

By the island, Gator had arrived sometime while you were in the office. He was sitting beside the twins; one arm draped over the back of his chair as Walker launched into an animated explanation about something. The second he spotted you, his attention shifted entirely. He stood as you approached, the concern on his face was immediate.

"Y'alright?"

The question was quiet enough that nobody else would hear it. You nodded. Not because you were alright, but because you didn't really know how to explain the feeling sitting in your chest.

"Think we might need your help with this."

You watched understanding settle across his face. Gator didn't ask questions. Didn't push. He rarely did. Instead, he pressed a kiss against your temple before taking your hand.

"Alright."

Together, you followed Maggie and Noah out through the front door and into the bright morning sunshine. The walk to the Cabin wasn't long. You had made it thousands of times over the years, crossing the yard and following the gravel road that curved gently away from the Big House. Usually it felt like moving between two versions of the same home. Today it felt more like following someone to an execution.

Noah walked several steps ahead of you, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Every now and then you caught him rubbing his palms against the denim of his jeans as though he couldn't get comfortable inside his own skin.

The Cabin came into view, sitting exactly where it always had. If the Big House felt like Maggie, all soft colours and warmth and carefully curated comfort, then the Cabin had always felt like Brooks. Bigger somehow. Rougher around the edges. Built from dark timber and stone rather than creams and pale woods. Even from the outside there was something distinctly masculine about it.

Inside, the contrast became even more obvious. The front door opened onto the familiar open-plan living space, though unlike the Big House, the living room sat several steps lower than the rest of the house. Large leather sofas surrounded a huge stone fireplace that stretched all the way to the ceiling of the second storey, the stonework dominating the room in a way that felt both impressive and slightly intimidating. To the left sat the kitchen, all dark granite countertops and heavy cabinetry. To the right was the mud room, perpetually filled with boots, jackets and enough outdoor gear to survive the apocalypse.

The upper floor occupied only half the footprint of the house, leaving the living room and kitchen open all the way to the rafters. A wraparound balcony overlooked the space below, connecting Noah and Logan's bedrooms on one side of the house. Brooks' room sat downstairs at the rear, tucked away behind the main living area.

You'd always thought the Cabin perfectly reflected the people who lived in it. It was unmistakably a man's house. The leather. The stone. The dark woods. The industrial fixtures. Yet every now and then Maggie appeared in the details. The impossibly expensive light feature hanging above the kitchen island. The carefully chosen artwork. The framed Hermès drawings by the mud room that absolutely nobody but Maggie would have thought to buy.

Even here, she had left fingerprints behind. Maybe that was why it still felt like home. Or maybe Maggie simply had a habit of making every place she touched belong to her eventually.

Nobody spoke as Maggie led the way through the Cabin. The silence felt different now. Heavier. Noah walked a few steps ahead with his head bowed, shoulders rounded inward as though he were trying to make himself physically smaller. He looked like a man heading for the gallows. Not because Maggie had raised her voice or threatened him, but because she hadn't. There was something far more intimidating about Maggie when she had made her mind up about something. The anger had already come and gone. What remained was determination.

You and Gator followed behind them, your fingers threaded together. Every now and then his thumb brushed across your knuckles, the small movement grounding you enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Noah's bedroom sat at the far end of the upstairs balcony. You had been inside it before, although not often. It looked exactly like the room of every twenty-something man who spent very little time worrying about housekeeping. The bed was unmade. Clothes had accumulated on the floor in several suspicious piles that probably made sense only to Noah himself. Three mugs and at least two empty glasses sat crowded together on the bedside table. The room carried the faint musky smell of stale air and laundry that should probably have been washed three days ago.

What struck you most wasn't the mess, though. It was how dark it was. The curtains were still closed, leaving the room trapped in a permanent twilight. Maggie immediately crossed the room and pulled them open to let the sunlight flood in. Then she opened one window, then another. Fresh air pushed its way inside and stirred the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the room. Only once she had finished did she turn back towards Noah.

"Want to make this easier?"

Noah didn't answer, he stood near the door with his eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards. Maggie waited.

"No?"

For a second you thought he was simply going to ignore her. Then he shuffled towards his dresser, opened the top drawer and pulled out a prescription bottle. Without looking up, he tossed it onto the bed. The bottle bounced once against the duvet. Maggie's gaze dropped to it.

"The rest?"

"That's it." Noah's shoulders tightened as he mumbled.

You saw Maggie's jaw tense. It was such a small movement that somebody who didn't know her would probably have missed it altogether. You didn't. It was the first crack you'd seen in her composure all day. She held Noah's gaze for a moment. Then she looked at Gator.

"Cuff him."

The room seemed to freeze. Gator looked towards you before glancing back at Maggie. She merely nodded towards Noah, one eyebrow raised expectantly. You hated how unsurprised Gator looked. Not because he agreed with it, but because he understood exactly why she was doing it.

"Maggie?" You questioned.

"He was warned about lying to me." She replied without even looking at you.

Noah didn't protest and that somehow made it worse. Made you feel guiltier. He simply stood there while Gator removed the cuffs from his duty belt and stepped towards him.

"M’sorry."

The apology was genuine; you could hear it in his voice, Gator was taking no pleasure in this, none of you were. Noah just nodded. Gator cuffed his hands in front of him and gently guided him towards the bench at the foot of the bed. Noah sat down heavily, elbows finding his knees, head dropping into his hands.

Maggie had already started searching. She moved with ruthless efficiency, opening drawers, checking shelves and emptying cupboards. Within moments she found Noah's keys sitting on the bedside table and tossed them towards Gator.

"Search his truck."

Gator caught them one-handed. You followed him when he headed for the door, but he stopped you at the threshold before you could leave the room.

"S'for his own good. Maggie loves him," he said quietly. "Jus' help her out. Quicker s'done, quicker s'over."

You looked back at Noah, he hadn't moved. Maggie was already pulling clothes from drawers behind him. The whole thing felt awful, humiliating. Gator must have seen the conflict on your face because his expression softened, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead.

Then he was gone. You stood there for a second after he disappeared down the stairs. When you turned back around, Noah was still bent forward with his head in his cuffed hands while Maggie systematically dismantled his bedroom around him.

You knew why Maggie was doing it. You even knew she was right. Noah had already lied once. The bottle he'd handed over had almost certainly been intended as a sacrifice, a way of giving her enough to stop looking. Still, it was difficult to watch. You couldn't imagine how humiliating it must have felt for him.

Eventually you moved to help. If this was going to happen, it would happen faster with two people searching.

You started with the wardrobe, pulling clothes from shelves and shaking them out before folding them into untidy piles on the floor. Maggie worked through the dresser. Every drawer was emptied. Every box was opened. Every pocket was checked.

At first you found nothing. For a brief moment, you even allowed yourself to hope that perhaps Noah had been telling the truth. Then you discovered a small toiletry bag tucked into the bottom corner of the wardrobe. The moment you unzipped it, your stomach sank. Another bottle of pills. You closed your eyes briefly before holding it up.

Maggie didn't say I told you so, she didn't need to. The search simply continued. By the time the room had been completely turned over, the bed was covered in confiscated bottles, clothing and half the contents of Noah's cupboards. Another bottle had appeared from inside a shoebox. One more from the pocket of an old jacket.

The room felt different once the search was over. Perhaps it was because there was no longer any uncertainty left. The bottles sat scattered across Noah's bed amongst the piles of clothes and overturned drawers, physical proof of something none of you could ignore anymore. Whatever chance Noah had been holding onto, that maybe Maggie wouldn't find everything, maybe she wouldn't realise how bad it was, had disappeared the moment Gator walked back through the door with another bottle from the truck.

Noah looked at the collection spread across the duvet and gave a small shrug. It wasn't careless or dismissive. If anything, it looked like surrender.

You found yourself looking at Maggie instead. She didn't appear surprised. There was no flash of triumph, no satisfaction at being proven right. If anything, she looked exactly as she had all morning; calm, controlled, already three steps ahead of everybody else in the room. It occurred to you then that she had probably expected this outcome from the moment Noah admitted what he was taking. The lying. The hiding. The promises that there wasn't any more. None of it was really Noah. It was the addiction.

"You're about to have a real shit couple of weeks," she said to him.

The words were delivered with an almost alarming level of matter-of-factness before Maggie turned and disappeared into the en-suite, leaving the rest of you standing amongst the wreckage of Noah's room.

For a few moments nobody spoke. You could hear cupboard doors still settling where they'd been left open and the faint sound of Maggie moving around in the bathroom. Noah remained sitting on the bench, his cuffed hands hanging between his knees, staring at the floor.

"B-Baby, I-I didn't mean for this to happen, please--"

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it. When you looked at him, he finally raised his head. His eyes were red. His face looked exhausted. The plea lodged somewhere painfully beneath your ribs.

Because you believed him.

You thought back to what Ford had said downstairs. Desperate. At the time it had felt like an excuse. Looking at Noah now, it felt more like an explanation. You didn't think he'd intended for any of this to happen. You didn't think he'd sat down one day and decided to betray his family. Addiction didn't seem to work like that. It appeared to happen one compromise at a time until eventually you woke up and discovered you were standing somewhere you never intended to be.

The problem was that understanding it didn't change anything.

"But it did happen, Noah." You said softly.

The hurt that crossed his face made you wish you hadn't said it, even though you knew it needed saying.

Before either of you could continue, Maggie emerged from the bathroom carrying the small waste bin from beneath the sink. Only now it was overflowing with everything that had previously been inside the bathroom. Bottles of shampoo. Soap. Toothpaste. Razors. Anything that could potentially be broken, swallowed or turned into a problem had been removed and deposited into the bin.

You watched her place it on the floor before crossing to the bed and stripping the duvet free in one efficient movement. A pillow followed. Then both were carried into the bathroom. Slowly, a horrible understanding began to dawn.

"Maggie..." you started.

She didn't answer. Instead she reached into her pocket and produced a screwdriver. For a second you simply stared as she crouched beside the bathroom door and began removing the handle. Noah had gone very still. Beside you, even Gator wasn't moving.

The reality of what was happening settled over the room piece by piece. The screwdriver turned one final time. She removed the handle completely, switched it around and fixed it back into place with the lock now facing the bedroom rather than the bathroom itself. Then she stood.

"Bring him here. Uncuff him."

Gator glanced at her, then at Noah, and finally at you. Nobody argued, not because any of you particularly liked the plan but because all of you knew she was going to do it regardless. Gator was silent as he helped Noah to his feet and Noah looked utterly terrified.

"Please, Mags," his voice cracked. "Please. I can stop. Just let me--"

For the first time all afternoon, Maggie's expression softened. It wasn't much. Just enough that you caught a glimpse of the grandmother underneath the woman currently running an intervention. She placed one hand gently between Noah's shoulder blades.

"I'm doing this for you."

Then she guided him into the bathroom, the door closed behind him, the lock clicked. For a second nobody moved. You found yourself staring at the door, half expecting Maggie to open it again and admit this had all been some elaborate bluff. Instead the handle rattled violently from the other side.

"Maggie?" The panic in Noah's voice was obvious. "Maggie, please!"

The handle twisted again. You looked towards Maggie. To anybody else she probably looked exactly the same as she had all morning, unwavering. But you knew better. You'd spent your entire life watching Maggie Heaton carry impossible situations on her shoulders. The signs were subtle, but they were there. The tension in her jaw. The tightness around her eyes. The way she hadn't once looked away from the bathroom door.

This was hurting her and you knew it. The difference was that Maggie had already decided hurting Noah now was preferable to burying him later.

Eventually she turned away. The walk back through the Cabin felt strangely surreal. Noah's voice followed you for longer than it should have, muffled by walls and distance but still audible enough to make your stomach ache. By the time you reached the ground floor, the shouting had stopped, which somehow felt worse.

Maggie disappeared into the laundry room after stripping Noah's bed bare, her arms piled high with sheets and blankets, leaving you standing in the kitchen with Gator.

"I think I'm probably going to stay," you said quietly. "Help Maggie."

"Alright. But y'need anythin', you call me."

He opened his arms and you stepped into them. The second he wrapped them around you, some of the tension you'd been carrying eased slightly. You rested your forehead against his chest while he pressed a kiss to your hair.

"I hate this."

"I know, Baby," his chin settled lightly on top of your head. "Me too."

Then he kissed your forehead again and let you go. The laundry room door opened just as he reached the front door. For a few moments after Gator left, neither of you moved.

You stood where he had left you, watching the front door swing shut behind him, while Maggie crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The Cabin fell silent now. Noah's voice had finally stopped carrying from upstairs and the absence of it seemed almost as unsettling as the shouting had been. Maggie reached for a bottle of water before glancing over her shoulder at you.

"You can say it."

"Say what?" You frowned.

Maggie closed the refrigerator door with her hip.

"You think I'm being cruel."

There was no defensiveness in her voice. No irritation. She sounded as though she were commenting on the weather. You hesitated. The problem was that you didn't entirely disagree with her. You understood why she was doing it. You really did. The logical part of your brain understood that addiction wasn't something people simply decided to stop. You understood that Noah had lied. That he'd hidden pills all over the room. That every promise he'd made over the last hour had turned out to be untrue a second after he said them.

But understanding something didn't necessarily make it easier to watch.

Noah's voice was still lodged in your head. The fear in it. The pleading. The panic. You weren't sure you would forget it any time soon. Maggie seemed to read all of that from your expression because she turned back and began pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.

"I know how it looks." She placed a packet of ham on the counter. "But I know addicts. My mother was an addict."

The statement made you pause. You slipped onto one of the bar stools while she continued gathering food, your eyes following her movements. Maggie was not somebody who talked about herself. In all the years, you could count on one hand the number of genuinely personal stories she had ever volunteered. She wasn't one of those grandmothers who gathered children around her feet and buried them beneath family history. You knew surprisingly little about the people who had raised her. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. One had died when she was young and the other when she was a teenager. Beyond that, most of your knowledge came in scattered fragments gathered over years rather than anything Maggie had ever sat down and explained.

Maggie carried on exactly as she had before. She removed a loaf of bread from the cupboard and began making a sandwich, her expression unchanged.

"Some days she loved me so much she'd just cry while she held me." There was something oddly detached about the way she told the story, as though she were describing somebody else's childhood rather than her own. "Other days she'd sell the clothes off my back for another hit."

You stared at her, but Maggie kept spreading butter.

The image felt impossible to reconcile with the woman standing in front of you. Maggie Heaton, who seemed capable of solving almost any problem placed in front of her. Maggie Heaton, who remembered every birthday, every school play, every favourite meal. Maggie Heaton, who built entire housing projects because she couldn't bear the idea of vulnerable women having nowhere to go.

You had never really thought about who had made her that way.

"That's the thing about addicts," Maggie continued. "They lie. They cheat. They scheme."

You thought about Noah upstairs, the one bottle he'd thrown onto the bed. Maggie wasn't wrong.

"It's not because they're evil," she said, slicing a tomato with calm, precise movements. "It's because addiction is like mould. It grows over the good parts first. Eats people alive while they're still breathing."

Your gaze dropped to your hands. You didn't know much about addiction. Most of what you knew came from documentaries and television dramas and second-hand stories. But if any of them were even remotely accurate, Noah was standing on the edge of something awful.

"He sounded scared," you whispered.

"He is scared." For the first time since beginning the conversation, Maggie looked directly at you. "But so am I."

The admission caught you completely off guard. Maggie didn't admit fear, at least not aloud. Not ever. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then she set the knife down on the chopping board and leaned back against the counter.

"If I let him out now, he'll run straight back to it." Her voice remained calm, but there was something heavier beneath it now. Something tired. "He'll say he won't. He'll even mean it when he says it. But then the sickness'll start and his brain will convince him he needs it."

You nodded slowly. You believed that too, you'd seen enough of Noah in the last few hours to understand that whatever this thing was, it had far more control over him than he did over it. Maggie picked the knife back up and continued making the sandwich.

"So he's gonna sweat it out. And he can hate me for it. He can never speak to me again if that's what he wants."

She cut the sandwich neatly in half and placed it onto a plate. For a moment she stood there looking down at it. Then she reached for the bottle of water.

"But I'm going to make sure he lives long enough to make that choice."

The words settled heavily in the kitchen. You watched her gather the plate and water bottle before heading towards the stairs. For a second she looked exactly like she always did: composed, capable, entirely certain of where she was going.

Only now you understood something you hadn't before. None of this was easy for her. Maggie wasn't locking Noah in a bathroom because she was hard. She was doing it because she was scared and because she had no intention of failing him. Not again.

・❥・

Sunday lunch still happened. There was something oddly reassuring about it. The world had not stopped because Noah was withdrawing in a locked bathroom across the ranch. The sun still rose. The kids still woke up at unreasonable hours. Meals still needed cooking. Life, stubbornly and unapologetically, continued.

It was a beautiful day too.

The sort of summer afternoon that seemed specifically designed to make people linger outdoors. The back deck of the Big House was full, spilling out into the yard beyond. Ford stood at the grill with a beer balanced on the railing beside him while Maggie moved in and out of the kitchen behind the open patio doors, preparing the rest of lunch. Between them they had settled on some hybrid version of a barbecue and a traditional Sunday meal that seemed to satisfy everybody involved.

You were seated at the outdoor table with Gator on one side and Logan on the other, Brooks opposite you. The conversation had been circling the same topic for the better part of twenty minutes despite everyone's best efforts to avoid it.

Noah.

Or rather, the absence of Noah.

Beyond the deck, the younger children had claimed the grass as their kingdom. Tucker had somehow become a climbing frame. Nicky and Rhodes were hanging from him with complete disregard for his personal space while Tucker tolerated the assault with surprising patience. A few yards away, Walker had both of Josie's hands in his and was jogging backwards across the lawn while she stumbled after him on unsteady legs, squealing with delight every time she nearly fell over.

Normally the sight would have been enough to lift the mood. Today it only seemed to highlight the gap Noah had left behind.

"How long's he gotta be in there for?" Logan asked eventually. "Has Maggie said?"

You glanced towards the kitchen where Maggie was pottering around.

"She said the first two weeks are the worst."

"She's gonna keep him locked in a bathroom for two weeks?" Logan stared at you.

"Well, no." You shook your head. "I don't think that's her plan."

Brooks let out a slow breath. "She better have a plan."

"You know she does," Ford called from the grill before anyone else could answer. "Look, there's nothing we can do for him right now except let him get it out his system, right? Ma ain't gonna let anything happen to him. I mean, she's sleeping in his room for Christ's sake."

"She ain't sleeping. I can hear him groaning through the walls. Can only imagine what it sounds like in the same room as him." Logan offered.

The comment landed heavily over the table. You thought about the previous night. About Maggie carrying water upstairs every few hours. Carrying food back down untouched. Sitting beside that locked bathroom door while Noah alternated between begging to be let out and telling her he hated her. You weren't entirely sure she had slept at all.

Movement at the edge of the deck caught your attention. Nicky was heading towards you. Apparently Ford noticed at exactly the same moment because his voice suddenly boomed across the yard with enough enthusiasm to startle half the table.

"Nicky-nugget! You alright, bud?"

Nicky stopped walking. His expression immediately became suspicious. You watched him look at Ford the way somebody might look at a man who had abruptly started speaking fluent French. Then, deciding whatever strange behaviour adults were currently displaying wasn't worth investigating, he continued towards the table. He stood beside you, grabbed his juice cup and drank half of it in one determined effort before finally turning his attention towards Brooks.

"Uncle Brooks, where's Noah?"

The question immediately drained what little colour remained from the conversation. Brooks opened his mouth. Then closed it again. You could practically see him trying to work out how much of the truth an eight-year-old needed. Before he could decide, you reached over, took the juice cup from Nicky's hands and pushed his sweaty curls back from his forehead.

"Noah's not feeling too good, bud."

"He's sick?" Nicky frowned.

"Yeah," you said. "He's sick. So he's in bed resting."

Nicky looked genuinely offended by this development.

"That's rubbish. It's sunny."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Of all the tragedies currently unfolding, Noah missing good weather had apparently made the top of Nicky's list.

"Yeah, bud. Sucks that he's missing the sun."

Nicky nodded solemnly.

"When he's feeling better, I'm sure he'd love to play with you. But you'll have to make do with Tucker for now."

Nicky considered this, then shrugged.

"Okay. Tucker is fun too." His attention drifted back towards the lawn. "He's letting us climb on him."

You followed his gaze. Tucker currently had Rhodes hanging from one arm while attempting to stop Josie from being kicked over by his frantic waving legs.

"Yeah, I saw." You smiled. "Can you tell Rhodes to be careful with his cast, please?"

Nicky nodded, the responsibility always appealed to him. Without another word he jumped off the deck and sprinted back across the grass. You watched him go.

A few seconds later he was already waving his arms dramatically while delivering what appeared to be an urgent safety briefing to Rhodes. For the first time all afternoon, the corner of Brooks' mouth twitched. And although nobody said it aloud, you suspected all of you were thinking the same thing. Thank God the little ones didn't understand.

Dinner happened much the same way Sunday lunch always happened. The food was good. The children were loud. Rhodes managed to spill something down himself within the first ten minutes and Josie became deeply offended when Walker stole a roast potato from her plate. On the surface, everything looked normal.

It wasn't.

You hadn't realised quite how much space Noah occupied until he wasn't there to fill it. He was never the loudest person at the table. Usually he was the quietest. Half the time he barely contributed to the conversation beyond the occasional comment or dry observation. Yet somehow the empty chair still seemed to draw your attention every few minutes. You'd glance towards it without thinking and be met by the same reminder every time.

Noah wasn't there.

Noah was alone.

Noah was suffering.

The thought sat heavily in your chest throughout the entire meal. The children, thankfully, remained blissfully unaware. At some point during dinner, Nicky disappeared from his seat carrying two plates. You watched him carefully transfer portions from serving dishes onto both of them, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

"What're you doing, bud?" you asked eventually.

"Making Noah dinner."

Nicky didn't even look up. The simplicity of the answer nearly broke your heart. He added another spoonful of potatoes.

"Whenever I'm sick, Daddy always says eating makes you feel better."

For a second you couldn't trust yourself to speak. Instead you smiled at him and looked away before he noticed the sting behind your eyes. Children really did make everything harder and somehow better at exactly the same time.

By the time dinner finished, the familiar post-lunch routine had begun. Plates were gathered. Leftovers packed away. The older kids disappeared outside while the adults gradually migrated towards the kitchen. You found yourself leaning against the island watching Maggie load the dishwasher.

She had barely stopped moving all day. The thought had occurred to you more than once that she might be doing it deliberately. Every time she finished one task, she immediately found another. Washing dishes. Folding laundry. Preparing food. As though stopping might force her to think. You were still watching her when Nicky appeared beside you holding Noah's carefully assembled dinner plate.

"Can we take this over to Noah now?"

The hopeful expression on his face almost undid you. You became aware of Maggie standing somewhere behind you and her sudden stillness. You took the plate gently from his hands.

"He's really sick, bud."

Immediately Nicky frowned.

"I don't want you catching his germs. How about I take it over there and you can pick the film? Get it ready for when I come back, yeah?"

The suggestion failed to impress him, his lower lip pushed out slightly.

"But I wanna make sure Noah is okay."

"I know, bud." You brushed a hand through his curls. "I'll tell him it was all you. That you picked him the best bits on purpose."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He still didn't look entirely happy about it, but eventually he nodded. As he wandered back towards the yard, Tucker intercepted him halfway across the room and hoisted him into the air. Nicky's disappointment vanished so quickly it was almost impressive. A second later he was laughing as Tucker carried him outside upside down like a sack of potatoes.

You watched them disappear before turning back towards Maggie. The plate felt warm in your hands. Without really thinking about it, you rested one hand lightly against the middle of her back.

"I'm gonna take this over to him. You good for a bit?"

Maggie looked up from the sink, pulling off her washing-up gloves.

"I can take it, Baby."

"It's fine, Mags." You offered her a small smile. "I got it."

For a second she just looked at you. The rest of the family would probably have said she looked calm. She did look calm. Maggie almost always looked calm. But there was a tiredness in her eyes now that hadn't been there yesterday. A worry she was trying very hard to keep hidden.

"He's bad, Baby," she whispered.

"I'll be okay."

Maggie glanced down at the plate before looking back at you.

"Don't listen to anything he says. He's just hurting. And don't--"

"I'll be okay." You squeezed her shoulder gently. "Promise."

The words didn't seem to reassure her nearly as much as they were intended to. But still, she nodded. You left before she could change her mind. The plate felt heavier with every step towards the front door. You had just reached it when Gator appeared beside you.

"I can go, if y’want."

The offer didn't surprise you. Nothing about Gator's protectiveness surprised you anymore. But you shook your head.

"I want to." You looked down at the plate. "I think I need to see him."

Gator studied you for a second before nodding. His hand lifted to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Then he leaned down and kissed you softly. The kiss lingered just long enough to settle some of the anxiety twisting around inside your chest.

"Okay, Baby." Another kiss landed against your hair. "I love you."

The words still did something ridiculous to your heart. Every time. No matter how many times he said them.

"I love you too." You smiled.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped through the front door carrying Noah's dinner and headed towards the Cabin.

The walk across the yard gave your brain entirely too much time to think. You had spent most of the previous night convincing yourself that googling opioid withdrawal was somehow productive. In reality, all it had achieved was making you progressively more anxious until Gator had finally reached over, taken your phone out of your hands and informed you that nothing good ever came from medical research after midnight. At the time you had protested. But now, you suspected he had probably been right.

Every article had seemed determined to outdo the last. Sweating. Vomiting. Tremors. Panic. Insomnia. Hallucinations. By the end of it you had been half convinced Noah was going to die in his en-suite bathroom.

The problem was that none of it had actually prepared you for seeing him.

The Cabin was quiet when you let yourself in. From up at the Big House, you could still hear the distant sounds of family drifting across the yard whenever the wind shifted in the right direction. The faint shriek of a child laughing. Somebody calling for more drinks. The ordinary sounds of a Sunday afternoon. Inside the Cabin there was nothing.

You climbed the stairs slowly, balancing the plate in one hand. Halfway down the upstairs hallway you heard him, a low groan carried through the closed bathroom door. You stood there for a second staring at the lock before taking a breath and opening it.

The smell hit first. The bathroom was small enough at the best of times. After nearly twenty-four hours occupied by somebody who was sweating, vomiting and barely eating, the air had become thick with it. Sour sweat. Stale air. The acrid scent of sickness. It clung to the room.

And Noah?

Your throat tightened. He was lying on the floor beside the toilet curled tightly onto his side, one arm wrapped around his stomach. The grey t-shirt he had been wearing yesterday was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his shoulders and chest. His hair was plastered to his forehead. Even from the doorway you could see the tremor running through him, a constant shivering that never seemed to fully stop.

He looked completely depleted.

You thought about every Sunday lunch over the last year. Every time Noah had looked pale. Every occasion he had slipped away early. Every moment you'd noticed something wasn't quite right and dismissed it. Standing in the doorway now, you wondered how many times he had already felt like this.

"Hey."

Your voice sounded smaller than you'd intended. Noah lifted his head. For a second there was confusion in his expression before recognition settled in.

"Just me." You stepped further inside. "Nicky made you a plate at lunch if you're feeling up to it."

Something softened briefly at the mention of Nicky. Then Noah pushed himself upright using the edge of the toilet and you noticed how much effort even that required. His entire body seemed reluctant to cooperate. Every movement looked uncomfortable.

"Baby, please--"

His voice was hoarse. You crouched down and placed the plate in front of him.

"You need to eat something. Come on."

Noah looked down at it. Then back at you.

"I don't want fucking food."

The words came out sharper than you were expecting. His hand shoved the plate away; a few pieces of food slid onto the floor. The anger vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. You watched regret flash across his face. Watched him close his eyes briefly.

"Please… I can just taper off." His hands were shaking badly enough now that he clasped them together. "You can give me one pill. Half a pill. Come on."

The desperation in his voice made your chest ache.

"Please. She's going to kill me."

You bent down and gathered the food that had fallen from the plate, placing it back where it belonged while Noah continued talking.

"Just cold turkey?" His voice cracked. "I'm not a fucking animal."

You weren't sure what to say to that. Because looking at him now, sweating and shivering on a bathroom floor, you understood why he felt that way.

"Noah," you said quietly, "she's trying to help. I know you feel like shit, but you're gonna get through it."

The change in him was immediate, his head snapped up. The anger arrived so suddenly it almost startled you.

"You know? You think you understand? You've got no fucking idea what this feels like."

You stood, not because you thought he would hurt you, because suddenly the room felt too small. Too hot. Too full of pain. You picked up the plate and moved it onto the counter by the sink before taking a step backwards towards the door.

A humourless laugh escaped Noah.

"'Course Maggie sends you. Fucking golden child. Does whatever she says."

You felt something sink inside your chest.

"Logan wouldn't do this to me." His voice wavered. "He'd help me."

Then quieter:

"He loves me."

The words hurt. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a small smile.

"I know this isn't you," you said quietly.

For a second he looked away, then the anger returned.

"You don't know shit!"

The shout bounced off the tiled walls. You found the door handle behind your back. Your eyes stung.

"I love you, Noah."

For the first time since you'd entered the room, he didn't have an answer. You stepped outside, pulled the door closed and turned the lock. For a second there was silence, then his voice came through the other side. Small and raw.

"I'm sorry, Baby."

You froze.

"I'm sorry."

The handle rattled once.

"Please come back."

Your eyes burned.

"I'm sorry."

You stood there for another second before finally forcing yourself to walk away. By the time you reached the landing, the tears were already falling. You kept moving until the sound of his voice disappeared behind the closed bedroom door. Then you sat down heavily at the top of the stairs and buried your face in your hands.

You weren't entirely sure how long you sat there. Long enough for the worst of the tears to pass. Long enough that the ache in your chest settled into something duller and easier to carry. By the time you finally scrubbed at your face and pulled your phone from your pocket, your eyes still stung, but at least you no longer felt on the verge of falling apart.

The black screen wasn't particularly encouraging. You looked awful. Your eyes were red and puffy, your cheeks blotchy. You tilted your head slightly, assessing the damage, before deciding there was probably no fixing it. Everybody at the Big House would know you'd been crying the second they looked at you. There wasn't much to be done about that.

With a sigh, you unlocked your phone. The group chat opened automatically.

You hadn't looked at it properly since yesterday and judging by the number of unread messages, the others had spent most of the day discussing the Blackridge situation. You scrolled absent-mindedly at first, only half paying attention. Hannah appeared to have heard some wildly exaggerated version of events. Paige was theorising about drug smuggling logistics. The conversation was exactly the sort of thing you'd expect from people discussing something awful from a comfortable distance. Then you saw Brooke's messages.

Your thumb stopped moving.

                Hannah: apparently it was like TONNES of drugs.

                Paige: they were hiding it in the oil trucks. kind of clever if u think about it.

                Brooke: hope this doesn’t mess up party season 💀

                Brooke: Noah better still know a guy lmao

Megan: wtf r u talking about?

                Brooke: lol. Noah? he gets me all my pills 4 parties.

                Brooke: its summer. ive got plans lol💊

You stared at the screen. The staircase around you seemed to disappear. Brooke knew. The thought repeated itself over and over. Brooke knew. You thought about Noah upstairs. The sweat-soaked t-shirt. The shaking hands. The way he'd looked curled on the bathroom floor beside the toilet. The desperation in his voice when he'd begged you for half a pill. Then you looked back at the messages. Little emojis. Jokes. Casual comments about summer plans. What the fuck was wrong with her? You typed quickly.

                You: you knew?

                Brooke:that Noah gets pills? yh obvs.

                Brooke: I thought every1 knew? thats how he makes that Heaton money lol

                Megan: obviously we didnt know Brooke.

                Hannah: brooke r u doing drugs?

                Brooke: fml I do pills @ parties. im not a junkie

The word made something inside you snap. Junkie. As though Noah currently shaking through withdrawal upstairs was somehow less deserving of compassion because he'd crossed some imaginary line Brooke hadn't. You could feel your pulse pounding in your ears. The anger arrived so suddenly it almost took you by surprise. A few minutes ago you'd been crying. Now you wanted to throw your phone across the room.

Brooke was your friend. One of your closest friends. She had apparently known Noah was doing drugs and at no point had it occurred to her that this might be information worth sharing. Not when Noah was family. Not when she supposedly cared about you. Not ever. Your reply was typed and sent before you had time to reconsider it.

                You: fuck you Brooke

The message delivered. You immediately locked your phone. You didn't care what she had to say back. The phone landed beside you on the stair with a dull clatter. Then you sat there staring at nothing, feeling strangely numb. Somehow, after everything you'd seen in the last twenty-four hours, you'd still managed to discover another thing to be angry about.

You couldn't quite bring yourself to move. The Cabin was quiet around you. Occasionally you could hear movement from Noah's room further down the hallway, the faint sounds carrying through the walls, but even that seemed distant now. Your head rested in your hands as you stared at nothing in particular, replaying the last twenty-four hours over and over until the memories had begun to blur together.

The sound of the front door opening downstairs barely registered at first. Then you heard Gator's voice.

"Baby?"

You lifted your head. From where you sat at the top of the stairs, you could see over the balcony railing into the living room below. Gator was standing just inside the front door, scanning the house. The second he spotted you, his entire posture changed. Relief then concern. He took the stairs two at a time.

"Y'been gone ages."

You managed a weak smile as he crouched down in front of you. His hands immediately found your face, palms warm against your cheeks as he tilted your head slightly, studying you with the sort of focus that made you feel like the only person in the world.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

The question was enough to make your face scrunch involuntarily. You weren't even crying anymore, but somehow Gator asking if you were okay always made it significantly harder to pretend you were okay.

"He don't mean any of it."

"What?" You blinked.

"Whatever Noah said. He don't mean it."

His thumbs brushed lightly beneath your eyes. You shook your head.

"It's not him."

The words came out automatically, then you let out a small laugh and shook your head again.

"Well..." You rubbed at your face. "It's kinda him. He was a dick."

Gator snorted. You couldn't help smiling slightly.

"But I know he doesn't mean it."

Satisfied that you weren't about to completely fall apart, Gator shifted position and sat on the step below you instead, turning so he could still face you. His hands settled comfortably on your knees.

"So what is it?"

You took a breath. For a moment you stared up at the ceiling, trying to work out how to explain something that still didn't entirely make sense in your own head.

"Brooke."

"Your friend Brooke?" Gator frowned.

You nodded.

"She knew. She knew Noah was dealing… or selling… or could get pills. She buys from him for parties apparently. Has done for ages. She's never said anything."

Gator stayed quiet. You appreciated that about him. He never rushed to fill silences.

"I could've done something. If I'd known... if I'd just asked..." Your voice was quieter now. The thought had been circling your head ever since you'd seen the messages. You pushed both hands through your hair. "I could've found out earlier. Maybe I could've stopped all this."

"Hey. No."

The words immediately cut through the spiral. You looked at him. The certainty in Gator's voice reminded you a little of Maggie. Not in the way he spoke but in the way he believed things.

"Why would ya have asked?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Gator continued before you could answer.

"Y'don't do drugs. Y'ain't got a reason t'be askin'. Brooke shoulda fuckin' said somethin'. But she ain't worried 'bout no one but herself." His hands squeezed your knees gently. "None of us knew. None of us asked."

The simple statement settled over you. You felt your shoulders sag. Partly because you knew he was right. Partly because you wanted him to be wrong. Mostly because if Gator was right, then there wasn't some obvious thing you could have done differently. There wasn't a mistake to fix. There was only Noah and his addiction and the horrible reality that sometimes people managed to hide things even from the people who loved them most.

Gator lifted one hand and brushed his knuckles lightly across your cheek.

"He's gonna be okay. We know now, yeah?"

Slowly, you nodded. The knot in your chest loosened slightly. You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his. For a moment neither of you spoke, then you smiled.

"How do you always know what to say?"

Gator twisted his head slightly, rubbing his forehead against yours with an expression of exaggerated seriousness.

"Don't tell no-one. M'actually really smart."

The laugh escaped before you could stop it. A proper one this time. Small but real. You nudged your nose gently against his.

"Don't worry." You whispered. "It'll be our little secret."

The grin that spread across his face was so pleased with itself that for the first time all day, things felt almost normal.

・❥・

By Monday morning, the family seemed to have adjusted into an uneasy routine. Noah was still miserable. Maggie was still sleeping in his room at the Cabin, a few metres from his bathroom cell. The rest of the family had collectively developed the habit of lowering their voices whenever his name came up, as though speaking too loudly about the situation might somehow make it worse.

Life, however, stubbornly refused to stop. Which was how you found yourself hopping awkwardly on one foot by the front door of the Big House while trying to wrestle a shoe on. Gator stood nearby holding your bag, watching your increasingly questionable strategy with the sort of patient amusement. You finally succeeded in getting the shoe on just as Maggie appeared.

The sharp click of heels against hardwood announced her arrival before you actually saw her. When you turned, she looked exactly as she always did. Her blouse was perfectly pressed. Her makeup flawless. Her hair immaculate. If somebody had told you she'd spent the previous three days surviving almost entirely on caffeine, stubbornness and whatever scraps of sleep Noah's withdrawal allowed her, you would never have believed them.

Then again, Maggie had always been frighteningly good at pulling herself together. She smoothed a hand over the front of her blouse as she crossed the room, reached into the bowl by the door for her keys and turned her attention towards Gator.

"You're absolutely sure?" she asked. "I can stay back. I know Baby knows what she's doing."

"I got it, Maggie. S'fine."

Gator sounded entirely unbothered by the responsibility. Maggie was clearly reluctant to give up a fraction of control and continued to give Gator instructions.

"He's not really eating. Water bottles are in the fridge; there are some snack bars on the island. If you need anything, call me. I can come back."

Gator handed your bag over now that you had successfully completed the apparently impossible task of putting your shoes on.

"We'll be fine," he said.

Maggie opened her mouth; Gator pointed at her.

"We will be fine," he emphasised. "I swear."

Something suspiciously close to a smile tugged at the corner of Maggie's mouth. That finally seemed to satisfy her or at least satisfy her enough to stop arguing.

You leaned up and kissed Gator before he opened the front door and followed you both outside. The morning air was already warm, the ranch bright beneath the summer sun. For a moment your eyes drifted towards the Cabin, then Maggie started walking towards the Hellcat and your attention returned to the present. Gator watched her go before letting out an amused chuckle.

"Shall I jus' write up the speedin' ticket now?"

Maggie didn't even break stride.

"I like you, Tillman." She glanced back over her shoulder. "But don't push your luck."

Gator looked entirely too pleased with himself, you leaned forward and stole another quick kiss.

"I'll see you later."

"Love you."

The words came so naturally now that neither of you seemed to think about them anymore.

"Love you too."

Then Gator made off down the gravel road towards the Cabin, heading for a day of convincing Noah to drink water and at least try to consume half a protein bar, while you followed Maggie towards the car. She was already standing beside the passenger door when you reached her, she held out the keys.

"C'mon. I know you want to. You hate my driving and I'm sleep deprived, which is the only time you're ever getting me to offer."

There was a glint of amusement in her eyes now. You snatched the keys out of her hand so quickly it probably answered the question for her. Maggie laughed and you practically skipped to the driver's side door before she had the opportunity to change her mind.

The drive to the Iron Pit taught you two things. The first was that the Hellcat was more animal than car. The second was that you finally understood why Maggie drove it like a maniac.

The Hellcat felt like a barely controlled act of aggression. The second your foot touched the accelerator; the engine responded with an enthusiasm that bordered on irresponsible. Every time you merged onto another stretch of open road, you found yourself grinning despite your best efforts not to. There was something deeply satisfying about having that much power sitting beneath your feet, waiting to be unleashed.

By the time the highway opened up in front of you, any residual caution had completely evaporated. When the Iron Pit finally came into view and you eased the car into the dirt-packed parking lot, your heart was still hammering from the drive. You switched off the engine, sat back in the seat and let out a breathless laugh. Beside you, Maggie was watching with a smile.

"Told you,” she said.

You glanced across at her.

"You're a terrible influence."

Maggie's smile widened. Then she opened the door and climbed out before you could accuse her of anything else.

The Iron Pit looked exactly how you'd imagined it would. The building itself sat squat and solid beneath the summer sun, all dark metal and weathered brick, with enough motorcycles parked outside to make it abundantly clear who the primary clientele were. As you followed Maggie across the lot, you found yourself straightening slightly without really meaning to. The confidence you'd gained driving the Hellcat was beginning to wear off now that you were walking towards a building full of people you didn't know.

Maggie, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered. If she noticed the huge man standing outside the front door, she certainly didn't seem concerned by him. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, built like somebody had carved him out of a particularly large tree trunk. But Maggie didn't break stride.

"Cal's expecting us," she said brightly. "Wanna be a doll and let us in?"

The giant man grunted. You weren't entirely sure whether that counted as a greeting. A second later he raised one fist and knocked against the heavy metal door. It swung open almost immediately from the inside and he stepped aside to let you pass.

Inside, the clubhouse was cooler than outside, the air carrying the familiar scents of old wood, beer and engine oil. Several men in leather cuts occupied the bar despite the fact it was still relatively early in the day. A few looked up as you entered, more curious than anything else, before returning to their conversations.

Beyond them, a door at the back of the room stood open. A man was waiting in the doorway. Tall, broad shouldered and unmistakably older than the men at the bar, his hair was completely white, contrasting sharply against tanned skin and a black t-shirt. There was something reassuring about him. Not soft exactly. More the kind of person who seemed entirely comfortable in his own skin. Maggie headed straight for him.

"Cal, how are we doing?"

"Morning, ladies. I've got out everything you asked for. It's in the office. Come through."

His gaze moved briefly between the two of you. You followed him into the back room. The office wasn't particularly large. A gnarled wooden desk dominated most of the space, its surface covered by organised stacks of paperwork. Cal lowered himself into the chair behind it while you and Maggie settled opposite him. He started pointing at the piles.

"This is all the stuff for the bar. Tax, accounts, staff, whatever. This one's all the garage stuff and this end one is for the clubhouse."

"Did you write me a list like I asked?" Maggie asked.

Cal began patting down various surfaces before opening a drawer and retrieving a notepad.

"Yeah. Um..." He adjusted his glasses. "We've got a lift in the garage that's fuck--broken."

The correction made Maggie arch an eyebrow and Cal smiled sheepishly.

"Problem with the plumbing at the bar too. Dunno what. We've had a few guys out, but we keep getting blockages and leaks in the bathrooms. There's a few other bits there. Dodgy doors. Light in the basement needs sorting. Small stuff. The clubhouse mostly works. Just old." His grin widened. "Like me, I guess."

The joke earned a smile from Maggie. Then she reached for the first stack of files and disappeared into them, flicking through pages at alarming speed. A moment later she looked up at you, one eyebrow lifted. The expression was subtle, but you knew exactly what it meant. Go on. This is your meeting too. You sat up slightly in your chair.

"Uh, yeah. Okay," you stuttered.

Cal waited patiently.

"So..." You glanced down at your notes. "In an ideal world, what would you want for these businesses? How do you want them to work? To look? To feel?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard. For a second you thought he might laugh. Instead, Cal leaned back in his chair and genuinely thought about it. You watched the answer form slowly.

"Well..." His eyes drifted towards the ceiling. "The garages are where we started. That's the heart of everything."

There was affection in his voice when he said it. He folded his arms loosely over the swell of his belly.

"I just want my guys to have the tools and the space to do their jobs properly. Want regular customers. People who know we'll do good work and keep coming back."

Beside you, Maggie looked up from the files.

"Contracts?" she asked. "How would you feel about taking on fleet vehicles?"

Cal considered it.

"The guys definitely have the skills. But right now we ain't got the space for anything bigger than a pick-up truck."

You found yourself scribbling notes already.

"What if we could extend the garages?"

Both Cal and Maggie looked towards you. You felt a small spark of confidence and continued.

"What if we added another lot? Double storey. Something that could accommodate trucks, vans, larger commercial vehicles."

"Sounds expensive." Cal responded.

"Don't worry about the money," Maggie added quickly.

The conversation only grew from there. What began as a discussion about garage space gradually expanded into everything else. The bar. The clubhouse. Storage. Staffing. Customer flow. Accessibility. Maintenance schedules. Renovation priorities. At some point somebody produced coffee. At another point somebody produced sandwiches. Entire pages of your notebook disappeared beneath sketches, calculations and increasingly ambitious ideas.

The thing that surprised you most wasn't the work itself. It was Cal. You'd expected him to defer to Maggie. Most people did eventually. Instead he treated you exactly the same way he treated her. When you suggested something, he considered it. When he disagreed, he said so. When he liked an idea, he built on it. There was no patronising smile. No indulgent nodding. No sense that you were simply Maggie's assistant sitting quietly in the corner. For the first time in a long time, you felt less like somebody pretending to be a professional and more like somebody who genuinely knew what she was doing.

By the time the meeting finally wound down several hours later, your notebook was overflowing. You were excited. For the first time in days, your thoughts weren't dominated by Noah or withdrawal symptoms or locked bathroom doors. You wanted to go home. You wanted to sit down at the table, and you wanted to start building something.

Maggie stacked the files neatly together and rested one hand on top of them.

"You mind if I take all these?" she asked. "I want to look over them properly, see where I can streamline."

"Of course. Have at it."

Beside her, you were already tucking your notebook and iPad back into your bag, your head buzzing with ideas. The garages alone could probably keep you occupied for months. There was so much potential there. Space issues. Customer flow. Expansion opportunities. By the time you zipped your bag closed, you were already mentally sketching layouts.

"I'll take a few days to do some plans and mock-ups," you said. "Then I'll send them over for you to look at."

"Sounds good." Cal nodded.

You hesitated before adding, "Do you have any questions for us?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard again. For the first time all afternoon, he looked genuinely uncertain. Throughout the meeting he'd spoken comfortably enough about broken lifts and leaking pipes and staff rotas. He knew these businesses inside and out. Yet now he found himself leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on the desk, his expression thoughtful in a way that suggested he'd been turning something over in his head for hours.

"Yeah," he admitted eventually. "I guess, just… why? You’re offering to pay for it all, fix it all up, and you don’t know any of us. I mean, if anything you should hate us after everything. So why you helping us?”

You found yourself looking at Maggie, curious what her answer would be. She didn't appear to need time to think about it.

"Because I can."

Cal laughed. A short, disbelieving huff of amusement that suggested he was waiting for the real answer. Then he looked at Maggie properly and realised that was the real answer. The laughter faded. Maggie folded her hands together on top of the files.

"Down the line, I'll be taking my fifteen percent."

That at least seemed to make sense to him, you watched some of the confusion ease from his face.

"But I'd rather have fifteen percent of a good profit than fifteen percent of a bad one," Maggie continued. "So it's in my best interest to make these businesses successful."

Cal nodded slowly.

"And despite the circumstances of our first meeting, I like you, Cal."

The admission seemed to surprise him. It surprised you too, although perhaps it shouldn't have. Maggie liked competence. Loyalty. Hard work. The specifics mattered less than the principles.

"I don't want some huge corporate asshole coming in here and tearing this place down so they can build a fucking Walgreens. I like real people. Local people. People who care about what they're building." Her gaze settled on him. "And I think you care."

"Yes, ma'am." Cal said. "I do."

"Then that's why." Maggie concluded.

He began gathering the files into a cardboard archive box from behind his desk while the conversation drifted back towards practicalities. You were halfway through packing your charger away when Maggie spoke again.

"I did have another question for you, Cal."

"Shoot." Cal carried on loading paperwork into the box.

"The photograph you sent me. The informant. Where'd you get it from?"

You went still. Cal fitted the lid onto the box; the question didn't seem to mean anything to him. You could hear it in his voice; see it in the way he continued his task without interruption. Whatever significance the photograph held for Maggie, Cal clearly wasn't aware of it.

"Some sleazy private investigator."

He pressed down on the lid.

"One of my guys knows him. Name's Scott Grady." Cal continued. "Turns out he'd been looking into Blackridge too. Probably hoping to find something he could use for a payday."

You found yourself watching Maggie closely now.

"He didn't have much, just the photo and the guy's name. Hadn't done much digging before you took a sawed-off shotgun to the whole operation." Cal laughed. "Why? Did you know the fella?"

"The informant?" Maggie shook her head. "No. Probably long gone by now, if the DEA don't have him that is."

"Yeah." He huffed out a laugh as he lifted the box from the desk. "Was quite the show, though."

You followed him to the door, Maggie falling into step beside you.

"Glad I've made it into your good books, Ms Heaton."

"Just make sure you stay there." Maggie smiled.

The warning was softened by the wink that followed, earning a laugh from Cal as he pushed open the office door and led you back through the clubhouse. The afternoon crowd had grown while you'd been hidden away in the back room. More men occupied the bar now, conversations overlapping beneath the low hum of music, though several heads still turned as Maggie crossed the room.

Outside, the giant man from earlier was still standing guard by the entrance. You were becoming increasingly convinced he hadn't moved all afternoon.

"Gopher," Cal called, passing him the box of files. "Take this and help the ladies to their car."

Gopher accepted the box with a single nod. The walk across the parking lot was accompanied by the distant growl of engines from the garage and the steady thrum of summer heat rising from the dirt. When you reached the Hellcat, Gopher loaded the box carefully into the trunk, lowered the lid with a firm shove and stepped back.

Then he just stood there. Not awkwardly or expectantly. Just... stood. Like a particularly intimidating garden ornament. You climbed into the driver's seat while Maggie settled beside you, and when you glanced in the mirror before pulling away, Gopher was still standing exactly where you'd left him. Arms folded behind his back. Expression unchanged. He remained there until the engine started, until the Hellcat rolled out of the parking lot and onto the road, and even then you caught a final glimpse of him in the mirror, still watching the car disappear down the highway.

The first few minutes of the drive passed comfortably enough. Eventually you couldn't hold it in any longer. You glanced across at Maggie.

"Gopher?" You asked.

For a second she simply looked at you. Then both of you burst out laughing. It wasn't even particularly funny. That was probably why it was. The last few days had been so relentlessly awful that the absurdity of a man the size of a small building being called Gopher somehow tipped both of you over the edge. Maggie shook her head.

"Of all the nicknames I would've given that man, Gopher was never even in the running."

By the time the laughter finally settled, you realised it was the most relaxed you'd seen Maggie since this whole thing had started. The difference was subtle. Anybody else probably would've missed it. But you knew Maggie well enough to recognise the signs. The slight easing in her shoulders. The absence of that constant tension around her eyes.

You drove in silence for another minute or two, watching the highway unwind ahead of you, before your thoughts inevitably circled back to the one thing that had bothered you since leaving Cal's office.

"Why did you ask about it? The photo?"

Maggie looked out of the passenger window for a moment, watching the fields blur past.

"I needed to know who else has seen it."

You frowned slightly. The answer didn't feel complete and judging by the look Maggie gave you when you glanced across at her, she knew exactly what you were thinking.

"I know that whatever happens with Blackridge, nobody can tie it back to me. My contacts know better than to let my name appear anywhere. If they're questioned, they don't know me. If they're arrested, they don't know me. If somebody starts digging, my name doesn't come up. But the photograph wasn't me. That's outside my control."

You tightened your grip slightly on the steering wheel.

"If it was just Max Porter, I'd be fine with it," Maggie continued. "It's a fake name. It doesn't matter. But that photo is proof Noah was there.”

"So what happens now?" You asked.

Maggie's gaze remained fixed on the passing landscape. For a moment she looked almost thoughtful, then she shrugged lightly.

"Now I find the photograph."

"And then?" You glanced at her quickly.

"Then it disappears."

The certainty in her voice told you the decision had already been made long before she'd asked Cal the question. She'd been identifying a problem and Maggie Heaton had never met a problem she was willing to leave unsolved.

・❥・

The Hellcat roared to life somewhere behind him as Gator headed down the gravel road towards the Cabin, and despite everything, he found himself smiling. Baby was driving. God help everybody else on the highway. The smile lingered as he walked. The weather was good. The ranch was quiet, and for a few moments it almost felt like a normal day.

Almost.

The front door of the Cabin was unlocked when he reached it. That wasn't unusual. Nothing around here was ever locked. The first few times he'd visited the ranch it had driven him half crazy. Roy would've had an aneurysm. The Tillman place had always operated like a prison compound; gates, guards, cameras, vehicles constantly moving around the perimeter. Roy trusted absolutely nobody.

The funny thing was that the Heaton ranch had more worth protecting than Roy ever had. Gator was pretty sure Maggie's wardrobe alone cost more than the Tillman ranch. Yet the front gate stood open. The front door stood open. People wandered between houses whenever they felt like it. Kids appeared and disappeared like migrating birds. Somehow it all worked.

The place felt safe in a way the Tillman ranch never had.

The Cabin was empty when he stepped inside. Brooks and Logan were at work, leaving the place unusually still. Gator made a quick stop at the kitchen, grabbing a couple bottles of water from the fridge and a handful of snack bars from the island before heading upstairs.

The closer he got to Noah's room, the more that uneasy feeling returned. The room itself was quiet. For a second he stood listening at the bathroom door, wondering if Noah had finally managed to sleep. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the smell hit him hard enough that he physically recoiled.

"Jesus Christ."

The words escaped before he could stop them. Noah was hunched over the toilet. At first glance he didn't even look like the same person. Three days ago he'd looked rough. Today he looked wrecked. His skin had taken on a strange grey colour. Sweat soaked through his shirt. His hair hung damp against his forehead and temples. Even from the doorway Gator could see the tremor running through him. Slowly Noah turned his head.

"Come to watch me suffer?" he croaked.

The attempt at humour landed somewhere between bitter and exhausted. Gator ignored it, he crossed the room, flushed the toilet and crouched beside him. The smell was worse up close. Noah didn't protest when Gator helped him sit back against the bath. He accepted the bottle of water with both hands, although the shaking was bad enough that half of it nearly sloshed onto his shirt.

"Did Maggie send you?" Noah asked.

Gator settled himself against the bathroom door.

"Her an’ Baby got some work thing. I volunteered."

That earned a laugh, or at least the beginning of one. Halfway through it Noah gagged, lurched forward and found himself back over the toilet. Gator watched in silence. There wasn't much else to do. Eventually Noah sagged back against the bath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Bet you regret offering now."

Gator unscrewed his own bottle of water.

"I mean... the smell ain't great."

Noah laughed again, a proper one. Brief. Painful. Immediately regretted. He folded in half clutching his stomach.

"Y'started shittin' y'self yet, or jus' throwin' it all up?"

"Oh, it's coming outta every hole I got."

The answer caught Gator so off guard that he barked out a laugh. Unfortunately Noah laughed too, which again, turned into another round of retching. This time it seemed to take everything out of him. When it finally stopped he remained folded over the toilet, forehead resting on his arms.

Gator waited a moment before getting up and helping him back down onto the floor. The pillow Maggie had left beside the bath was damp with sweat, but it was still better than tile. Noah barely seemed aware of what was happening. The second his head touched it he curled onto his side, knees pulled towards his chest, trembling hard enough to make the washcloth Gator draped across his neck shake with him.

For a while neither of them spoke. The bathroom settled into an uncomfortable rhythm. Noah shivering. Gator drinking water. The occasional groan whenever another cramp worked its way through Noah's body. Eventually Noah broke the silence.

"Admit it," his teeth were chattering slightly. "This is sexy."

"Yeah. Real Prince Charmin' shit goin' on." Gator laughed.

The corner of Noah's mouth twitched before another cramp hit, then it was quiet again. Gator leaned his head back against the door and stared up at the light fixture.

"Why didn't y'say somethin'?"

"About what?"

"Don't be a smartass."

A long silence followed. Then Noah shrugged weakly.

"Honestly?” His voice sounded smaller now. "Dunno."

Another pause.

"Didn't think anyone gave a shit."

The answer sat heavily in the room. Because Gator knew that feeling. Hell, he'd built most of his life around that feeling. What surprised him was hearing it come from Noah. The Heatons loved loudly. Sometimes obnoxiously loudly. They hugged each other. They checked in on each other. They said I love you in the middle of conversations about groceries. And yet here was Noah, apparently convinced nobody cared whether he lived or died. It didn't make any sense. Then again, maybe it did. Being loved and feeling loved weren't always the same thing.

"I used t'think the same thing. But s’always somebody who gives a shit "

"You think?"

Gator rolled the water bottle slowly between his palms. His gaze drifted back towards the ceiling.

"Nicky made ya a plate Sunday. Kid wouldn’t shut up ‘bout ya. Got all pouty when Maggie wouldn’t let him bring it t’you. He’s been drawin’ ya this get well soon card.”

Noah didn't speak. Out of the corner of his eye Gator saw him turn his face further into the pillow, saw him wipe at his eyes. He pretended not to notice. Instead he kept his eyes on the light fixture.

“D’you remember the first time y’got drunk? Had ya skip school with me next day? Told Brooks y’were sick.”

A breathless laugh escaped Noah.

"I was sick."

"Hungover ain't sick," Gator chuckled. "Y'had me drive all the way out t'Bismarck jus' 'cause y'said y'wanted those stupid ribs from that barbecue place."

The laugh that escaped Noah this time was genuine, even if it ended with him wincing and clutching his stomach.

"They're good ribs."

"Damn right they were."

Gator settled back against the bathroom door, pulling his knees up and resting his arms across them. The memory had arrived so vividly that he could practically see it playing out behind his eyes. Noah had spent the entire drive talking. Not the version of Noah most people knew either, not the quiet kid who lingered on the edge of conversations and mostly kept his thoughts to himself. Sixteen-year-old Noah apparently had opinions on absolutely everything. By the time they'd reached Bismarck, Gator was fairly certain the kid had only stopped talking long enough to breathe.

"You talked the whole drive," he said, a smile tugging briefly at the corner of his mouth. "Most I ever heard ya speak. 'Bout music an' girls an' football. Whatever dumb shit sixteen-year-old you had rattlin' around in y'head. I remember thinkin' this kid's funny as hell."

Gator's eyes stayed focused on the light fitting above them.

“I ain’t got siblings, not proper ones. But that day, all I could think was, this is what it must feel like, t’have a brother."

The admission came easier than he expected. Logan had always been his friend, and there had been plenty of times over the years when that friendship felt close enough to brotherhood that the distinction barely mattered. What he felt for Noah had always been slightly different, though. Maybe it was because Noah was younger. Maybe it was because somebody always seemed to need to keep an eye on him. Maybe it was because Noah had looked at him with a kind of trust that made Gator feel useful in a way he struggled to explain. Looking after Noah had never felt like an obligation. It had simply happened.

He remembered that day better than he remembered most things. Noah sitting in the passenger seat drumming on the dashboard with both hands. Noah doing air guitar whenever a song he liked came on the radio. Noah insisting they stop at a 7/11 because he'd heard beef jerky was a scientifically proven hangover cure. The whole day had felt ridiculously easy. Gator hadn't needed to watch what he said or worry about being the wrong version of himself. He'd spent most of it laughing.

The words hung in the room for a moment. Gator rubbed a hand across the back of his neck before continuing.

"One of the best fuckin' days I ever had."

Noah coughed quietly and wiped at his mouth. Gator looked down at him then, taking in the hollow cheeks, the damp hair stuck to his forehead, the exhaustion written into every line of his body.

"I give a shit, Noah."

You storm inside first, leaving him in the dust as you bolt for the coffeemaker. He lumbers in after, scowl on his face, hair wrecked by the humidity.

It's easy enough to avoid each other before the broadcast, but once you're forced into the booth together, you drop into the swivel chair without a word. Your body angled away from him toward the console.

Robin lasts until lunch before she finally says something.

"Okay! So I'm gonna go." She stands, shooting a look between the two of you. "Whatever this is, please fix it. Or at least… try not to stare each other to death while I'm gone."

When neither of you respond, she just backs out slowly, nearly tripping over her own feet before the door creaks shut behind her.

The booth is deathly quiet when she leaves. Which is ironic, because you're pretty sure you've been in actual morgues with more noise than this vacuum that's formed between the two of you. But you don't look up. Not when you hear him let out a dramatic sigh, or when he snaps a cassette case louder than necessary.

No. You let him pout, giving him nothing while keeping your eyes glued to the playlist sheet on the desk. Crossing your legs and bobbing your ankle up and down. Letting your pleated skirt hike just a little bit higher up your thigh.

You aren't the least bit surprised when you hear the tapes stop clattering.

There's another beat of quiet before his foot nudges the leg of your chair. You don't move. So he does it again.

Finally, you turn—slow—and give him a look.

His mouth quirks. "You gonna ignore me all day?"

You frown, ignoring him while you flip a page.

"Wow," he scoffs. "You know, I was gonna apologize, but with this attitude—"

"Apologize, then," you interrupt. Calling his bluff.

He sits back and crosses his arms. "Well, look at that. She speaks."

"Look at that," you echo, turning back to the console. "He listens. For once."

You hear movement, then his hand is on the back of your chair before you even realize he's gotten up. The room blurs as he spins you back, planting both hands on the armrests once you're facing him again.

You stare stubbornly at the wall over his shoulder. Arms folded over your chest. Steve sighs and takes a seat in front of you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"I was saving it for the recycling, okay?"

You huff. "Then why was it in the middle of the counter?"

"I told you, I didn't want to forget!"

You shake your head, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"…Fine," he mumbles. "I'm sorry… alright?"

You arch a brow. "For?"

"For being a dick," he mutters, sliding a hand over his neck. "And…"

He leaves the sentence hanging half-finished. You tilt your head, waiting, but Steve doesn't look up. His gaze is stuck below your waist, where the hem of your skirt has ridden up even higher, fanning in a pretty arc across your legs. He swallows audibly and leans in closer.

It happens slow, his hand wedging between your thighs to grip the base of your seat. Your breath stutters as he tugs you forward, the stool skidding across the floor.

You finally look at him. No other choice really, with your faces inches apart like this. But where you expect to find him smiling or smug at having flustered you, instead his gaze is just… dark. His eyes heavy and locked with yours. Beneath the light, you catch the faintest sheen of sweat across his cheeks, fresh and dewy on his skin.

Warmth pulses between your legs in a way that's practically Pavlovian at this point. Because you know what it means when he gets this look. Where it always leads. You swallow a little as the woodsy scent of his aftershave reaches your nose, your fury fading fast into a different kind of heat that sits warm and low in your stomach.

Steve shifts then, your knees bumping together. He slides one of his forward between your thighs, slotting you two together and pulling you close.

"You wore this on purpose," he breathes low into your ear. You shiver as he brushes your hair back over your shoulder, his knuckles grazing the soft skin just beneath the hem of your skirt.

You exhale slowly. You did wear it on purpose. Something takes over him every time you wear this fucking thing, which is why you'd put it on in the first place this morning, a flirty little tilt to your hips. Five hours ago, you figured you two could sneak into the closet, or out to his car on your lunch break, maybe tease him with it until you had a chance to be properly alone.

But then you'd gotten into that fight, and you kept it on out of spite. You knew it would drive him crazy, having to see you in it and be forced to keep his hands to himself.

Only his hands were already disappearing beneath it.

"Steve," you breathe against his neck, barely pretending. "We're at work."

He noses the soft spot beneath your ear. "No one's here."

"The walls are glass."

"We'll be quick," he promises.

You're about to argue, but the gentle, warm press of his tongue over your pulse rips the protest from your lips. You melt, your eyes closing with a quiet sigh of surrender, and he groans into your skin at the salty taste of you, one hand snaking up into your hair to hold you in place while the other coaxes your knees apart.

"What if Rob comes back?" you whisper, already short of breath.

"She won't. She literally just left." His lips graze your forehead. "Now c'mere… let me apologize."

He curls a hand under your knee, tugging you toward him those last few inches. You let him guide you to the edge of the seat, until your chin's hooked over his shoulder and you lose sight of what his other hand's doing. You sigh into his hair when you feel his palm finally disappear between your legs.

He gives a testing little press against you, smiling to himself at the quiet noise you make for him.

"Yeah, baby. That's it," he whispers, his breath hot against your temple while he cups you more firmly. You gasp and clutch onto his sleeve, the contact making the damp spot on your panties bloom out even further at the edges.

"Oh, honey," he soothes, his free hand still cupping the back of your head. "Look at you. All worked up already."

You huff over his shoulder, even as your hips curl forward on their own, seeking the heel of his palm.

"I'm still mad at you," you mumble into his neck.

He hums, thumbing your panties to the side in a slow arc. "Yeah? You gonna let me fix it?"

Without waiting for your answer, he parts you gently down the middle. Your gasp is sharp against his shoulder, and he hushes you softly, groaning at the way you're already coating his fingers as he traces your slit.

"Fuck, baby," he breathes, his voice rough now.

He slides right through you, nice and easy. His thumb brushes through your curls before dipping down to circle you where you're softest. You muffle a whimper into his shirt and feel his grip tighten on the back of your neck.

"There?" he whispers, mouth pressed to your hair.

You nod breathlessly, panting now and barely able to hear him. He sucks softly beneath your ear and starts working that sweet spot, pulling more broken sounds out of you as you spiral quickly toward the edge.

Your hips shift forward again, thighs weak and shaking. You're nearly there, whining and clenching around nothing, when you thrust too far and start to slip off the edge of the seat.

"Shit—" you gasp.

Steve catches you before you can fall. His arm hooks around your waist, lifting you up like it's nothing. Your hands automatically find his shoulders as he hikes you up onto his thigh, your skirt settling even higher around your hips while you straddle him. He wets his lips when your bare skin presses against his jeans, the heat between your legs making his pants go tight around his hardening cock.

"Easy," he murmurs, sliding a hand up your back to steady you. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little embarrassed. A pretty flush warms your cheeks as he brushes back a curtain of hair that's fallen in your face. He gives you a big, breathy smile that makes your heart burst wide open.

"Okay," he pants, glancing around to check that the station's still empty. With no sign of Robin, he plants a soft peck on your cheek and lets his hand drop to your hip. "Ready?"

You nod, your thighs squeezing around him as he rocks you forward, guiding you to grind against his leg. Your head tips back with a moan just from the friction of it.

"Steve—"

"I know," he mumbles, dipping down to suck at your collarbone as you writhe on him. "Use me, baby. It's okay."

You bite your lip, rolling your hips shamelessly now as you chase the pressure. The orgasm you lost starts building again. You feel it coiling deep in your belly, but it's not nearly enough to get you off just riding him like this.

He tries to help, tugging one of the buttons free on your shirt and mouthing gently at the swell of your breast. You moan, fingers sinking into his hair and keeping him there while your knee lifts high enough to brush at the bulge between his legs. Steve buries a groan between your tits, his hips bucking up before he can stop himself.

"Fuck," he grits out, forehead dropping to your chest. "That's not fair."

You smile into his hair and do it again, dragging your thigh slow and careful just beneath the heft of his balls. His head snaps back, tendons straining in his neck as a strangled moan rips from his throat.

"Babe, fuck—" he chokes out. "I'm serious. I'm gonna come in my fucking pants if you keep doing that."

Your hand drops between your bodies, finding his belt buckle by feel as you hold his gaze.

"Need you," you pant against his cheek, unlatching him. His head falls back against the chair as you work the button open next, then the zipper. He's rock hard by the time you're peeling the denim apart, a damp patch already darkening the fabric of his boxers.

Steve watches you with glazed eyes.

"Here?" he rasps, like he wasn't the one that started this.

Your answer is a hard kiss while your hand slips inside his boxers. He shudders out a moan into your mouth the second your fingers wrap around him. He's hot and thick in your palm, the head slick where he's already leaking. You hum softly against his lips while you give him a slow, gentle stroke.

"Jesus," he breathes, hips jerking up into your fist. You swallow the next filthy sound he makes, licking into his mouth while you twist your wrist on the upstroke.

"Wait, baby, wait—" He catches your hand. "Wanna be inside you."

You heave out a sigh of relief. Finally.

You release him and shift forward on his lap, lifting your hips while he shoves your panties to the side blind, your skirt covering both of you from the waist down. He grips himself at the base, dragging his tip through the dripping seam of you a few times to get himself nice and slick. Then your foreheads are pressing together, both panting as he eases toward your opening.

"Look at me," he whispers, his free hand reaching up to hold your face.

You look. His brown eyes are blown almost black, lashes dark and damp. Your hands find his face—a face you're wondering how you could've ever been mad at over a Coke can—and sweep your thumbs gently across his cheeks.

He pushes into you soft and slow.

Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Only a thin, shaking breath that he swallows with a kiss as he fills you. His hand drops down to cradle the curve of your ass, guiding you as you sink down onto him.

The stretch pulls a broken sound from somewhere low in your chest. Steve catches that against his lips too, kissing you deep and filthy while your bodies slowly connect, the front of your skirt bunching up between you.

"There you go," he groans when you finally take all of him. He wraps his arms around your waist and sighs into your neck, low and rough. "Fuck, you feel good."

You whine into his hair, unable to speak as you adjust to him. No matter how many times you've done this, he always splits you open at first, as careful as he is. His hands rub over your back in wide soothing circles as he presses kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your neck. All the little spots he knows makes you soft.

You sigh appreciatively, braving a slow, tentative roll of your hips when you're relaxed enough. The sensation drags a low groan out of you both. His fingers dig into the soft dough at your waist, guiding your rhythm until you find it on your own.

Your pace doesn't stay slow for long. The chair creaks beneath you as you ride him harder, his breath puffing soft and fast against your throat.

"Fuck, that's it," he growls. "Don't stop."

You don't stop. Not when you already feel the tension starting in your abs again. Your weight shifts as you try to deepen the angle to take more of him, and you gasp when you lean too far back.

His arm locks around you in an instant, hauling you flush against his chest without breaking the rhythm you've set.

"Here, baby," he pants, nose brushing yours. "Hold onto me. I got you."

Your arm loops around his shoulders and stays there, fingers twisting in his hair while he fucks up into you. Wet, slapping sounds fill the booth, but you can barely hear them while you're gasping his name. Your walls start to tighten around him, squeezing and clenching with each pump of his hips.

"Steve," you beg.

"I know, I know," he grits through his teeth. His hand snakes between you again. "Come on, honey. Give it to me."

He circles twice, and that's all it takes. Your spine locks, the orgasm tearing through you silently at first, mouth open with no sound, before you choke out a broken cry against his throat.

"Oh fuck—" His voice cracks as you clamp around his cock in helpless pulses. Steve locks his arms around you and pulls you down, burying himself deep before you feel the first hot spill of him inside you.

You gasp, still coming by the time he starts. Your chest heaves against his while he fills you up, stars swirling in your eyes with every twitch of his cock inside you. Steve crushes his face into your neck, muffling a low groan as he rides out the last waves, hips circling lazily while he empties himself into your soft, pretty pussy.

He holds you there as you both come down, your body limp and sated in his grasp. Slowly, your breathing evens out against his neck, his hand combing gently through the hair spilling down your back while he softens inside you.

You lift your head finally, just enough to look at him. His hair is even more of a wreck than it was before, half of it sticking out in every direction and the other half plastered to his forehead. You brush it back with a fond little laugh at how ruined he looks.

"You okay?" you murmur with a tilt of your head.

Steve blinks up at you, dazed. His lashes flutter like he's forgotten where he is for a second, and then a dopey grin spreads across his face.

"Mhm," he hums. "You?"

You nod, tucking a damp strand behind his ear. His eyes close at the touch, and you let your smile stretch a little wider.

"So," you say. "Are we done fighting?"

He cracks an eye open. "We were fighting?"

You flick his shoulder. He yelps and grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before you can do it again.

"Yes. Done fighting. I'll clean the whole apartment. Scrub the floors. Bleach the—"

"Just throw away your cans, Steve."

"I will throw away every can. Every single can. I'll throw away cans that aren't even mine."

Your eyes roll. "Steve."

"Neighbors' cans, too."

You snort, dropping your forehead against his. He catches your chin between his fingers and pulls you in for a lazy, salty kiss that sends a fresh lick of heat down your neck.

"Careful," you warn against his lips. "Or I might just—"

Down the hall, you both hear a door open.

"Is that—" he starts, eyes wide.

"Shit," you hiss, shifting in his lap and stopping when you feel the mess between your thighs. "How is she back already? We need… napkins. Or something."

Steve glances around the booth. His eyes land on Robin's stack of handwritten song request cards. He lifts one eyebrow.

You poke his chest. "No."

"She'd never know."

"Steve."

The doorknob rattles. You both freeze and look over slowly.

One of the games you’d gotten him hooked on just happened to have a plethora of characters that appealed to him, even though he’d refused to play it initially out of principle: Overwatch. He claimed that Blizzard had “wronged him” (and refused to elaborate on what, but you gathered that someone else had done something once, for which Keys was wrongfully accused and had his account banned), and so even entertaining the idea of playing Overwatch wasn’t ever a possibility.

Until you’d showed him your Mercy cosplay. You’d started out simple一her Winged Victory skin, a Greek-inspired somewhat revealing tunic. That had been enough to pique his interest, and as time went and you started playing together, you also upgraded your cosplay collection. You went from Winged Victory to Fearless to the coup de grace: Celestial Guardian. It was his favorite cosmetic for her in-game, though he’d never admit it, because both of you swore they made her tits even bigger just for that one skin.

“I’m sure,” Keys said, pushing open the bathroom door as you adjusted your chest in the cups of the bodice you’d spent forever getting perfect. He stared at you in the mirror, then tipped his head to the side. “Well, turn around, let me see.”

Smirking to yourself, you turned. This was his first time seeing you in the cosplay, and you’d started getting ready extra early and hadn’t bothered to actually fasten everything because you knew what was coming, and you wanted to take it off before he jizzed all over it.

“Wow,” he said, his eyes firmly fixed on your chest. “No, I don’t think it’s too much at all.”

“Yeah?” you asked, reaching up to fix your breasts in the costume again. Keys’ gaze followed every move your hands made. “You sure?”

“Uh, yes,” he said, nodding.

“Why aren’t you getting ready to go?” you asked, because he was still shirtless and in the sweats that he’d worn to bed. Worn, grey fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination even when he was soft. You could tell he wouldn’t be for much longer.

“You’re hogging the bathroom,” Keys said, and you continued fiddling with the cups of your bodice, on purpose now, because seeing him get turned on just at the sight of you in a cosplay was also kind of getting you in the mood now too.

“Well… let me just step out past you then,” you replied, moving away from the sink to step around him.

He didn’t move, instead stopping you with one gentle hand on your stomach, guiding you back into the bathroom. The bathmat was wet and rumpled beneath your feet from after your shower, the air still a little thick with steam and the lingering scent of the shampoo made everything a little sweeter, especially as Keys’ hand slipped up your front over the silky material your cosplay was made out of, and onto the bare skin of your chest.

You lifted your eyes to his, his bangs falling over his forehead, eyes still a little foggy from sleep and the toothpaste he’d used still lingering on his breath even though he’d flopped right back into bed after brushing his teeth while you were actually readying yourself for the day by taking a shower.

“Keys,” you said, coy because this sort of was what you’d been hoping would happen. “What are you doing?”

He leaned in, eyes roving over your face, before he just twisted his wrist, slipping his hand down in between your skin and the costume, cupping your breast as he kissed you, not answering your question with words, preferring action.

“Mm,” you sighed against his mouth, letting him move you back into the bathroom, your ass bumping the edge of the sink as he pushed the bodice一still loose, mostly unzipped in the back一down, exposing your tits so he could break away from your kiss and lower his mouth to your chest. He kissed you there, wet, open-mouthed, until he slid his hands over your bare chest. One, he groped at your tit again, rubbing his whole hand over it, while the other, he cupped from below to allow himself to mouth at your nipple, sucking it between his lips and teasing it with his tongue.

“Ah,” you whimpered, tipping your head back, strands of the silvery-white wig you wore falling back over your shoulders, cascading down your back as Keys worked your nipple up to a tight peak in his mouth, sucking it, first sweet and slow and then harder as he pulled off with a pop and let his hands massage both of your breasts at the same time now as he leaned up to kiss you again.

“Have mercy,” he quipped, and you giggled as he rubbed his thumbs over your pert nipples.

“Terrible line,” you replied, only drawing a smirk from him as he took your other nipple in his mouth this time, lowering his hand down between your legs. “Wait一”

He stopped, pulling back, frown on his lips and a wrinkle creasing his brow.

“I’m not fucking you in this cosplay,” you said. “I worked too hard on it for you to stain it, you fucking gooner.”

Keys barked a laugh, then tilted his head to concede your point. “Yeah, all right,” he said, leaning down to press one final kiss to the valley in between your breasts before stepping back and pulling you away from the sink. Gingerly, he helped you ease the costume off and away from your body, holding your hand as you stepped out of the tangle of fabric and then folding it neatly to place on the vanity beside the sink atop one of the fluffy towels you’d laid there. 

Then一almost like he’d forgotten that without the costume on, you’d be mostly nude一his eyes refocused onto your body and his lips parted involuntarily, taking in the side of you sans the angelic drapery of the cosplay. “You’re so一”

You only gave him a small smile, not bothering to let your eyes dip down low to his hips, because you were sure he was chubbed up by now, and even though seeing his arousal fed yours, you didn’t think you needed it. You were already into it, had been since he’d stepped into the bathroom, anticipated it eagerly even as you’d thought about it in passing in the shower.

You’d probably need to shower again after this, but一so be it. The con could wait.

“Come here,” you said, reaching out for Keys, pulling him toward you as you kissed him again, letting his bare chest rest against yours even as you leaned back a little, the silky panties you wore sliding against the edge of the countertop. His hands explored your lower back as you rested yours on his shoulders, curling your fingers into his hair as he licked into your mouth, deepening the kiss, his hips tight to yours. This close, you could feel the thick line of his cock, half-hard on your hip, the sweats doing little to rein him in, not that you really wanted them to.

Keys’ breath was warm on your cheek as you pulled away to tuck your face against his neck, sucking a short kiss there while you dropped one of your hands from his nape to his hip, finally sliding it inside of his sweats. He was only wearing the sweats, which you knew in the back of your mind, but for some reason your fingertips grazing the bare base of his stiffening prick still made you gasp out loud.

And it only made Keys a little cockier; he crowded you into the sink and kissed you again, desperate, mouth closing over your upper lip as you whimpered into him, arching your back so your tits pressed against his chest, your nipples nudging his, both of you groaning at the feeling of it. 

“What can I do?” Keys asked, his words breathy. “Gonna let me一?”

“Uh huh,” you answered, wrapping your fingers around his cock, stroking him with short, quick movements because neither of you were allowing the other to move away, neither of you wanting any space between you.

“How一?”

“God, Walter like一this,” you said, because he always got so flustered he never knew what to do with you, with himself, at times like this.

Withdrawing your hand from his sweats, the impression of the elastic waistband dug into the skin of your wrist, you shimmied out from between him and the counter, turned around, and smirked at him over your shoulder as he immediately closed the distance again, pressing his length against your ass through his sweats, through your panties, his arms circling around you to grasp at your tits again, pinching your nipples as you haphazardly reached for the toiletry bag you’d placed on the sink when you’d arrived two days ago.

“You’re so fucking一resourceful,” Keys said, and you would have laughed if he hadn’t managed to slot his cock vertically between the two of you, the hard ridge of his prick pressing between your ass cheeks. He rolled his hips against you, and while it didn’t do much for you (unlike Keys, who was loosing little whines intermingled with your name), you still fumbled a little with the anticipation of all of it, because you were so close to finally getting what you’d wanted from the moment you’d thought of it. Your fingers tugged awkwardly at the zipper of the bag, finally managing to yank it open, and then the plasticky clicking of all your cosmetics and products and containers filled the bathroom as you looked for the condoms you knew you’d put in there.

After another moment of riffling through the contents, you plucked out a condom, holding it back over your shoulder for Keys to take. He did, palming it, then pushed his sweats down without even stepping away from you, letting his heavy, leaking cock fall against your lower back, smearing some of the precome over your skin, making you mewl at the obscene feeling, the streak of his arousal evident, even more physical than it had been.

“Shit,” he said absently, and instead of trying to pull away from you, he only hooked his index finger into the band of your panties and tugged them down on one side, far enough that the elastic dug into the flesh of your ass until finally, it gave and rolled down over it to your thigh. Leaving them there, bunched up just beneath your cheeks, Keys let his free hand roam between your legs, parting your thighs until he could feel how wet you were for him, the pads of his fingers brushing through your folds, feeling how slick you were, his middle finger dipping inside your cunt for just a brief moment before pulling back out. You sighed at the teasing intrusion, and sighed again when just as quickly it was gone.

“Please,” you said, bracing yourself on the edge of the sink with one hand, the other coming to play with your own tits, one and then the other, back and forth, watching Keys watch you do it in the mirror. “Don’t make me一wait any more.”

“Any more?” Keys asked, fully wanting you to answer even as he took half a step back, tearing open the condom and rolling it on. As he teased your slit with the head, you spoke.

“Figured you’d一lose it when you saw me wearing this,” you said, taking a sharp breath in as he breached you with the head of his cock, letting the first inch or so rest inside you, feeling you fluttering around him, trying to draw him in. “Thought about this since一god, I was in the shower, then when I was一” You were cut off again by Keys pushing further inside you, about halfway now, if you had to guess. He always had more for you than you suspected一he was thick and filled you so well, and you had to stop underestimating how deep he could really get inside of you.

“Yeah?” Keys prompted you, though you could hear how tight his voice was, how much he wanted to start moving. But he wanted to know how badly you wanted this first. Wanted him.

“When I was getting dressed, I didn’t一even really put it on all the way because I”一you broke off again, hopefully the last time, as Keys slowly bottomed out in you, his hips flush against your ass一“I knew you’d come in here and see me and bend me over the一sink!”

Your last word came out as an exclamation, a squeak, high and short, because he’d pulled out and snapped his hips back in, his balls hitting your thigh, your clit, the rhythm he set already quick and brutal and he wasn’t even moving that fast or that rough一but it was fucking perfect as he split you open, his cock spreading you apart from deep within your pussy, and your walls squeezed down on him. He met your eyes in the mirror, reaching up to pull the hair draped over your shoulder to the side, baring your back to him so he could lean down and kiss it softly, lips tracing over your shoulder blade as he pounded into you, the slap of skin on skin filling the bathroom, the air around you warm now for reasons other than your morning shower. His breath was hot on your spine, his hands firm on your hips, pressing divots into your waist with his thumbs as he clung to you, until you moaned, broken, and leaned further forward, the hand on your tits smacking into the mirror to hold yourself up, the hand you’d had on the sink, moving down to rub at your clit as you pushed your hips back into Keys.

“You’re so一so一beautiful like this, you know一that?” Keys asked, breathless, staring into your eyes over your shoulder.

“It’s the wig,” you tried to joke, aiming for sultry but landing on facetious instead, and Keys slowed to a stop inside you, shallowly fucking into you, not pulling out but just twitching his hips against yours.

“It’s everything,” he said, serious, voice low. “You’re perfect.”

Your cheeks warmed and you ducked your face down, but every single part of you was visible to him in the mirror. He slid his hand forward over your hip, covering yours with his, and joined you in touching yourself, both of your fingers sliding over your clit as he still held himself stationary inside you, curling the rest of his fingers between yours, holding your hand as much as rubbing your clit.

“You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you managed, as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “You tell me all the time. What a nerd, this guy loves his girlfriend.”

He smiled against the side of your face, kissing you again before he started fucking you once more, but this time, he moved slow, pulling out, the drag just as delicious as when he moved back in, filling you each time before he repeated it一in, out, in, out, the shock of him shoving his cock back into you making your wrists bump the edge of the sink with each thrust, and suddenly, all at once and out of nowhere, you felt your orgasm coming upon you, quick, fiery, heat spreading from your core as Keys kissed your earlobe and groaned quietly in your ear as you tightened up on him.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice so soft you couldn’t be sure he actually said anything at all if you hadn’t seen his lips move in his reflection, still looking at you out of the corner of his eyes with his mouth on your face. “Go ahead, angel.”

The pet name almost made you laugh, but before you could, you were falling over the edge, your orgasm hitting you, cunt spasming around Keys’ cock, your fluids rolling down over his shaft, his balls, wetting your thighs and his as he let you squeeze down on him, and once you relaxed, your fingers loosening beneath his, he continued to fuck into you, a little slower, a little harder, drawing himself ever closer until he, too, was coming, the hand that had been between your legs streaking your own arousal up over your stomach as he curled his arm around you, holding you tight to his front as he filled the condom, clutching you close as he came, his chin hooked over your shoulder.

“Angel, huh,” you sighed, finally, as he pulled out of you, your pussy loose, pliant, woefully empty.

“I said what I said,” Keys replied, voice still a little shaky as he stroked himself over the slick condom, a few aftershocks washing over him before he eased the rubber off and stepped out of his sweats. “I’m ready to go now,” he said, laughing at the look you fixed him with.

“Shower, you simp,” you said, reaching up to remove your一unfortunately perfectly pinned一wig. “Unless you can’t keep your hands off me when I’m not Mercy either.”

Keys gave you a mischievous smile and then reached into the toiletry bag, placing another condom on the vanity within reach of the shower stall. “Guess we’ll find out,” he said, then took your hand and helped you step back into the shower.

&& taglist: @sunriseinhawkins @ghostlyriddles @souperbloom @sheisjoeschateau @cheugy-djobe @cpnsteverogers @nowandajenn @configurre @cecesblogg @britt-mf @harringtondarling @valentine-night @charismatickeery @charlston-chews @bearwithegg @starkleila @sommie08 @xoxocelestial @kristywidget97 @calelundaa @mistyblueinks @projections-mortal

“Walter…” you said, because you only called him by his real name when you meant business, and you were, you know. At your job. An actual place of business. Where you were, under no circumstances, about to fool around. “You know I only get a half hour.”

“Ok,” Keys said, kissing you. Reluctantly (not really) you kissed him back, even going so far as to try and chase him when he broke away from you. “Asking for a friend, has anything we’ve ever done given you the impression I can last longer than 30 minutes?”

You laughed, batting at his chest, then just rested your arms on his shoulders and leaned in to kiss him again. “Unfortunately, babe, no.”

He just grinned at you, sucking your lower lip between his before reaching up to toy with the collar of your shirt. “You can, though.”

Your smile turned lascivious. “Oh, just me?”

“Your shift’s almost over. I can wait ‘til you get home.”

Kissing him one more time, you smoothed your hands over his back. “We have to be quiet.”

“You have to be quiet,” he corrected you. “My mouth will be a little, um, occupied.”

“Keys!” you said, but you were laughing, hands sliding around to his front. You curled them into his shirt, like you wanted to pull it off him, but he took your wrists gently in hand and tugged them away.

“This isn’t about me,” he said, voice low, kissing you slower this time, deeper, because you only had 30 minutes and you’d already wasted a few of them talking.

“Ok,” you said, biting your lip, and let him guide you over to the edge of the desk, leaning into you for a moment before he untucked the polo shirt you were wearing from your jeans一business casual wasn’t really Gamestop’s thing, but as a manager, you tried to keep it a little more professional一then let his hands slip inside your jeans, the backs of his fingers pressing into your stomach. Your breath stuttered, even though he hadn’t done anything yet, and you met his eyes before he sank to the floor, kneeling before you.

He slipped the button of your jeans, tugged down the zipper, and then slowly worked the waistband down to your ankles, glancing up at you. “Off?” You nodded. He untied your sneakers and slipped them off your feet, then carefully lifted each of your legs as you leaned back on the edge of the desk, easing your jeans off as well. Skimming his hands back up your thighs, he leaned in to press a slow trail of kisses up your thigh until he finally reached the fold where your leg met your mound, still covered in the cute, yellow-striped panties featuring the word “Thursday.”

“You know it’s Monday, right?” Keys asks, and you just huffed, carding your hand through his hair while the other remained braced on the desk.

“Whatever,” you said. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Nope,” he replied, closing the distance between the two of you and mouthing at you through the cotton boyshorts you wore, tongue licking against the seam of your lips even through the fabric.

“Fuck,” you mumbled, partly because you loved when Keys ate you out一he was fucking god tier at it一and partly because it felt like he was so desperate to get his mouth on you, he couldn’t even wait to get you bare in front of him, spread open, ready and wanting.

“Sh,” Keys hushed you, a quiet reminder, moving his hands to the front of your hips only to pull them right back down, dragging your underwear with them, exposing you, finally.

The short, curled hair covering you was already a little wet with your arousal一you caught his self-satisfied smirk before he shifted himself closer to you, knees nudging your feet as he neared you, and then he was ducking his head, shoulders pushing into your thighs as he angled himself just enough to be able to lap at your pussy. His tongue slid through your folds and you sighed, breath stuttering through your nose as you tried to keep your jaw clamped shut. He was going to get off on you trying to hold back, knowing how much he was affecting you and you forcing yourself to rein it in.

Keys pressed his face even closer to you, eyes fluttering closed as you looked down your body at him, hand still loosely gripping his hair. He was burying himself between your legs, his mouth parting your labia as his nose brushed your clit, and you whimpered quietly as his tongue entered your slit, fucking you with it shallowly. He barely let you take any pleasure from that, pulling back and making you whine louder than you should have at the loss of him一and then louder still when his tongue slid over your clit, drawing it into his mouth to softly suck it, the little bead hardening at his ministrations, your lips parting as he works on you.

“W-Walt-er, fuck,” you said, and again, it was way louder than you should have been.

He pulled away and you whined for real because that time, he didn’t immediately make contact with you again.

“Did you forget where we are?” he asked, breathless, his lips wet with you. “Gotta be quiet, soldier.”

You huffed a short laugh even through how turned on you were, because of course he’d use the pet name Karlach used when you were fighting not to get caught.

“Shut up,” you managed, your smile overtaking your mouth for a moment before you were forced to draw your own lip between your teeth and bite down on it一because Keys had trailed his tongue through your folds again, flicking the tip against your clit before reaching up with one hand, curling his fingers up between your legs too, slipping them inside your slit and making you slide down a little off the edge of the desk. You released his hair, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands now, needing to prop yourself up with both arms lest your legs give out under you.

Keys only worked his fingers into your cunt, fingering you open, sucking at your clit, your thighs quivering on either side of him as you moaned, muffled, your lip still pinched between your teeth. You weren’t sure how much time had passed一it couldn’t have been that long, but time always seemed to slow down when Keys was going down on you, because he drew it out, kept you on edge, played with you so deviously, so tenderly, so thoroughly that you’d be shaking from the orgasms he’d given you before he even thought about letting you do anything for him.

“Walter, babe, I一” you said, your voice wavering, tight. You were close and you didn’t want to stop, but your thighs were warm and your arms were tensed and you could tell, as soon as you let go, you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself up anymore.

“Mm?” he hummed against you, his tongue wet and slick against your clit as he pulled away. “You ok?”

Your heart fluttered in time with your cunt as his concern for you mixed with the way he was still curling his fingers inside you, even as he checked.

“Yeah I just一I need一fuck, I’m close, I一more?”

Without missing a beat, Keys slipped his soaked fingers most of the way out of you before teasing entrance with another, and then he was stuffing all three into you, your walls clenching down around him, your hips rolling into his hand, toward his face, and you caught his lips with your mound as he leaned in, sucking at your folds without any reticence.

“You taste so good,” he enthused, and you whined low in your throat, keeping it as quiet as you could. “Could do this all night.”

“I wish,” you murmured, head tipping back as Keys lifted one of your legs, moving it over his shoulder, then licked into your core again, fucking you with his fingers as he sucked your clit.

Vaguely, you noticed that the hand that had been resting on your thigh was absent, the other very much between your legs, and you leaned a little sideways, looking down at Keys. Your hips kicked forward when you realized he was cupping himself between his legs, rubbing his palm over his clothed dick, working himself even through the denim of his jeans, and you felt a huge rush of arousal to your pussy, the idea of Keys touching himself through his pants while he was getting you off, only turning you on even more.

“Wait一fuck, I’m一oh god, Walt, I’m一I’m一”

He didn’t wait, didn’t stop, did nothing other than keep his mouth on you until you were shaking, trembling above him, your hands white-knuckling the desk as you rode out your orgasm on his face. And still he didn’t pull away, didn’t relent一he kept his tongue moving over your clit, teasing it, feeling it pulse against him as he tried to get you to come again. You knew he could一he did it regularly, spoiling you rotten with his attention and care.

Your hands moved up onto the desk, holding yourself up as your back arched, your hips grinding into Keys’ face as you fucked your cunt onto his fingers, pushed your clit against his tongue, and he just flicked the wet muscle against you, drawing you toward another orgasm, the quick succession making you buck into his mouth.

Sliding back further, you heard the clatter of papers and pens and the other manager Pete’s thermos fall to the floor without realizing that you’d been the one to knock them over because of your hands trying to find purchase, sliding back over the surface to rest on your elbows. You didn’t care, even though you should have, because that was louder than any noise you’d made thus far.

Keys kept going because he could read every tell you had, and he knew一you were right fucking there. Curling his tongue against you, he dipped it down to lick at your gaping slit, taking three of his fingers, tasting you were you were dripping for him before moving back to your clit, and once you had the stimulation there again一you came a second time, body nearly convulsing as your arms failed you and you collapsed back onto the desk, the thud probably alerting Jere that something was happening back in the office, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care just at that moment.

“Oh, fuck,” you sighed, feeling Keys stand up, one hand flat on your thigh as he used it to brace himself as he got to his feet.

“I’ll say,” he said, still rubbing absently at his cock. As you watched, he met your eyes, though you dipped them down to where he was touching himself, and after a moment, he gripped your bare thigh again with his free hand, squeezing it tight as he very obviously came, leaning over you, breath leaving him in small puffs as he kept himself quiet, filling his own fucking underwear with come.

“Dirty,” you commented, and he just snickered.

“You should talk,” he replied, and you licked your lip before you tried to get up, but Keys pushed you back down, your ass still hanging off the desk. Carefully, he guided your underwear and jeans back onto your legs, tugging them up as far as he could so you could redress yourself once he did actually help you back to your feet. You tied your sneakers back on as he shifted a little uncomfortably, come probably dripping down his leg at this point. “See you at home?”

You laughed, leaning in to kiss him before brushing his hair back off his forehead. “See you at home. We’ll get some Baldur’s Gate in?”

Keys chuckled, looking at the papers he’d let scatter everywhere. “Yeah. Let’s act out the Minthara evil romance scene.”

You crouched down to pick up the papers for him, pushing them into his chest after you’d collected them all. “Only if you’re Minthara,” you said, and he couldn’t help the shock that appeared on his features, before it phased into a grin.

“Deal.”

&& if you have any questions about the minthara romance scene i can explain i swear

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“Can I get a read on that?” Nancy asks you, snapping you out of your daze.

You blink. “Sorry?”

Nancy hides her annoyance well, but it still shows. “I need the estimated run times for broadcasts next week,” she repeats.

You shake herself and stand from your chair. “Yeah– yeah, right. Sorry.”

You make your way to the wall of cabinets, on the top of which you usually stack the binders where you log all of that kind of information. You grimace at the height and stretch to grab them, but the short skirt you’re wearing is making that a little difficult. How the hell had you gotten them up there in the first place?

You reach for it once more, ignoring that your friends might end up seeing a little more of your ass than usual as you press up onto your tiptoes. And then you feel someone appear behind you, and Steve’s hand comes into view, his corded forearm flexing as he grabs the binders down for you. 

You turn to thank him and find him inches from your face. He’s standing directly in the way of your line of vision to everyone else. As if he’d been blocking them from seeing you in that skirt. As if he’d been thinking about it like you had. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little bewildered and fighting a blush. 

He gives you a tight smile, no fondness to be found in it. There’s an unmistakable intensity in his eyes as he looks at you– an intensity that makes you think acutely about the fingertip-shaped bruises that are currently scattered along your hips and thighs. When he looks at you like that, it’s not hard to remember the reason he put them on you in the first place. Hidden and unspoken though your friends-with-benefits-whatever-the-fuck agreement might be, Steve’s always liked marking you up, despite the risks of anyone else in this room finally catching on to what’s been going on beneath their noses for weeks now.

You clear your throat and return to your armchair and the meeting, rattling off numbers for Nancy to analyze. Steve leans up against the wall, arms crossed.

You try not to watch him, but he makes it hard sometimes. There’s a strange kind of intimacy to seeing someone whose body you could map out in perfect detail fully clothed. Like it’s some barrier only you are able to pass, some sacred knowledge that you and only you possess. Like later, if you wanted, you could rip that shirt off of him and kiss your way over the pattern of moles on his strong shoulders, and nobody but the two of you knew it. 

In that small way, he belongs to you.

Eventually, Nancy asks for some other piece of information you don’t have on hand, and you’re forced to head down to the basement to gather it, grumbling along the way. How these archival lists matter to your job, you have no idea. Your role is mostly pulling music and organizing the board– and fighting off Steve’s attempts to redo it for you.

You lean over the table in the basement, sifting unsuccessfully through papers to find what you’re looking for.

“I want to see you,” comes a voice from behind you. 

You jump, although you recognize Steve’s voice. “Jesus. You scared me.”

“After this,” he insists, ignoring you and stepping closer. 

You don’t turn from the desk– won’t let him know you’re intimidated by the heat in his tone. “I might have plans tonight,” you hum, though it’s a bald-faced lie and you both know it.

You can’t tell if he’s ordering or begging you as he says, “Cancel them.”

You sigh. “I shouldn’t, Steve. I have to walk home, and I don’t want to do that in the dark.”

“I’ll drive you home,” he promises you. “I’m locking up tonight, anyway. Come on. Promise I’ll make it worth it.”

Warmth coils in your gut, and you know there’s no way in hell you’re turning this down. “Why the sudden urge?” you push him, unsurprised when you hear his footsteps, then feel his body come flush to yours.

Steve presses his hands against your hips, perhaps subconsciously finding one of the bruises there and adding just enough pressure for you to feel a tinge of pain.“This skirt is really working for me,” he murmurs in your ear. “I’d like to see what it’d look like on the floor.”

You turn around slowly and Steve’s hands adjust to land on your lower back, one of them sliding down slightly. The look of that total hunger in his eyes makes you surge forward and capture his lips with yours, cupping his face. You don’t dare run your hands up into his hair and muss it before the two of you have to walk back out there, but the way he’s pushing your body back into the desk is driving you so insane you think briefly about trying it anyway. 

“Easy,” you breathe, pulling back. “We’ve still gotta make it through this meeting.”

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You push against his chest, ignoring the pounding of your heart. “It’s a maybe,” you bluff. “As in, maybe I keep this skirt on the whole time and go to work on you instead.”

Steve kisses you again, hard and pressing. 

You pull back, peeling yourself out of his grip and making for the door. And once he’s out of sight, you might tug your skirt up an extra inch.

You’re busying yourself with shoving records back onto the shelves in the music alcove in the station, biding your time until closing. Nancy and Jonathan have taken off only moments ago, and now it’s only a matter of not shouting at Robin to pack up her things quicker before you’d be alone. Well– alone, except for one other person, who’s been shooting you barely-disguised hungry looks from across the station all day. 

“Hey, you need a ride?” Robin asks, appearing in the doorway. “Vickie’s outside.”

You smile at her. “I’m fine. My dad’s picking me up tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” Robin calls, waving a hand in goodbye. “Don’t stay too late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” You toss back, fingers stilling on the last record. Once she’s gone, you make yourself wait a minute, then two, and then you follow Robin out, making it all the way to the front door of the station so you can lock it and draw the blinds down.

Steve looks up from where he’s working in the sound box, stacking tapes. 

Your eyes find his, and that’s all it takes for him to be moving for you, pushing open the glass door between you and crossing the main room quickly. 

You meet him stride for stride and crash into each other in the middle of the room, mouths already slanting together. 

Steve’s hands are all over you, travelling up and down your back, tugging you close to him. He loves to kiss– always has. It’s probably his biggest turn-on. He never wanted to stop kissing you, right up until the very end. 

You curl your hands in the front of his shirt and grab him closer to you, almost just to have something to hold onto. You’re making frantic noises into his mouth, and it seems only to energize him further. 

Steve walks you backward toward the couch, stopping only when your legs bump against it. “Needed you so bad,” he mumbles against your mouth. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day.” You let out a noise. “Clothes. I want to touch you.”

He pulls back enough to shuck his shirt off in one easy motion, tossing it aside. Your hands find his bare chest, smoothing across his shoulders, over his pecs, down his abdomen. They land on his belt, and you yank him back toward you. 

“I want everything off,” he breathes. “I need to see you, sweetheart.”

“All of it?” you repeat, panting. He almost never asks for that from you– you always move too fast together. With the exception of a few longer nights spent in the Squawk van, it’s fairly rare for you to be completely naked in front of him.

“All of it,” he nods. “You need help?”

A small, stubborn part of you wants to tell him you don’t. But your fingers aren’t as steady as usual, and your legs feel like they’re about to give out, so instead, you just nod. 

Steve lets out an impassioned noise and tears his lips from yours, hands moving down your body. He grips the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head gently so it doesn’t catch on your chin or your nose. When the shirt is gone, discarded with his, he takes a moment to smooth down your hair, running his fingers down it softly. You shiver at the touch. 

Steve reaches around you and unhooks your bra, which is the part you always have a hard time with once your coordination is shot. But his fingers move expertly for you– assuredly. Years of experience, and weeks of training with you in this station– against walls, over desks, tucked in corners where no one and nothing can force you to admit the truth in these encounters. He pulls your bra straps down your arms as you attack his neck with kisses, moving down his chest. 

Steve pulls away, holding you by the arms so he can see you. He lets out a groan. “Fuck.”

“It’s been a while since you’ve gotten to second base with me,” you mock him, letting him take it in. 

He nods, all seriousness. “Too long. Too goddamn long.”

His lips return to yours, and then, just as you had anticipated he would, he begins to kiss a line down your middle, over your sternum, down your stomach. His hands move, sweeping, to stroke your body, over your ribs and across your breasts in ways that make your skin tingle. 

“And this,” he makes out, hands settling onto your hips again as he drops to his knees in front of you, eyes fixed on the waistband of your skirt. “I can’t believe you wore this in front of other people.”

“What’s wrong with it?” you ask breathlessly, staring down at him. You love seeing him like this– completely desperate, staring at you like he wants to devour you. He usually does.

Steve’s eyes flick up to meet yours. “It’s obscene. Your whole ass was out today.”

Your cheeks burn. “It was not.” It was. You just so happened to be incapable of conceding to him.

“You’re not allowed to wear this out anymore,” Steve tells you, his thumb skimming under the waistband. “This is only for me from now on. You hear me?”

Your pulse spiked at the order, at the audacity in his tone. “I like this skirt,” you say defensively.

“I love this skirt,” he agrees, fingers moving for the buttons. “Doesn’t change that you’re a fucking tease.”

“I’m not a tease,” you gasp out. 

“Promise me,” he bades you, another order in place of a plea. Looking up at you, his brown eyes catching you with that unshakable focus, it almost feels like he’s not the one on his knees at all. 

Promises are dangerous. Promises mean strings. Strings are what the two of you come here to avoid. 

You bite your lip and shake your head.

Steve frowns. “You sure about that?” he challenges you, arching a thick brow.

Incapable of tearing your eyes away, you feel a reluctant laugh escape you as you shake your head again. Too sex-addled to lie to him now.

A grin spreads over Steve’s face– so bright for a moment it makes your chest hurt. “Figures. Brat.” He unzips the skirt and tugs it over your hips, taking your underwear with it. When it hits the floor, you step out of it and kick it away. 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve tells you. “So beautiful. Fuck, I need you.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and as you stare down at him, you can feel your heart in your throat. “Get back up here.”

He rises to his feet again, and you swallow as he towers over you. “Steve,” you whisper– just to say it. “How do you want me?”

“I want you everywhere,” he murmurs. “I want you for hours.”

You let his kisses, scattered across your neck, over the still-red hickeys he left there the other day, drag another moan from your throat. “Steve,” you breathe again. “The floor.”

He shakes his head. “No. I want you to be comfortable, pretty girl.”

“Then–” you let out a shaky breath. “Then the couch. I don’t care. Fuck, Steve.”

“Just hang on a minute, sweetheart,” he tells you. “I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.”

Sweet words– so heartbreakingly gentle. Paired with your ravenous hunger, you think the feeling might swallow you whole. 

You plant your hands on his shoulders and jump into his arms, knowing without questioning it that he’ll catch you. His hands span your thighs as his mouth moves over yours again, pushing so hard you think for a moment he might be trying to swallow you. You stay like that for a moment, your hands wild with movement, desperate to get all of him under your fingers. Steve grunts as you scratch at his shoulders and finally sets you gently down on the couch, moving over you. 

You’ve never considered what the two of you do vanilla, exactly, but this has always been Steve’s favorite position. He loves watching you, loves wrenching words from your mouth, loves being able to run his eyes over the entirety of you as he wishes. That’s just him– this boy whose body you’ve come to know as well as your own.

He kisses his way back down your figure again, probably meaning to get you ready, squeeze an orgasm out of you before you start. He’s always eaten you out like it was for his pleasure and not yours– done it like it’s a sport he can’t stand to lose at. Sometimes you wonder if he can even breathe, he’s so immersed in it. 

But not tonight. You reach a hand down and pull his hair, making him look up at you. “No,” you tell him, chest heaving. “I just want to feel you in me. Nothing else.”

Steve’s expression melts a little, and he moves immediately to accommodate you. Reaching down, he grabs a discarded pillow off the floor and sets it behind your head so you’ll be comfortable. 

You move to kiss him again, but he stops you, snagging another. “One more,” he tells you, and you lift your hips so he can place the cushion beneath them. 

“That good?” he asks once you’ve settled again. “Are you comfortable?”

You nod, letting a smile rise to your face. Maybe it isn’t hot or arousing or whatever else you’re supposed to be during these types of moments, but you can’t help it. It’s what he draws out of you. And Steve, to his credit, doesn’t seem to mind. 

He reaches for his belt, and you help him pull it off of him, shucking his jeans partway down his thighs. You wish he was bare, too– that you could feel the strong muscles in his calves or dig  your fingers into the meat of his thighs, but you don’t want to hear him say no if you ask– even if you know somewhere deep down that there isn’t anything you could ask for that he wouldn’t give you. 

You reach for him, hand closing around his length, and he gives a sharp hiss. “Your hands are cold, sweetheart.”

“Then how ‘bout you warm me up, baby?” you coo, the name a weapon in your mouth. 

Steve sits back on his heels to look at you, spread out and waiting. He shakes his head. “So pretty. I don’t get to see you like this enough.”

“What, legs open?” you snort. 

He shakes his head again. “Just– all of you.”

The words soften something in you. Somehow, as desperate as you are, tonight feels sweeter than usual– like the debauchery and frantic need you attribute to loneliness and low station lighting has faded into the background, baring your care for one another in a dangerously sweet way. You can’t tell if you love or hate the new sensation– the openness. The honesty with yourself more than with him.

Steve leans over you again and presses a kiss to your lips, cleaner than the last. He settles in between your thighs easily, like you’re working on instinct after so many weeks of this. Reaching one hand down, he tears his lips away from yours to hear your voice as he lines himself up and pushes in. 

You gasp again, the fullness as always just the brink of too much. 

Steve chokes on his breath, pulling out and plunging in again, a little deeper.

You grab for his hips, trying to urge him on. “All the way,” you order. 

He shakes his head. “I didn’t warm you up. It’ll hurt.”

You ignore him and try to pull him in again, but he’s too strong. 

He groans. “Baby.”

“I can take it,” you promise. “You won’t hurt me. I need you, baby. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a breath. “Hold on, pretty girl.”

His fingers tighten on your hips, and he dutifully pulls out and thrusts the rest of the way in. 

You let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream. 

“You okay?” he makes sure, halting his movements, his thumb brushing the hair at your temple. 

You nod fervently. “Move.”

“Sweetheart–”

“I said move, Steve,” you snap. “I can take it.”

He groans again. “God, you’re bossy.” He begins to thrust into you, slow enough you press your fingers into his hips, secretly wishing your nails will leave the crescent-shaped marks you never get tired of seeing there.

Steve’s hips snap into yours, and he kisses you again, insistent. 

You let the timing of his thrusts pull noises from your throat, let yourself moan out all kinds of ridiculous sentiments. You can’t help it anymore. You’re out of control when you’re with him– spiraling down into a chaos of secret feeling.

“You have no idea how incredible you feel,” Steve mutters. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”

“I can guess,” you make out. 

He frowns, probably at the fact you still have enough faculty to speak. He starts moving faster, changing his angle to be more insistent, and the string of thoughts in your head becomes garbled. “Fuck,” you grind out as he hits the spot inside of you that always makes you writhe. You can feel your orgasm building and building inside you, quicker than usual from the entire day he’s spent teasing you. You’re ready for him– you feel like you’ve been ready for hours. And Steve seems to have no issue bringing you there so quickly tonight.

Steve takes one hand and presses it down against your lower abdomen, feeling himself through you. It adds the perfect amount of pressure, and it’s only a few more thrusts before you go over the edge, yelling out his name, tipping your head back in ecstasy.

As you come down from the high, he kisses you again, ripping the last of the panting, desperate sounds from your mouth. “Oh, God. I need you, sweetheart. I always need you.”

“I need you, too,” you breathe, giving him what you know he needs to follow you over the edge. “I’ve been thinking about it for days. Every time we finish and go home, it’s only minutes before I want you again. I can’t get enough of you, baby.”

Steve moans out your name “Fuck, sweetheart–”

You clench around him, knowing what kind of reaction that always gets from him. 

He yells your name suddenly and finishes inside of you, so loud you reach up and tug his head down toward you, muffling his voice with your shoulder. He grunts and bites at the skin where it meets your neck, and you gasp again as he slows and finally stills. 

For a moment, you simply relish that feeling– sweaty and sated and comforted by his weight laid out over you. Some secret, insane part of you thinks you might want to stay here forever, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his breath on your neck. 

You can’t help yourself– you need to feel him. So you run your hands around his back and hold him for a moment, palms pressing against the blazing heat of his back. Steve doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and neither do you. Completely spent.

Eventually, he murmurs, “I’m crushing you,” and presses himself up onto his forearms again. You grip his bicep, letting him know you’re still sensitive.

“You ready?” he asks, brushing a hand over your hair again. 

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut, and try not to make a noise when he pulls out of you. 

Steve presses a final kiss to your temple before climbing off the couch. You watch him wander further toward the staff room, unashamed of his half-nakedness, probably trying to find something for you to drink. Aftercare– some kind of strange art he’s perfected. You might be nothing to each other but hasty and hidden releases, but it doesn’t stop Steve Harrington from caring, even in his own insane way. You wonder dimly if there’s anything that ever could. 

At the moment, you’re not sure you could move even if you wanted to. Yanking the pillow out from underneath your hips and trying to catch your breath, you run a hand through your hair and try to keep your mind off the boy that’s been infecting it for weeks now. 

Steve comes back with a bottle of water and a washcloth in hand, and he runs his eyes over you where you lay spread out on the couch. You watch him swallow, probably fighting his lingering arousal. 

You try to push yourself up, but your arms are shaky underneath you. Steve notices and takes your hands, pulling you upward and situating you back so you’re seated, then hands you the water.

You drink from it greedily, then watch him as he does the same. 

“You want help getting dressed?” he asks you, his voice piercing the silence.

“I think I need it,” you admit, worn-out enough that you can’t bear to keep up any more pretenses. 

He smiles at you, a little muted but still sweet. Slowly, he begins to hand you back pieces of your clothing, tugging your shirt over your head, helping you stand so you can slide back into your skirt. You don’t bother with your underwear, knowing it’ll only add to your sensitivity, so you shove it into your skirt pocket– an action Steve marks. 

When you’ve sufficiently tidied up the station of your indiscretions, Steve walks you out to his car, and something about the way he’s holding doors for you as you go is sticking in your mind tonight. 

The drive to your house is silent. The only interruptions are the soft songs that drift on and off the radio and the rushing of wind through your open window, cooling the lingering sweat on your skin. You stare out at the Hawkins streets as they fly by and try not to think about him– and fail. You’ll always think about it. It will always matter to you. And it doesn’t matter how resolutely the two of you pretend otherwise.

You don’t watch Steve as he walks you to your door, determined not to let him see whatever emotion has made it past the iron walls you’ve engineered to keep him out. When you make it up the low porch steps, he lingers before your door while you unlock it, then turn to look back at him, the picture of chivalry, even with his hair a disaster from your ministrations with your hands. 

Staring at him then, his brown eyes full of candor in the low porch light, you can think of a million things you want to ask him– a million things you’ve never found the strength to say. 

Will you kiss me one last time tonight? Can you tell it’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks? Do you feel what I do when we’re together?

The words fall off your lips, blown quickly away into the night air. Instead, the only thing you tell him is, “Drive safe.”

You don’t kiss goodbye. He doesn’t move to hug you. That’s not what the two of you do– that wasn’t a part of the agreement. But you watch as Steve swallows, the hand not wedged in his pocket twitching slightly. “Goodnight,” he tells you, his voice low. And then he turns to leave, his head down as he makes his way back to his car. 

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your eyes on his back as he goes.

You get home from work, open the door and trip on Gator’s boots. Because he took them off. Right when he got in the door. And left them.

It feels like it’s on purpose, like Gator’s doing everything in his ability to piss you off. You can’t remember if he did these things when you were madly in love and you just ignored it or if he’s actively trying to irritate you. You kick his boots to the side and call out, “Gator! Move your fucking boots!”

He doesn’t respond, and you walk into the kitchen where he’s made an absolute mess. And you know he wasn’t like this before, Gator never left messes after cooking. You heave a sigh and start to call out again, “For fucks sake, Gator! What the fuck is your—“ you turn and see him standing in front of you, wearing nothing but his underwear, holding a plate, “problem.”

You used to actually really enjoy Gator’s disdain for wearing clothes around the house. Now it’s extra annoying. Because he looks good, he always looks good. All your friends think you’ll get back together unless you move out but you’re determined. Just to prove to everyone you can do it. There’s no way Gator’s irresistible. You can resist him.

He looks at you and smirks, “My problem is standing right in front of me.”

Oh, yeah, you can resist him.

“Do the fucking dishes, clean the kitchen, you made a huge fucking mess,” you complain with a roll of your eyes.

Gator snorts, moves past you and drops his plate in the sink, “Alright, mom.”

“Don’t do that,” you huff, moving to the refrigerator and opening the door. You’ve been thinking about the last of the lemonade all day. There was enough for one glass. However, upon inspection, Gator’s drank it all and left a tiny bit at the bottom. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“What?” he turns to see what you’re upset about as you hold the plastic jug up. Then he shrugs, “I left you some.”

You slam the jug on the counter by the sink and huff out, “You’re so annoying. I’m going to change and then I’m going to the gym. So you can go ahead and do whatever it is you do.”

“Wait!” he whines, “I wanna go.”

You freeze, because you and Gator used to go to the gym together every time. But he hasn’t gone with you since the break up. It was a pretty big way you two spent time together. In fact, you’d hated going to the gym until you went with Gator. Him going with you blurs the lines a bit and you’ve been really good at keeping them crystal clear.

“Gator, we’re broken up,” you say.

He scoffs, “Yeah, I know. It’s just the gym, ain’t like I’m asking for sex. Jesus Christ.”

Your heart beats a little faster at the mention of sex because if you’re totally honest with yourself, that is something you did miss. Quite a lot. Hell, you haven’t had an orgasm since the last one he gave you. A whole month ago. Your routines were still the same, waking up and going to bed at the same time so there weren't a lot of opportunities to get one by yourself in.

“Fine. But you’re cleaning the kitchen as soon as we get back,” you huff before stomping to the bedroom to get changed.

At the gym, it’s even worse. You’re on the stair master and you can see Gator across the way, and you’re just watching in awe. He’s sweaty, his muscles are flexing and you’re thinking about how it felt to be wrapped in his arms.

He lifts his weights and the muscles are truly bulging. You should look away. You have a very good reason for breaking up with him in the first place, but watching him work out has you practically forgetting that reason.

Gator was definitely toxic. He’d gotten a bit better the longer you two were dating but it just wasn’t enough. Perhaps you guys were just too different. It was a snowball effect, basically. Enough little things that piled up to the point you couldn’t handle it anymore. You had to break up with him.

But there he is, looking so fucking good so effortlessly. And you forget every awful thing he did in the three years you’ve been together.

You think about your friends and how upset they’d be, how they’d tell you they told you so. Hell, they probably have a bet going. This isn’t exactly the first time you and Gator have broken up, but it’s lasted the longest. And that’s a good sign. So you peel your eyes away, lock your eyes back on your phone.

Gator keeps tossing and turning in bed. Every time he does, he pushes the little pillow barrier into you. And you push it back every time. The struggle goes on five or six times before Gator’s yanking the pillows up and tossing them off the bed.

“Would you go to sleep?” you seethe, turning to look at him.

“I’m fuckin’ tryin’,” he groans, kicking his legs in irritation. Sometimes Gator gets restless legs at night. When you were together, you’d help by rubbing lotion on them and giving him a bit of a massage. But you’re not together, so you’re not doing that.

Looking at him a little closer, you realize that’s not his problem. His face is flushed and he looks over at you with all too familiar eyes. He chews on his bottom lip and has the nerve to look needy. Oh, hell no. Absolutely not. You two are not doing that. You broke up for a reason.

You open your mouth, about to scold him but he speaks first.

“Could we cuddle?”

And you almost break. Almost. The longing tone in his voice ignites embers deep in the pit of your stomach and nearly takes your breath away. You clear your throat before asking, “Hypothetically, if I say yes, is something hard gonna poke me?”

Gator laughs, that raspy voice is tempting you to say yes to cuddling. Regardless if he’s got a boner.

And he does admit, “Yeah, probably.”

“Alright. That’s definitely a no, then.”

He whines then, “Come on! Please? I just wanna cuddle, I can’t sleep. It’ll help me sleep. I won’t do anything.”

“Gator, I know you,” you argue. “You’ll start humping me.”

He scoffs, “It’s not my fault, it’s your asses fault. For being humpable.”

Which makes you giggle and shove at him. He grabs your wrist and keeps your hand against his bare chest. Pouts his lips and says, “Come on. Just a cuddle.”

“No, Gator,” you pull your hand back and roll over.

“Geez, alright, you’re a real fuckin ice queen,” he mumbles, rolling over onto his other side.

Another bout of him tossing and turning before he grabs his phone, rolls out of bed and goes stomping toward the door.

“Are you actually gonna go jerk off in the bathroom?” you guffaw.

“What the fuck else am I supposed to do?” he groans, slamming the door on his way out.

And you lay there, staring at the ceiling. Thinking about what he’s doing. You can picture it clearly. You’ve watched Gator jerk off a handful of times, you know how he does it. Well, at least how he does it when he knows you’re watching.

He likes it to be really wet, either with spit or lube or lotion. And you have a big bottle of lotion in the bathroom, so you imagine him pumping some into his palm and spreading it over his impressive cock. That was part of why letting go in the past was hard, impossible even— Gator had a really, really nice dick. Long and thick, round head, curved slightly to the right. You used to be obsessed with it. Fuck, maybe you still are because you’re imagining him stroking it with a ton of lotion. His phone is probably playing some porn, set on the bathroom counter while he tugs at his cock. And it’s making you uncomfortably wet. You can feel it on your thighs, you consider touching yourself but you’re certain you don’t have time. Gator will be back soon.

So what you actually do is put the pillow barrier back up and lay back down.

Gator comes back a couple minutes later, heaves a really dramatic but happy sigh and dives into the bed.

“You’re disgusting,” you say for good measure.

“Jerked off to your nudes,” he snorts, rolling on his side and pulling the blankets to his side.

The thing is, Gator hasn’t told his dad that you two are broken up. So every Sunday, you go with him to church and then brunch at the ranch. And you hate it, you’re not really the religious type but in the past, you compromised because it’s a big part of Gator’s life. Or, well, his dad makes it a big part of his life.

Gator’s behavior isn’t exactly god honoring. You’ve never seen him pray aside from church and meals with his family. You know he’s got some secrets, he won’t ever really talk to you about work. Always says he can’t and you never really pushed, because you didn’t want to know what Gator got up to. You knew the way his dad ran stuff was pretty corrupt so you figured the less you knew the better.

“Why haven’t you told him?” you grumble, in the passenger side of Gator’s pickup.

He doesn’t look at you, keeps his eyes on the road and takes a long pull from his vape. The smoke billows out, acidic and artificial strawberry scent filling the cab. You roll down your window, watching as the smoke is sucked out down the highway.

In a stern and strained voice, Gator says, “I can’t.”

You know better than to push right now. You don’t need Gator in a bad mood at the ranch. That never ends well. So you sigh, look out the window and prepare yourself for the lying. Roy always pressures you and Gator to get married and start making babies. It’s a whole thing.

The sermon goes fine, all things considered. Gator holds your hand during it and you let him because otherwise his dad would know something was up. He picks up on body language. Like he has some sixth sense for it.

At one point though, Roy mentions how couples living together premaritally are living in sin. And he stares right at you and Gator as he says it. Gator goes rigid at that, so you squeeze his hand. You get it a little bit, but seriously, Gator is a grown man. He should stand up to his dad at some point.

During the meal after, Roy says to you and Gator, “Glad you two could make it.”

You guys come every single Sunday.

Then he says, “What did you think of the sermon?”

You nod, “It was lovely.”

Gator puts his hand on yours and nods in agreement. Then Roy asks, “And the premarital part? Mentioned that especially for you two. You can repent and repent but there are some things the Lord just won’t forgive ya for.”

God, the strength it takes for you to not roll your eyes. You just look at Gator, he’s the one that put you in this mess in the first place. He nods again, “Heard loud and clear. I’ve been thinking about it, praying on it.”

“It’s in your hands, son,” Roy says, “God and I have given you all the guidance we can, you just gotta get your shit together and listen.”

“I know, dad, I will,” he says, looking like a scolded puppy.

And you just look at him because this is just making it all worse. His dads just gonna be more pissed the longer they drag this on because Gator is not planning on marrying you, you’re fucking broken up!

You help clean up, like the women do at the ranch while all the men sit around the table and talk. Gator looks so stiff, on edge and you feel guilty. You’re the one who broke up with him, but there was only so many times you could tell him you were unhappy. He wasn’t doing anything to fix it. But you feel bad, so you rub his shoulder comfortingly between picking up things from the table. You play nice with Roy’s wife and daughters, along with her parents.

But you’re so relieved when Gator walks into the kitchen and says to you, “It’s time to go, darlin’.”

You have Gator some time to stew on the way home. You wanted him to feel bad. But as soon as you get in the door, you tell him, “You have to fucking tell him, Gator. I can’t do that shit anymore. I feel like they’re all staring at me and judging me and think I’m this big fucking whore just because you and I live together.”

“I know,” he whispers, sits on the couch and starts taking his boots off.

It’s quiet, you don’t like that. You want him to fight back, you realize. So you put your hand on your hips and say to him, “Well, fucking do it. Stop being a fucking coward.”

That seems to work, he stands and raises his voice, “I can’t fucking do it, you don’t get it. You’re just a fucking selfish lil brat. You ain’t ever thinking about anyone but yourself.”

“I spent way too fucking long not being selfish, Gator! I did— fuck, I’m still doing it for you, I can’t do it anymore,” you exclaim, your heart racing as you feel tears prickling your eyes. You always cry when you’re angry, you wish you didn’t. Especially because Gator usually bitches about it. Like he does now.

“Oh, my god, don’t start fuckin’ crying! I already feel bad, stop trying to make it worse,” Gator spits out, stepping closer to you.

“I ain’t doing it on purpose, Gator! I can’t help it, I just fucking cry when I’m mad,” you explain, wiping the tears away.

“Why are you so mad? Was I that fuckin’ awful?” he asks, stepping even closer and raising his brows.

You look up at him, hating that he can be so intimidating. Gator never gets physical, but he will yell at you. He’ll scream in your face until he gets what he wants. But you can do it too, can’t you?

“You were! You were really fucking awful! You never ask about my day, you never wanna talk about things, you never ask what I wanna do. It’s all about you and I’m supposed to just go along with it,” you argue back, poking his chest for emphasis.

His eyes drop down to where your finger is, and he smiles. It feels eerie, but also, Gator has a lovely smile and you can’t help but warm up to him a bit. Especially when he grabs your wrist and moves it behind your back, using his experience to his advantage. His other hand grabs your other wrist and he’s got you detained easily. You hate that it turns you on, but it does.

He leans down, you can feel his breath fan against your face as he asks, “Yeah? You want me to fucking worship you, is that it?”

Heat bubbles in your core, you inhale sharply and lean into him. You do want that. Your voice is shaky, quiet when you say, “Yes.”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he laughs, “See, that makes things a bit complicated, darlin’. I wanna be worshipped, you wanna be worshipped… how we supposed to manage that?”

“We can’t,” you exhale, “That’s why we’re broken up.”

“But you want me to worship you, and I want you to worship me. So we ain’t gonna be all that happy apart, are we?” Gator points out, and he isn’t wrong.

“Uh…”

“You want me, I want you. Why should we deprive ourselves of that?” Gator purrs, nose nudging against yours. His eyes are dark, needy again.

You swallow then, “‘Cause one of us is gonna be unhappy.”

“Compromise, baby,” Gator leans down an inch more, captures your lips in a kiss. It’s not urgent, it’s hesitant, like he’s giving you an opportunity to reject him. And it’s a bit of a compromise from him already. Giving you more agency in the situation. He compromises further by letting go of your wrists, but your hands immediately go into his hair while you deepen the kiss, messing up the gel cast. You like when his hair gets all floppy.

His hands cup your jaw, catching up with the pace, he licks against your lower lip and you open for him. Gator kisses you filthy, walks you backwards to the dinner table and pushes you back onto it. He stands, pushing your dress up and tugs down your underwear. You kick your heels off and aid in the movement, lifting your hips so he can expose your core. This is definitely a compromise. Gator never goes down on you. But here he is, pulling your ass to the edge of the table before getting on his knees. You spread your legs, gazing down at him in awe.

Those big eyes look up at you, large hands wrapping around your thighs as he inches closer. Gator kisses your pussy, tenderly. Then you feel his tongue, rigid as it moves up and down your folds. You gasp and cry out, watching him as he licks at you. His tongue circles your clit, teasing you. He won’t quite put his tongue on it, so you narrow your eyes at him.

“Don’t tease, Gator, that’s not nice.”

“Who the hell said I’m nice?” he snorts as he pulls back, squeezing your thighs.

“No one,” you admit on an exhale, “but I want you to be nice to me.”

“Hmm,” he thinks on it, “Yeah, I guess you deserve it, huh?”

You nod at him, “I do. I’m so nice to you all the time. Just want you to be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you,” he rolls his eyes, and then he finally gets his tongue back on you. Broad on your clit, moves his head up and down and then side to side.

Your back arches, feeling waves of euphoria run through you. Gator keeps his eyes on you, like he’s gauging your reaction. He needs the guide, because he really doesn’t ever do this to you. And it’s unfortunate because really, Gator is actually so good at it.

Curling his tongue around your clit, he pulls a hand from your thigh and you feel two fingers prod at your entrance. He gives a short laugh, because he feels how goddamn soaked you are. He pulls them away though, like he was just checking but then his tongue sinks down and slides into your center. You moan out, hand slipping into his floppy hair and you pull him closer. His strong nose bumps against your clit and the sensation makes your eyes cross.

Gator laughs again, but you like that he’s watching you so intently. He stays at it for a bit, tongue lapping at your hole. Slides in and out, while his nose continues brushing against your clit in the most delicious way. And you think, Gator looks really good like this, his mouth out of view but his nose rubbing against you while his eyes gaze up at your face. His brows lift with it, causing small wrinkles in his forehead. You tug his hair, writhing against his face.

Now, you’ve not had an orgasm in a month and Gator doesn’t usually eat you out, so it’s not a huge shock that you’re approaching a climax this quickly. But you are a little bummed, because you wanted this to last longer. So you pull his hair back, pulling him off.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you explain, chest heaving.

Gator squints at you, “Isn’t that a good thing? Why you pulling me away?”

“Don’t wanna cum that quick,” you complain.

“Takin’ that as a compliment,” he says before diving back in, licking enthusiastically. This time his eyes close and he starts basically making out with your pussy. Sloppy, yet firm. It pushes you over the edge, legs snapping closed and trapping him there. You shake with the orgasm, crying out as you tug at his hair.

“Fuuuck! Gator, yes! Oh, my god!”

You collapse, letting him go as you lay back on the table and attempt to catch your breath.

But Gator’s pulling back, standing up and undressing himself. Practically rips the buttons of his shirt off and then goes for his pants, “Okay, it’s my turn.”

You sigh and sit up, but his excitement is unfortunately cute. So you can’t be too annoyed. And really, you used to give Gator a blow job pretty much every day. He hasn’t had one in a month.

You stand then, pulling the hair tie from your rider and tying your hair up. Gator pulls his briefs down and his cock springs out, fully erect and god, is it gorgeous. You really did miss it. He leans against the table and you get on your knees, looking up at him.

“Thought about you doing this every fucking day,” he groans out.

With a roll of your eyes, you wrap your fingers around his cock, “See how I spoil you? All I’m asking is you return the favor sometimes.”

“I make you cum all the time,” he points out, his voice a little shaky as you squeeze the base of his cock.

“Uh huh, you do, but I want to feel like it’s all about me sometimes,” you tell him before rubbing the tip of his cock against your lips. You give him a lick before asking, “Think you can manage that?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyebrows furrowed with those needy eyes looking down at you, “Promise.”

You wrap your lips around him, licking against the ridge where the tip meets the shaft and Gator whines out. You have to admit you missed this. Turning him into a whiny mess was so fun to do. He grabs the edge of the table for support as you continue to tease at his sensitive spot. And Gator has a real pretty voice. Especially when he’s whimpering and whining. It’s so cathartic to get through that tough guy exterior and bring him to a desperate puddle. And honestly, it’s probably good for Gator too. He wasn’t an awful boyfriend all the time, sometimes he’d rub your feet while you made him watch trash reality television.

His hand wraps around your ponytail and he pushes you down further on his cock, the stretch makes the corners of your lips sting but that’s because you’re a little bit out of practice. You inhale through your nose and follow his guidance, sinking down on him until your nose meets the curly hair at his base. The musky aroma fills your nostrils, makes your eyes roll back because you absolutely love the way Gator smells. Whether it’s because it’s genuinely good or just pheromones, you may never know, but you bask in it as you swallow around him.

Gator groans, low and drawn out. Then he pulls your hair, dragging your lips back towards his tip. Repeating that a few times before he lets you decide the pace. Compromise. Look at him learning.

“Fuckin’ perfect, love the way you take it,” he mumbles out, head tilted as he watches you. “Like being a good girl for me, don’t you?”

You answer by swallowing around him again, blinking up at him with wide eyes because you do. You like when he praises you. Your hand moves from his thigh up to cup his balls, cradling them in your palm and he whimpers out. Looks down at you all pathetic and needy and fuck, you can’t let this man go. You’re a fool to think you could in the first place.

Pulling off his cock, you use your hand to stroke him while you move your mouth down to his balls. You lick, broadly at the seam before sucking one into your mouth. Gator cries out, head falling back a bit while his hips jerk forward. His stomach muscles flex and twitch as you roll his ball around against your tongue.

You move to the other, not wanting to neglect it as you continue stroking Gator’s pulsing length in your hand. He’s vocal, so vocal. A mess with it, really.

“Oh, fuck, yeah, that’s it, oh, shit, fuck, you’re such a good girl, holy shit…”

Now, you wrap your lips around his tip again and sink all the way down until your nose meets that mess of curls again. Gator thrusts into you and you let him, he fucks your face for a beat before he’s pulling you off, hand grabbing your ponytail.

“Fuck! Almost came, holy shit,” he pants out, lips turned up in a smile that makes you melt.

“Isn’t that the point?” you tease.

“Nah,” he pulls the hair tie from your hair and pulls you up, “That’s just the warm up, babe, you know that.”

He kisses you, which is also something he doesn’t usually do. Not after you’ve had his cock and balls in your mouth. More of that glorious compromise. He lifts you up, you wrap your legs around him and Gator carries you to the bedroom. He puts you down gently on the bed, crawling on top of you and continuing the kiss. Deepens it, licks into your mouth as he grabs the hem of your dress and starts to pull it up. The kiss breaks so he can pull it over your head, leaving you just as naked as he is. Your hands skate across his hairy chest, as his lips connect with your jaw and down your neck. Then, across your clavicle and move down to your breasts, he cups them in his hands, pushes them up as he plants sloppy kisses against your cleavage. Then he licks against your pert nipple, pulls back and blows on it.

You whine, back arching at the sensation. Fuck, he’s listening. He’s giving you what you asked for.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, before wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking. He licks again, eyes looking up to see how you react.

Biting your lip, you smile, nodding softly. Gator mirrors the smile, then moves to the other nipple. Licks and sucks, the pad of his thumb toying with the other one. Your body shivers from the stimulation.

“Feels so good, Gator,” you tell him.

He pulls back, pushes your hair back and smiles, “I know how to do that, ya know.”

“I do know,” you admit, reaching up to caress his face. He leans into it. Because he needs it. You know he needs softness, it’s the only way he can heal from his upbringing. You feel a little guilty.

Then he leans down and kisses you, writhes against you and you feel his cock against your pussy. Hot, rigid and pulsing. You meet the movement, grinding up against him. Gator moans into the kiss, rolls his hips a little harder this time. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and it’s your turn to moan. He stills, keeps the trajectory right and then rolls his hips again. Your clit rubs against the head of his cock and it’s delicious and heady. Makes your legs spread on their own volition, inviting the pleasure.

His hand moves between your bodies, gripping his cock as he guides the tip through your folds down to your entrance. He pushes, just slightly. Teasingling, he circles your hole. You gasp, Gator licks into your mouth as he simultaneously slips his cock inside you. Then, you moan in sync and you can feel the vibration of his voice in your mouth. Gator sinks in deeper, inch by inch, excruciatingly slow until he’s as deep as he can get. Your body tingles, warm with euphoria as you cling to his biceps.

Gator stills for a beat, licking and moaning into your mouth like the desperate and needy boy he is. Your hips roll up, though Gator’s own hips have you pinned down but you’re eager for friction. He doesn’t let you have it. He presses down a little firmer into you, grabbing your hands like he thinks you might do something with them. He pins them above your head, licks again, real filthy into your mouth. Your tongues meet, it’s sloppy, messy.

You feel anticipation building, needing Gator to move so fucking bad you might explode. But he doesn’t. He licks once more before he pulls back, “You my girl?”

“Huh?” you blink, confused by him.

“Are you my girl?” he repeats, looking down at you expectantly.

“Gator—“

“Tell me, tell me you’re my fuckin’ girl and I’ll give you exactly what you want,” he says, voice gruff, “But I gotta hear it.”

You swallow hard, you need him to move but you’re a bit stubborn. However, you’re realistic. This whole thing means you’re getting back together. So you lock your eyes on his, lick your lips and say, “I’m your girl, Gator. All yours.”

Gator grins, “Always were, huh?”

“Yes,” you confess with a nod.

He finally, finally, rears his hips back, dragging his cock back against your spongy walls before slamming back into you. The force of it punches a moan out of you, loud and piercing.

He lets go of your hands, moves his hand to your throat. Not applying pressure, but keeping a grip on you as he thrusts back and forth. The friction is exactly what you’d been dying for, Gator’s fat cock stretching you out in such a satisfying way. You can’t believe you gave this up for a whole month. Your hands move to his shoulders, then scratch down his back and he pumps in and out of you.

“Fuck,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as his cock drills deep into you and then he pulls out completely. You whine at the loss, but he slips back in.

Gator presses his face against the side of yours, moaning as he drives his hips in and out. Your lips lazily find each other’s, kissing sloppily. His hand reaches down, thumb finding your clit and he rubs quick, firm circles against it.

It’s not long before that powerful bliss finds you, crashing into your body in eye rolling waves. Your vision goes white as you writhe against Gator. When you come down from the high, he’s pulling out and painting your navel in thick white ropes. He collapses next to you and catches his breath, his spunk going cold as you lay there. But, he does something he doesn’t usually do. Again. Compromise.

He rolls over and kisses your cheek, cups your jaw and tilts you over for another soft kiss on the lips. Then he’s up and retrieving a towel to clean you up with.

As he’s doing so, you ask him, “So, now that we’re back together, why couldn’t you tell your dad we broke up?”

Gator sighs, tossing the towel to the floor. He puts his hands on your waist as he looks at you, “It’d be just another thing I failed at. Just another fuckin example of me being a fuck up.”

“Gator…” you sit up and caress his jaw, “You’re not a fuck up… life throws shit at you. Failure’s happen. It doesn’t mean you’re a fuck up. You’ve always managed to find a way, huh? You don’t give up. You adapt. You’re good, Gator.”

He can’t look at you, eyes aimed down towards the bed. He shrugs, “That ain’t how he sees it.”

You lay down, pull him with you. Hooking your leg over his waist, curling up into him and kissing his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you.

Then he says, “Plus, I knew you didn’t really mean it. Why tell him when we was gonna get back together?”

.ঌ˚˖ ࣪

The day you told Gator you were pregnant was…a mess, to say the least. 

You had it all planned out. A Friday night. You were going to ask him to hang out, like you always did. Hot dogs from Dave’s first and then you’d tell him in the car. It was better than either of your houses. However he reacted (which you truly had no idea how he would), you would have the entire weekend to figure things out before seeing him again at school. 

You asked him to hang out like you always did. At the cafeteria during lunch, surrounded by all of your shared friends. Really, they were much more Gator’s. Inside, you were shaking, you just casually sipped on your soda and asked, “Hey, you wanna hang out tonight?” Like you’d just happened to think about it right then. Gator laughed like that was the funniest joke in the world but when he saw your lack of reaction he paused. 

“It’s Friday!” Oh right. It was football season and the school couldn’t play without their star quarterback. “I told ya tonight’s the state championship decider too.” He mumbled the second part, voice filled with disappointment. If only you could have told him right then and there exactly why you were so distracted. 

“Oh.” Your head spun. You couldn’t hold this in much longer. “Tomorrow?” You swallowed the shake in your voice. 

“Can’t.” He reached over to your plate, taking the tomatoes you always picked out of your sandwich and giving you the yogurt he always hated.“Doing ranch work all weekend. If Dad pays me a little more, I can get his truck off him. Take you anywhere y’ want then.” There was a slight edge in his tone, promising exactly what you’d be doing in that truck. Any other day, that would be perfect for you, but not now. “Oh.” You repeated again, this time unable to hide the dismay in your voice. 

Gator heard it too. “You good?” He questioned, voice with that sharp edge he didn’t mean to have but still scared you anyway. You were all too aware of your friends nearby, hearing your every word.

“Uh no, it’s nothing…I just wanted to talk.” 

He turned fully in his chair to face you. “Why can’t we talk here?” 

Before you could even think of an excuse someone — you were so distracted by Gator, you couldn’t tell who — was shouting out, “Ooh! She wants to ask him on a date!” 

Gator rolled his eyes. “Shut up, man.” 

“Fucking finally! Gator, are you gonna say yes?” Another voice chimed in. Your eyes were fixed to the floor, the room around you spinning as Gator tossed his empty pop can to the boys teasing. 

The bell rung out, causing a loud chorus of groans to echo from the room as they shuffled to pack their bags. As you gathered your trash, the others straying from your table, Gator leaned in to ask, “Sure everything’s good? Been real quiet today.”

You pushed your shoulders back and held your head up, smirking. “Nothing’s good, I have to go to Trig right now, that should be illegal.”

Gator snorted. “I’ll see you tonight, yeah? Need my lucky charm there.” He stared intently, anxious for the only answer you would ever give him. 

“Yeah. See you tonight.”

.ঌ˚˖ ࣪

The floodlights of the football field were blindingly bright, even from your spot in the stands. It was packed shoulder to shoulder, sweat running down the crowd’s faces just from the excitement of it all. The end of the game. The winning touchdown. 

Everyone was on the edge of their seats, watching Gator rush down the field, the ball clutched tight in his hand as he dodged the opposition. 

“Come on!”

“Let’s fucking go, Tillman!” 

“Don’t you dare let us down!” 

And then he scored. 

The stadium erupted into cheers — people jumping in their seats, others hugging each other. Over a damn football game. Everything, everything seemed so little now. Gator’s teammates rushed over to congratulate him, high fives and shouts of excitement this way and that.

His eyes shot up to the stands locking on you instantly. His smile was all to wide as he beckoned you down with a wave of his hand.

You rushed down the steps, the energy of the whole scene infectious. Though you never could get rid of the knots in your stomach, you pushed it down as you met him at the edge of the field.

Before you could even say, “Congratulations,” his sweaty arms were around you, and you were being lifted off the ground. 

“Ha-ha!” He spun you around, the movement doing nothing to help your perpetual nausea. “Did you fuckin’ see that?” He laughed in disbelief as he set you back down. “I can’t believe it, we’re going to the fucking state championships. Told you you’re my lucky charm.” He shook you, hard. “Fuck that truck, we need to celebrate tomorrow.”

You’d never seen him smiling this hard. You were smiling too. Tomorrow. At some point, after he’d got the excitement out of his system, you’d tell him. “We’ll all go out!” He glanced back to check where Roy was to make sure he wasn’t listening. Not that he’d be able to hear the boy with the chatter of everyone trying to navigate their way off the field. “Ben’s parents are gone for the weekend. Let’s throw a fucking party.” Your stomach dropped.

No. People everywhere, and you trying to justify why you weren’t drinking a drop of alcohol. You couldn’t tell him this weekend. You couldn’t tell him next week during school. What were you meant to do? Gator noticed your silence. “What’d you want to tell me?” 

You froze. Not here. “Really, it was nothing.”

He saw right through you. “Tell me now, we can celebrate tomorrow.”

“Oh I don’t think-”

“C’mon, Dove, I swear nothin’ could bring down my mood right now.”

You glanced around you. The football players were all still celebrating, Roy was engaged in some deep conversation with the coach, people surrounded you from all angles as they discussed their post game plans. Nobody was listening to you. You swallowed. He’d given you the chance. And he said it himself, right? 

“Gator, I…” You trailed off. God, you’d spent the last few days ruminating on it but it was so much harder to say out loud. And the way he was looking at you, beaming with pride from the game. You were about to ruin it all. But it wasn’t a problem that was going to go away. You squeezed your eyes shut. “GatorI’mpregnant.” It all came out as one word. One horrifying, life changing word. 

Very, very slowly you opened your eyes. 

Your stomach sank at the view. He was blinking at you — eyes wide, mouth open, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying. “You’re…” He couldn’t even say it, but you nodded anyway. This was just shock, he needed a moment to process. You anticipated the questions before he could even ask them. 

“I think I’m like 5 weeks, I took multiple tests and they all said yes but I want to go to the doctor this weekend so I was hoping…” You couldn’t finish your sentence. 

You’d known Gator for most of your childhood. He had look at you in many ways — amusement, frustration, awe. But never this. He had pure terror in his eyes. Nothing came out of his mouth but a strange gargling noise in place of words. 

And then his hands dropped from your shoulders. Your heart sunk. 

“Gator!” A deep voice called from the football field. It was Roy, his stare all too scrutinizing. “Come here, I want to talk about a play you ran there.” Gator looked to you, then back to his father, and once more to you. His eyes were saying sorry as he stepped back. 

“Gator,” you quietly pleaded, “Now?” 

“You can celebrate your little victory later.” Roy’s voice commanded.

Gator sighed, already half turned away from you. “I gotta…” But he didn’t even bother giving you some pathetic excuse. There was no point. He just ran after his dad. 

Your chest felt like it was being cracked in two. You hadn’t known what to expect when you told him, but it wasn’t watching his jersey number get smaller and smaller as he walked away. He glanced back to you every few steps, but he never stopped. Never turned around. And when he reached his coach, who clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations, he smiled like nothing was wrong. He didn’t look up again. 

You stared at him for a second, still trying to wrap your head around what happened, but there was no use. Your shoulders dropped as you fell into the crowd of people, slinking towards the exit of the field. 

You had no idea that from the moment you’d turned your back, Gator’s eyes were stuck on you. He felt sick to his stomach. You were pregnant? How? When? What were you meant to do? There was only one person he turned to when shit got like this. Only one person who’s word he trusted. That person was currently lost in a sea of people. But just like earlier tonight, he could always find you there. Only, he didn’t run for you this time. Didn’t call your name. Didn’t fucking say anything. His feet were stuck to the ground.

Beside him, his coach was chatting about the game, Roy was criticizing the way he’d passed the ball. Around him, his teammates were deciding where to go out for food in celebration. Everybody was moving about as if life was normal. 

But both your worlds had just tilted on their axis, and no matter what happened, you knew there was no going back on this. 

.ঌ˚˖ ࣪

Your phone buzzes.

Wes.

You open it.

Wes: How was lunch?

Straight to it.

No warm‑up.

No buffer.

You: It was good. How was coffee?

A moment passes.

Wes: Good. You looked like you were having fun.

You read it twice.

He’s trying to sound neutral.

He’s not quite pulling it off.

You: It was a good lunch.

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Wes: You seemed really into it.

You settle back against the cushions.

You: It was easy. In a good way.

He takes longer this time.

Wes: Yeah. I saw that.

You exhale, steady.

Another message comes through, quieter.

Wes: Anyway… everyone’s hanging out at Javi’s later. If you wanna come by?

You stare at the screen.

He’s not asking for alone time.

He’s not pushing.

He’s just opening the door the way he always does, even if it stings a little.

And you don’t hesitate.

You: Yeah. I’ll come. :)

He responds almost immediately.

Wes: Cool. We’ll be there around eight.

Another pause.

Wes: Looking forward to seeing you.

You read it twice.

It’s sincere.

It’s steady.

And it carries more weight than he’s letting on.

You set your phone down.

The apartment settles into a quiet that feels almost too still compared to the afternoon. You kick off your shoes, change into something comfortable, and stretch out on the couch. You scroll a little, half‑watch something on TV, let the day unwind from your shoulders.

It’s the first time you’ve been alone since lunch, and the stillness makes everything feel sharper the walk, the bench, the hug, the kiss on your cheek.

An hour passes.

Maybe a little more.

Your phone buzzes.

Joe.

You sit up without thinking.

Joe: Meeting ran long. You home?

You smile, small and warm.

You: Yeah. Just relaxing. How was your meeting?

A moment passes.

Joe: It was alright. Wes said everyone’s going to Javi’s later. You going?

You: Yeah. I said I’d stop by.

Joe: Cool. I’m heading over too.

Warmth settles low in your chest.

You: Sounds good!

He sends one more.

Joe: I’ll see you there.

You set your phone down, leaning back against the cushions.

You’re not sure how you feel about Wes.

You’re not sure what he saw at lunch meant to him.

But you are sure about Joe.

That part isn’t confusing.

And now you’re going to see him again tonight.

Javi’s apartment is already full when you arrive. Music hums from a speaker, soft and rhythmic, blending with the low chatter of the room. People are scattered everywhere….on the couch, on the floor, leaning against the kitchen island. It feels warm and lived‑in, the kind of gathering that doesn’t need a reason.

Javi spots you first. He lifts his guitar in greeting. “There she is.”

You smile and weave your way toward him. You’ve known him the longest, and it shows. You settle on the rug near him, close enough to feel the vibration of the strings when he strums.

“Play something good,” you say.

He laughs. “I’m working on it.”

He shifts into a softer progression, something familiar. You relax into it, letting the music settle around you.

You’ve barely been sitting for thirty seconds when someone steps into your space.

Joe.

He must have seen you come in. He crouches down beside you, one hand braced on the floor, the other holding a drink.

“Hey,” he says, warm and easy.

Your chest warms. “Hi.”

He smiles, small and real. “Didn’t think you’d sit all the way over here.”

You shrug and smirk. “Maybe I just hoped you’d find me.”

Joe’s smile shifts, small and warm, the kind that reaches his eyes before it reaches his mouth.

“Well,” he says. “I usually do.” his blushes just enough to that you notice.

He stays there for a moment, close enough that you feel the heat of him, close enough that Javi glances between the two of you with a knowing look he doesn’t comment on. Joe doesn’t linger long, he stands, gives your shoulder a light touch, and heads toward the kitchen to grab another drink.

Javi shifts into a brighter chord. Someone cheers. Someone else starts singing badly on purpose. The room laughs. You lean back on your hands, letting the music wash over you.

Wes drops onto the rug beside you, stretching his legs out. “You still practicing drumming?” he asks, casual and friendly.

You nod. “I don’t think I was that great to begin with.”

He smiles. “You were getting good.”

You shrug. “You’re being nice.”

He reaches out and takes your hand, gentle but sure. “Come on. Help me out.”

You blink. “With what?”

He pulls you up, still holding your hand, guiding you toward the small electronic drum pad Javi keeps near the couch. “Add something to this,” Wes says. “Javi’s rhythm needs help.”

Javi scoffs. “My rhythm is perfect.”

Wes grins. “Humor me.”

You sit beside the drum pad, and Wes kneels next to you, adjusting the settings. His hand brushes yours once, then again, not intentional, just close.

Across the room, Joe looks over.

He watches for a moment, drink in hand, leaning against the wall. His expression is unreadable in a soft way, like he’s trying to understand the new shape of the night.

Wes taps the pad. “Try this.”

You follow his lead, adding a soft beat under Javi’s guitar. It blends surprisingly well. Javi brightens, shifting his chords to match you.

“See?” Wes says. “Told you.”

You laugh, settling into the rhythm. The room reacts in waves, someone nods along, someone else sways a little, someone calls out that it sounds good.

Joe keeps watching.

Not interfering.

Not stepping in.

Just tuned into you.

He catches your eye once.

Just once.

A small smile pulls at his mouth, warm and quiet, like he’s remembering the afternoon.

You look away first, focusing on the drum pad.

Wes taps a new pattern. “Try doubling it.”

You do.

He grins.

Javi shifts again, following your lead.

The three of you fall into an easy rhythm, the kind that feels like a conversation without words. The room hums around you, voices blending with the music.

Joe pushes off the wall.

He walks over slowly, not interrupting, not making a moment out of it. He just drifts toward the circle like the music pulled him in.

He crouches beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him, close enough that Wes glances up in acknowledgment.

Joe smiles at the sound you’re making. “That’s nice.”

You look at him. “Wes is doing most of it.”

Wes snorts. “She’s lying, she's doing fine.”

Joe’s eyes stay on you. “She’s doing better than fine.”

Javi looks up. “You want in?”

Joe smiles, small and quiet. “Yeah.”

He takes the guitar from Javi with a gentle exchange, settling onto the rug beside you. He adjusts the strap, tests a chord, then another. The sound is softer under his hands, smoother, like he’s easing into the moment rather than performing.

You watch him.

You don’t mean to.

You just do.

The way his fingers move.

The way his shoulders relax.

The way he leans slightly forward, focused but warm.

You miss your beat.

It’s small, barely noticeable, but you feel it immediately. The rhythm stutters under your hands.

Wes notices.

He leans in, placing his hands lightly over yours, guiding your fingers back to the right spot. “Here,” he says softly. “You were right there.”

Joe's eyes flick from your hands to your face, reading the moment without stepping into it. He shifts his chord to match you, smoothing the transition so the music doesn’t falter.

You exhale, settling back into the beat.

Wes keeps his hands near yours for another second, then pulls back, letting you take over. “See? You’ve got it.”

You nod, cheeks warm. “I got distracted.”

Joe’s smile curves, soft and knowing. “It happens.”

Joe shifts into an even softer progression, something familiar. You follow without thinking, matching his rhythm. He glances at you once, quiet and warm, like he’s surprised by how easily you fall in with him.

Wes leans in to adjust the drum pad. “That’s good,” he says. “You’re getting it.”

You smile, tapping out the last few beats.

Javi lets the final chord ring.

Joe lifts his fingers from the strings, letting the sound fade.

The moment settles.

Soft.

Warm.

Comfortable.

Javi stretches his hands. “I need a break.”

Wes laughs.

Joe sets the guitar down beside him, giving you a small smile that feels like a quiet thank you.

You exhale, letting the warmth of the moment drift off your shoulders. The room shifts back into casual chatter. Someone calls out for another drink. Someone else asks what movie they should put on.

You stand “I’m going to grab some water.”

The kitchen is cooler than the living room, quieter too. You set your empty cup on the counter and reach for a clean glass, letting the hum of the party fade behind you.

You pour water, the sound soft in the stillness.

Footsteps approach.

Wes.

He doesn’t call your name or announce himself. He just steps into the doorway, hesitating for a moment before walking in.

“You disappeared,” he says, voice low and easy.

You smile. “Just needed water.”

He nods, leaning against the counter beside you.

“You were good tonight,” he says. “With the drums.”

You laugh softly. “I messed up a few times.”

He shakes his head. “Only because you were watching him.”

Your breath catches.

You look down at your glass. “I wasn’t watching him.”

Wes smiles, small and knowing. “You were."

You don’t argue.

You don’t have to.

He shifts his weight, turning slightly toward you. “It’s fine. He’s good to watch. I’m glad he came tonight. He hasn’t had time for anything… or anyone.”

You swallow. “He seems okay.”

Wes taps the counter lightly with his fingers, the same rhythm he taught you earlier. “You should practice more. You pick things up fast.”

You take a sip of water. “Maybe. I admit its pretty fun.”

He studies you for a moment, quiet and thoughtful. “If you want help, I can teach you more. Not just tonight.”

The offer hangs in the air, warm and uncomplicated.

Behind him, you can hear the living room laughter, music, someone calling out for another drink. It feels far away.

Wes’s voice softens. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry, um...sure maybe I will take you up on that some time.”

He watches you for another second, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then he reaches out and gently taps your wrist, the same spot he steadied earlier on the drum pad.

“You did good,” he says again.

You feel the warmth of it settle in your chest.

From the doorway, someone shifts.

A shadow.

A presence.

Joe.

He doesn’t step in.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He just pauses there for a moment, taking in the scene, you at the counter, Wes beside you, the quiet between you.

His expression is calm.

Steady.

Warm.

He gives you a small smile before heading back toward the living room, letting you have the moment.

Wes doesn’t notice.

You do.

The kitchen feels smaller now.

Quieter.

Charged in a way that isn’t sharp, just… present.

You set your glass down. “We should get back.”

Wes nods. “Yeah.”

You step out of the kitchen, water glass in hand, the music has stopped, but the room still hums with conversation. Someone is arguing about which movie to put on. Someone else is laughing too loudly at something Javi said.

Wes follows a few steps behind you, not close enough to make it a moment, just close enough that you can feel his presence.

You go back toward the rug where you’d been sitting earlier. Javi is tuning the guitar again. A couple of people have shifted spots. The energy feels looser now, softer, like everyone is settling into the night.

Joe looks up the second you walk in.

His eyes find yours before anything else in the room does.

He doesn’t move right away.

He doesn’t call out.

He just watches you cross the space, his expression warm and steady, like he’s checking in without needing to say anything.

You sit back down on the rug.

Wes drops onto the couch behind you.

Javi strums a lazy chord.

Joe pushes off the armchair he’d been leaning against and walks over, slow and unhurried. He sits beside you again, close enough that you feel the warmth of him, close enough that it feels intentional without being bold.

“Got your water?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He smiles, small and quiet. “Good.”

Wes watches from the couch, expression unreadable but soft.

Joe leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out. “We’re picking a movie,” he says. “It’s chaos.”

You laugh. “I heard.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes warm. “You should pick.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know what to choose.”

He smiles again, that same soft curve he gave you earlier. “Cmon I thought you had a reputation to uphold. ”

You laugh hard and your cheeks redden, “My reputation of being right? That’s only when it comes to you.”

Joe laughs and nudges your shoulder “Ah…sure.. okay!”

Someone finally settles the movie debate, and the lights dim a little as the opening credits roll. People shift around the living room, finding spots, grabbing blankets, leaning into cushions.

You stay on the rug where you were sitting.

Joe stays beside you.

He doesn’t make a big move.

He doesn’t crowd you.

He just adjusts his posture so he’s a little closer, knees angled toward you, shoulder relaxed near yours.

The movie begins, soft light flickering across the room.

Joe leans closer to you “I haven’t seen this one,” he says quietly.

You smile. “Me neither.”

He glances at you, warm and steady. “Good. We’ll figure it out together.”

The movie settles into its rhythm, soft light flickering across the room. You shift a little on the rug, pulling your knees up. The room is cozy, but the air feels cooler now that you’ve been sitting still.

Joe notices before you say anything.

He leans in slightly, voice low. “Are you cold?”

You hesitate for a second, then nod. “A little.”

He doesn’t tease.

He doesn’t make it a moment.

He just reacts.

Joe reaches behind him, grabbing a folded blanket from the back of the armchair. He shakes it out gently, then drapes it around your shoulders with careful hands, making sure it settles evenly.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He smiles, small and warm. “Good.”

He doesn’t pull away immediately. His hand stays on your shoulder for a second longer than necessary, just a light, steady touch. Then he settles beside you again, closer this time, like the blanket gave him permission to stay near.

Your shoulder brushes his.

Your knee rests against his.

The blanket covers both of you just enough that it feels shared.

Joe leans back, eyes on the screen, but his posture stays angled toward you. He’s relaxed. Comfortable. Present.

The movie plays.

The room hums.

The warmth between you settles into something soft and unmistakable.

As the end credits begin to roll, the room shifts. Someone stretches. Someone else stands to grab another drink. Javi yawns loudly. Wes pushes himself up from the couch, rubbing his eyes.

Joe stays beside you for a moment longer, letting the last notes of the soundtrack fade. His knee is still against yours. The blanket still rests around your shoulders. His presence feels steady, quiet, warm.

You stand, brushing off your jeans, the blanket still warm around your shoulders. Joe rises with you, steady and quiet, his presence still close.

He leans in slightly. “Let me walk you home.”

You smile up at him. “I’d like that.”

His smile deepens, soft and certain.

You tell him you’ll be right back that you want to say goodbye to Javi. Joe nods, settling near the doorway to wait for you.

You weave through the living room, hug Javi, thank him for the night. You turn to head back toward Joe.

That’s when you hear it.

Two voices.

Low.

Quiet.

Just around the corner near the hallway.

Wes.

Joe.

You freeze without meaning to.

Wes’s voice is soft, but not casual. “If you’re too busy to show up for her, don’t start something.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Loaded.

Joe doesn’t answer right away.

You hear the shift of his weight, the quiet exhale he always does when he’s thinking.

Wes continues, voice lower. “She deserves someone who’s actually there. Not someone who disappears for rehearsals, shows, movies, meetings and everything else.”

Another pause.

You don’t breathe.

Joe’s voice comes quiet, steady. “I’m not disappearing.”

Wes pushes once more. “Then don’t make her a maybe. She’s not built for that.”

Joe’s tone changes.

Soft.

Firm.

Protective in a way you’ve never heard from him.

“I’m not going to hurt her.”

Your heart stutters.

Wes is quiet for a moment, then speaks again, barely above a whisper. “Just make sure you mean it.”

Joe answers immediately this time....sharper.

“Thanks for the input, Wes. But maybe you should ask yourself why you care so much.”

Silence.

Thick.

Electric.

Wes doesn’t respond.

Joe continues, voice low, controlled. “Are you worried about her as a friend… or something else?”

You feel the words hit the air like a spark.

Wes exhales, quiet and tense. “Don’t.”

Joe’s reply is softer, but it lands harder. “Then be honest.”

You stand there in the hallway, the blanket around your shoulders, the warmth of Joe’s earlier touch still lingering and now this.

You don’t know whether to step forward.

You don’t know whether to leave.

You don’t know whether they know you’re listening.

You just stand there, caught between the living room and the doorway, the weight of their words settling into your chest.

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