For fox sake

You don't know what he's dreaming about. You never really do. Only fragments ever slip through afterwards. Running, somebody shouting, the sickening weight of the nail bat in his hands, blood, fear. Always fear.

You hesitate for a moment, watching his face crease with another expression of quiet distress before making up your mind.

Carefully - so carefully - you reach across the small space between you.

"Steve..." Your voice is barely louder than a breath.

Your fingertips settle gently against his shoulder. "Easy, honey..."

The change is instantaneous.

His entire body jolts violently beneath your hand.

Before either of you has time to understand what's happening, his arm lashes out with frightening force, driven entirely by instinct, by adrenaline, by a nightmare that hasn't realised it's over yet.

You recoil on pure reflex.

His fist cuts cleanly through the space your face had occupied barely a heartbeat earlier.

For one impossible second, time seems to stop.

Steve's eyes fly open.

He isn't in the dream anymore. He's here. In his bedroom. With you.

His gaze snaps immediately to where you've instinctively shuffled backwards against the headboard, your breathing suddenly just as uneven as his, one hand still frozen in mid-air where you'd reached for him only moments before.

He stares. At you. At his own outstretched fist. Back to you again.

The colour drains from his face so quickly it's almost frightening.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Not because neither of you has anything to say.

Because neither of you remembers how.

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moves.

Steve's arm remains frozen exactly where it landed, still outstretched between the two of you, while his chest rises and falls in short, uneven breaths that sound far too loud in the silence of the bedroom.

The realisation hits him all at once. It crashes over him with such force that his entire expression crumples.

"Oh my God." The words leave him in a whisper so strained they barely sound like his voice at all.

He jerks backwards as though the sight of his own hand has suddenly become unbearable, scrambling away from you so quickly that he nearly tumbles straight off the edge of the mattress. The bedframe creaks violently beneath the sudden movement, but he hardly seems to notice, his breathing already dissolving into something ragged and panicked.

"I..." His voice breaks. He tries again. "I-"

Nothing - his throat simply refuses to cooperate.

You can almost see the moment replaying behind his eyes, over and over again, each repetition somehow worse than the last.

His fist. Your face. The space between them. Just inches - barely inches.

"Steve," you say softly, your own heartbeat only just beginning to settle now that the initial shock has passed.

His head snaps up. "No."

The word comes out immediately, almost desperate. Not angry - never angry. As though he can't bear for you to comfort him.

"I'm okay," you tell him quickly, instinctively reaching one hand towards him before thinking better of it. "You didn't-"

"I almost..." He stops. His jaw tightens. The sentence refuses to leave his mouth. He looks physically incapable of saying the words out loud.

Instead, he drags both hands back through his hair with enough force to leave it sticking up in every direction before climbing unsteadily off the bed altogether.

"Steve..."

He backs away another step. Then another. Keeping as much distance between the two of you as the small bedroom will allow.

He won't look at you. His gaze stays fixed stubbornly on the floor, his shoulders rising and falling with each uneven breath while he shakes his head over and over again as though he's trying desperately to wake himself from yet another nightmare.

"Oh my God," he whispers again. His voice is cracking now. "I'm so sorry."

You open your mouth to answer. He speaks over you before you get the chance.

"I'm sorry." Another breath. Another shake of his head. "I'm sorry."

It's as though he doesn't know any other words anymore.

Each apology sounds quieter than the last, spoken more to himself than to you, every one carrying the same horrified disbelief that he's somehow become the very thing he's spent years trying never to be.

You watch him standing there in the darkness, wrapped not in anger but in unmistakable fear.

Not fear of the nightmare.

Fear of himself.

And somehow, you realise that frightens you far more than the fist that never reached you ever could.

Steve remains exactly where he is, standing on the opposite side of the bedroom with his back half-turned towards you, as though even looking in your direction feels like something he hasn't earned the right to do anymore. His breathing has slowed a little, but only because it's been replaced by something somehow worse - a heavy, crushing silence that settles over him until his shoulders seem to sag beneath its weight.

You carefully push the duvet aside and swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

The movement is enough to make him look up.

Immediately, he takes another step backwards.

"No." His voice is rough. "Don't."

You stop. "Steve..."

"I don't..." He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "Just... stay there."

The words don't sound like an order.

They sound like fear.

As though the only thing he can think to do is put more distance between the two of you, convinced that somehow it will make you safer.

Your heart breaks. "I'm okay."

"I know."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"You don't."

He finally looks at you properly, and the devastation written across his face almost steals the air from your lungs.

"What if next time I don't wake up?"

The question hangs between you.

"What if..." He laughs once, bitterly, the sound catching in his throat before it can become anything real. "What if next time I don't stop in time?"

"Steve-"

"What if I actually hurt you?"

His eyes flick helplessly towards his own hand again.

"What if one day..." He trails off, scrubbing both hands over his face as though he can physically push the thoughts away. "What if one day I screw something up so badly that I can't take it back?"

You realise then that he isn't really talking about tonight anymore.

Tonight simply cracked something open.

This is every fear he's ever carried quietly inside himself.

Every time he's worried he's said the wrong thing, every moment he's wondered whether he was enough, every lingering doubt that, despite trying so desperately to be good, he might somehow still become another person who lets somebody down.

"I keep thinking..." His voice is barely audible now. "I keep thinking that one day I'm gonna make some stupid mistake." He gives another tiny, humourless laugh. "And you're gonna realise you deserve somebody better."

Your eyes sting, but he doesn't notice.

"Somebody who doesn't wake up swinging. Somebody who doesn't have..." He gestures vaguely towards himself, unable to find the words. "...all this." His shoulders rise in a shaky breath. "I don't know." He looks down at the floor. "...Somebody safer."

The word lands like a punch.

You don't even think. You cross the room. He hears your footsteps and instinctively retreats another pace.

"No."

You keep walking.

"Please."

Another step backwards. "I don't want you anywhere near me right now."

"I do."

"Baby..." His voice cracks completely. "What if-"

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"No, you don't."

By now, you're close enough to reach him. Steve instinctively pulls his hand back behind him before you can take it, so you simply reach for the other one instead. His fingers are ice cold.

He tries to pull away. Not forcefully, just enough to spare you from touching him. You refuse to let go.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, very quietly, you ask, "You know what I was actually scared of?"

He doesn't answer straight away.

Eventually, without looking up, he whispers, "What?"

Your thumb brushes gently across his knuckles. "That you were having that nightmare alone."

His head lifts, finally, and his eyes meet yours. You feel his hand tremble inside your own.

"I wasn't scared of you." Your voice is so soft it almost disappears into the silence. "I was scared for you."

The last of the distance between you seems to collapse all at once. Not the space in the room. The space he'd spent the last ten minutes desperately trying to build between himself and the person he loved most.

And for the first time since he'd woken up, Steve stops looking at you like someone he needs to protect from himself.

Steve's hand trembles inside yours, though whether from adrenaline or sheer exhaustion, neither of you could really say. His eyes have dropped back to the floor again, unable to hold your gaze for more than a heartbeat at a time, as though looking at you directly only reminds him how close he'd come to something he can't bear to think about.

You squeeze his fingers gently. "Steve."

He doesn't answer. Instead, he gives the smallest shake of his head, blinking hard against the tears gathering in his eyes.

"I can't..." His voice fractures completely. "I can't look at you."

Your heart aches.

Very carefully, so slowly he has every opportunity to pull away if he wants to, you lift your joined hands between the two of you.

"Hey." Your voice is barely louder than the quiet hum of the refrigerator drifting down the hallway. "Look at me."

For a second, you don't think he will. Then, almost reluctantly, his eyes find yours. They're already full of tears.

You guide his hand upwards until his palm comes to rest against your cheek. The contact is feather-light, almost hesitant.

The instant he realises what you've done, he tries to snatch it back as though your skin has burned him.

"No."

You hold it there. Not forcefully, just enough to stop him retreating again.

"Steve."

His breathing catches. "I almost-"

"I know."

"I almost hit you."

"But you didn't."

"I tried to."

"No." You shake your head gently beneath his hand. "You had a nightmare."

He closes his eyes. "I don't care."

"I do."

When he opens them again, you're still looking at him with exactly the same tenderness as before. No fear, no anger, no hesitation.

"You had a nightmare," you repeat softly. "You woke up." A pause. "You stopped." Another. "You apologised."

His face crumples a little more with every sentence.

"You've spent the last twenty minutes being more frightened for me than you've been for yourself."

You slide your other hand over his, gently closing his fingers against your cheek instead of letting them hover there uncertainly.

"That isn't what dangerous people do."

A tear slips free before he can stop it, and you brush it away with your thumb.

"You know what you've done since the second we met?"

He doesn't answer.

"You've walked me home because you didn't want me crossing the car park alone."

Another tear.

"You've learnt exactly how I take my tea."

Another.

"You carry the heavy shopping without me even asking. You check that I've locked the front door when I'm anxious. You always sleep closer to the edge of the bed because you know I like the wall."

His shoulders begin to shake.

"You remember when I'm overwhelmed before I do. You notice when I'm pretending I'm fine. You have spent every single day we've been together making me feel safer than I've ever felt with another person."

Your own voice trembles now.

"So don't stand here and tell me you're dangerous because your subconscious mistook my hand for a monster."

That does it. The last fragile thread he'd been clinging to finally snaps.

A sob tears out of him before he can swallow it back, his knees almost giving way beneath the weight of everything he'd been trying so desperately to hold together.

He folds forwards instinctively, forehead dropping against your shoulder as though he's finally run out of strength to keep himself upright.

"I'm so sorry," he chokes out, the words muffled against your jumper. "I'm so, so sorry."

You wrap both arms around him without hesitation. "I know."

"I scared you."

"You did."

Another sob. "I hate that."

"I know."

"I never..." His voice disappears completely.

You simply hold him tighter, one hand smoothing slowly through his hair while the other rubs gentle circles across his back.

For the first time since he'd woken up, Steve lets himself cry properly. Not quietly, not politely, not trying to hide it. He just... cries.

And you stay exactly where you are, holding him together until he remembers, little by little, that the person clinging to him wasn't afraid of him at all.

She was just afraid of losing him to the nightmare he'd carried home.

Neither of you even attempts to go back to bed.

The bedroom has become too tangled up with everything that happened there, and besides, neither of you is tired anymore. Not really. The adrenaline has long since burned itself out, leaving behind only that strange, hollow exhaustion that arrives after you've cried harder than your body knows what to do with.

So, sometime around four in the morning, the two of you drift quietly into the kitchen.

The lights stay off - there doesn't seem much point in turning them on when dawn is already beginning to soften the edges of the sky outside.

Steve fills the kettle as quietly as he can, wincing apologetically when it clicks on with a sound that somehow feels far louder than it really is. You wrap an old blanket around both of your shoulders while you wait, neither of you speaking very much, because there doesn't seem to be anything left that still needs saying.

By the time the tea is ready, you're sitting on the kitchen floor with your backs resting against the cupboards, two steaming mugs forgotten on the tiles between you as the first pale streaks of morning begin slipping through the window above the sink.

The silence isn't uncomfortable, it's simply tired.

Steve hasn't quite returned to himself yet.

He still startles a little whenever your hand brushes against his, still catches himself glancing at your face as though checking, over and over again, that you're really alright. Every now and then you catch him looking at you with the same wounded expression that had broken your heart in the bedroom, and each time you simply smile back until, little by little, his shoulders loosen another fraction.

The conversation drifts wherever exhausted conversations tend to go. Half-finished thoughts. Quiet apologies that no longer need repeating. Long stretches where neither of you says anything at all.

At some point, without either of you really noticing, your tea grows cold.

The warmth of the blanket, the gentle hush of the early morning and the simple relief of having him beside you begin pulling at the edges of your consciousness.

You don't fight it. Instead, you shuffle a little closer until your shoulder brushes his.

Steve glances down immediately. "You okay?"

You hum softly. "Mhm."

Another minute passes. Then, almost absent-mindedly, you let your head come to rest against his shoulder. Your fingers find his beneath the blanket, threading themselves through his with the same unconscious familiarity they've done a thousand times before.

You sigh. Not from pain this time - from comfort.

Steve goes perfectly still. "...Baby?"

You don't answer. Your breathing has already begun to settle into the slow, even rhythm of sleep.

For a few long seconds, he doesn't dare move. His gaze lingers on your hand curled trustingly around his before dropping to where your cheek is resting against his shoulder, completely relaxed, your forehead tucked lightly against his neck.

You're asleep. Not despite what happened - after it. With him. Because of him. Something inside his chest gives way all over again, though this time it isn't panic. It's relief.

Slowly, so carefully that he hardly disturbs you at all, he lifts your joined hands to his lips and presses the gentlest kiss across your knuckles before turning his head to kiss your hair.

"...Thank you," he whispers.

You don't hear him; you're already dreaming again.

Outside, morning arrives exactly as it always does.

A car rumbles past the house. Somewhere down the street, a neighbour opens their front door before leaving for work. A bird lands briefly on the windowsill above the sink, chirps once, then disappears again into the growing light. The kettle cools quietly on the counter. The world keeps moving.

And somewhere between the nightmare he'd woken from and the sunrise he'd been too frightened to watch, Steve finally begins to understand something he'd been utterly incapable of believing in the middle of the night.

The fact that you'd fallen asleep in his arms without a second thought wasn't proof that he'd failed to protect you.

It was proof that, even after everything, you still felt safest there.

And perhaps the greatest measure of a gentle man was never that he believed himself incapable of causing harm.

It was that the possibility of it terrified him enough to spend every single day choosing tenderness instead.

dividers: saradika-graphics

Despite the torrid weather, your apartment made up for it. It was a real diamond in a coal mine. You’d spent so long finding the perfect place in the perfect location, and this place ticked all your boxes. Bay windows, hardwood floors, gorgeous archways and even a cute little balcony. 

But as perfect as it was, it did come with some quirks. The building was very old, meaning during your downpours, you’d made more calls to your landlord than you had in the last four months you’d been living here. Your windows would shake and rattle from the wind, rain would slip through any crack possible. 

There was one other thing for the plus column, though. Your extremely handsome, mysteriously intriguing neighbour. 

You’d only caught sight of him once, if you could call it that. You were leaving late at night to go and meet a friend, and he was entering his apartment right next to yours. He was tall and broad, a mop of curly brown hair tussled on the top of his head with a beautiful array of freckles kissing his neck and his arms. He’d had his headphones on, so didn’t even hear you exit as he fumbled his key in the door. But from the half a second that you saw him, God, he was gorgeous. 

A part of you felt like you’d already met him, or known him for years, even though you didn’t even know what his name was. 

He kept a very particular routine. During the week, his alarm would sound off at the same time every morning. Like clockwork, two minutes later his shower would turn on and you’d hear the hum of him singing through the thinned wall. 

The smell of coffee and burnt toast would hit your nose, shortly before his door would slam behind him and you’d hear the scurry of his feet down the stairs. He’d return home at the same time every day, four thirty. His footing would be slower now, more relaxed as his keys jingled in his hand as he let himself in. 

Then you’d hear his feet plodding across the floorboards, turning on his stereo at a respectful volume but you’d still feel the vibrations of it humming through the walls and the floor, hitting you from the sofa. At around seven, you’d get hit by the smell of whatever he was cooking that night. And on scent alone, you could assume he was a pretty damn good chef. 

On the weekends, you’d hear the same familiar voices of his friends bubbling through. Laughter and chatter spilling into the night, music humming as you heard the cracking open of cans. You’d never seen or met any of them, either. But you could probably pick them out from their voice at a line-up if they ever committed a crime. 

He was respectful to his neighbours, though. His music was never too loud and you’d always hear his sharp shushing when his friend’s laugh would rattle the frame on your wall. Sometimes, you felt like you were invading this mysterious man’s privacy. Listening to his daily routine, his singing in the shower, you even overheard one time when he’d brought home a girl. 

They’d staggered into his place in the early hours, the sound of her giggles and his low voice pulling you awake from your nap on the couch. You laid there for a minute before feeling a pang of guilt bubble in your chest, grabbing your blanket from beside you and padding through your apartment to your bedroom. 

But you were quick to learn – your bedroom backed right onto his. They’d beaten you to it, when you’d settled into bed you could already hear the sighing and whining from next door. And when his headboard started to knock into your wall, you scrambled to grab your headphones from beside you so you could drown them out. 

It wasn’t your fault that you heard everything he was doing, it wasn’t your fault that the walls were so thin and you could probably recite back to him his favourite song on his most played album. And it’s not like you just sat there and listened, it had been months of familiarity and routine that you’d come to learn. You just wished you had the courage to say hi to him. 

On this particular dreary, bleak Saturday, you’d been out in town to meet a friend for coffee and picked up groceries on your way home to make spaghetti for dinner. The bus groaned beneath you as it pulled up to the bus stop a few blocks away from your house, and you huffed to yourself as you pulled your hood up over your hair and secured the two brown bags beneath your arms before getting off the bus. 

The rain hit you instantly, soaking your coat and your jeans as it dampened the paper bags you were desperately trying to keep intact. You practically ran down the sidewalk, cursing to yourself under your breath as you felt the bags turning soggy in your hands. 

Of course, when you were only a few metres from the front door, one of the bags practically disintegrated under your arm. 

“Fuck.” You whined out loud, trying to lean down to catch it. Shaking your head as the hood slipped back around your neck, soaking your hair and your face instantly as you dropped to your knees in an attempt to gather your fallen groceries. 

You were too busy trying to shield the other bag from the rain with your body as your hands scrambled around beneath you to hear someone jog up behind you, dropping to their knees beside you to gather the ingredients in his arms. 

“Those bags are so shit, always falling apart.” The stranger huffed from behind you. 

Your head spun on your shoulders, your eyelashes heavy from the rain so you had to blink a few times to realise it was your neighbour on his knees helping you. You cleared your throat gently, flashing him a small smile as he stood up whilst holding your tinned tomatoes and other items to his chest. 

“Yeah, the rain doesn’t help either.” You chirped as you looked up at him, shoving a tub of ice cream in the bag that was still intact and finally rising from your feet. You held your spare arm out to him, silently attempting to retrieve your belongings. 

He shook his head gently, the corner of his lips curling upward as he tightened his arm around your groceries to shove his spare hand in the pocket of his jeans to fish out his key. “Don’t worry about it, I got it. What floor are you on?”

You swallowed thickly as he slipped past you, your other arm tightening around the soggy bag as you held it to your chest. “Fourth floor, I’m 4C.”

“4C?” A small laugh croaked from his throat, pushing open the door and standing in front of it to let you pass into the warmth of your shared building. “No shit, we’re neighbours. I’m 4B.” 

“Oh, what a coincidence.” You managed as your shoes squeaked with water beneath you as you began trudging up the stairs. Your mouth ran dry at the realisation that your mysterious neighbour was here now, carrying up your groceries for you. Your gorgeous neighbour that you’ve thought about every day since you saw his ear that one time a few months ago. 

The two of you climbed the stairs, shaking off the rain as you reached the fourth floor. You snaked your spare hand into your pocket to grab your own key, opening the door to place the bag in the doorway before relieving the man from your groceries. 

“Thank you for the help, 4B.” You smiled up at him as he carefully administered the goods into your grip, tilting his head down at you as you took a step backward toward your apartment. 

“No need to thank me,” He spoke as he twirled his key around his index finger. The two of you stood there for a moment, gazing up at him over your punnet of grapes before he turned to his front door. “Don’t be a stranger. If you need anything, you know where I am.”

A warmth crept to your cheeks as you nodded a thank you up to him. He opened his door, offering his hand up in a wave as he slinked in as you did the same. Just as you stepped through, he was quick to clear his throat and retreat back out, his head poking around to find yours. 

“Also, you don’t have to call me 4B. I’m Steve, my name’s Steve.” He laughed sort of awkwardly, his smile so bright across his lips it caused his eyes to crinkle slightly. 

“Steve,” You returned his small laugh as you told him your own name. “I’ll see you around, Steve.” 

He nodded in contentment, parting his lips slightly like he was about to say something else, but they were quick to fall shut again. He flashed you a small wave before disappearing next door and back into his apartment. 

Steve. Hm.

You were quick to push off your soaked shoes and shrug off your wet jacket. You placed the armful of groceries on your counter, and returned to retrieve the soggy bag from the doorway and began putting the rest of them away. The familiar hum of Tainted Minds crept through the wall, your smile brightening across your lips as you threw the empty bag into the trash. 

The rain was still prevalent outside, pattering mindlessly against your windows as you lit the many candles you had laid out throughout your space. You peeled your wet shirt off of your body as you made your way to the bathroom, eager to rinse off the rain water and embarrassment of dropping the groceries in front of Steve. 

Warm water hitting your skin felt glorious in comparison to the cold rain from outside. You let it submerge you, washing away the day. After you finished showering and dried off, you changed into comfier clothes and dried your hair off, twisting it into a clip. 

Your cozy socks carried you back to your kitchen as you pushed up the sleeves of your sweatshirt ready to start cooking your spaghetti. Before your hand grabbed the ingredients you needed, it landed on your favourite bottle of rose. 

You poured yourself a generous glass of the sweet wine. It was a Saturday night, and you deserved it. As you leant against the door to your balcony and watched the rain drench your patio furniture, your mind wandered to what type of wine Steve liked. Did he like wine? Was he a beer guy? Or whiskey–

Pulling you out of your thoughts, a loud crash alarmed you from the living room. You placed your glass down on the counter, quickly rounding out of the kitchen to investigate. 

You were met with your window, definitely not where your window should be. The bottom pane had fallen out, the old frame merely hanging by a threat as the curtain began flying throughout the room. A state of panic washed over you, quick to rush over to attempt to put it back in its place. 

But it was no use. The wind coming in from outside along with the rain was no match for your complete lack of window fitting skills. You glanced around you, searching for anything you could find to assist you, but you came to no such luck. 

You leant the loose pane that was somehow still intact against the wall, bringing your hands up to your face in frustration. Your landlord was definitely not going to answer your call at this time on a Saturday night, and you didn’t exactly have the funds in your pocket to call a professional out right now. 

The sound of Fleetwood Mac vibrating through from the apartment next door lit a bulb above your head. Surely Steve might have an idea on a temporary fix, at least until morning. And he did say if you needed anything, and this was anything. 

Maybe it was the half of your glass of wine or your intrigue in your neighbour that plucked up the confidence, but before you knew it you were already out of your apartment and standing in front of his door. 

You hesitated. Reading 4B on the wooden pane, resting your knuckle against it just to feel the pulse from his stereo inside. You then thought about your broken window, and suddenly your knuckle was rattling against the door. 

The music came to a stop instantly, and you took a small step backward as you heard footsteps coming toward you. The door was pulled open quickly, to reveal Steve stood before you. He’d changed and showered too, the ends of his curls slightly damp, he was no longer in his wet jeans but now a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt that hugged him in just the right manner. 

“Hey, everything okay?” He asked gently, his smile that he offered was bright and welcoming but the way his eyebrows laced together offered an inkling of concern. Maybe you looked a bit more frantic than you thought. 

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your Saturday night, you’re probably busy,” You huffed, lifting your hand to push some hair out of your face as you took in a short breath before continuing. “I was about to start making dinner, and I heard this really loud crash and my window has literally – fallen in. And I can’t fix it, and God, you know as well as I do that Mr. Daniels won’t do anything now, but I can’t sleep knowing that–”

“Hey, hey,” Steve shook his head gently, his large hands coming up to hold your arms. His grip engulfed you, his thumbs softly rubbing against the material of your sweater as he stepped out of his apartment, reaching a hand backward to pull his door closed. “Don’t worry, I can take a look. I’m sure it just needs.. rearranging, or something.”

You nodded gently at his words, letting yourself relish under his touch for a moment before shuffling from his grip. You walked the two of you the short distance to your own place, pushing the door open and holding it for him as he followed. 

“Shit,” He mumbled under his breath at your discarded window pane, glancing back over at you before continuing. “Let me go grab a few tools, I’ll be back.” 

You watched him dart back to his own apartment, and you could even hear him worrying about in there. A loud sigh left your lips as you trudged back into your kitchen, grabbing the glass of wine you’d abandoned and taking another long, deserved sip. 

He returned moments later with a toolbox, and headed straight for the window. You leant in the archway between the two rooms, watching him from around the rim of your glass as his hair flapped through the wind. His hands got to work, you could hear the scratch and twist of his tools as he repaired your window. 

What felt like hours later, he finally had slotted it back into place. He got up from his knees, turning to you with a proud smile across his face. “I’d still call Daniels on Monday, but I think this’ll last you the weekend.”

“Oh, God. Thank you so much, Steve, seriously.” You sighed with relief, a small chuckle passing your lips as you crossed the living room to admire his handiwork. You didn’t know exactly what to expect, the window was back where it should be so it seemed fine to you. 

“I’m glad I could help.” His voice was soft from above, and when you tilted your head to look up at him he was already beaming at you with a warm smile that you could swear you’d dreamt of before, but today was the first time you’d ever seen it. 

You swallowed thickly before speaking, “I was about to make dinner before the– situation. I just opened a bottle of wine, if you want a glass? Least I could do, to repay you.” 

Steve’s eyes glanced to your glass and then back up to your own, nodding gently down at you as he leant down to place the tool in his hand back in its place. “Yeah, I could go for some wine.” 

“Alright then.” You hummed, motioning over to the couch for him to sit on before you retreated back into the kitchen. You grabbed another glass and the bottle, the condensation slippery on your hand as you balanced the neck between your fingers. 

When you rounded back to your living room, Steve was perched on the edge of the couch. You watched him look over the space around him, taking in all of the touches that you’d added through the last few months to make your house a home. 

You broke him from his thoughts when he felt your weight drop beside him, placing your glass on the table before filling up his glass. “So, how long have you lived here then, Steve?”

“Uh, I’ve lived in the building for around eight months now. But the city, nearing two years,” His eyebrows raised gently as he sat there with his knees spread, elbows resting on them as he watched you pour out his glass. He whispered a thanks as he took the glass from you, slowly leaning back into the couch as he looked over at you. “What about you?”

You watched the liquid fall into your own glass, looking back over at him as you placed the bottle back onto the table. “I’ve been here for four months now, it took a long time to find this place. It’s great when it’s not falling apart.” The two of you laughed gently, you hitched one of your legs up onto the cushions and scooted backward, making yourself comfortable. 

“Damn, four months and we’ve only just crossed paths today? Kinda unfortunate.” A small huff passed from his nose, echoing from the glass as he brought the rim up to his lips to take a sip. 

The two of you sat and spoke for what could’ve been hours. You learned that he was from Indiana, a small town called Hawkins where he became a teacher and moved out here to accept a job teaching at another school, which explained his 4:30 return home during the week. 

You learnt about his friends, who you felt like you already knew from all the times you’d heard them through the wall. You even ventured back into the kitchen to grab another bottle of wine, and then another. 

With each trip back from the kitchen, you subconsciously settled an inch closer, to which Steve would return when he’d pop to the bathroom. Or he’d get up to reach over to the coffee table, grabbing a book that you’d left there to read the blurb. And this time when he sat back down, his thigh was grazing your knee. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” You spoke, leaning your head against the back of the sofa as you pulled your empty glass closer to your chest. 

Steve nodded gently, inching his shoulders backward to gauge a better look at you. His eyes trailed across your face, and when they landed on the plump of your lip, you watched the corner of his mouth upturn slightly. “Go for it.” 

A small laugh huffed through your nose, bringing a hand up to cover your face before dropping it back against your knee. You were definitely slightly tipsy, otherwise you’d never be admitting this. “These walls are so thin. Like, paper thin. I kinda feel like I already know you.” 

Steve’s expression faltered for a moment, before a spluttered out a short laugh. His head rolled back as he lowered his glass to rest on his thigh, before tilting his own head to look down at you. “Yeah, I feel like I already know you, too.” 

His voice was hoarse and deep as it left his lips, hitting you deep in your gut. Your own demeanor paused, your lips parting in confusion as you looked up at him. His expression worked with your own as realisation dawned on you – if you could hear everything Steve did, then he could hear everything you did.

A loud gasp left your lips as your hand covered your mouth, the two of you bursting into laughter at the prospect of the two of you spending the last four months together but completely apart. 

“Wait, so what did you hear?” He spoke through his laughter, adjusting his body to face yours as his elbow rested on the back of the sofa, leaning his temple against his palm. 

“Uh, well I know that you’re a morning shower person. You’re somehow always late out of the door, every morning,” The buzz of the wine that you shared is bubbling under your skin now as you pour out everything you’ve gathered about your neighbour. “You’re always singing in the shower, always have the stereo on, always, either you like burnt toast or you don’t know how to use your toaster. You–”

“Alright, alright,” He gently chuckled, his tongue running across his lower lip as he shook his head softly, you watched as he tried to fight the smile from growing across his lips. “You have your own quirks, too.”

Your eyebrows furrowed despite yourself, your lips parting before you straightened your posture slightly. “Like what?”

“Well, you always miss your alarm, hear it about five times before you turn it off completely. You also sing in the shower, very loudly. When you sit out on your balcony on a Sunday morning and sit there whistling to yourself for hours. One of my favourites is when you come home drunk and can’t find your keys, it takes you like five minutes to remember that you hide a spare set under your mat.” Steve beamed proudly over at you.

“Anything else?” You teased, a small smirk toying at the corner of your lips. 

Steve shuffled in his seat gently, his eyes darting to your smirk as one mirrored against his own lips before looking back up at you. “I like hearing you talk to yourself when you’re making dinner, or when you’re watching one of your movies too loud.” 

“They’re not too loud.” A small snort left your nose as you shook your head, eyebrows gently furrowed as you thought back to the few times you’d have to turn up your movie over the sound of his stereo.

His voice dropped gently, his fingers rubbing against his chin as he spoke. “But, I think my favourite part is when it’s late. In the middle of the night, and I know you can’t sleep because I hear you trudging around. But then you settle, and I hear those pretty sounds you make when you touch yourself.”

“Steve–” Your breath hitched as your eyes widened gently, heat rushing to your cheeks as you watched him lean ever so slightly closer. Your eyes fell to the swell of his lips, they were so plump and looked so damn soft.

“God, they’re angelic. I swear, I can hear through the walls just how wet you are when you play with yourself.” 

Your breath hitched in your throat as Steve’s hand reached out from holding his head up to brush against your cheek, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I didn’t realise you could hear that.” Your voice left your lips gently, your eyes dragging down his face as you watched him inch closer. 

“I wait for it every night. Sometimes twice, if I’m lucky,” His teeth gently sank into his lower lip as he pushed his fingers through your hair, his nails gently tracing against the skin on the back of your neck. “Feel like showing me, honey?”

Before you could stop and think about what you were doing, your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. His lips crashed against your own, his spare hand grabbing your glass from your lap and placing it behind him before it found your waist. 

He was quick to lift from his seat to crowd over you, his grip tightening at your waist as he laid you back on the cushion of your sofa. Your hand pulled from his shirt to unclip your hair, tossing the contraption to the floor before pushing your fingers through the curls on the back of his head. 

Your lips moved together perfectly, like this was exactly where you were meant to be. Your knees parted for him to slip his body between them, hovering over you as his hand slipped beneath your sweater to hold onto your waist. 

As his grip tightened on you, your arms snaked around his neck to pull him closer. His tongue parted your lips, dipping past them to explore your mouth. A sigh escaped your throat, falling straight into his own mouth to which he returned with a soft grunt. 

“I’ve thought about this, you know,” His voice croaked hoarsely against you, pulling himself back to look down at you as his arm that was resting beside your head to hold himself up adjusted slightly to run his fingertips across the skin on your cheek. “I saw you, once. You were leaving when I was coming home. And God, all I could think about was how beautiful you were.” 

Your skin burned under his touch as his hand dragged back and forth against your waist, your teeth sank into your lower lip gently as your eyes took in everything you’d been missing for the last four months up close. 

The crinkles by his eyes when he smiled, the two freckles that sat on his cheek, the way his eyes sparkled under your gaze. Your chest tightened as you took in a sharp breath, exhaling a short breath before speaking. “I saw you once too. Just your ear, but it's a nice ear.” 

He let out a breathy laugh from above you, leaning down to peck a kiss against your lips before they pressed to your cheek, then the curve of your jaw. His hot breath against your skin made your knees beneath him weak, your leg hooking around his own. 

“It’s a shame it took a window breaking for you to come knocking on my door then, huh?” He mumbled against your neck as your head tilted aside to give him more access. A small laugh left your lips, your fingers pushing through his hair to hold the back of his neck. 

You nodded gently, a soft sigh leaving your lips as your back arched from the sofa, pushing your front up into his. “Never thought I’d be thankful for a broken window.” 

Steve huffed a laugh against your skin, pulling himself away from above you to sit back on his knees between your legs. His large palms found your knees, rubbing them gently as your legs rested over his hips. 

You watched as his eyes trailed across your body, taking in the way you laid out for him with your hair spread across the cushion of the couch. His hands slipped from your knees and down your legs, up your hips until they slipped under your sweater to hold your waist, the fabric pooling at his wrists. 

“You’re so beautiful. Do you even know how beautiful you are?” His voice hummed gently as his hands inched up your sides until they reached just beneath your breasts. 

Your cheeks warmed under his touch, and his words. Your own hands coming up to cover his own, squeezing them gently before assisting him in pulling your sweater over your head. After he’d tossed it aside and you came to light, Steve was hovering back over you and tilting your chin up with his index finger to capture your lips against his again. 

A choked moan sounded against your lips from Steve as you pressed yourself against him, you realised that you didn’t put a bra on after your shower, and your hardening nipples were rutting into Steve’s chest through his thin t-shirt. 

“Every part of you is so beautiful, my God,” He hummed as he trailed his lips to suck gently at the skin beneath your ear. He left warm, wet kisses along your collarbone as his hand slipped from your waist up to your breast. “So fucking beautiful.”

His palm closed over your breast, kneading it in his hand as his lips trailed down your chest, between your tits before his wet lips closed around your peaked nipple. His tongue toyed with the hardening peak, flicking it beneath the tip of his tongue as his fingers worked the other, using his thumb and index finger to rub it between them. 

“God, Steve.” You purred gently, your fingers curling through his hair to hold him against you as your hips rolled upward into him, desperate to feel him where you needed him the most. 

He dragged his mouth across your chest to your other nipple, taking it in his mouth as he slipped his hand to your waist and slid it down your body. It found the back of your thigh, squeezing the flesh there before murmuring into you. “Fuck, you sound so good, baby, moaning for me.”

The slurps of his mouth lapping at your chest and the pleasured whines passing your lips drowned out the rain hitting the windows from outside. Steve’s hand slipped beneath you to wrap his fingers around the band of your trousers. 

You lifted your hips for him as he tugged them down with one hand, using your own that wasn’t tangled through his hair to assist him. You manoeuvred your hips accordingly, twisting your legs beneath him to let him pull them off you. 

Steve pulled his lips off you, pressing a gentle kiss against the nub that glistened from his mouth. He lifted himself up slightly, your own hands pulling at the collar of his shirt and tugging it from his back. A breathy laugh pulled from his lips at your eagerness, a soft sigh escaping you as it dropped beside him. 

Hair graced generously across his chest, trailing down in a line that travelled deep into his sweatpants. Your eyes followed each mole and freckle that sat across his chest and his stomach, your smile upturning at the small pudge over his bottoms. 

He settled back on his knees between your legs again, a small smirk tugging at his lips as his hands found your knees. He pulled them apart slowly, his eyes trailing from yours and down your body until they landed between your legs. 

“Fuck,” A tight groan escaped him as his large palms ran up and down your skin. His hands splayed at your inner thigh as they inched closer to your pussy, he inched a hand closer to rub his thumb down your slit slowly. “Look at you, soaked right through.”

A shaky sigh left your lips as he pressed into you, his thumb parting your lips beneath the thin fabric that clung to you. Your eyes darted from watching his hands between your legs to look up at his eyes, your pussy tightening around nothing as you watched the look on his face as he toyed with you. 

He slowly pressed his palm against you, slipping it over your mound to wrap his fingers around the band of your panties. He swallowed thickly as he began to pull them down, his smirk widening as you eagerly lifted your hips for him to remove the fabric. 

When you finally laid bare for him, he took another moment to relish in looking you over before pressing his hands in the cushions beside you and lowering himself to your lips. They were quick to capture yours, sighing against your mouth as your palms ran across his bare chest. 

“Need you, now.” He whispered against you, shifting his weight to his knees as his hands slipped beneath your ass. Your arms snaked around his neck, holding yourself against him as his hand drifted to your lower back to pull the two of you upward. 

You held on to him, your tongue licking and twirling against his own as he pulled you up against him and manoeuvred himself up. Your legs snaked around his waist as he stood, his hand groping at the globe of your ass as he walked you toward your bedroom. The good thing about being neighbours, you assume his apartment was laid out exactly like your own as he knew where your room was. 

He pushed the door open with his foot, crossing the room with fever until his knees hit the frame of your bed. You gasped softly into his mouth as he laid you down on your bed, his hands slipping to your waist as he pulled his lips from you and peppered them across your skin as he made his way down. 

The warmth of his mouth dragging across your chest and down between your breasts made you shiver, the plush of his lips against your stomach inching closer and closer to where you needed him was almost too much. 

He settled at the end of the bed, your legs spread for him with ease as his lips made their way to your mound. His nose nestled against the hair that laid against you, slick with arousal as he made his way down. 

“S–Steve,” You choked as his hands wrapped around the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him as his tongue slipped past his lips to your clit. He circled it with the tip a few times, his touch gentle as his eyes met yours. 

His lips wrapped around the swollen nub, his eyes fluttering shut as he sucked gently. One of his hands released your thighs, shifting to assist his mouth as his middle and ring finger pushed through your folds. Gathering your arousal on his fingers as he spread you open, dipping his tongue through them to get a better taste of you. 

You felt him moan against you as his middle finger pressed against your entrance, pushing in slowly as his tongue explored every inch of you. Delving through your labia as his finger sank deeper inside of you. 

“Y’taste so good, fuck,” You felt him moan against you, his mouth returning to your clit as your fingers found his hair again. You tugged on it gently, your hips rutting upward to chase his finger as he slipped it out of you. “Missing me already, huh?”

He pulled his lips back slightly to glance up at you, a small smirk tugging at your lip as you met his gaze over the heave of your breasts. You nodded softly, your pussy clenching around nothing as you nudged his head back toward you. “Please, baby.”

“Mm, good girl,” He hummed as he leant forward to press a tender kiss to your swollen clit. His smirk grew as you whimpered under his touch, pressing another, then another until your hips were rocking into his face. “Seeing as you asked so nicely.”

He sank two of his fingers into you, a loud cry escaping you as your head rolled back into the mattress. His long, thick digits curled perfectly inside of you as your hips rocked into his hand. Your hand guided him to you again, a content hum leaving him as his lips reunited with your cunt. 

His tongue worked in tandem with his fingers, his tongue working your clit as he fucked you. With each thrust in, his fingers hit deep, pressing on that perfect spot inside of you. 

“Such a tight little cunt, sucking me in,” He panted as he pulled his lips back to watch your pussy suck him back in, groaning at the sounds you were making for him. “You gonna come for me, baby? Come all over me?” 

You nodded quickly, the familiar feeling coiling in your stomach as Steve kept his pace, but fucked you deeper. He could feel your walls tightening around his fingers, his eyes blinking up at you to watch you come undone around him. 

“Oh– Oh my god, Fuck–” You whined as your thighs trembled around him, your fingers tugging on his hair for good measure as you felt your orgasm approaching. “‘M gonna come, Steve– fuck.”

“Come for me, baby. Such a good girl. Wanna taste you.” He babbled against your clit, savouring your high as you finally let go. He felt you gush around him, releasing over his fingers as his name left your lips as a loud moan. 

Your hand pulled him by his hair, pulling his mouth off your clit as your hips rutted up into his fingers, still working you through it. He pulled himself back an inch to watch your come dribble from out of you, soaking his fingers and your sheets below you. 

His fingers slowed down after a moment, slowly pulling them out of you and you let out a short huff at the loss of him. His touch was gentle as he pushed his wet fingers through your folds, spreading your arousal with that familiar smirk against his lips. 

“Steve–” You huffed gently as you lifted your head to watch him, and as his eyes found yours he brought his soaked fingers up to his lips. Snaking his tongue around them to collect every last drop, the sight alone was enough to probably finish you off again. 

They pulled from his lips with a pop, and his other hand pulled from your thigh to press into the mattress on either side of you. Pulling himself up your body, he captured your upper lip between his own. You moaned against him at the taste of yourself on his lips, your shaky hands coming up to cup either side of his face to ground yourself. 

He was hesitant in pulling away, pressing a few more pecks against your lips before he settled on his side next to you. He rested his head on his hand as his elbow rested beside you, his other hand was gentle as it rubbed against your stomach slowly. 

“You okay?” His voice was soft, gentle which was a complete stark difference to the way he’d been only minutes prior. Your eyes wandered across his face, and despite your orgasm you’d literally just had, you felt your stomach coiling at the sight of him. His hair roused, his chin and lips shining with your come. 

You nodded gently, huffing a small laugh as you rolled your body onto the side to face him. His hand slipped from your stomach to your back as you rolled, desperate to be holding you in any way that he could. 

“Good.” He spoke, almost with triumph, before leaning forward to press a tender kiss to your lips. His hand slipped up your spine slowly, pulling you closer to him as your hand pressed against his chest. 

You were the one to deepen the kiss, your tongue jutting out to drag across his lips. Eager to taste yourself against him as your hand slipped up through the hair that laid across his chest to his shoulder. 

His hand found your ass, kneading it between his fingers as he sighed into your mouth. Letting you take control, your tongue dancing against his as you slowly pushed on his shoulder, rolling him onto his back and taking you with him. 

Your knees slipped to either side of him, both of his hands finding refuge on your ass as your hand slipped to his jaw. Holding him in place as the two of you licked into each other’s mouths desperately, needing to be connected in some way. 

Steve’s hips began twitching gently, and you gasped against him at the feeling of his hardened cock rubbing against your core. Your hand slipped to his chest, and you pushed yourself off of him for composure, your voice shaky as you spoke. 

“Take your fucking pants off. I need you, now.” Your breath was hot against his mouth, you watched his lips part at your admission. He didn’t nod, he didn’t argue, but his hands left your ass and dropped to his hips, pushing his sweatpants down with his boxers as quick as he could. 

You couldn’t help but huff a small laugh at his enthusiasm, biting down on your lip gently as you brushed your lips against his, pecking him once more for good measure before pulling back to sit up completely. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He panted gently as his hands found your hips as you shuffled backward slowly, dragging your hands down his chest and his stomach until your eyes dropped to his heavy cock laying flat against him. 

A small gasp escaped you at the sight of it. Your palm dragged across it slowly, your eyes darting up to Steve as he moaned your name at your touch. His cock was thick and heavy, it made your hand look small as it wrapped around the base of him. The tip was flushed red, dribbling precum down until it hit your hand. 

Your wrist jerked him a few times, hand twisting around the silky skin before you lifted your hips up slowly. You worked blindly, a string of moans passing your swollen lips as his fat tip notched against your clit. 

Steve reached down, taking over so you could steady yourself above him. His eyes didn’t know where to look, whether to watch as he dragged his cock through your folds slowly, watching his cock gather your arousal on it, or watch you with your head rolled back as your hips worked with his movements. Watching as you used him like a toy, letting him glide through you perfectly. 

“How badly do you want it, baby?” He croaked, his hand squeezing your hip as your head slowly rolled back around to look down at him. “Tell me how bad you want my cock.”

Your cunt fluttered at his words, leaning yourself backwards and resting your hands on his thighs. You heard his breath hitched as he watched you, completely spread out for his viewing pleasure as your puffy lips worked his length. 

“So bad, baby. Please– please fuck me, I need you.” Your voice was shaky as it escaped you, tucking your chin into your chest to look down at him. His expression was smug as he watched you, offering a small nod before his other hand found your hip. 

His hands were steady on you, his grip tight on you as he guided your hips until his tip notched at your entrance. The two of you shared a gasp at the feeling, his fat tip pressing at your tight hole was enough for your fingernails to dig deep into the skin on his thighs. 

Your name left his lips with need, his eyebrows furrowing together as he lifted his hips slightly to inch more of himself inside of you. The stretch of his cock opening you made your head spin, and Steve was gentle as he slowly rocked his hips to get you used to his size. 

But you couldn’t wait much more. You lifted yourself forward, your hands resting on his chest as you began to sink yourself further on his cock, matching his thrusts as your head dropped in pleasure. 

One of his hands left your hips to brush the hair from your face, pushing it over your shoulder and pushing his hands through your hair to hold the back of your head as he spoke breathlessly. “Wanna see you, baby.” 

All you could do was nod. Your mind was hazed, all thoughts completely escaping you as you finally seated against him. The entirety of his cock inside you was almost too much, his thumb rubbed at your hip for measure as you lowered your lips to brush against his. 

As soon as your mouth found his, you began to move your hips. The two of you groaned against each other at the feeling, his hand pulling from your hair to grace your hip again as he assisted your movements. 

“Fuck– So fucking tight, baby, you’re so perfect. So beautiful, feel so good.” He spoke against you as he began to thrust his own hips in time with yours, and you worked together perfectly. 

Each time he bottomed out inside of you, he was hitting spots inside of you that you didn’t even know could be reached. The sounds of your skin slapping and Steve’s cock bullying into your cunt was mesmerising, your hand slipped from his chest to hold the side of his neck as you moaned against him. 

His hands slipped from your hips to your ass, his grip stern on you as your body fell flat against his own. “Such a good girl,” He blathered against your lips, “Perfect little cunt, baby. Taking me so well. So tight, you don’t wanna let me go, huh?”

You shook your head against him, your moans becoming incoherent as his cock pummelled into you. You could feel your second orgasm approaching already, with Steve’s hips meeting your own perfectly, hitting deep inside of you with each thrust. 

“I’m close, baby, I’m so close.” You whined against him, pulling your lips back slightly as you began to find it hard to concentrate, so focused on Steve and the feeling of him stretched inside of you. “I–I’m on the pill, Steve.”

You heard him groan at your admission as his hand drifted from your hip, his palm flattening against your mound as his thumb found your clit with ease. His touch on your swollen nub was enough for your forehead to drop against his shoulder, your body weakening as your orgasm inched closer and closer. 

“Mm, head up, baby,” He mumbled as his touch against your clit slipped, the mixture of your arousal and his spit that he’d spread all over your cunt making it a challenge for him – but he locked in. “Need to see that pretty face when you come all over my cock.” 

You lifted your head, your hand slipping to the curve of his shoulder to hold yourself up as you looked down into his eyes. His beautiful, sparkling eyes that were looking up at you with a look you’d never seen before. 

As your lips parted to moan his name, your orgasm hit you like a truck. Steve’s thumb working overtime to bring you over the edge as your walls fluttered around his cock. Your hand held his face steady for you to look down at, needing something to grip onto as you came. 

Steve was close to follow. His hips held you steady on him, seated on his cock as you felt it twitch inside of you, the warmth of his come filling you up made you moan his name again, your lips falling to his cheek and dragging across to his lips. 

He thrust into you shallowly a few more times, signing off on your pleasure before he slowly lifted you off of him. Despite you being completely fucked out, you still sighed against him at the loss of him inside of you. 

Your body melted against him, the sound of both of your heavy breaths filling up your bedroom as your head nestled against his chest. His palm splayed at your back, gently rubbing against your skin as he tilted his head down to press his lips to your sweaty forehead. 

“God, Steve.” You managed, a small laugh escaping you as you slowly rolled yourself off of him. You stayed close, tucking yourself into his side as your hand rubbed against his chest slowly. 

“Can I get you anything? Some water?” His voice was gentle, his hand lifting to push the hair out of your face as he looked down at you. You shook your head softly, lifting your head to rest your chin on the back of your hand to look up at him. 

His eyes bore into yours, the specks of them sparkling as a smile grew across his lips. His hand dropped to your jaw, his thumb softly trailing across your chin. “You’re so beautiful.” 

You tutted gently, your eyes playfully rolling despite your head tilting into his touch. You didn’t miss the fact that you’d just had the best sex of your life with your neighbour who you’d only met a mere few hours ago, but somehow it felt like you’d known him forever. Like you were meant to be laying here in his arms. 

He couldn't be more than a year or two older than you.

Maybe not older at all.

He's got the kind of face rich boys seem to keep well into their thirties: hazel eyes that catch warmth in the low chandelier light, a strong nose and soft, full lips. Thick brown hair that refuses to stay in place, falling forward in a way that looks accidental even though you know it probably took a 300-dollar haircut to make it look that effortless.

He's dressed simply—pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark slacks—but everything about him is stupidly expensive if you know what you're looking for.   

The watch, the loafers. The clean, understated cologne and the heavy gold signet ring on his left hand.

Old money.

Of course.

Another trust-fund prince getting dragged in by his daddy to “learn the family business.”

You grab the bourbon ordered for seat four—two fingers of Woodford Reserve over fresh ice—and carry it across the room.

He glances up as you set the glass beside him.

Unfortunately...

He's somehow even better-looking up close.

His eyes are stupidly big, lashes stupidly long. There's a scattering of tiny moles across his left cheek, little imperfections that stop him from looking carved out of marble.

Rich boy's got a nice face.

Shame about everything else.

His eyes catch yours for a moment before he gives you a polite nod.

“Thanks, honey.”

Then his attention drops right back to his cards.

You blink.

Honey?

Who the fuck is this guy?

He's your age.

Maybe younger.

You've got seventy-year-old regulars who've been calling waitresses “sweetheart” and “doll” since before you were born, but somehow hearing it from someone who probably still remembers freshman orientation is infinitely more irritating.

You turn on your heel before he catches the expression crossing your face.

Trust-fund asshole.

Probably couldn't tell you what a gallon of milk costs if you put a gun to his head.

Fuck that guy.

· · ·

Well.

Turns out, trust-fund asshole is good at poker.

Disgustingly good.

He’s not loud about it either; that’s what the older men hate most.

For almost an hour, he folds hand after hand, absently spinning that signet ring around his finger while everyone else slowly convinces themselves that he's way out of his depth.

So it's almost funny, when this twenty-something-year-old cleans out someone who's been playing cards since before he was born.

You have to bite back a laugh when one of the regulars slams his cards down hard enough to rattle everyone's glasses.

Serves him right.

By the time you make another round, half the table is bleeding chips.

Everyone's in a foul mood.

Everyone except for seat four.

You set another Woodford beside him.

“Thanks, honey.”

He smiles, this time.

The corners of his hazel eyes pinch with it, little creases fanning outward. It gives him an almost boyish look, rounding out his cheeks, smoothing away the sharp lines of his face until there’s something disarmingly gentle about him.

Huh.

Then he goes right back to looking at his cards.

Asshole.

· · ·

The game finally breaks sometime after midnight.

You're clearing glasses when you notice a thick wad of cash tucked under silver-spoon dickhead's—seat four's—empty tumbler.

You assume it's meant for the cashier... until you pick it up.

It's all hundreds.

A lot of hundreds.

You count it once. Then again. Then a third time because surely, surely, there’s no way.

Your head snaps up toward the entrance and find him standing by the coat room, shrugging into a camel-colored cashmere overcoat that could probably cover your student loans three times over.    

You hurry after him before common sense can stop you.

“Hey! Um, excuse me!”

He turns.

“I think, uh...” You hold up the money. “I think you made a mistake.”

His eyes drift over your face, then flick down to the wad of cash pinched between your fingers—fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.   

He blinks at you, those ridiculous lashes fanning against his cheeks, his brows drawing together like he honestly can't figure out why you’ve chased him down.  

A tiny little crease appears between his brows, which would almost be cute if he wasn't so disgustingly wealthy.

“Did I?”

“...Yeah.”

He studies the cash for another second before understanding dawns on his face.

“Oh.” He gives a small shrug. “No.”

“No?”

“That wasn’t a mistake. It was for you.”

You laugh, because that's insane.

To someone who just walked away with well over a hundred thousand dollars, five grand probably feels like buying coffee.

To you, it's rent. It's gas, tuition, groceries, bills. An entire semester where you wouldn't have to hold you breath every time you swiped your debit card.

“I... I can't take this.”

His brows pull together again. “Why not?”

You stare at him.

“Because it's... five thousand dollars? That's—” You huff another disbelieving laugh. “I mean, that's just... way too much for a tip.”

He glances back toward the card room, then back at you.

Smiles, just a little.

“Didn't seem like too much from where I was sitting.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

And before you can think of another reason to refuse a tip worth more than your savings account, he's already shrugging the rest of his coat on, straightening the lapel with an absent swipe of his thumb.

He turns toward the door, making it only three steps before he pauses.

One hand settled on the brass handle, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You're here Thursdays, right?”

It takes you a second to answer.

“...Yeah?”

His smile comes back.

“Great.”

He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, gives you a little nod, and heads for the door.

“I'll see you next week, honey.”

And then he's gone.

· · ·

He comes back the next Thursday.

And the Thursday after that.

By week five, you've learned his name.

By week six, you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he calls you honey.

By week seven, he starts lingering after the games instead of disappearing the second the last hand is dealt.

One night, you're hauling a crate of empty glasses toward the bar when, without warning, the weight disappears.

You glance up to see a pair of hazel eyes blinking down at you—a warm, boyish smile on those plush lips, almost sheepish, like he's not sure if you're going to let him help or tell him to get lost.  

You raise a brow. “Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not your job.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees easily.

“Then why are you doing it?”

He shrugs like the answer couldn't possibly be complicated.

“Gets me an extra five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“With you.”

He says it so casually that it takes a second for the words to actually land.

And when your face flares with heat, you’re grateful he’s too busy balancing the crate to notice.

· · ·

After that, Thursdays become a little easier.

The job is still the job—the endless dance of dodging wandering hands, stepping away from men who mistake a smile for an invitation and politely slipping your wrist free from people old enough to know better.

But Steve Harrington becomes your bright spot.

He never touches you unless you’re handing him a glass.

He’s the only man in the room who doesn’t let his eyes linger on your ass or snap his fingers to get your attention.  

He always arrives ten minutes early.

Always orders the same Woodford Reserve. Always says thank you.

Always calls you honey.

You learn little things about him.

That he tips everyone far more than necessary.

That he folds cocktail napkins into perfect little squares whenever he’s lost in thought.

That his thumb always finds the gold signet ring on his finger when he’s making a decision.

That he taps it twice against the felt whenever he’s nervous about a bluff.

(You never tell him you figured that one out.)

You learn that Steve doesn’t talk much about his work or his family.  

Instead, he asks about you.

Your classes, your major. The exam you mentioned weeks ago that he somehow remembers without you ever bringing it up again.

You tell yourself he’s probably just like that with everyone.

That Steve Harrington is simply the kind of person who makes people feel noticed.

Special.

You never quite believe it.

· · ·

One Thursday, the game wraps up just before midnight after two of the regulars call it early.

The older men filter out puffing expensive cigars, grumbling about bad beats and rematches.

You're halfway through counting your tips when Steve appears beside the bar.

Hands tucked into the pockets of a navy wool coat, rocking back on his heels.

He waits until you look up.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

And Steve Harrington—poker prodigy, heir to whatever impossible amount of money his family had sitting around—suddenly looks unsure of himself.

Which is new.

And, admittedly, a little adorable.

You set your money down.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers too quickly, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I just—can I ask you something?”

You eye him suspiciously.

“With you? Depends.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth.

“Fair.”

He pulls his hand from his coat pocket, resting it on the bar between you. His thumb brushes over the gold signet ring on his finger, twisting it slowly.

“Well, I was just wondering, if you're done for the night...”    

Tap. Tap.

Two soft taps against the bar top.

You bite back a smile.

“Would you let me take you to dinner?”

You blink.

“...Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“It's midnight.”

“Late dinner, then?”

His expression is so serious that you have to bite back another laugh.

Steve watches you, a faint smile tugging at his own mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, reaching for your jacket.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

You look back at him, pursing your lips.

“You’re just... so different from what I thought you’d be.”

He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of amusement creasing his expression. He’s not offended in the slightest—if anything, he looks intrigued.

Steve Harrington has never been someone who seemed bothered by other people’s opinions of him.

“In a good way or a bad way?”

You consider him for a moment, taking in the guy you were so sure you had figured out from the second he walked through the door.

This boy you’d dismissed as just another entitled douchebag, who turned out to be so downright strange—awkward where you expected arrogance, thoughtful where you expected indifference.

You can't help but smile.

“Ask me again after dinner.”

By now, you know the other dream by heart.

It's come back to you more times than you could ever count in the three years since that first summer evening at the lake. Sometimes so often in a single season that it starts to feel less like dreaming and more like visiting somewhere. It doesn't always come the same way twice. Some nights you get every detail whole and unbroken: the exact warmth of the truck's hood, the precise, unhurried way he tucks your hair back, the sound of his warm laughter catching on the wind before it can reach you. 

Other nights it arrives in pieces, worn soft at the edges, the way a memory gets when you've turned it over too many times; a flash of his profile against the sunset, a half-remembered joke you can't quite finish, the color of the truck door going fuzzy and uncertain no matter how hard you try to hold it steady. You used to tell your mother every detail the morning after. You don't anymore, not really, and not because it matters any less, but because by now you can recite it to yourself in the dark, quiet and private, like checking something is still where you left it.

This dream isn’t like that one, it doesn't start warm. That's the first thing that's wrong.

There's no lake this time, no truck, no gold light settling over the water like something poured. Instead there's cold, a bone-deep, static kind of cold that hums under your skin before you even understand you have skin, before you understand anything at all except that you are somewhere, and that somewhere is bad.

You're standing in a living room that isn't yours. Strings of colorful Christmas lights loop crookedly across the walls, half of them flickering, casting sick little pulses of red, yellow, and blue over a couch pushed at a strange angle, over a coffee table dragged sideways, over the mouth of a hallway that seems to breathe. The air smells like a battery left too long in your hand, sharp, metallic, and wrong.

You look down. The hands at the ends of your arms are not your hands. They're bigger, steadier, and yet shaking. There's a boy in the room whose face you don't recognize with your eyes but you know him anyway, somewhere lower down, somewhere past thought. He has soft dark hair, a jacket that doesn't fit him like it should, and he’s moving like someone holding himself together through sheer will.

Jonathan, something in you supplies, without being asked.

You are not yourself here. You know that the way you know everything in these dreams, quietly, completely, no explanation required. You are wearing someone else's fear like a coat two sizes too big. Somewhere very far beneath the pounding of this borrowed heart, a small, steady voice that is entirely your own says: you are not her. Watch. That's all you're here to do.

Something moves in the walls.

Not behind them, inside of them. A wet, shifting drag of a sound, like something enormous learning how to fit itself through a space too small for it. The Christmas lights flutter, once, twice, and in the space between flickers you can see it. Only for a second and only in pieces.

It doesn't have a face the way a face should work. It has a place where a face would go, and that place opens.

Nancy– you, not-you– stumbles back into the boy's chest, and his arm comes up hard across you, and somewhere behind both of you a third voice is shouting something you can't quite catch, words swallowed by the static-thick air. The lights die out completely. The dark that comes down after them is total, pressing, the kind of dark that has a weight to it.

Then, a light cuts through the darkness, a flashlight-white and shaking, and a shape crashing through the front door like it's been waiting outside gathering the nerve.

Steve.

You know him instantly, the way you always know him. He’s different here, younger, sharper around the eyes, breathing hard like he ran the whole way, both hands wrapped white-knuckled around a baseball bat studded through with long, crooked nails. He doesn't look like the boy from the lake. He looks like someone who has already decided something and isn't willing to be talked out of it.

"Get behind me," he says, and his voice cracks on it, just slightly, just enough that you– the real you, the one watching– feels it land somewhere soft.

Nancy's mouth moves, arguing, the way you already suspect she always does. Steve doesn't wait for the argument to finish. He plants his feet.

The thing comes out of the hallway all at once, faster than anything that size should be able to move, and the room fills with a sound like wet paper tearing, over and over, and Jonathan is shouting your name— her name— and the flashlight beam swings wild across the walls, throwing the creature's shape into strobing, broken pieces, and Steve is already swinging.

The bat connects with a crack that you feel in teeth that aren't yours.

It barely slows the thing down. It staggers, shrieking, that horrible flowering not-face wrenching sideways, and for one second it seems to forget all of you are even there.

That second is enough. Somewhere to your left, Jonathan is shouting a word that might be gun, might be your name, and your hands, Nancy's hands, are already moving before the rest of you catches up, closing around something heavy and cold that's been forgotten in your hands this whole time. The rifle kicks hard into your shoulder as it goes off, once, twice, the sound of it swallowing every other sound in the room, and you just watch, helpless, borrowed, watching, as the creature bucks backward with each hit, black-red spattering across the wallpaper, its shriek climbing into something that doesn't belong in any register a throat should make.

For one breathless moment you think it's over. It isn't.

The thing rights itself, faster than something that wounded should be able to, and whatever passed for reason in it before is gone now, replaced with something closer to fury. It doesn't come for Jonathan. It doesn't come for the gun. It comes at you, at Nancy.

Everything narrows to that half-second. The petaled darkness of its mouth. The cold static roar building underneath everything. Nancy's feet, your feet rooted to the floor, too slow, too late, the rifle useless and empty in hands that have started shaking, and somewhere far beneath the terror there's another feeling entirely, small and fierce and entirely your own: No. No, don't you dare.

Steve moves.

He gets there first, throwing himself into the space between the creature and Nancy like it costs him nothing to decide, like there was never going to be another version of this where he didn't, bat already swinging up and around in a wide, desperate arc, and he's shouting something, and Nancy's arms, your arms come up on instinct.

You wake up screaming.

Not crying. Not whimpering. Screaming, the kind that tears your throat raw before you're even fully back inside your own small body, tangled so tight in your sheets that for one horrible, breathless second you think something in the dark still has a hold on your ankle.

"Mom! Dad!"

Your door bangs open so hard it hits the wall. Your mother is there in her nightgown, hair mussed from sleep, already crossing the room before you've finished shouting. Your father is right behind her, flipping the hall light on so fast the whole room goes white and blinding and safe.

"I'm here baby, I'm here—" Your mother's arms are around you before you can finish gasping her name again, and you're shaking so hard your teeth click together, fists knotted into the back of her nightgown like she might be the only solid thing left in the world.

"There was— there was a monster—" The words come out in broken pieces, hiccupped between breaths. "It had— it didn't have a face—"

"Shh, shh. You're okay. You're safe, baby, I've got you." She rocks you slowly, one hand smoothing over your hair, over and over, like she can iron the fear out of you through repetition alone.

Your father sits on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, his hand warm and heavy on your back. "Just a dream," he says, gentle. "It was just a dream. Nothing's here."

You want to believe him. Some frightened, four-years-younger part of you almost does.

But underneath the shaking, underneath your mother's heartbeat steady against your ear, one image won't let go of you, Steve, throwing himself into the dark without a single second of hesitation, bat raised, already moving to put himself between a monster and the girl that he loved.

You didn't get to see if he made it in time.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling for a long while after your parents leave the hall light on and pull your door mostly shut. In the corner of your eye, you see the crack of yellow light on your bedroom floor, and all you can think, over and over, small and useless and true:

Please let him be okay. Please. Please let him be okay.

Sleep doesn't come back. You don't really expect it to, not with your heart still going too fast, not with Steve's voice still cracking in your ears, get behind me, not with the very last thing you saw before waking still suspended and unfinished: him throwing himself into the dark, and you never getting to see if he landed on the other side of it safely.

You give it a long while anyway, lying still, listening to the house settle back into quiet around you. But the fear starts to loosen its grip eventually, the way it always does once the crying's done and the shaking's stopped, and underneath it something else creeps in to take its place, smaller, steadier, more familiar by now than the fear itself.

You need to remember this. All of it. Before it starts slipping away the way dreams always do.

So you do what you've started doing instead of trying to fall back asleep.

The notebook lives under the loose floorboard by your closet, the one you found last spring when you were looking for a rolled-away marble and discovered, instead, that it lifted clean out if you dug your fingers under the right corner. It felt like a sign. You've never told anyone about the floorboard, and you've definitely never told anyone what's underneath it: a hard covered canvas notebook, with a stained red cover, half a pack of pencils, and a flashlight you're not supposed to have in your room because your mother worries you'll read too late and ruin your eyesight.

You worry about different things now than ruining your eyes.

You click on the flashlight underneath your blanket, notebook balanced on your knees, and you write it all down the way you've learned to, fast, before it can start slipping away the way that dreams always do, details first, feelings after.

Christmas lights on the walls, but it wasn't Christmas. Red, blue, and yellow flickering, going out right before it showed up.

I was someone else tonight. Bigger hands, older than mine. Steadier than mine, but shaking too.

A boy named Jonathan. Dark hair, jacket too big for him. I knew his name before anyone said it out loud, same as always.

The thing doesn't have a face. It has a place where a face should be, and that place opens.

Steve came through the front door with a bat. Nails hammered through it. He said "get behind me" and his voice cracked right in the middle of it.

There was a gun. I don't know how I knew how to hold it or where the safety was, but my hands remembered even though they weren't mine.

He jumped in front of her before it could get us. I didn't get to see if he was okay. I never get to see if he's okay.

You flip back a few pages while you're at it, the way you sometimes do, just to look at everything you've collected so far. Pages and pages of the lake by now, soft-edged and warm even by flashlight, his laugh, the tuck of hair behind your ear, the sunset bleeding pink and lavender over water. And older pages of the other kind too, from other nights like this one: the house again, different lights this time. I think I've been Nancy before. Or someone like her. Steve always gets there. He doesn't always get there in time.

Tonight's entry is just the newest addition to that second, harder stack. You add it to the pile without letting yourself reread it twice.

You've never shown the notebook to anyone. Not your parents, not your best friend Margaret, not even that one time, months ago, when your mother sat on the edge of your bed asking gently if you wanted to talk about the dreams and you almost, almost went and got it just to prove you weren't making any of it up.

You didn't show her, in the end. Something in you already understood, even at eight, that showing her would turn it into her problem to fix instead of yours to keep.

You close the notebook, slide it back under the floorboard, and press the board down until it clicks quietly into place. Then you lie back down and stare at the ceiling until the sky outside starts turning that thin, early morning grey, and somewhere in the stretch between wondering if Steve made it in time and wondering about nothing at all, you finally fall asleep.

School the next morning is a different world entirely, even running on almost no sleep, and you're grateful for it in a way you couldn't explain to an adult even if you tried.

Margaret is already waiting by the coat hooks when you get there, swinging her lunchbox by its handle, gap-toothed grin firmly in place, dark hair tied in two braids. She's been your best friend since September, ever since she sat next to you on the first day and declared, with total second-grade confidence, that you were going to be friends because you both liked the exact same kind of horse stickers. It hasn't been complicated since. You've never had to explain anything to Margaret that you didn't want to.

Before you’ve even hung up your coat, her mouth opens. "I got a new horse," she announces. "The purple one. My aunt sent it."

"The one with the rainbow mane?"

"The one with the rainbow mane," Margaret confirms, delighted, like you've passed some kind of test just by remembering. "You can hold it at recess if you want."

"Okay." You smile and it's easy, uncomplicated, the kind of smile that doesn't have anything underneath it. "I'll trade you my eraser collection."

"Deal."

Recess passes in a blur of hopscotch and horse trading and an argument with a boy named Brady about whether dinosaurs and dragons were the same thing, and for a whole hour and a half you don't think about Steve or the notebook or the thing with no face at all. That's the best part of Margaret, maybe– not that she'd understand, if you ever told her, but that around her you don't need anything to be understood. You just get to be a normal kid with a purple horse and an eraser collection, and it feels, for a little while, like the truest thing about you.

You weren’t meant to hear your parents talking that night. You're on your way to the bathroom, socked feet quiet on the hallway floor, when their voices drift up from the kitchen, pitched low in that particular register grown-ups use when they think a closed door is the same thing as a closed conversation.

"—third time this month," your mother is saying, and even muffled through the door you can hear the strain in it. "And last night, John, she was screaming. Really screaming, not just crying out. A monster with no face, that’s what she said. That's not normal, is it? A kid her age, dreaming the same thing over and over like that."

"Kids have violent imaginations." Your father responds, careful, the way he gets when he's trying to be the calm one even though he doesn't sound totally convinced of it himself. "You remember what James used to dream about. Those wolves."

"This isn't wolves. It's the same monster, the same kind of house, near enough every time, however she tells it." A pause, a chair scraping. "I just — I keep wondering if we should have her talk to someone. A counselor, or—"

"And tell them what? That she has bad dreams?"

"That she has the same bad dreams. Over and over. That's not — that's not just her imagination, that's a pattern, and I don't like not being able to understand it."

You stand very still in the hallway, one hand pressed flat against the wall, and you feel something complicated twist in your chest, not guilt exactly, but close to it. You know you could fix this, a little. You could go downstairs right now and tell them it's fine, that you don't need a counselor, that the dreams don't feel like a sickness, they feel like something else entirely, something that has a shape and a reason even if you can't explain what it is.

You don't do that either. You go back to bed instead, quiet, and lie there listening to the low, worried hum of their voices through the floor until it finally goes quiet.

You think about the notebook, tucked safe under its floorboard. About the way Steve never once hesitated before he moved. About the fact that whatever this is, it doesn't feel like something broken in you.

It feels like something only you're supposed to be keeping.

You fall asleep eventually, one hand curled loosely near the edge of the mattress, close enough to the floorboard that some small, stubborn part of you feels like you're keeping watch over it even in your sleep.

Tonight’s dream starts differently than the other ones he’s had of you. Those ones were more distant, a track, a race, the roar of a crowd he was part of without ever being close enough to really see your face until the very end. This one drops him right into the middle of everything instead, no distance at all, theree’s laughter, too many voices layered on top of each other, someone's stereo playing too loud from an open window, the clatter of paper plates being stacked wrong and toppling off a folding table.

Steve stands at the edge of a backyard strung with streamers that have gone slightly lopsided in the warm breeze, and it takes him a second to understand what he's looking at. Then he sees you, and it clicks into place all at once.

You're sixteen tonight. He doesn't know how he knows that, the same way he never knows how he knows anything in these dreams, but it settles into him with total certainty, the way all the important facts do. Sixteen, and surrounded by people close enough to touch, there are no bleachers, no distance, none of the roaring blur he remembers from the other time he found you in a dream like this. This time there are friends piled onto a picnic blanket, your aunt fussing with a camera that won't wind properly, your dad wrestling a cooler up the porch steps, a cake crowded with far too many candles waiting at the end of the table.

He's never seen you like this. That's the thing that stops his thoughts in their tracks, standing there at the edge of it all, unnoticed the way he always is in dreams that aren't really about him. The one other time was the race, it was quick, and distant, over almost as soon as it started, more a glimpse of you than anything close to knowing you. He's never once seen you loud.

Someone starts singing, off-key and enthusiastic, and it catches like a spark, the whole yard dissolving into a ragged, overlapping chorus of happy birthday to you that doesn't match tempo for more than two lines running. You put your hands over your face, laughing, obviously delighted and clearly performing a little bit of embarrassment you don't really feel, and Steve realizes, watching it, that your laugh is exactly the sound it was that day at the race, it’s just louder now. Freer, like it's been let off a leash.

"Make a wish!" someone shouts, one of your friends, dark-haired, elbowing you hard enough that you stumble a step sideways, still laughing.

"I wish for everyone to stop staring at me while I blow out my candles," you announce, deadpan, to a chorus of groans, and then you take a breath dramatic enough to be its own punchline and blow out all sixteen in one go, and the yard erupts into cheering like you've done something genuinely impressive.

Steve laughs out loud before he can stop himself. Nobody turns, because nobody hears him. Nobody ever does.

He watches you work the crowd after that, and it's like watching a different language click into place. It’s you, teasing one friend mercilessly about a haircut, ducking a swat aimed at your shoulder without even looking, already halfway into a joke about someone's disastrous parallel parking before the first one's finished landing. You're funny. Witty in a fast, easy way that clearly comes from years of practice, the kind of charm that doesn't perform for a room so much as it just naturally fills one. Steve finds himself grinning like an idiot at things you're not even saying to him, just for the pleasure of watching you say them at all.

There you are, he thinks, and doesn't fully understand why it feels like relief.

Gifts come next, a haphazard pile on a card table that your friends clearly conspired over: a mixtape that gets immediate, gleeful mockery for its cover art, a joke gift that makes half the yard howl with laughter and the other half groan, something small and clearly sentimental from the dark-haired friend that makes you go quiet and hug her hard enough to lift her slightly off her feet. You open every single one like it's the best one yet. Steve's starting to suspect that's just how you are, generous with your own delight, handing it out freely instead of hoarding it.

Then your dad sets a small box in front of you, and something in the whole yard shifts.

It's wrapped simply, not much bigger than your palm, and your dad's got this look on his face, the specific, badly-suppressed look of someone who has been dying to give something away for weeks. You clock it instantly.

"Why are you smiling like that," you say, narrowing your eyes at him even as you reach for the box.

"Just open it."

You do. And for one full second, you just go still, completely, utterly still, staring down at what's sitting in your palm, and Steve leans forward without meaning to, desperate suddenly to see what could stop you mid-motion like that.

It’s keys. A small, ordinary set of car keys, with a gold heart charm dangling alongside them, catching in the warm porch light.

"You're joking," you say, voice gone strange and thin.

Your dad's grin cracks wide open. "Nope."

"No—" You look up at him, then back down at the keys like they might dissolve if you're not careful. "No you didn't."

"Go look out front," he says, before you can ask anything else, practically vibrating with the effort of holding yourself together.

You're moving before he finishes the sentence, bare feet slapping fast across the grass, the whole party surging up and after you in a loose wave of laughter. Steve moves with the crowd, weightless the way he always is here, carried along on the edge of something he doesn't get to touch.

And there it is at the curb, catching the porch light along every clean line of it, a 1984 Chevrolet Camaro, off-white and gleaming, a ridiculous pink bow tied crookedly around the driver's side handle like someone wrapped it in a hurry and didn't care that it showed.

"OH MY GOSH — " Your hands fly up to your mouth, and for a second you just stand there frozen on the lawn, staring at it like you're waiting for someone to tell you it's a joke after all. Nobody does. "Thank you," you finally manage, spinning around to hug your dad so hard he actually staggers half a step, laughing, "thank you, thank you, I can't– how– thank you—"

Your dad catches your hand for just a second before you can pull away, tugging you half a step aside from the noise, his voice dropping low enough that it almost gets lost under the celebration around you. "She planned all this, you know. Picked the color and everything, a long time ago." He doesn't say who, and he doesn't have to, not to you. Steve, watching from the edge of it all, only catches fragments of your dads words, and doesn't understand yet what it costs your father to say it so casually. "She would've loved to see your face right now."

You don't answer right away. Something moves behind your eyes, quick and complicated, gone again almost before it arrives, and then you're hugging him again instead, hard, and the moment folds back into the noise of the party like it was never there at all.

Your friends are already crowding around the car, someone whooping, someone else already trying the door handle just to peek inside, and you;re laughing again, that same bright, unguarded sound from the candles, bouncing on your toes like your body can't quite hold all of what you're feeling.

Steve stands at the edge of the driveway, hands in his pockets, watching you glow.

He doesn't need anything else from the dream after that. He just watches. The bow slipping half off the handle as one of your friends leans against the car, your aunt already tearing up behind her camera, you turning in a slow circle in the driveway just to take all of it in one more time, like you want to memorize the exact shape of this special kind of happy.

Good, he thinks, warm and simple and entirely without complication, for once. Good. I'm glad it's a good one for you.

When he wakes, the ceiling above him is the same as always, too low and too familiar, but for once that doesn't bother him at all. He lies there a long moment, grinning up at nothing in particular, still hearing the ragged, off-key chorus of happy birthday somewhere at the back of his mind, still seeing the exact, unfiltered joy on your face when you realized the keys were real.

He doesn't know your last name. Doesn't know your address, your friends' names, anything real enough to hold onto in daylight.

But he knows you got a cream colored Camaro on your sixteenth birthday, with a crooked pink bow and a yard full of people who love you, and that you laughed loud enough to fill the whole night with it.

For now, lying there in the grey, ordinary light of his own room, that feels like more than enough to know.

Steve's father has never once come to a full game or practice. Steve has started keeping an actual count, the way some kids count baseball cards or bottle caps, a private, running tally he doesn't tell a soul about, not even his mother, who he suspects already knows anyway.

This morning, though, there's a small window of hope, because his dad is actually home on a Saturday, actually drinking his coffee at the kitchen table instead of already gone behind the office door, and when Steve asks, carefully, like the question might scare him off, his dad says, "Yeah, maybe. If I can get away," in the particular tone that means probably not, but I don't want to be the one who has to actually break the news.

Steve decides to believe the maybe anyway. He's nine now. He's good at believing maybes.

He's good at baseball too, as it turns out, good in the specific, uncomplicated way that comes easily to a kid who's already a head taller than half his team and hasn't grown into how strong that makes him yet. His coach keeps batting him fourth, the cleanup. His swing has a kind of loose, natural confidence to it that the other kids don't have, still stiff and overcorrecting, still afraid of the ball in a way Steve stopped being afraid of it months ago.

He hits a double in the third inning, a clean, satisfying crack of contact that sends the ball skipping past the shortstop, and the sound the crowd makes– that quick, surprised burst of oh!-- does something warm and immediate to his chest that he doesn't have a name for yet, but chases anyway, instantly, without thinking twice.

He looks toward the bleachers before he even reaches second base. Old habit. Automatic, hopeful, and dumb.

His mother's there, clapping, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. The seat beside her is empty.

He doesn't let his face do anything about it. He's gotten good at that too.

By the end of the game— a win, comfortable, and mostly because of him, something has shifted that Steve doesn't fully understand yet but can feel anyway, the way you feel weather changing before it arrives.

Kids he barely talks to during the week are suddenly walking close beside him toward the parking lot, laughing a half-second too eagerly at things he says that aren't even that funny. Tommy Hagan, who ignored him completely at the start of the season, offers him half a candy bar like it's a peace treaty. A kid named Mark asks, with real hope in his voice, if Steve wants to come over sometime, like the invitation itself is a kind of gift he's not sure he's allowed to give.

"Sure," Steve says, easy, already used to saying yes to invitations he barely thinks about, and watches Mark’s whole face light up like Steve just handed him something rare.

Near the fence, two girls from the grade above him are watching, half-hidden and clearly not hiding well, whispering to each other behind cupped hands. When Steve glances over, one of them goes bright red and yanks the other one's sleeve, both of them dissolving into giggles and looking pointedly at anything except him. It's strange, not bad-strange, just new-strange, a kind of attention he doesn't yet know what to do with except feel vaguely, pleasantly bigger because of it.

He's noticing something else too, quieter, underneath all of it. It isn't really him they're all responding to, at least not the parts of him that feel most like himself, the quiet parts, the parts that get overlooked at his own kitchen table most nights. It's the double, the win, the height he didn't ask for and the swing he's still getting the hang of. It's the version of him that's good at something visible, something a crowd can clap for.

He files that away without fully understanding yet that he's filing it away. Nine-year-olds aren't supposed to be strategists. But some old, quiet, watchful part of Steve, the same part that always seems to know things in his dreams before anyone explains them, starts drawing a line anyway, faint but real, between being liked and being noticed, and an even fainter one between being noticed and being enough.

His dad isn't home yet when they pull into the driveway. Steve already knew he wouldn't be, even though somewhere underneath, there was a part of him that kept hoping anyway.

He finds him later that night, though, home for dinner at least, tie loosened, going through mail at the kitchen counter with the particular distracted energy of someone who's still half at the office even while standing in his own kitchen.

"We won," Steve says, hovering in the doorway. "I hit a double."

"Yeah?" His dad doesn't look up from the mail. "That's good, champ."

"Coach said it was the best hit of the game."

"Good stuff." A beat. Steve waits, some small, stubborn part of him still holding out for more, a question, a tell me about it, anything with actual weight behind it. His dad slits open an envelope instead, scanning it fast. "Did your mom get the dry cleaning?"

"I don't know."

"Go ask her, would you?"

Steve goes. He doesn't let his face do anything about that either.

Lying in bed that night, Steve replays the day in pieces, not the double, not really, though it flickers through once or twice. Mostly he replays the walk to the parking lot. Tommy Hagan’s candy bar, Mark’s hopeful, lit-up face, the two girls by the fence, red-cheeked and giggling, unable to stop looking at him even while pretending not to look at all.

He doesn't have the words yet for what he's starting to understand, not really, not at nine years old. But he can feel the shape of it forming anyway, patient and quiet, the way understanding sometimes arrives well before the vocabulary does: that a good hit gets you noticed faster than a good heart does. That people show up for the version of you that wins something. That his father might never come to a game, might never once say tell me everything, but a stadium full of near-strangers will lean in and cheer for exactly the same nine-year-old boy without needing to be asked twice.

It isn't the same thing as what he actually wants. He knows that, somewhere underneath it all, even now.

But it's something. It's warm, and it's loud, and it's there, offered freely and immediately in a way his father's approval has never once managed to be.

Steve decides, mostly without even deciding, that he'll take it.

taglist:

The office door was already open when you nudged it with your shoulder, one hand wrapped around Maggie's coffee mug. She sat behind the desk with a pen poised over a yellow legal pad, one elbow resting lightly against the arm of her chair while her phone was tucked against her ear. The expression she wore told you this wasn't one of her social calls. Her eyes were narrowed slightly, focused, already piecing together information before she'd even finished hearing it.

“Did he leave a name?”

You crossed the room quietly, setting the coffee beside her without interrupting. Only then did she glance up. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she returned her attention to the call. Her pen scratched across the paper. Curiosity got the better of you.

Chamberlain. Dean? Darren?

“Has anyone else spoken to him, that you know of?” Maggie asked into the phone, tapping the end of the pen against the paper. “Okay, no, no, this all helps. Thank you, Rachel. If you think of anything else, you have my number.” A smile returned to her voice. “You too. Bye, bye.”

She lowered the phone onto the desk with a thoughtful sigh before reaching for the coffee. The first sip seemed almost ceremonial. Nobody appreciated a fresh cup of coffee quite like Maggie Heaton.

“Thanks, Baby.”

“Who was that?”

“That was Rachel. She's one of the Hawthorn residents.” She gestured vaguely with the mug before setting it back onto its coaster. “I took your advice and asked around about that loan company. Rachel said she had spoken to someone.”

“This... Chamberlain?” You pointed at the legal pad.

“She couldn't remember his first name.” Maggie pulled the pad a little closer to herself. “Certain it was a 'D', but I can get Bug to do some digging. Even with half a name that boy is a wizard.”

“You need anything else?” you asked, pushing yourself away from the desk. “Me and Gator are about to team up and wipe the floor with the twins on Mario Kart.”

“I'm good here.” She lifted her mug in a tiny salute. “Go get 'em.”

You left her smiling over her coffee, pulling the office door gently closed behind you and went to join the boys in the living room.

Gator was already stretched out in one corner of the sectional sofa while the twins occupied the floor in front of the television. Walker was flicking through the race maps with the sort of concentration that suggested the choice of circuit was somehow a tactical decision, while Tucker sat with both controllers balanced on his knees waiting for everyone to get settled.

You stole one from his hands as you passed before dropping onto the sofa beside Gator, your shoulder brushing his.

"I hope you know, we're not taking it easy on you," you said, nudging his shoulder with your toes.

Tucker snorted without looking away from the screen. "You remember we played the old man before right?"

Walker looked over his shoulder with a grin. "And he lost every race?"

"Less of the old man, I ain't that old!" Gator protested. "Also, I came third?"

You turned to look at Gator with complete seriousness.

"I am undefeated on Mario Kart, if you lose this for me, Gator Tillman, I will never forgive you."

"Ain’t gotta worry, Baby. We got this," he smirked.

The twins spent most of the first race trying to knock Gator off the track with shells and bananas while you quietly got on with the important job of winning. By the final lap you had a comfortable lead, although Tucker somehow managed to sneak past Gator right before the finish line, earning himself second place by the narrowest of margins.

The second race went much better. You crossed the line first again with Gator pulling in straight behind you. Walker stared at the results screen in disbelief before shoving Tucker in the shoulder.

"Dude, if we lose this!" Walker moaned.

"It's Baby!" Tucker threw his hands into the air. "Swear she practices!"

"I don't need to practice, I'm naturally gifted," you laughed.

"Naturally gifted at a lotta things," Gator leaned closer and whispered in your ear.

Heat found your cheeks and you gave him a playful shove before anyone else noticed.

"You can flirt when we win, Tillman."

"Didn't know y'were so competitive, Baby."

"She's a demon," Tucker said, shaking his head. "You should see her when we get the Uno cards out."

Walker nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, Dad banned us from playing last Christmas 'cause Baby got so loud."

"You're both just sore losers,” you pushed Walker’s shoulder with your foot again. “Less talking, more me winning, please!"

By the third race, the twins had abandoned any pretence of racing fairly and had apparently decided the quickest way to stop you winning was to make Gator's life as miserable as possible. It almost worked. You crossed the finish line first for a third time, but a pair of perfectly timed red shells sent Gator tumbling from second to fourth at the very last moment.

You slowly turned your head towards him; he caught the look and instantly sat up straighter.

"That weren't my fault! They're targetin' me 'cause they can't stop you!"

"Thin ice, Gator. If you lose this, you're going to that date tonight alone."

The warning was enough to wipe the grin from his face. As the final race loaded, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, controller held just a little tighter than before. Across the room, even the twins had gone quiet.

The last map was chaos from the very beginning. None of you stayed in the same position for more than a few seconds, shells flying across the screen while the four karts traded places over and over again. By the final lap you had edged back into first, Walker sat right behind you with Gator tucked into third. Then, coming around the penultimate bend, Gator clipped an item crate; a booster. You spotted it before he did.

"Hit R1! Gator, R1!" you yelled.

He reacted instantly, jabbing the button with his thumb. His kart transformed into a bullet and shot forwards, blasting straight past Walker before flying by you as well. A second later he crossed the finish line in first. You came in just behind him, Walker took third and Tucker limped home in fourth. The second the results flashed onto the screen you were on your feet, pointing triumphantly at both twins.

"Ha! Undefeated champion bitches! You two suck!"

"Oh god, who gave Baby a controller?"

You spun around to find Ford halfway down the staircase with Josie. He took one look at the victory lap you were clearly in the middle of and sighed with the long-suffering expression of a man who'd seen this exact scene before.

"This is why we don't let her play," Tucker groaned.

Beside you, Gator was laughing too hard to be any help. He stood, gently pried the controller out of your hands and passed it back to Walker.

"Think that's enough playstation f'you today."

You leaned around him just enough to throw one last grin at the twins.

"You two should do some practice laps," you teased.

You barely had time to register Gator moving before his hands found your waist and, with insulting ease, he hoisted you over one shoulder.

"Yeah, enough outta you."

You squirmed and laughed all the way out of the living room. Gator didn't put you down until he reached your bedroom. He stepped inside, lowered you onto the floor with exaggerated care and stood looking at you with a thoroughly pleased grin spread across his face.

"Who are you?” He laughed. “If I'd known y'were this competitive, I woulda got y’on the football team with me an’ Logan."

Laughing, you let yourself fall backwards onto the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath you.

"Didn't get to play sports growing up. So, I got really good at beating everyone's ass at everything else."

"Thought Tucker was gonna cry at one point." Gator laughed again, shaking his head.

"Prepare yourself, there's a pool table at the bar we're going to tonight. I might be able to get Logan to cry."

Gator chuckled as he sat down on the edge of the bed beside you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and you rolled onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow with your head resting against your hand.

"Thought y’were playin' matchmaker not tryna embarrass 'im?"

"Mhm," you smiled. "I can do both."

He shook his head, smiling to himself.

"That reminds me, can you pass my phone, I need to text Megan," you pointed to where your phone rested on the table behind him.

Gator reached back towards the bedside table, feeling around until his hand landed on your phone before passing it across. Still lying comfortably on your side, you rested it on the mattress in front of you so you could unlock it one-handed. You opened your messages and, because Gator was sitting beside you, the screen was impossible for him to ignore.

"No Boys Allowed?" he read aloud. "Should I go?"

A small laugh escaped you as you opened the chat.

"High school group chat, no-one bothered to change the name."

The conversation was exactly where you'd left it. No unread messages. No new photos. No plans being organised. Just silence, it felt strange. Usually the chat never stopped. Since the funfair, though, it had gone unusually quiet. Instead, Megan and Hannah had both been checking in separately.

"Y’still have a high school chat?" Gator asked, his voice surprised.

"Mhm, was just an easy way of chatting to the girls." You glanced up at him. "Do you not still talk to the football guys?"

"Only Logan."

The truth was, Logan had always done the talking. People tended to remember Gator as one of the football boys. Popular. Loud enough on the field. Always somewhere in the middle of things. But Logan had been the one people actually knew. He was the sort of person who could hold a conversation with anyone, Gator had mostly just followed along beside him.

He'd never really liked big groups. Even as a kid, he'd been happier wandering off by himself than trying to squeeze into conversations that always seemed to come so naturally to everyone else. After his mom left, it only got worse. Looking back, he couldn't honestly tell you whether he'd been sad or angry, only that somewhere around second grade he'd just stopped talking so much. There'd been a few years where Dot coaxed him back out again. She'd drag him into town with her, never seeming to mind that he wasn't much for conversation. She was good with him, but then she'd left too.

Logan hadn't though, he was the constant. Whenever Gator disappeared, Logan somehow knew where to look. The two of them had spent years building forts out in the woods, hitting each other with sticks they insisted were swords and generally staying out of everybody else's way. Later, when Logan decided he was trying out for the football team, Gator had gone too. The fact he'd ended up being good at it had almost been beside the point. He probably wouldn't have gone at all if Logan hadn't been standing next to him.

His attention drifted back to you. You were still lying on your side watching him, waiting patiently enough that he realised he'd let the silence stretch longer than he'd meant to.

"I dunno." He shrugged. "Don't like big groups, even with the team, I had Logan t'buffer. Ain't always good at talkin' an' I dunno… new people an' that. Jus' one person was enough, I guess."

You smiled, reaching forward to press a kiss against the back of his hand where it rested on the sheets beside you.

"Well, one person being enough bodes well for me."

His thumb found a loose strand of your hair, tucking it gently behind your ear before it could fall back into your face. The smile he gave you was small, almost shy.

"Y'more than enough f'me. You're everything."

It still caught you off guard sometimes, how easily Gator said things like that. There wasn't an ounce of self-consciousness about him when it came to loving you. Before you could think of anything to say in return, he'd leaned down to kiss you properly. When he finally pulled back, he settled against the headboard with both hands tucked behind his head while you turned your attention back to your phone. Megan's chat was already open, and your thumbs found the keyboard.

You: ready for tonite?

A typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Megan: ew. im nervous. why am i nervous?

You: dont be! its gonna be fun. 😊

Megan: u cool if I meet u there? im closing tonite so will just get changed @ work?

You: yeah. we can drop u home after. what u wearing?

Megan: i was gonna ask u!! i packed a dress with me but there are some new bits in the store i might 'borrow'

You: lol. not sure thats how borrowing works?

You: ive got two options. send me a pic when u decide.

Megan: ok boo. see u later!

You locked your phone and let it fall onto your stomach before stretching out properly across the bed. Beside you, the room had gone quiet enough that Gator noticed you'd finished typing. He pushed himself upright and wandered back over, leaning down to steal another kiss as though he couldn't quite help himself.

"M'gonna go home, shower an' stuff. Want me t'get you at 7?"

"Logan's driving too. I think after the other night, he doesn't want to drink. So I said I'd ride with him."

"Okay, I'll meet y'there." He studied your face for a moment before asking, "Y'sure this is a good idea?"

You knew exactly what he meant. Logan had never exactly struggled for attention. If anything, he'd spent years collecting dates as casually as Maggie’s bookshelves collected dust. But you'd been thinking about what Gator had just told you. One person was enough. Maybe that was all Logan needed too. Not another girl to impress. Not another night out that blurred into the next one. Just somebody he could actually be himself around.

"I don't think it's a bad one. Can only try, right?"

He held your eyes for another second before giving a small nod.

"Besides, even if they don't work out, Logan will get to have a night out with us, his two favourite people." You winked at him. "And bonus, he won't start a fight if I'm there. Probably. Maybe."

"What if I wanna come home an' have y'look after me? Patch me up?" Gator smirked.

You reached up, cupping his face between your hands before drawing him down into another kiss. Softer this time. Slower. When it ended, you kept your hands where they were, his forehead still hovering just above yours.

"Well maybe I'll reward you for good behaviour."

Gator hummed contentedly before brushing another gentle kiss across your lips.

"Well, m'bout t'be on my best behaviour."

He kissed you one last time before finally straightening up. You watched him cross the room towards the porch door, rolling back onto your side as he reached for the handle.

"See you later, Baby."

・❥・

The drive into town felt strangely subdued. Normally Logan filled any silence with something. Tonight, though, he simply drove. His fingers drummed absently against the steering wheel whenever you stopped at a junction before settling again, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

You found yourself looking over at him every few minutes, by the fourth or fifth time, you couldn't ignore it anymore.

"Okay, you're being super weird. What is going on?"

Logan didn't look away from the windshield.

"I'm not being weird?"

"Logan you haven't said a word since I got in the car. This dress is low cut, and you've not made one terrible scar joke. You're also driving the speed limit like a grandmother."

"Our Grandmother almost explicitly, does not drive the speed limit."

You couldn’t help but laugh at that before replying.

"Maggie is an exception to the grandmother rule. And don't change the subject. Why are you being a weirdo?"

For a few seconds he said nothing, the truck humming steadily beneath you as another stretch of road disappeared beneath the headlights. His fingers found the steering wheel again, tapping out another restless rhythm before he finally glanced across at you.

"Are you sure about this?"

"About Megan? Obviously. I wouldn't have invited her if I wasn't.”

"But it's..." He hesitated, searching for words that didn't seem to want to come. "She's your friend and I'm... me."

"I am failing to see your point," you frowned.

"I'm shit at stuff like this, Baby. And I don't wanna mess it all up with you and your friend."

The admission caught you slightly off guard. Logan had never seemed nervous around women before. If anything, confidence had always been one of his defining features. But maybe that had only ever applied when nothing really mattered. It was easy to be charming when there was nothing to lose.

"I think she'll be good for you. Megan is a good person and she's like... crazy hot, so we can still satisfy the little fuckboy in you."

That earned exactly the reaction you'd been hoping for; Logan laughed, the tension easing from his shoulders as his grip relaxed on the wheel.

"Just stop overthinking it,” you continued. “We go, we have a good time and if you two hit it off, you hit it off. There's no pressure, just stop whatever... this is."

"You been getting your pep talk advice from Ford?” He glanced at your briefly with a smirk. “Cause that was shit."

"Um? Rude?"

"You called me weird. Twice. And you called me a fuckboy."

"Well, you were being weird!” You exclaimed. “And, you are kind of a fuckboy?"

"Just saying pep talks are meant to be supportive."

"Worked didn't it?" You folded your arms with exaggerated offence.

Logan only shook his head, smiling to himself as he pulled into the bar's parking lot. The truck rolled neatly into a space before he killed the engine and looked across at you.

"C'mon then, papercut. Let's go get our super-not-weird double date on."

"Papercut?" You glanced down at the neckline of your dress where your scar disappeared beneath the fabric before looking back at him. "Oh, funny. I'm going to deliberately sloppy kiss your best friend, in front of you, the moment we see him, just for that shit joke."

"Like you ever need an excuse to suck his face."

"Not the only thing I plan on sucking," you say quietly, but not quite enough for him to miss.

Logan froze halfway out of the driver's seat.

"Absolutely fucking not." He looked at you through the cab with genuine horror. "I'm cool with this, but I really don't need to hear about you and Gator's... Just no."

You couldn't help laughing as you both shut your doors and started across the parking lot together. Logan clearly thought the conversation was over, but you were enjoying winding him up far too much.

"You don't want to hear about me and Gator's what?" You probed.

"Baby, I will get back in that truck."

"Cause you've seen it, right?” You continued. “Sure you have, weird homoerotic sports teams and their communal showers."

"Baby, I swear to God."

"It's impressive."

Logan came to a complete stop at the edge of the pavement and turned to face you, looking genuinely pained.

"I am begging you to stop talking about Gator's dick."

"Logan, why y’talkin' 'bout my dick, fuckin' weirdo."

Both of you turned at the sound of Gator's voice. His truck had apparently pulled in behind yours while you'd been busy tormenting Logan. He was heading across the parking lot towards you now, keys still dangling from one finger, wearing an expression somewhere between confused and suspicious. Logan pointed helplessly in your direction.

"I wasn't, I was..." Logan stuttered.

"He was just telling me how much he loves watching us two, what was the term you used, Logan?" You smiled sweetly. "Suck face?"

Logan made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh before walking straight past both of you towards the entrance.

"I swear you two do this shit on purpose."

You chuckled as Gator reached you, leaning up to kiss him in greeting.

"Hey Baby."

"Hi, sorry, I was winding him up."

"Mhm," he said, smiling against your forehead. "I could tell."

He slipped an arm comfortably over your shoulders before steering you towards the entrance. Logan was already waiting by the door with the sort of long-suffering expression that suggested he'd accepted this was simply what happened whenever the two of you were in the same place. Gator held the door open for you as you reached him, following you inside with a quiet shake of his head and an amused smile that hadn't left his face since you'd kissed him.

The bar was already comfortably busy by the time the three of you stepped inside. Music drifted from overhead speakers, loud enough to fill the room without drowning out conversation, while the familiar clatter of glasses and laughter blended into the background. Logan headed straight for the bar, you and Gator falling in behind him. Logan glanced across at you as the bartender wandered over.

"What's Megan drink?"

"She'll have a beer too."

He nodded before ordering three beers and a Sprite for you. Once the drinks arrived, the four of you carried them over to an empty high table tucked towards the back of the room beside the pool table. Gator pulled your stool out for you before taking the one beside you, Logan settling opposite the pair of you with an easy glance towards the entrance every few seconds. He wasn't nearly as subtle as he probably thought he was.

It wasn't long before the front door opened again. Megan stepped inside, her eyes moving across the room until she spotted you. She lifted a hand in greeting and made her way over, a smile already on her face.

"Hey! Sorry, I'm late, had a woman who just would not leave."

"All good, we just got here."

She slid onto the stool between Logan and Gator just as Logan nudged one of the beers towards her.

"Got you a beer, that alright?"

Megan looked at him before glancing down at the bottle, a genuinely pleased smile spreading across her face.

"Perfect, thank you."

Conversation came surprisingly easily. It wandered from whatever ridiculous thing Rhodes had done that week, onto Gator's latest shift, then somehow ended up with Logan telling an increasingly exaggerated story about Walker accidentally reversing Ford's ride-on mower into a fence a few summers ago. Megan laughed at all the right places, quick enough to throw the occasional joke back his way, and before long Logan was doing the same. Whatever nerves had followed him over in the truck seemed to disappear.

You found yourself smiling into your Sprite more than once. It was... nice. Not forced. Not something either of them seemed to be trying to make happen. They just seemed comfortable. Eventually the conversation drifted onto work.

"I just don't know what I want to do," Megan admitted with a sigh. "I hate the store, honestly I was never supposed to be there this long. I think I just like the staff discount."

"If you're interested, I could talk to Ford. Have you take over from me?" You offered.

"You're leaving Ford?" Megan blinked.

"I've just been taking on more for Maggie with the refurb of the clubhouse and the garages and everything. I think I need to stop doing both and focus on one."

"I mean, I don't want you doing it just for me though?"

"No, I swear, I've been thinking about it already." You shook your head. "If anything this makes it easier for me because I didn't want to leave Ford in the lurch, but this way I won't be."

Megan stared at you for a second before her whole face lit up.

"I'd love that! Are you for real?"

"Yeah course, I'll talk to Ford and I can have you come over, show you all the systems and stuff."

Her excitement was immediate, and before long the conversation had drifted away again, leaving the topic of work behind almost as quickly as it had arrived. Stories replaced it. You mostly sat back and listened, occasionally throwing your own comments in, quietly enjoying how easy everything felt.

Across the table, Logan looked like a different man to the one you'd found standing on a bridge barely a week earlier. He was smiling, laughing. It was a version of him you were far happier to see.

Beside you, Gator's arm had found its way across the back of your chair at some point during the evening, his hand resting lightly against your shoulder almost absent-mindedly. Every now and then his thumb brushed gently against your sleeve as the conversation carried on around the table, a small, familiar touch that had become so natural you barely noticed it anymore.

Eventually the sound of the balls clattering to a stop drew everyone's attention towards the pool table. The group who had been playing began putting cues back on the rack before heading towards the bar, leaving it empty.

"Shall we play?” Megan asked.

Gator followed her gaze before looking back at her with a grin.

"Y'sure? You've met Baby, right?"

Megan laughed as she climbed down from her stool.

"Oh I am highly aware of Miss Competitive over there. But you've not seen my skills with a cue, Gator Tillman."

The four of you drifted over to the pool table together, Megan grabbing cues from the rack while Logan bent to gather the balls. Megan passed cues around before looking between the four of you.

"Teams?"

It was decided without discussion. You and Gator on one side. Megan and Logan on the other. The game settled into exactly the sort of rhythm you'd hoped the whole evening would have. Nobody took it particularly seriously, despite your reputation suggesting otherwise. There was plenty of teasing whenever somebody missed an easy shot. Gator contributed the occasional dry comment from beside you, although he seemed far more interested in you than he was in the table.

Whenever it wasn't your turn, he found excuses to be close. A hand resting against the small of your back while someone lined up a shot. His fingers slipping around your waist as he moved behind you. Once, while Logan and Megan debated whether a ball was touching the cushion, Gator rested his chin lightly on your shoulder.

Across the table, Logan and Megan had found an easy rhythm of their own. They laughed easily together, nudging each other out of the way over difficult shots, both convinced they knew the better angle. More than once you caught Logan looking at her while she wasn't paying attention, the sort of absent-minded glance that made you quietly hopeful.

It struck you then how different tonight felt from the nights your friends usually talked about. There were no rounds of shots arriving at the table. Nobody was shouting over deafening music or trying to outdrink each other. It was just four people playing pool, talking nonsense and laughing. It felt... easy.

The kind of evening you'd realised you'd been missing without ever quite realising. Maybe this was what nights out were supposed to feel like. Maybe you'd been right to suggest it.

The game stayed close right until the end. You had just the black left sitting invitingly near the middle pocket and, feeling perhaps a little too confident, took the shot without thinking. The black disappeared cleanly into the pocket, followed immediately by your cue ball. You stared at the table.

"Oh."

A beat of silence, then Logan threw both hands into the air.

"We'll take it!"

Megan laughed, turning straight into him for a quick celebratory hug while Logan looked far more pleased with himself than somebody who'd technically won because of your mistake probably should have.

Watching them made you smile anyway. While the pair of them reset the table and reclaimed your seats, you and Gator wandered back towards the bar for another round of drinks. He glanced sideways at you as you waited for the bartender.

"Thought y'said you were gonna make him cry?"

"I couldn't embarrass him; it looks like it's going well." You smiled to yourself. "He wouldn't recover from losing to me."

"Mhm, y'made us lose, Baby," Gator replied, his voice a slow drawl.

You stepped a little closer, leaning lightly into his side as you lowered your voice so only he could hear.

"Promise I'll make it up to you."

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, the smallest reaction that probably would've gone unnoticed by anyone who didn't know him as well as you did. Before he had chance to answer, the bartender returned with the drinks, setting the beers and your Sprite onto the bar. Gator cleared his throat, picked up two of the glasses and followed you back across the room. You slipped easily back into it, the drinks changing, the topics changing, but the atmosphere staying exactly the same.

After another twenty minutes or so, Megan caught your eye across the table before nudging your knee beneath it.

"Pee break?"

"We're going to the bathroom. Entertain yourselves." You smiled, already pushing your chair back.

Gator looked up just in time to receive a quick kiss against his cheek before Megan caught your hand, weaving the pair of you through the Friday night crowds towards the back of the bar.

The women's bathroom was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. It was really little more than a cupboard with a toilet squeezed into one corner and a tiny sink opposite, but you'd both long since accepted that girls never actually went to the bathroom alone. Megan claimed the toilet first while you leaned back against the door, arms folded loosely across your chest.

"So?" she asked, already looking at you expectantly. "What do you think?"

"What do I think?” You raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?"

"It's good, right?"

The excitement in her voice made you grin.

"Right?! I swear I haven't seen him smile like that, ever!” You couldn’t help the excitement in your voice. “I knew this was a good idea."

Megan laughed as she stood, shimmying her jeans back into place before swapping positions with you. While you sat down, she moved over to the sink, turning the tap on.

"I didn't think he would be so... funny." She caught your eye in the mirror above the sink. "And like, easy to get on with."

"I think you two would be so cute together."

"You think?"

You nodded without hesitation.

That earned another laugh. By the time you'd flushed the chain and smoothed your dress back down, Megan was washing her hands. You swapped places again, stepping up to the sink while she rummaged through her handbag for her lipstick. Meeting her eyes in the mirror, you smiled.

"You want me and Gator to get lost? Gator drove, so I can just go home with him and leave you two to... get to know each other."

Megan carefully reapplied her lipstick before blotting it with her lips. She snapped the lid back on and slipped it into her bag with a smile that was growing more amused by the second.

"I would usually be polite and say, 'oh no, don't go' but I know you also want to take Gator home and jump his bones, so I am actually completely fine with you leaving."

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached for the lock.

"I walked right into that one."

"You really did."

Still smiling, you clicked the door open and the noise of the bar flooded back in as the two of you stepped out, falling naturally back into conversation on the short walk towards your table. Megan slipped back onto her stool while you remained standing, leaning down to rest your head against Gator's shoulder.

"Me and Gator are gonna head." You looked across at Logan. "Logan, you good to get Megan home?"

"Yeah, sure. We're good."

You smiled to yourself. They certainly looked it.

The four of you exchanged goodbyes before Gator stood, his hand finding yours. He threaded his fingers through yours, leading you back through the steadily busier bar, weaving between groups gathered around the pool table and people waiting at the bar until the cool evening air met you outside.

The parking lot was much quieter than the bar itself, most of the noise muffled once the door swung shut behind you. Gator led you towards his truck, glancing across at you with an amused smile.

"Guessin' that was a tactical exit?"

"I can officially add matchmaker to my resume."

He laughed softly before leaning down to steal a kiss, lingering there for a second longer than he probably needed to before finally pulling away.

・❥・

Gator stands right behind you, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, his lips warm and hungry as they trail slow, open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck and up to your jaw. Your hands fumble a little with the handle, your focus already half-lost to the way he’s pressing his body flush against yours. The lock clicks, you push the door open, and the second you step over the threshold you spin around to meet his mouth. You hook your fingers firmly through the loops of his belt, using it as leverage to yank him forward until his chest crashes into yours.

Gator kicks the porch door shut behind him with one heavy foot, sealing you both inside, while you stay locked to each other, kissing deep and desperate. Your hands fly up to grab the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it loose from the waistband of his jeans in a rush, eager to feel his skin. He chuckles low and rough against your lips, the sound vibrating through you.

“Jus’ won’t wear anythin’ next time, save y’the trouble.”

You huff a breathless little laugh, matching his energy, your fingers already working higher.

“That would be preferable.”

He helps you, lifting his arms so you can pull the shirt all the way over his head and toss it aside, before his mouth is back on yours again, hotter and hungrier than before.

Your fingers find his belt again, fumbling open the buckle in a hurry, then popping the button and dragging the zipper down fast. You shove his trousers down over his hips with firm, forceful hands, letting them bunch around his thighs. Gator smirks against your mouth, clearly enjoying your eagerness, and deepens the kiss but you break away before he can get too comfortable, sinking slowly down to your knees right there on the floor.

His eyes widen, dark and surprised, as you settle before him, and your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxers.

“Y’ain’t gotta do this…” he starts, voice already thick and strained.

You don’t let him finish. Slowly, deliberately, you drag the fabric down, your gaze never leaving his even as he towers above you.

“I want to.”

Your eyes drop just as you pull the boxers low enough for his cock to spring free, hard, heavy, already glistening at the tip, standing straight and proud. You push the underwear all the way down to his ankles, and he kicks them aside without breaking his gaze. For a second you just look, taking in the size of him; long and thick, enough to make you wonder how this is going to work, but you want it, more than anything.

You reach up and wrap your hand around his length, your fingers not quite meeting around the girth, and lift your eyes back up to lock onto his. Leaning forward, you press a soft, lingering kiss right to the sensitive head, then flatten your tongue and run it slowly all the way along the thick vein running up the underside.

Gator’s mind goes completely blank. There is no thinking, no overthinking, no worries or plans or anything else in the world, only this. All he can do is stare down at you, watch the way you look up at him from beneath your lashes, big and dark and so full of want, as your tongue glides wet and warm along his shaft. Then you open your mouth and take him in, and a strangled, guttural groan tears out of his throat.

“Fuckkk…”

Yeah. This is it. He’s died and gone straight to heaven. Your mouth is so soft, so hot, so wet, and the tip is so sensitive he can already feel every tiny movement. His head tips all the way back, eyes fluttering shut, hands twitching at his sides.

You keep just the head of his cock inside your mouth, swirling your tongue in tight, teasing circles around the most sensitive spot, before pulling off with a loud, wet pop. You gather as much saliva as you can, hold it there, then wrap one hand firmly around his shaft and let the whole mouthful drip down over him, coating him from tip to base. You work your hand up and down in slow, slick strokes, watching the way your fingers look small against his size, marvelling at it.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, here goes nothing, and lean in again, taking him into your mouth deeper this time. You focus hard on relaxing your throat, letting your jaw go loose, but even so you only manage about half his length before you feel the tight resistance. You keep going, using your hand to stroke the rest of him while you bob your head, lips sliding along his skin, sucking gently.

“Fuck… Baby…” he groans above you, voice rough and shaking.

You smile around his cock, the vibration making him jerk slightly, and use that sound as all the motivation you need. You breathe slow and steady through your nose, bring your free hand up to grip the back of his thigh for leverage, and try again; relaxing further, opening your throat just a little more. Inch by inch, your eyes flutter shut as you concentrate, pushing past the first twinge of resistance, until finally you manage it.

You sink all the way down, his cock filling your mouth and throat completely, until the coarse hair at the base brushes right against the tip of your nose. Your throat feels so full, your jaw stretched wide, but you’re determined. You swallow around him, fighting back the tickle of a gag reflex, and start to move again, back and forth, slow at first, then deeper, taking him right down until you can’t go any further, holding him there for a heartbeat before pulling back just enough to do it all over again.

The second you sink him fully into your throat, Gator lets out another stuttered, broken groan. His hand lifts instinctively, reaching for your head, but he hesitates mid-air, fingers flexing, scared to grip too hard, scared to hold you down or hurt you. Instead he hovers there, trembling just above your hair, letting you set every pace, every depth.

His mind is spinning, white-hot and overwhelmed. I’m gonna cum, he thinks, panic mixing with pleasure. Too soon, can’t do it like this, not yet. It feels too good, too perfect, and he knows if you keep going he’ll lose it right there, and that’s not what he wants. He needs to be inside you, needs to feel you wrapped tight around him, needs to be closer than this. His hips give a helpless little shudder, fighting the urge to thrust up into your mouth.

When you finally drag your mouth off him, pulling back to gasp for air, he doesn’t waste a second. He reaches down with both hands, big and warm, cupping gently around your neck and jaw, and guides you firmly but tenderly back up to your feet. The moment you’re standing, his lips crash onto yours; messy, wet, hungry, tasting himself and you all at once, his tongue tangling with yours like he can’t get enough.

You’re just starting to wonder why he pulled you away when he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead heavy against yours, his chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

“Not gonna last if I let y’carry on,” he murmurs roughly, voice thick and strained. “So fuckin’ good, Baby… too good.”

A satisfied smirk tugs at your lips, and before you can reply he’s kissing you again while his hands start to work over you. He slips the thin straps of your dress off your shoulders, letting them slide down your arms, then pushes the fabric lower, over your waist and hips, until it slips all the way down to pool soft on the floor around your feet.

You aren’t wearing a bra, and the second he pulls back just enough to look, another groan rumbles in his throat, low and wanting. His lips are back on you instantly, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, and then lower, briefly brushing his lips in a soft, reverent kiss right over the line of your scar, before his tongue drags slowly over one breast. He circles your nipple once, twice, then latches on, sucking hard and nipping gently with his teeth, desperate and eager.

“Gator…”

A shiver runs through you, your back arching into his touch, and one of his hands slides around to press firm against the small of your back, guiding you backward, step by step, toward the bed. But just as the mattress brushes the back of your knees, you twist quickly, using your weight and the hold you have on his shoulders to spin him around and push him down onto the sheets instead.

Gator’s eyebrow quirks up in surprise, a flicker of amusement mixing with the hunger in his eyes, and he shuffles himself back a little further up the mattress, resting his weight on his elbows, watching you intently.

“Really committin’ t’makin’ it up t’me, huh?”

“I did promise,” you smirked.

You stand at the foot of the bed, your gaze locked unwaveringly on his and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slow and deliberate, letting them fall to join your dress. Then you crawl up onto the mattress toward him, knees sinking into the sheets, until you settle right over him, straddling his lap, your bare skin pressing down against his.

There you are, hovering right above him, warm and soft and perfect, and Gator pulls you down to meet his mouth again. One hand comes up to tangle deep into your hair, fingers curling gently but firmly to hold you right where he wants you, keeping your lips pressed to his while his tongue explores yours, claiming every inch of you.

He can feel it instantly; how wet you are, how slick and hot, as you start to roll your hips slowly in his lap, dragging your pussy back and forth over his hard, throbbing length, teasing him, coating him in your heat. His free hand settles heavy on your hip, fingers spreading wide over your skin, and he applies just enough soft pressure to guide you, to grind you harder and deeper against him, creating that delicious friction he knows you both crave, building the tension higher and higher until neither of you can take it much longer.

The length of his cock drags slow and heavy between your folds, building that perfect, teasing pressure that bumps right against your clit with every shift of your hips. It feels so good, but it’s not enough, not anymore. You need him inside you, all of him, right now.

Still kissing him, you reach down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his hard length to guide the tip to your entrance. He pulls back just enough, resting his forehead against yours, and you glance down to watch as you press the head in. The initial stretch is pure bliss, sharp and full in the best way and once the tip is seated, you lift your hands to rest firmly on his shoulders, using them to steady yourself as you slowly lower your hips, taking him in inch by thick, glorious inch.

A long, throaty moan tears from you as he stretches you open, and Gator groans right back, a broken “fuck” rumbling in his chest, his hands flying to grip your hips tight. It feels like he’s splitting you open, filling every space, but it’s incredible. When you finally sink all the way down, seated flush against his base, you feel so full it almost takes your breath away. Deeper than ever in this position, like he’s reaching right through you, and you rest your head against his, eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening to meet his.

“I love you,” he says, voice thick and raw.

“Mh-hm… I love you,” you murmur back, already leaning in again.

Your mouths crash together, hungry and urgent, and you start to roll your hips in slow, deep circles. The pleasure hits harder than before, intense and overwhelming, and you have to break away immediately, throwing your head back with a loud, unrestrained moan.

Gator can’t help but grin at the sound, proud and pleased, utterly gone for you. He lifts one hand quickly, pressing it gently but firmly over your mouth, and laughs low and warm against your skin.

“Y’tryna wake the whole house, baby?”

You let out a breathy, muffled little “sorry” against his palm, and he keeps it there for just a moment, using the hold to deliberately roll his hips up into yours; slow, exaggerated, hitting that deep spot he knows drives you wild. The way your body jolts and softens, melting completely into him, only spurs him on more.

When he feels you start to go limp, he pulls his hand away, letting your head fall forward to rest against his shoulder. He slides his forearm tight around your back, holding you secure, and uses it to guide you back and forth over his length, setting a steady, deep rhythm. Buried inside you like this, so warm and tight and perfect, he never wants to move.

Every drag of his cock rubs right against that sensitive spot deep inside you, and your fingers dig hard into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as the pressure builds fast, coiling tight and hot in your belly. Then Gator shifts, lifting you off him until just the tip remains, before sinking you right back down in one smooth, powerful motion. You gasp sharply against his ear, the feeling making your toes curl.

“I’m trying… be quiet…” you mumble against his skin.

He chuckles as he repeats the move and you tighten your grip on him until your nails leave faint, half-moon marks in his skin. You use the hold to set your own pace, rocking faster, harder, dragging yourself back and forth to chase that peak you can feel so close now, just out of reach.

“Fuck, baby… y’squeezin’ me so tight…” he groans, voice strained. “Come f’me… that’s it, come f’me.”

His words are the push you need. You wrap your arms tight around his neck, pressing your whole body flush to his, and shudder hard as your orgasm crashes over you, rolling through you in wave after wave. Gator keeps his arm locked around your back, rolling his hips up into you through every spasm, keeping his cock right where it feels best, riding out your high until the tremors start to fade. You stay draped over him, weak and shaking, completely spent.

Gator’s right on the edge himself, every pulse of your walls around him dragging him closer, and he doesn’t wait. With his forearm still clamped firm around your back, he lifts you just enough to thrust up into you again and again, deep, hard and fast, until the tension snaps. His hips stutter, and he lets out a guttural, broken groan as he spills himself deep inside you, filling you completely.

So fucking perfect, he thinks, his head spinning. He stays right where he is, still buried inside you, and leans back until he’s resting comfortably against the headboard, bringing you with him. You lift your head from his shoulder, eyes heavy and dazed, and he brushes a stray lock of hair back from your face, drinking in the sight of you; smiling, flushed, completely wrecked just for him. It’s his favourite thing in the world. You’re his favourite thing.

“You are fuckin’ incredible,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

・❥・

Without school runs to summon everyone from their slumber, everyone simply drifted downstairs whenever they woke up until, as always, the whole family ended up in the same room. Breakfast blurred into coffee. Somebody invariably put the television on. The house gradually came to life around itself.

You sat at the island with your phone in one hand, half listening to the familiar chaos unfolding around you. Scooby Doo was on again in the living room, Nicky and Rhodes stretched out across the sofa watching what had to be the hundredth repeat of the same episode. The theme tune drifted through the house and, without thinking, you caught yourself quietly humming along before realising what you were doing and stopping with a smile.

Across the room, Tucker had Josie and was tossing her in the air. Every few seconds another delighted squeal bounced around the kitchen as he caught her again.

Maggie stood leaning comfortably against the counter with a mug of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, replying to emails before most people had properly started their day, while Ford wandered around the kitchen with a cloth, wiping down the counters.

Beside you, Walker was steadily demolishing a bowl of cereal with the sort of appetite only teenage boys seemed capable of. Your own attention stayed on your phone.

Megan: i dunno. we've been texting all weekend

You: yeah?

Megan: and he was so nice after the bar. dropped me home, walked me 2 the door. felt like i was in a romcom.

You: lol. move over Julia Roberts.

Megan: right? i think we r going out again this week.

You: i take thank you gifts in the form of shiny things

Megan: OK MAGGIE! lol.

You: im joking! happy 4 u

Megan: thanku! txt u after work <3

You locked your phone and set it down beside your mug. Beside you, Walker tipped his cereal bowl almost vertically before noisily slurping the last of the milk. You nudged him with your elbow.

"You eat like a farmyard animal."

Walker turned towards you with milk still clinging unapologetically to his chin and grinned. Across the island, Ford looked up from the counter he'd been wiping.

"They all do. I swear feeding this family is a full time job."

Maggie huffed a laugh.

"At the risk of repeating myself, who decided to have a thousand children?"

A smirk tugged at your mouth as Ford rolled his eyes.

"I think it's less about the quantity of children and something more about the size of certain children."

At that, Tucker stopped midway through throwing Josie into the air and turned around with an expression of complete offence.

"Hey, Josie is a growing girl." He leaned towards her and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Don't listen to him, Josie-jo. You're perfect."

Ford walked over, lifted Josie effortlessly out of his arms and playfully flicked Tucker's ear.

"Yeah, sure, it's Josie and her animal cracker consumption that are the problem."

"Animal crackers are good to be fair," Tucker shrugs.

"And they are also definitely not for you." Ford looked between both twins. "Honestly, what don't you two eat?"

"Don't bring me into this," Walker protested.

Ford looked pointedly at the cereal bowl sitting in front of him.

"You are on your second bowl of cereal, and it isn't even 9am."

You slipped your phone into your pocket and pushed your stool back from the island.

"So, guess we're shopping this morning?" You asked.

Ford instinctively looked towards Maggie.

"Don't look at me," Maggie dismissed him.

"Looks like it's you and me, Baby."

"I'll come," Tucker offers.

"Sure there's an ulterior motive in there somewhere," Ford narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Ford reached over and gave Walker's shoulder a quick pat.

"You good to look after the boys?"

"Where's Maggie going?" Walker asked.

"I'll be in the office," Maggie replied. “Got calls to make.”

"Can you take Rho with you?” Walker groaned. “Nicky's easy, Rho don't listen."

"Sure, yeah," Ford laughed. "Let's just take the whole football team."

You wandered through into the living room while the conversation carried on behind you. Scooby Doo was still playing, Rhodes had somehow slid so far down the sofa he was now lying half on the cushions and half on the rug, looking as though he'd simply melted there.

"Rhodes, can you come put your shoes on for me bud?"

"Nope," he chirped.

"Where are you going?" Nicky asked, looking over at you.

"Shopping. You can stay with Walker." You looked back at Rhodes. "Rho, bud, shoes."

"I can stay with Walker too," Rhodes said, his eyes still focused on the tv.

"Can me and Walker play playstation?" Nicky asked.

"I wanna play on the station!" Rhodes shouted.

Ford appeared in the doorway before you had chance to answer, Tucker following behind with Josie stretched across his forearms like an aeroplane. Every few steps he dipped her through another imaginary cloud, complete with engine noises, while Josie shrieked with delighted laughter.

"Rho, shoes, you've been asked," Ford spoke firmly.

Rhodes responded by groaning loudly before letting himself slide completely off the sofa. He landed on the rug with a soft thump, rolled onto his back and promptly banged his cast against the edge of the sofa.

"I don't wanna wear shoes!"

"Grab his shoes, mate, please," Ford asked Tucker with a tired sigh.

Still balancing Josie against one side, Tucker bent to scoop Rhodes' trainers up from beside the front door while Ford simply walked around the sofa and lifted Rhodes straight off the floor. The little boy went completely limp in his arms, committing fully to the protest.

Walker wandered into the room behind them and, rather than walking around the sofa like a normal person, vaulted clean over the back before dropping into the seat beside Nicky.

"What we playing?"

"Can we do the shooting one?" Nicky beamed.

"But I wanna do the shooting too!" Rhodes complained from where he was dangling dramatically in Ford's arms, his objections to leaving suddenly having very little to do with shoes.

By the front door, you pulled your boots on and collected the Suburban keys from the bowl on the sideboard. Tucker was already there ahead of everyone else, holding the front door open as Ford carried a still thoroughly unimpressed Rhodes outside. The little boy had stuck firmly to his principles and still wasn't wearing any shoes.

Tucker followed behind them with Josie balanced comfortably on one hip with Rhodes' abandoned trainers dangling from his free hand. You caught the door before it swung shut, calling a quick goodbye back into the house before pulling it closed behind you.

You clicked the key fob and the Suburban chirped in response. Tucker opened one of the rear doors so Ford could manoeuvre a wriggling Rhodes into his car seat while you walked around to the opposite side. Tucker carefully transferred Josie into your arms before climbing into the back himself, folding his long legs into the seat behind her. Josie reached for you with both hands until you settled her into her own car seat, tightening the straps before giving them a quick tug to check they were secure.

By the time you shut her door, Ford was still negotiating with Rhodes. Eventually there was the unmistakable click of the buckle fastening, followed by one final indignant huff. Rhodes folded his arms across his chest and stared determinedly out of the window, his bright green cast now looking more like somebody had dipped it in swamp water after weeks of little hands, grass stains and general Rhodes-related adventures.

Ford closed the door with a satisfied nod before walking around to the driver's seat. The moment he climbed in, he looked across at you.

"Why do I get the feeling this is going to be the most stressful shopping trip ever?"

"It's gonna be expensive, that's for sure." You smiled.

Ford followed your gaze into the back of the truck where Tucker was already leaning between the seats making aeroplane noises for Josie again. She reached both hands towards him, laughing so hard she nearly forgot to breathe. Ford chuckled quietly as he started the engine.

The Suburban rolled into the Walmart parking lot and came to a stop a few rows back from the entrance. Ford switched off the engine but made no move to get out. Instead, he turned in his seat to look directly at Rhodes. Ford's voice slipped effortlessly into full dad mode.

"Right, two options. You can either put your shoes on, and you can walk around the shop or, no shoes but you sit in the cart with Josie like a baby."

Rhodes scrunched his nose. "But I'm not a baby."

"Dunno, bud. Behaving a bit like a baby right now."

"Not sitting in the cart."

Ford nodded once, "shoes then."

He climbed out before Rhodes had chance to object again, opening the rear door while Tucker reached between the seats and passed Rhodes' trainers through to him. The cast had at least made one thing easier; Rhodes still couldn't undo his own seatbelt.

You walked around to the other side and lifted Josie out of her seat. The moment Tucker climbed out beside you she tipped herself dramatically towards him, both hands reaching with absolute certainty.

"Yeah, c'mon Josie-jo.” Tucker laughed. “Want Tucker to push you in the cart? Yeah?"

He took her and she settled against him, perfectly content now she'd reached her preferred destination. It was one of your favourite things to watch.

Tucker was enormous and he conducted himself with all the grace of a charging rhino. Then he'd pick Josie up and become impossibly gentle. He spent most of his time trying to coax another giggle out of her and judging by the way she buried her face against his shoulder before peeking back up at him with another delighted squeal, the feeling was entirely mutual.

Ford finally helped Rhodes down from the truck and together the five of you headed towards the entrance. He grabbed a cart just inside the doors, but before he'd even wrapped both hands around the handle, Tucker had lifted Josie into the child seat and quietly relieved him of pushing duties.

Shopping descended into chaos. The supermarket opened into fresh produce, Ford setting off at his usual steady pace. Rhodes, meanwhile, had interpreted the wide aisles as a running track. He darted ahead, doubled back again and every so often snatched something out of Ford's hand before enthusiastically slam dunking it into the trolley.

"Gentle, Rho." Ford sighed without even looking up. "Gonna have bruised apples if you throw them like that."

Tucker's attention never really left Josie. She leaned dramatically out of the trolley seat, stretching both hands towards a punnet of strawberries until Tucker finally laughed, lifted it off the shelf and popped the lid open. He handed her a strawberry.

"Stealing!" Rhodes gasped.

"It's not stealing, dude. Dad'll just pay at the end."

"Give me one," Rhodes quickly changed his tune.

"Wanna ask me nicely?" Tucker corrected.

"Now please."

You laughed as Tucker rewarded the effort with a strawberry before catching up with Ford.

The trolley gradually became a reflection of everybody's priorities. Ford quietly filled it with the week's groceries while Tucker absent-mindedly added snacks every few aisles. Unfortunately Rhodes took this as official permission to contribute as well, which meant you spent most of your morning intercepting increasingly bizarre additions before they reached the trolley.

"Rho, dude, we do not need cottage cheese."

He looked genuinely disappointed as you took it back off him. Ford, meanwhile, carried on shopping as though none of it was happening. Tucker's snacks barely registered anymore, and Rhodes' contributions seemed to amuse him more than anything else. You fell into step beside him.

"You good with Tucker? I'm going to take Rhodes to the clothing section."

"Mh-hm, we're good." He glanced towards Rhodes, who was already eyeing up another shelf. "Don't let him see the toys, we will never get out of here."

You laughed just in time to intercept Rhodes before he could proudly add a bottle of hot sauce to the collection.

"Yeah, okay, let's put that down." You gently rescued it from his hands before crouching in front of him. "We're going on an adventure, c'mon."

His mood changed instantly. He scrambled onto your back without needing a second invitation, wrapping his arms enthusiastically around your neck while you hooked your hands beneath his legs and stood back up. The edge of his cast dug into your jaw.

"Dude," you laughed, shifting him a little higher, "can't give you a piggyback if you choke me to death."

Rhodes burst into giggles, moving his arms obediently down to your shoulders instead.

"There we go."

You set off down the aisle at a little jog and his laughter dissolved into delighted squeals, echoing all the way towards the clothing.

You slowed to a stop as you reached the children's clothing section and crouched low enough for Rhodes to slide off your back. The second his feet touched the floor, he was gone, weaving between the racks with the sort of determined purpose only a five-year-old could manage.

"Look! Dinosaurs."

He triumphantly held up a bright green T-shirt covered in cartoon dinosaurs.

"Uh-huh, you've got loads of dinosaur shirts Rho."

"Not this one."

"Okay, we can get the dinosaur shirt, if you also pick out some new trainers." You smiled.

"I got shoes."

"You've got one pair of shoes, and they are almost too small." You held your hand out to him. "That's my deal, dude. Trainers and you can have the dinosaur shirt."

Rhodes let out an exaggerated sigh that suggested you were asking far too much of him, but after a moment he slipped his hand into yours and allowed himself to be led across to the shoe section. As it turned out, he didn't object nearly as much once there were actual shoes to look at.

You worked your way through a handful of pairs, kneeling on the floor while he balanced dramatically on one foot, then the other. Every pair was either too boring or "not fast enough" until he spotted them. Light-up trainers. His face lit up before the shoes did.

Two minutes later he was charging up and down the aisle, stamping his feet as hard as he could while watching the soles flash in the mirror at the end.

"Woah! Look at you, dude! Cool shoes."

Ford appeared around the end of the aisle pushing a cart, Tucker walking alongside with another one that looked just as full. Somewhere between fruit and children's clothes they'd apparently managed to fill both of them. Rhodes immediately stomped both feet again.

"They got lights!"

"I can see that, bud."

You dropped the dinosaur T-shirt into Ford's trolley alongside the two spare pairs of trainers before handing him the empty shoe hanger.

"He isn't going to take them off, take this to pay."

Ford looked from the hanger to Rhodes' flashing trainers before sighing.

"So now I'm going to have him fight me about taking the shoes off instead of putting shoes on, good, love that for me."

You laughed. Across the aisle, Tucker had become completely distracted. He was standing in front of a rail of tiny dresses, holding one up in front of Josie as though asking for expert fashion advice.

"Look at this one, you like this one? Got pretty sparkles?"

Josie answered with an enthusiastic squeal. You wandered over and he held it up to you as if asking permission.

"Sparkles?"

"Josie is the least fussy one, she will wear literally anything, Tucker."

"But she wants to look pretty, don't you Josie-jo."

"Just put it in the cart, loser."

He grinned and did exactly that before casually slinging an arm across your shoulders.

"Don't be jealous, you're still my favourite."

"I better be."

Something shifted in Josie's expression. She looked from you to Tucker, her little eyebrows drawing together as though she'd just realised she wasn't currently the centre of his attention. Both arms immediately shot towards him.

"Tuh-tuh."

Everything stopped. You looked at Tucker; he looked at Josie. She reached towards him again with determined little grabby hands.

"Tuh-tuh!"

Tucker's entire face softened. He scooped her out of the cart in one smooth movement before throwing her gently into the air and catching her against his chest.

"Yeah? You love Tuhtuh, huh? Say it again, say Tucker," he grinned.

"Tuh-tuh!"

She dissolved into squeals as Tucker buried his face against her side, blowing raspberries until she was almost breathless with laughter. By then Ford had wandered over, Rhodes perched on the edge of the trolley beside him, happily flashing his trainers every few seconds just because he could.

"Josie has officially picked a favourite." You smiled.

"Yeah?"

Tucker looked at Ford with the sort of excitement usually reserved for championship wins.

"Show dad, say Tucker."

Josie suddenly became very aware that everyone was looking at her. She blinked between all the faces watching expectantly before Tucker pointed at himself.

"Josie, who am I?"

She smiled, reached out and grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt before bouncing excitedly in his arms.

"Tuh-tuh! Tuh-tuh!"

"Go on, clever girl! It's Tucker!" Ford beamed.

"See, favourite picked," Tucker said with a smug grin.

"Hey," Ford protested, "she said 'dada' first."

From that moment on, Tucker was completely unavailable for shopping. Josie had decided he belonged to her now, happily patting his cheeks, tugging gently at his shirt and periodically reminding everyone of his name with another cheerful, "Tuh-tuh!" He carried her the rest of the way around the store, gently bouncing her on his hip every time she started to wriggle.

You took over pushing the cart while Ford steered the second one towards the checkouts. Between the week's groceries, Tucker's growing pile of snacks, Rhodes' dinosaur shirt and flashing trainers, the sparkly little dress and everything else that had somehow found its way into the cart, the conveyor belt quickly disappeared beneath everything.

The cashier scanned it all without comment. Ford barely looked at the total before pushing his card into the reader.

The drive home was considerably louder than the drive there. Tucker spent most of the journey folded between the front seats making faces at Josie until she'd erupt into giggles before encouraging her to say it again.

"Who's that then?"

"Tuh-tuh!"

"There he is."

"Tuh-tuh!"

Every time she managed it, Tucker celebrated like she'd recited Shakespeare. Josie found his reaction endlessly entertaining and before long she was squealing his name every few minutes just to watch him grin. Rhodes, however, wasn't nearly as impressed.

"Say Rhodes."

Josie blinked at him.

"Rhodes."

She looked straight back at Tucker.

"Tuh-tuh!"

Rhodes slumped dramatically against his seat.

"She don't like me."

"I don't think that's it, bud," Ford said, unable to hide a smile as he turned into the ranch.

The tyres crunched over the gravel before he slowed unexpectedly. Parked outside the Big House was a large delivery lorry, the rear doors thrown open.

"You building something?" You frowned.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Did I mess up a work order?"

Ford glanced across at you.

"You never mess up work orders."

He pulled into the yard and switched the engine off. Everyone seemed to spill out of the truck at once. Rhodes was gone before anyone had chance to stop him, disappearing across the gravel at full speed while Tucker climbed out carrying a still very chatty Josie on one hip.

Leaving the groceries where they were, you followed Ford towards the house. The front door was standing open.

"Ma?"

"Maggie?"

No answer.

You crossed the hallway into the dining room and immediately noticed the patio doors were wide open. Voices drifted in from the yard, mixed with the metallic clink of tools and the occasional buzz of a drill. Stepping outside, you stopped.

Half the lawn had disappeared beneath an enormous wooden climbing frame that looked as though it belonged in a public park rather than somebody's back yard. One tower was already standing complete with a climbing wall, rope ladder and slide. Contractors were still bolting together the bridge that would connect it to a second platform while the swing set lay in sections across the grass waiting to be assembled.

Maggie stood nearby with a coffee in one hand, talking to one of the contractors while Walker and Nicky watched the whole thing unfold from a safe distance.

You looked across at Ford, he simply sighed.

"Ma, what the hell?"

Maggie turned around, delighted to see him.

"Oh, you're back, perfect timing. Climbing frame has arrived!"

"Firstly," Ford said, gesturing towards the structure towering over the lawn, "that's not a climbing frame, it's huge. Secondly, I didn't buy a climbing frame."

"Obviously, Ford." Maggie looked faintly exasperated that he'd even suggested it. "I did. Stop Rhodes from climbing trees, he can climb this instead."

As though he'd been waiting for his cue, Rhodes came flying down the back steps behind you.

"SWINGS!!"

He shot straight across the grass before anyone could catch him, scrambling onto the half-finished climbing frame without the slightest concern that several men were still actively building it. Within seconds he'd scaled the rope ladder and was stretching determinedly towards the monkey bars. Ford rubbed a hand over his face.

"Ma! He's still got the cast for another week, he's gonna break the other bloody arm at this rate."

"Oh, don't be such an old fart, Ford!" Maggie laughed, waving towards Rhodes. "Look at him, he's having fun."

Ford watched his youngest son dangling enthusiastically from the monkey bars for a long moment before letting out a slow breath through his nose.

Apparently deciding this wasn't a battle he was going to win, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the Suburban, muttering something under his breath about unloading the groceries instead.

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn back around to look once again at your reflection. “You’re so full of shit, Stevie.” You tell him affectionately, your cheeks warming and stomach fluttering as you hear the creak of the bed as Steve gets to his feet. You watch in the mirror as he walks toward you with that look on his face that made heat flare in your gut.

“I can measure them for you, baby,” Steve insists, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You try not to react as he presses himself against you, the evidence of his growing arousal now pressing against your ass.

“How would you—”

But you get your answer in the form of one of Steve’s large hands cupping your breasts and squeezing.

“Steve!” you scold him but make absolutely no attempt to swat his hand away as he kneads the flesh with reverence.

“Just being thorough,” he tells you, leaning in to press a wet kiss to your neck, his tongue stroking the flesh gently just to watch you squirm in his arms. “Stand still, sweetheart. M’trying to concentrate here.”

“You’re not—”

But words fail you as soon as Steve’s free hand reaches behind your back to unhook your bra.

The moment that your breasts spill free, Steve lets out a low groan that shoots through your body like lightning. he wastes absolutely no time in throwing it unceremoniously across the room while his free hand turns you around to face him. His eyes drag over your body—over every curve, every dip that he had been obsessed over the past few months of being together.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, causing your face to warm as both of his hands squeeze and knead your breasts. You have to bite back a moan as his thumb brushes over one of your nipples, the feeling sending heat straight to your core.

“Stevie,” you whine, arching your back and pressing your breasts even more into his palms and causing a smile to break out across his face as he catches the all too familiar signs of arousal dancing across your face.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks you gently, dipping his head down to run his tongue between the valley of your breasts. Your head tilts back and you let out of a soft whimper as his lips meander their way towards one of your pebbled peaks, his hot breath leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You wanna know what I think?” Steve murmurs, his lips hovering a breath away from your sensitive skin—the act making every nerve in your body buzz, makes the blood running through your veins hum. His other hand still kneads your other breast while the wet heat of his tongue darts out to play with your nipple like he had all the time in the world, like you didn’t have a dinner reservation in twenty minutes.

“I asked you a question,” Steve murmurs through a mouthful of your tit, his eyes on your face as he swirls his tongue around your stiff peak. “I said—y’wanna know what I think?”

“Yes,” you gasp breathlessly, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as you try to pull him even closer, as though trying to fuse your bodies together.

Steve pulls his lips away from you, your nipple now coated in his saliva and you whine at the loss of contact. Steve tuts at the sound and gives your other breast a final squeeze before he pulls away from that one too.

“I think they’re the perfect size,” he tells you with a toothy grin—one that plainly told you he was seeing the want in your eyes but wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. Yet.

“Steve—”

“Later,” he promises with a smug grin before he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth as though his hardening cock wasn’t pressing against your hip. “We’ve got a dinner to go to.”

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In the entirety of Steve’s life, he always kind of had you.

His mom met yours in the middle of a grocery story in 1972. Little six year old Steve clung to his mom’s leg, almost cowering behind her, as the six year old version of you practically sized him up.

You and your family were the new ones to move into the neighborhood that year and it was the Summer before first grade.

You wore a bright pink dress, a poofy one with flowers stitched along the hem and you had an adorable headband to match. Your shoes were white – well they were before you dirtied them up while planting flowers in your backyard.

Your eyes were bright as you looked at him. Your mothers talked for what felt like hours in the middle of the aisle, and you tried initiating your own conversation with the boy.

He was not interested.

But your lack of conversation that day did little to deter you. You showed up to his house the next day, sweetly asking his mom if he could come play. He begged his mom to make an excuse, even pretended to have a stomach ache but she insisted he needed more friends. She practically booted him out the door and into your lap.

Little you could tell he was apprehensive about playing with you. You were a girl – the new girl at that. And you seemed weird. You were loud and always singing some lame song. You didn’t care about the way dirt would cling to your fingers and clothes. You always stopped when you saw a squirrel crawling around.

You were annoying.

And Steve was smitten.

In 10 years, he has never – and as far as he’s concerned, will never – admitted how he feels about you. Either from fear or cowardice, he doesn’t even know.

But as the years went on, the childish things you guys did together morphed into slightly more sophisticated things. You rode bikes together, went to the movies. Steve even got roped into pulling pranks on your neighbors on Halloween of sixth grade.

Your friendship strengthened over time. Even through puberty and hormonal changes – you two were glued to each other. It was you and Steve against the world.

Steve sits on the carpeted floor of your bedroom, his long legs spread out in front of him as he mindlessly plays with the stuffed bears he won you at the state fair back in high school – tossing it in the air as if it was a ball.

You sit cross legged in your chair at your desk, one palm holding up your cheek as you try and complete your admissions essay.

The room is mostly quiet. The only sound comes from the soft thud the bear makes when it collides with his palm and the rustling of pages flipping and the erratic sound of your eraser sliding aggressively across the page every few minutes.

He’s been at your house for the past three hours and when he realized you weren’t budging on your work, he opted to stick around till you finished.

The only problem is you were stuck. You had absolutely no idea where to begin. Steve could tell just by looking at you. Your mouth is pulled down into a tight frown, a kink between your eyebrows. Your hair is a little messy from the way you’ve been pulling on it, something he knows will result in a headache later.

Steve watches the way your fists clutch the papers in front of you and crumple them into a ball, groaning furiously before you hurl the balled up paper to your trashcan.

And the way it misses.

You both watch as the paper bounces off the corner of the can and lands on the floor. Another angry curse slips past your lips before you drop your head – your forehead thumps against the textbook in front of you.

“This sucks!” You shout. It’s a little muffled from the way your face is buried into the hardcover but Steve chuckles from beside you.

He tosses your bear back onto the bed before moving to sit next to you. He leans his back against your desk and plants one hand on your thigh. His palm meets your bare skin, he squeezes it reassuringly.

“I don’t get why you’re stressing yourself out about it,” Steve says.

“I’m not,” You scoff against the book. You can’t see Steve when he gives you a pointed look but you can feel it.

“The pile of evidence over there says otherwise,” He deadpans.

Keeping your forehead against the book, you turn your head to peak at where he points. Sure enough, a fast growing pile of crumpled up papers sit in the corner – all somehow missing the trash can.

To say you were frustrated was a severe understatement.

You straighten in your seat, loosely crossing your arms over your chest. You still don’t look at him. “I have to get this right, Steve. This is the top internship for like, the best marketing company in the state. I’m up against some of the best candidates. One wrong word and I’m out,”

The confession hangs in the air between you two for a moment.

Steve tries to rack his brain with the right thing to say.

He can’t exactly say he relates because he doesn’t. It’s been two years since you both graduated and he gave up on college and is actually liking this new way of working with Robin to figure out what he wants to do.

But he knows you’re a hell of a lot smarter than he is. School has always been your thing and he also knows just how hard you can be on yourself.

Steve’s hands rise up to grab your chair. His large hands cover the sides and with a soft mutter of confusion from you, he effortlessly pulls the chair so you’re facing him.

You look down at him, eyes wide and curious. He still sits on the floor beside you and he keeps his hands pressed to the chair. A few more inches over and they’d be holding onto your thighs instead. He really wants to.

“None of those other people are you,” He says easily.

He sounds so genuine that your eyes soften. “You have to say that, you’re my best friend.”

Steve ignores the pinch in his heart at the term best friend.

“Yeah well, my best friend just so happens to be smarter than those other losers applying,”

His words pull a genuine laugh from you. It’s the first real laugh he’s heard all day and it brings a smile to his own face.

“Does that mean you think I’m a loser for applying too?” You tease.

Steve shrugs. “I already think you’re a loser, this has nothing to do with it,”

You scoff, a smile still plastered on your face. “Oh gee, thanks.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be a loser with you,” Steve says. He gets hit with another fuzzy feeling in his chest when you smile at him.

It’s quiet for a few moments. There’s distant chatter coming from your family downstairs and the birds chirp through the open window. Steve watches you and he can already see the way the tension in your shoulders has already loosened.

Your fingers play with a tiny piece of thread hanging from the wrist of his henley. Every time your fingers graze his skin, he feels a bolt of electricity run through him.

It’s casual and delicate, the way you touch him so mindlessly, and he should be used to it but every time you’re close like this, he short circuits.

Still playing with the thread, you look back up at him. The furrow between your brows is back and there’s a thoughtful look in your eyes.

“Do you..” You trail off and try to find the right words. “Do you think I’m good enough for it?”

Your voice is so gentle and hesitant, and Steve knows you’re already psyching yourself out to believe you wouldn’t deserve it.

“I think you’re more than good enough for it.” His response is quick and firm. He says your name and moves his palms from resting on your chair to holding both knees. “There’s not a single person who would deserve it more than you and I don’t want you telling yourself otherwise,”

You hold his gaze. His dark brown eyes – those puppy dog eyes you always get lost in – stare back at you and you can see nothing but truth and admiration swirling in them.

Just like that, all your doubts disappear. Steve always managed to have that effect on you and you know even if you didn’t get the internship, he’d always make you feel better.

You set over palm over his hand that holds your leg. “Thanks, Steve,”

His thumb brushes over your skin. “Anytime,”

Two weeks later, you had successfully managed to write an essay you were more than proud of. You made Steve and your mom read it six different times just to be sure it was ready to be sent in. They both assured you it was perfect.

The process wouldn’t be fast, you knew that, but you were a ball of nerves every since you and Steve dropped it off at the post office. Ever since then, he’s done everything in his power to keep your mind off it.

You, Steve and Robin all have shared plans today. It’s been 24 days since you sent in the letter – not that you’ve been counting (you definitely have been) – and today’s plans were a day at the lake to help with the killer heat wave that’s hit Hawkins.

It was the most fun you’ve had in a while and for the first time, you hadn’t thought about the letter once.

You and Steve barrel in through your front door, in a fit of laughter over the way he dove with terrible form into the water from the cliff.

“Alright whatever, laugh it up. It’s only because my foot slipped, at least I wasn’t too chicken to dive,” He bites out, clearly aimed at you. There’s no real venom in his voice.

Your laughing halts to a stop. “I wasn’t chicken! I just prefer not to break every bone in my body,”

Steve chuckles. He’s wearing a plain white t shirt, one that’s a little damp from his skin. His hair is still wet at the ends and a little messy from the way he ran the towel over it. His legs on full display under his swim trunks. “It wasn’t that high,”

You glare at him. “It was high enough,”

He continues giggling as you both move further into the house. You can hear your mom humming in the kitchen and the smell of fresh food fills the air. Steve’s feet have him rushing towards the smell almost immediately.

The two of you make it into the kitchen where your mom stands near the island. She smiles at you guys and it widens when she sees Steve. She moves to hug him.

“Hey sweetheart,” She cooes and his cheeks tint with a faint blush.

“Hi Stephanie,” He smiles, reciprocating her hug.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like him more than me,” You joke and pluck a fresh fry from the counter. Your mom gives you a playful look.

“She does,” Steve answers for her.

She gives him a playful smack to his chest before returning to the plan on the stove. “How was the lake?”

“It was good. Nobody died,” You shrug.

She huffs out a laugh and continues stirring the pot. “Well, that’s definitely considered a great day then,”

You hum in agreement and move to sit next to Steve at the barstools. He’s already picking through the plate of finished food on the island.

“So..” Your mom turns off the stove and moves to face you. “I have something for you,”

You perk up in your seat.

She smiles at your reaction and walks towards the fridge. She grabs an envelope pinned to the surface and moves to stand on the opposite side of the island, right in front of you.

“This came in while you were at the lake.” She begins. “Now I want you to remember no matter what it says, you are so smart and everything happens for a reason, okay?”

Your stomach twists in knots of anxiety and you already know what it is without even reading it. Steve seems to catch on because he stops eating beside you and wrings his fingers through a napkin. He turns in his seat to face you, his own stomach bubbling with anticipation.

She hands you the letter and you have half a mind not to snatch it from her.

On the cover is your full name and address in bold lettering; and the returning address is the same one at the firm downtown. Your hands shake as you hold the letter.

Steve notices and gently places his palm over your thigh. You look over at him and he gives you a warm smile. It’s all the encouragement you need.

Your shaky fingers tear open the envelope and pull the stack of papers inside.

Your name opens the letter.

From Davis & Blu, we are pleased to offer you a position as a marketing intern for a period of twelve months.

You’re jumping in the air before you even read the rest of the letter. “I got it! I got the spot!”

Steve and your mom cheer immediately. Without you even seeing, your mom pulls out a small cake from the fridge that says congratulations, and Steve pulls you in for a tight hug.

Steve’s arms wrap around you tight and it takes every ounce of strength not to focus on the feeling of his biceps.

“Wait wait wait,” You breathe out and reluctantly pull away from his hold. You don’t go far, your shoulder rests against his chest and he has one hand splayed against the small of your back. “I have to read the rest.”

Your eyes skim through the rest of the letter. You’re thanked for your talent and consideration of the company.

Then suddenly, your stomach drops.

Because in the middle of the letter, reads the location.

However, we are sad to inform you there are no positions available at our Hawkins office. If you choose to accept this offer, you will be relocated to Manhattan, New York with complete costs paid for by the company. We will need your answer by 07/31. We look forward to hearing from you.

The air around you stills. The excited sounds of your mom and Steve cease to exist to you and all that’s left it the letter. This letter that has your dream opportunity, now a thousand miles away from your family and you need to make the decision in four days.

They seem to notice the way your face dropped and glance at each other nervously. 

“Honey? What’s wrong?” Your mom asks.

You take a deep breath and look back up at them. Curiosity clouds their eyes. “It’s uh, it’s in New York,”

“New York?” Steve echos and his hand drops from where it rested on your back. You feel cold immediately.

“What – Wait, I thought you applied for the position here in Hawkins,” Your mom asks.

“I did! I did, but they said that office is full and they’ll cover all the costs of me moving there,”

Steve runs his hand through his hair. “Okay,” He says carefully. “How long would it be? I mean, an internship there would be a good start and then you’d come back to work here, right?”

Your throat tightens and he picks up on your hesitation. “It’s – it’s twelve months,”

“A year?” He exasperates and you hate the way his mood has saddened. Steve drops back down in his seat, his palm covering his mouth.

Your moms eyes flicker between you two but she doesn’t say anything.

“When do you have to decide?” She asks.

You place the letter on the counter. “They need an answer in two days and if I accept, I’ll leave on Friday.”

“That’s like three days from now. You’re gonna move a thousand miles away for a year in three days?” Steve asks.

His voice isn’t laced with anger or frustration. It’s just sad. Your eyes soften at him, brows pulling together but you have no idea what to say.

Your mom speaks again. “Honey, it’s your decision. Whatever you do, we’ll support you,”

It was a kind redirection for Steve to keep his own sad thoughts to himself and he takes it.

He inhales softly and nods. His hand comes back up to rest against your back. “Whatever you wanna do.” He echoes the promise but it does little to bring your mood up.

In less than a week, you have to decide between moving away from everyone and everything you know or putting your dream on hold.

You were right before. This sucks.

Later that night, you and Steve lay on top of your pink duvet, shoulder to shoulder on your bed. The room is eerily quiet as you both stare the ceiling. The three of you had dinner together, a tense one, as you all thought about the possible outcomes.

If you take it, you’ll be in an entirely new city with millions of strangers but doing something you love.

If you stay, you’ll be home with everyone you love but who knows where you’ll be at career wise.

Leaving means leaving your family. Your friends. Steve.

Staying means losing your dream.

You wish someone could stand in front of you and tell you the right decision.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Steve’s voice breaks the silence. You turn to look at him but he keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like that about it being in a New York. I’m sorry,” He repeats.

You give him a half smile. “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it like that.” You turn your eyes back to the ceiling. “I don’t know what to do, Steve,”

Your admission is soft into the air and this time, he looks at you.

Your eyes count the circles your ceiling fan makes. “I never planned for New York. I planned for the job here at Hawkins, I mean this is my home. I don’t know if I want to leave already,”

Steve nods. “It’s only a year, right?”

You shake your head. “For now. But what if I get out there and a year becomes two years? What if it becomes permanent? What if I love it out there?” Your voice falls quieter at the last question and Steve notices.

He shifts so he’s laying on his side and facing you. He gently grabs your hip and pulls you into the same position. Even as you turn, he keeps his large palm over your hip and the warmth of it radiates through your entire body.

“It’s okay if you love it there,” He says gently. “This is everything you’ve worked so far for. You deserve it more than anyone.”

Your eyes sting with tears and your throat threatens to close. “It’s a thousand miles away from you.”

Neither of you miss the way you only mention him and not everyone else. It sits heavy in his chest but he doesn’t say anything.

“New York is only 10 hours away, I could make that drive every Friday night.” He reassures you. The idea of him roadtripping every Friday pulls a watery laugh from you and he smiles back.

“The Beamer wouldn’t be able to handle all those miles,” You tease and he fakes offense.

His eyes narrow and he squeezes your hip playfully. “Hey, she can withstand anything,”

You giggle against his hold and that tight knot loosens in your chest. You both stare at each other for a few moments before he speaks up again.

“Selfishly, I wanna tell you to stay,” He admits, his voice is low and rough. He almost sounds shameful. “I wanna tell you to stay here with me and we can figure it all out together. But I don’t want you to put your dreams on hold – not for me. Go to New York, go to that office and show everyone just how much you deserve to be there. I’ll be here waiting for you. Even if it’s forever.”

By the time he finishes, a stray tear has slid down your cheek and lands on your pillow. His eyes are so intense and so full of love, it overwhelms you. He brings his hand up from your hip to wipe your cheek. The feeling of his thumb against your skin has you leaning into his hold.

You watch the way his eyes flicker from your eyes down to your lips. Instinctively, you do the same. His lips look so soft and inviting and you wonder how they’d feel against your own.

It’s not the first time you thought about him this way. Actually, you’re not sure there’s been a time since you were eight that you didn’t think of him this way.

Subconsciously, your body moves closer to him. He follows your lead and rests his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter shut and you can feel his breath warm against your mouth.

“Tell me to stay,” You whisper.

Carefully, his lips ghost over yours. Not yet touching and not kissing, but so close that your stomach twists.

He’s so close that you can feel his lips part to either answer or finally kiss you but before he can, there’s a knock at your door.

In an instant, the moment passes.

Steve pulls away from you, putting as much space between you two as he can on the small bed. Your body loses all of its warmth at the loss of him so close to you and you want to scream at your mom as she steps into the room.

She doesn’t comment on the two of you in bed, it’s something you have done since kids.

“Sorry but Steve, Robin is on the phone. She needs you to pick her up from work, something about her mom’s car stalling and she refuses to – and I quote – ‘get mugged on the city bus,’” Your mom informs him.

From beside you, he huffs out a weak laugh but nods and moves to stand up. You suppress all protests to him leaving and ignore the urge to ask to go with him. It doesn’t particularly seem like he wants you to.

You watch him avoid your eyes as he slips his shoes and jacket back on. “I’ll uh, I’ll call you later,” He says. He gently hugs your mom goodbye and then he’s gone.

Your mom lingers even after she hears the front door shut and carefully walks over to where you lay with your hands covering your face. More tears have now fallen freely against your cheeks.

From stress about your decision and from feeling overwhelmed about what to choose, and from the possibility that you just ruined the most important relationship in your life.

Gently, your mom pulls your hands away from your face. “Honey, don’t cry,” She soothes, her thumb repeating the same act Steve did a few minutes ago.

“I don’t – I don’t know what to do, mama,” Your mouth is turned into a deep frown and her eyes soften at the sound of the way you say her name.

She shifts to lay beside you, pulling your body into hers until you’re laying on her chest, both of her arms around you. She rests her cheek on the top of your head.

“I know it all seems really hard right now, and it is a hard decision, but nobody knows what to do better than you do. There’s no right or wrong answer here. All I want for you is for you to choose what you want and to do. Not what you think is expected of you or what you think will make you more successful – do what your heart tells you to do,” She hugs you tighter.

You take in her words. “My heart isn’t being very helpful right now,” You mutter.

She chuckles above you. “I don’t think that’s entirely true.” You move your head to look up at her, and she looks back down at you. “You wanna know what I think?”

You nod without hesitation.

“I think your heart already told you the answer but you’re too scared to accept it.”

“I don’t get it,”

She smiles down at you. “I have watched you and Steve dance around each other for the last fifteen years,”

You groan and bury your face in her shirt. “Mom,”

“Nuh-uh, don’t mom me,” She teases. “I’m serious. That boy would figure out a way to bring you the moon if you asked him to,”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Your muffled voice says.

“What I’m getting at is Steve is a good boy and I know more than anything, even if you don’t want to admit it, you’re worried about what this could mean for you two. But sweetheart, you’re worrying for no reason. He’s not going anywhere,”

You pause for a moment to think on her words. “So you think I should go?”

“I didn’t say that,” She says quickly.

“So you think I should stay.” You land on.

“I didn’t say that either,”

“Mom!” You whine into her. “Can you just tell me what to do?”

She shakes her head. “I told you baby, you already know in your heart what to do. You just have to admit it. I will always support you, no matter what. It’s not about choosing your career over Steve or choosing Steve over your career – it’s about you and what you want. That’s all that matters, my love.”

You huff at her words but you know she’s right because deep in your gut, you know the answer you’ll give them. You’ve always know the answer from the second you opened the letter.

Two days have passed since your almost kiss with Steve and it’s now the night before you’re supposed to leave. Stupidly, Steve has stayed away the past 48 hours and as time nears your departure date, he regrets it.

He made too many stupid decisions in just one night. First, his reaction to your acceptance. Then admitting the fact that he wanted you to stay, as if he didn’t know that couldn’t impacted your decision. And to top it all off, the fact that he almost kissed you.

He’s lived with his secret feelings for you for more than a decade but now that something really good happens for you, he almost let it slip.

He felt ashamed that he almost made such a big accomplishment of yours about himself. The last thing he ever wanted was to ruin your relationship but as the silence continues, he worries he already did.

Suddenly, Robin plops down next to him on the couch in Family Video’s break room. She’s more than just noticed his sour mood over the past two days and it seems like she’s finally had enough. Steve has sunk into the side of the couch, his body still and his eyes stuck on a magazine he hasn’t even read a word of.

“So, are we gonna talk about it or are you gonna keep pouting?” She says.

Steve side eyes her. “I’m not pouting,”

“Are you sure? Because Mrs. Higgins just came in and her toddler had the same look on his face when she told him he couldn’t have candy,”

He turns to glare at her and throws the magazine onto the coffee table in front of him. “You know what Buckley, I’m really not in the mood right now,”

He sounds mad, he knows he does, but she doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes at his nasty tone. “Does it have anything to do with the looming departure of the future Mrs. Harrington?”

Steve’s irritation is rising and somehow, Robin is always the perfect person to quicken the process. “Jesus Christ, can you not for like five seconds? Seriously,”

Surprisingly, she pauses. She blinks at him and he worries he snapped too hard but then she sighs.

“Why do you have to be such a dingus?” She asks. Steve scrowls at her. “Look, I know it sucks that she’s leaving. I’m gonna miss her too but then again, I’m not in love with her,”

He rolls his eyes this time. “I’m not in love with her, Robin.”

She waves her hand at him. “Oh please, the entire town knows it – including Mrs. Higgins spawn. I’m pretty sure the only ones who don’t are you and her,”

Steve hesitates in his response. Arguing is futile – he is in love with you and he has been since you went on a rant about squirrels at the age of seven.

“My point is, just because she’s leaving doesn’t mean she’s leaving you,” Robin says gently. “New York is nothing in the grand scheme of things and when the year is up, she’ll be back home. Or maybe she won’t and you can move out there. Or maybe she’ll stay there and you’ll stay here and keep visiting. What I’m saying is the possibilities are endless and leaving doesn’t have to mean whatever terrible things your mind is conjuring up.”

Steve is willing himself not to cry in front of Robin.

Her words land exactly where they were supposed to and he feels even more like a jackass than he did before. Robin was right. You leaving didn’t mean the end of you two, it just meant there was more than a five mile distance. And instead of spending as much time as possible with you before you left, he spent it avoiding you.

He glances at the clock and it’s now 8:45PM. He jumps off the couch, hands feeling around his pockets for his keys.

“Can you close by yourself?” He rushes out and Robin has to fight back her smile. She barely says the word yes before he’s bolting out of the store.

He practically sprints to his car and isn’t afraid to admit the fact that he broke four different speeding laws to get to you. He tries his best to rehearse what to say on the drive there.

Something along the lines of I’m sorry, I love you, you should go, I’ll wait for you. Hell, he’d even go with you if you wanted him to.

Steve thanks the universe for the fact that the roads are relatively empty and he hit every green light on the streets. He makes it to your house in record time.

He notices the porch light on but your mom’s car is gone, leaving only yours in the driveway. He cuts the engine and practically launches out of the driver seat. He jogs up to the front door and his hand shakes as he knocks on the wood.

He keeps trying to rack his brain for the perfect words to say but it all disappears when the door opens. You stand opposite of him, half of your body shielded by the door but you open it wider when you realize it’s him.

Your hair is loose around your face and you’re clearly dressed for bed. One of his t-shirts covers your body, the hem ending mid thigh and covering your sleep shorts. Your feet are covered in fuzzy socks. You smile up at him and his stomach swarms with butterflies.

“Steve,” You breathe. “I tried calling y –,”

He cuts you off. “I love you.”

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can even comprehend what he’s saying. But once they’re out, it feels like a thousand pound weight has been lifted off his chest.

He watches the way your lips part and your breathing hitches. He takes a step closer and your neck cranes to look up at him.

“I’ve loved you ever since we were seven years old and you forced me to play in the dirt with you. I’ve loved you ever since you taught yourself how to braid using my hair. I’ve loved you ever since you stuck by my side even when I was an asshole who didn’t deserve you. I have loved you ever since the second I laid eyes on you and that’s the only thing in my entire life that I’ve ever been sure of.”

By the time Steve finishes, his eyes are glassy and his voice breaks every time he says I love you. Your own eyes are wet, a few tears sliding down your skin.

It’s everything he’s kept bottled up these past fifteen years and now that it’s finally out, he feels like he can breathe. He takes another step closer, now toe to toe and gently cups your face in his hands.

“I’m sorry for leaving the other night. I was being stupid and I was scared of what it would mean by you leaving but it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll help you pack and move in out there, and I’ll be out there every weekend just like I said before. I’ll call you every night or wait for you to call me, it doesn’t matter. Either way, Hawkins or New York, I will always love you the same, baby. I promise.”

You let out a choked sound at his confession – something between a sob and a laugh – and he feels his heart constrict in his chest. He leans in, pressing his lips to the tear stained skin of your cheeks and then to your forehead.

“I love you so much.” He whispers into your skin.

Not once has he even thought about the fact that he hasn’t heard you say it back. In the end, it didn’t matter even if you didn’t because he would until the day he died.

“Steve,” You say and carefully pull away from his hold. He lets you and he keeps his eyes stuck on you. “I tried calling you earlier,”

He nods, eyes wide and curious.

“I called the firm a few hours ago,” You pause for a second and stare at his handsome face. He watches the way your eyes flicker across his entire face. “I turned down the position.”

Steve’s lips part and pulls his brows together. “Wha – what, why? No,” He shakes his head and brings his hands from your face to hold your hands. “No, you should go. This is a great opportunity. Why would you turn it down?”

“Because you’re here,” You say the words so softly and he makes sure to engrave that sound into his mind.

He stares down at you, so many different emotions flowing through him. Carefully he whispers your name. “You shouldn’t turn that down for me,”

You smile sadly at him. “Steve, there’s not a world where I’m choosing somewhere a thousand miles away from you. The thought of having to wait five days every week before I can see you again? Or only getting to talk over the phone every night? It’s not worth it,” You say. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you beat him to it. “So, I tracked down one of the other girls who got accepted at the Hawkins office. Turns out she was gunning for New York’s post and when I asked her to switch, she didn’t even hesitate.”

Finally, Steve perks up. His eyes light up in relief and a smile blooms across his pretty mouth.

“You – you got the position here?” He asks.

You nod, smiling. “Looks like I’m smart enough to figure out a way to have both,”

Steve doesn’t even respond before his large palms cover your cheeks again and he surges forward, his mouth pressing against yours.

You hum in contentment at the soft feeling of his lips finally meeting yours. His big arms wrap around your body, anchoring you into him as he pours every ounce of love into this kiss.

It’s achingly tender and devastatingly overdue.

Steve smiles against your mouth as you kiss him back and it’s so contagious, you both stand there with dopey smiles against each other.

He pulls away first and plants messy and wet kisses across your face. He holds you still as you giggle and shake in his arms when his lips travel to the ticklish spot of your neck.

He moves to look back at you and his smile hasn’t faltered once. Neither has yours.

“Oh, by the way?” You murmur. Steve nods for you to continue. “I love you too. So fucking much.”

Steve answers by devouring your face again, kissing every bit of you he can reach. You’re seconds from pulling him inside when you hear something behind him.

The world immediately becomes several shades darker. "...Oh."

"Better?"

You reluctantly nod. "...A little."

"I know."

He reaches for your hand as naturally as breathing, intertwining your fingers before leading you towards the first row of stalls, already smiling to himself as you become distracted almost immediately by somebody selling homemade lemonade the colour of sunshine.

The next hour disappears exactly the way summer afternoons are supposed to.

You share a paper cone of fresh doughnuts while wandering between rides, watch teenagers trying - and failing - to win enormous stuffed animals at impossible carnival games, spend far too long debating whether the queue for the Ferris wheel is actually worth it, and lose an embarrassingly competitive round of ring toss to two children who can't have been older than eight.

By the time you've wandered towards the food trucks at the far side of the fairground, Steve glances across at you and stops walking.

"...Where are the sunglasses?"

You blink. "My what?"

"The sunglasses."

Instinctively, your hand flies to the top of your head. Nothing. "...Oh."

Steve waits patiently.

"They're..." You rummage absent-mindedly through your tote bag before eventually producing them from somewhere beneath your purse and the half-finished packet of strawberries you'd insisted on buying ten minutes earlier. "...In my bag?"

He stares at you. "...Why?"

You look down at the sunglasses as though seeing them for the first time. "I forgot I was wearing them."

"You took them off."

"I did?"

"You absolutely did."

"When?"

"I have no idea."

For a long moment, Steve simply looks at you with an expression hovering somewhere between fond exasperation and quiet disbelief.

Then, with a sigh so gentle it's impossible to mistake for genuine annoyance, he plucks the sunglasses from your hand. "Hold still."

You obediently do as you're told while he settles them carefully back onto your face, nudging them into place with the sort of unconscious tenderness that makes your chest ache just a little. "There."

You smile up at him. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me."

You laugh. "Why?"

His lips twitch. "'Cause I'm gonna be doing this all day."

You grin, reaching automatically for his hand again as you continue further into the fair. "You're exaggerating."

"I don't think I am."

"Oh, come on."

"You've already forgotten your sunglasses once."

"That hardly counts."

"It absolutely counts."

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."

Steve raises one eyebrow. "You've been here an hour."

"So?"

"You've complained about the heat six times."

"I have not."

"You've forgotten your sunglasses."

A beat.

"You've almost walked into a fountain."

"I was looking at the ducks."

"You nearly walked into a stroller because you were watching the ducks."

"They were cute ducks."

He can't help laughing.

You beam triumphantly. "Aha."

"What?"

"I knew you'd smile eventually."

Steve shakes his head, slipping his fingers more securely between yours as the two of you disappear into the crowd again.

"You think this is funny."

"It is funny."

He glances sideways at you, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself.

You think he's joking.

Steve, on the other hand, is already quietly preparing himself for the increasingly inevitable realisation that, for the remainder of the afternoon, keeping you out of direct sunlight is apparently going to become his full-time occupation.

The first couple of times, Steve assumes it's coincidence.

The fair is busy enough that the two of you are constantly weaving between crowds, stopping every few minutes to watch something new or join another queue, and he doesn't think much of it when you pause beside the ice cream stand while standing squarely beneath the brightest patch of midday sun.

He simply steps into the shade himself, figuring you'll wander over in a moment.

You don't. Instead, you continue chatting quite happily while the sun beats relentlessly down onto your shoulders.

Steve glances from you, to the enormous oak tree casting a perfectly good patch of shade barely three feet away, then back again.

"Huh."

Eventually the queue moves, and so do you.

He forgets about it. Until ten minutes later.

You're waiting to have a go on the Ferris wheel, and somehow - despite the shaded queue snaking comfortably beneath a row of canvas awnings - you've managed to stop in the single stretch of path left completely exposed to the sun.

Steve looks around. There is shade. Everywhere. Except where you're standing.

He quietly reaches for your hand. Without a word, he guides you three steps to the left. You follow without resistance, continuing your story as though nothing has happened.

"...and then Robin actually told him-"

Steve nods absent-mindedly. "Mhm."

You don't even notice.

The third time is while you're deciding between lemonade and slushies. The fourth is outside the haunted house. The fifth happens while you're watching a street performer juggle flaming batons, where you've somehow positioned yourself directly beneath the hottest patch of sunshine in the entire fairground despite an enormous striped parasol casting cool shade less than an arm's length away.

Steve begins to suspect this isn't bad luck. It's instinct. An incredibly inconvenient instinct.

By now, he's stopped mentioning it altogether.

Instead, every time you come to a halt, he automatically reaches for your hand, your elbow, or the small of your back and gently steers you a few feet sideways before you have the chance to settle wherever you've decided to stand.

You never question it. You simply shuffle along with him, entirely engrossed in whatever you're looking at.

After the sixth or seventh relocation, Steve realises he's developed something of a system.

Spot shade. Locate girlfriend. Move girlfriend into shade. Repeat.

It's almost frightening how naturally it comes to him.

Eventually, somewhere between sharing a paper cup of frozen lemonade and watching children shriek their way around the bumper cars, you finally begin to notice.

You stop halfway through a sentence, looking around with a puzzled little frown. "...Steve."

"Hm?"

"Why do we keep moving?"

He glances at you. "What do you mean?"

"You keep..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you. "...relocating me."

"I am."

"...Why?"

Steve looks at you for a long moment, as though he's trying to work out whether you're genuinely asking. "You keep trying to photosynthesise."

You blink. "...What?"

"You are constantly standing in direct sunlight."

"I am not."

"You absolutely are."

"No, I'm not."

He simply raises an eyebrow before slowly turning his head.

You follow his gaze. Directly above you, the sun blazes down without a single cloud in sight.

Then you look to your left. The shade is approximately two steps away.

"...Oh."

Steve folds his arms with quiet satisfaction. "Exactly."

You hesitate. "I didn't even realise."

"I know."

"I wasn't doing it on purpose."

"I know."

"So why didn't you just tell me?"

His expression softens into something quietly amused. "I figured it was quicker just to move you."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it. "You've just been... repositioning me?"

"Pretty much."

"How many times?"

Steve pretends to think about it. "...I've lost count."

You stare at him for a second before laughing properly, shaking your head as you reach for his hand. "You know that's insane."

"I know."

"And slightly overprotective."

"I know."

"But..."

You glance down at your feet, only now noticing that, yes, you're standing right back in the sunshine again.

Steve notices too.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tugs your hand, three steps to the left, back into the shade. "There."

You can't help smiling. "...Okay, maybe keep doing it."

By the time you've made it halfway around the fair, Steve has quietly stopped pretending this is a temporary situation.

At first, it had only been the sunglasses.

Now, somewhere between the Ferris wheel and the bumper cars, he's produced a bottle of water from his tote bag and pressed it into your hand without so much as breaking stride.

"Drink."

"I only had some five minutes ago."

"I know."

"So I'm not thirsty."

"You will be."

You look at him suspiciously before taking a sip anyway.

Steve nods once, evidently satisfied with your decision-making, before relieving you of the bottle again and slipping it back into the bag slung over his shoulder.

The next addition arrives twenty minutes later.

You pause to watch somebody painting caricatures when Steve notices the faintest hint of pink creeping across your shoulders.

He sighs. Not dramatically, just with the quiet resignation of a man who had, somehow, found himself solely responsible for another fully-grown adult's wellbeing.

"Sunscreen."

You look over. "What?"

He's already rummaging through his bag. "Arm."

"My arm?"

"Both of them."

You hold them out obediently, trying very hard not to laugh while Steve squeezes a generous amount of sunscreen into his palm before rubbing it carefully into your shoulders and forearms with the concentration of somebody restoring a priceless work of art.

People wander past without paying the slightest attention. To Steve, it's the most normal thing in the world.

"There."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me."

"You've said that before."

"I'll probably say it again."

Half an hour after that, you stop in front of one of the little souvenir stalls selling everything from novelty keyrings to oversized floppy hats.

Steve stops too.

His eyes drift from the display, to your face, then back again.

Five dollars later, a wide-brimmed straw hat is being settled gently onto your head.

You look up at him under the brim. "...Steve."

"What?"

"You bought me a hat."

"I did."

"I already own hats."

"You didn't bring one."

"...Fair."

He adjusts it slightly until it shades your face properly before stepping back to inspect his work with quiet approval. "Better."

"You know," you say, smiling despite yourself, "this is getting a little ridiculous."

"No."

"No?"

"Ridiculous would've been buying two hats."

You snort. "I hate that that's almost logical."

The final addition comes courtesy of one of the gift stalls near the exit.

You're absent-mindedly fanning yourself with the fair programme while waiting for fresh lemonade, when Steve quietly disappears for all of two minutes.

He returns holding something behind his back.

"For you."

He reveals a tiny battery-powered handheld fan decorated with cheerful little daisies.

You stare at it. "...For me?"

"For you."

"You bought me a fan."

"You've complained about the heat twelve times."

"Twelve?"

"I've been keeping count."

You laugh so hard you nearly drop the lemonade. "I don't believe you."

"It was actually thirteen."

He switches the fan on before placing it carefully into your hands. The little blades whirr to life immediately, sending a wonderfully cool stream of air across your face.

Your eyes widen. "...Oh."

"I know."

"It's amazing."

"I know."

"You were right."

"I know."

By now, none of your belongings are actually being carried by you anymore.

Your tote bag hangs from Steve's shoulder alongside his own. The water bottle disappears into one pocket between regular hydration checks. The sunscreen lives permanently within easy reach. Every time you wander into the sunshine, he adjusts the brim of your hat before quietly steering you back towards the nearest patch of shade, while the little fan somehow keeps finding its way back into his hand whenever you become distracted by something shiny.

Somewhere along the way, without either of you consciously deciding it, Steve has stopped behaving like your boyfriend and started behaving like your own personal travelling field hospital.

Unfortunately for him, it's at precisely this moment that Robin spots the two of you.

She's apparently been at the fair with Vickie all afternoon, though neither of you have noticed her in the crowds.

Robin takes one look at Steve, one look at the ever-growing collection of supplies hanging from his shoulders, then one look at you happily wandering along beside him, completely oblivious to the fact that you aren't carrying a single thing.

She stops dead. "...Steve."

"What?"

Robin gestures helplessly towards the two of you. "...Why do you look like you're escorting somebody through the Sahara?"

Steve doesn't even hesitate. "Because apparently I am."

Robin stares at him for a full second.

Then she doubles over laughing.

"I am literally fine," you protest.

Both of them look at you.

Then Steve quietly raises a finger. "You're sunburnt."

You frown. "...No, I'm not."

He reaches out and gently taps the end of your nose.

You blink. "...Oh."

Robin makes a strangled sort of noise that suggests she'll never recover from this. "I cannot believe this is your life now."

Steve looks over just in time to find you've already become distracted by somebody selling giant stuffed animals and are beginning, once again, to drift slowly out into the sunshine.

Without missing a beat, he reaches over, takes your hand, and guides you three steps back into the shade.

Then he looks at Robin with the expression of a man who's accepted his fate hours ago. "Neither can I."

Robin laughs too hard to answer.

By late-afternoon, Steve quietly decides he's had enough.

Not of the fair.

Of you. Or, more specifically, of your ongoing campaign to lose a fight against the sun.

Without announcing his intentions, he takes your hand and gently steers you away from the busiest part of the fairground, weaving between families and food stalls until you reach a row of wooden picnic benches tucked beneath the enormous oak trees near the edge of the field.

The difference in temperature is immediate. A cool breeze stirs through the leaves overhead, dappling the grass with shifting patches of sunlight, while the relentless afternoon heat softens into something almost pleasant.

Steve points firmly towards the bench. "Sit."

You look between him and the empty seat. "...Are you telling me off?"

"I'm helping you."

"That's not what I asked."

He simply raises an eyebrow. "The bench."

You can't help smiling as you lower yourself onto it anyway, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. "There."

"There."

Steve nods once, apparently satisfied, before slipping the tote bag from his shoulder and immediately beginning what has become an almost comically familiar routine.

The water bottle appears first. He presses it into your hand. "Drink."

You obediently take a few sips while he switches on the little handheld fan and places it carefully beside you on the bench, angling it towards your face before adjusting the brim of your straw hat for what has to be the tenth time that afternoon.

You watch him with growing amusement. "...Steve."

"What?"

"You know I'm a grown woman."

"I do."

"I can look after myself."

"I know."

"Do you?"

He looks at you. Then at the bottle still in your hand. Then back again.

"I have my doubts."

You pout dramatically. "I wasn't even that hot."

Steve doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he fixes you with the sort of look usually reserved for people who've said something demonstrably untrue.

"You told me seventeen minutes ago you were 'withering away.'"

You blink. "...Did I?"

"Mhm."

"I don't remember that."

"You also informed me your soul was evaporating."

A beat. "I was being dramatic."

"You looked like you were gonna faint."

"I absolutely did not."

"You asked me if pigeons get heatstroke."

"...That's unrelated."

"It really isn't."

"It was just a question."

"You were genuinely concerned for them."

"I care about wildlife."

"You were worried because one of them looked warm."

"He did look warm."

Steve finally loses the battle, a laugh escaping him before he can stop it, quiet at first, then fuller, warmer, until he's shaking his head to himself with that wonderfully unguarded smile you love so much.

Not the polite laugh he gives strangers. Not the amused little huff you usually get when you're winding him up. A proper one. The kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him duck his head for a second as though he can't quite believe this is his life.

You find yourself smiling back almost automatically. Not because you've won the argument. You know perfectly well you haven't. Simply because that's been your goal all afternoon.

"There it is," you murmur.

He looks up. "What?"

"That smile."

His expression softens almost instantly. "You've been trying to make me laugh?"

"Obviously."

"You've spent the last four hours slowly cooking yourself alive."

"It was all part of the plan."

"So the heatstroke was... strategic?"

"The best comedy requires commitment."

Steve lets out another helpless laugh, reaching across the table to intertwine his fingers with yours. He can't tell if you're joking.

"I swear," he says, shaking his head affectionately, "one day you're gonna be the death of me."

You squeeze his hand. "No."

"No?"

"The sun's apparently trying to get me first."

Steve groans so dramatically that a couple walking past glance over curiously. "You see?"

"What?"

"This." He gestures vaguely towards you. "This is exactly what I'm dealing with."

You grin up at him from beneath the brim of your hat. "And yet..."

"And yet what?"

"You still packed sunscreen."

He doesn't even hesitate. "Yeah." A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as his thumb absently brushes across your knuckles. "...I'm gonna keep packing it, too."

By the time the two of you finally leave the fair, the worst of the heat has begun to ease.

The afternoon is slowly giving way to evening, the fierce white glare of the sun mellowing into something warmer and softer as it sinks lower behind the trees. Families begin drifting back towards the car park with oversized stuffed animals tucked beneath their arms, children trail sleepily behind their parents clutching the last sticky remains of candyfloss, and somewhere behind you the Ferris wheel continues its lazy circuit against a sky beginning to turn pale gold.

You reach for Steve's hand almost absent-mindedly as you fall into step beside him. He threads his fingers through yours without looking, the movement so familiar neither of you really thinks about it anymore.

For a while, neither of you says very much. The sort of comfortable silence settles between you that only seems to exist after long summer days, when you've spent hours talking already and simply being beside one another somehow feels just as nice.

Then, without so much as glancing in your direction, Steve slips his free hand into the tote bag hanging from his shoulder.

A second later, he places the water bottle into your hand. You stop walking for half a beat before looking up at him, already laughing.

"I wasn't even going to say anything."

"I know."

"So why?"

He shrugs. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

He smiles to himself. "The one that means you're about to say..."

He waits.

Almost exactly on cue... "...God, it's hot."

Steve hands you the bottle. You burst into laughter. He looks impossibly pleased with himself.

"You already knew."

"I've spent enough summers with you."

"You've profiled me."

"I have."

"Should I be offended?"

He shakes his head. "No."

He slips his fingers between yours again as the two of you continue down the pavement, the late afternoon sun finally beginning to soften behind the trees.

"I just know that every June, July and August..." He glances across at you, his expression settling into that familiar mixture of fondness and long-suffering affection. "...my full-time job becomes making sure you don't accidentally let the sun win."

Warmth spreads quietly through your chest.

You grin. "And yet..."

"And yet what?"

"I'm still your favourite patient."

Steve laughs, bringing your joined hands up to press a lingering kiss against your knuckles before answering without the slightest hesitation.

"Yeah." A beat. "...Unfortunately."

You nudge his shoulder with your own. "You love me."

"I really do."

"Enough to carry sunscreen around all summer?"

"I'll carry the whole pharmacy if I have to."

You glance sideways at him, trying very hard not to smile quite so much, but it proves to be a losing battle. Somehow, over the course of a single afternoon, he's acquired a straw hat, a tiny handheld fan, sunscreen, sunglasses and an increasingly ridiculous collection of supplies, all because he'd quietly decided that your inability to coexist peacefully with direct sunlight had become his responsibility.

You aren't entirely convinced it needs to be.

You are, however, quietly touched that he's never once made it feel like an inconvenience.

As though sensing exactly where your thoughts have wandered, Steve reaches up with his free hand to adjust the brim of the hat he'd bought you earlier, nudging it down just enough to shade your eyes again. "There."

You glance up at him. "I wasn't even standing in the sun."

"No," he agrees easily. "But you were thinking about it."

A helpless laugh escapes you. "You are unbelievable."

"I've been told."

The walk home continues at the same unhurried pace, your shoulders brushing every so often as the evening settles comfortably around the two of you. Tomorrow would probably be just as warm. There would almost certainly be another bottle of water waiting in Steve's bag, another reminder to reapply sunscreen, another gentle tug back beneath the nearest patch of shade.

Neither of you minds.

Some people chase the sun all summer long.

Steve's job, apparently, is chasing you out of it.

dividers: saradika-graphics

The first time Gator laid eyes on you was in middle school. He’d been sent to the principal’s office for mouthing off to his history teacher, who’d tried to tell him that the Tillmans weren’t actually one of the historical families of the region—patently false, according to his daddy—when he saw you walking the opposite direction.

You were holding your books tight to your chest, arms crossed over them in an X, looking exactly like a dream—a pink pair of cowboy boots, a pink sweater to match, and a pair of blue jeans. He stopped dead in his tracks, so abruptly that his teacher bumped into him as she was escorting him to the main office.

“Mr. Tillman—!” she exclaimed, not quite meaning to, but it caught your attention, and you glanced over as you passed.

“Hi,” Gator said to you as you looked. You slowed for a moment, readying your hall pass to show the teacher, but she wasn’t paying you any mind.

“Mr. Tillman, let’s move,” she said, but Gator didn’t budge. He was looking at you.

You looked nervously from Gator to the teacher, then back at him. “Hi,” you replied, and from that moment on, Gator only had eyes for you.

&&

You didn’t have any classes together, but everywhere he went, Gator looked for you. He saw you occasionally in the halls between classes, waving at you, and you usually waved back if you saw him. Every single bit of attention you gave him was a victory. It took weeks for the two of you to be in the same place at the same time, but finally—finally, it happened.

He was back in the principal’s office (mouthing off, different teacher), when in you walked, pink cowboy boots and all. When you saw him, he nearly shot out of his seat to come talk to you, but he didn’t. He knew from everything his daddy had ever taught him about women—well, girls—that he had to play it cool. So he watched as you spoke to the lady at the front desk, and then, holy shit, she directed you to take a seat near him.

Cool. Just be cool.

You rounded the desk, stopping for a barely perceptible moment when you saw someone was already over there, but you moved to sit down anyway, leaving one seat between you.

Gator looked over at you when you sat. You looked back and smiled.

“Hi,” he said, right away, forgetting immediately to be cool. “I’m Gator.”

You furrowed your brow. “Is that like a nickname?”

“No,” Gator said. “It’s my real name.” He was used to this, and every time someone new laughed at his name, he wished more and more that it wasn’t.

“That’s cool,” you said. “Did you know alligators’ eyes glow in the dark?”

Gator had been ready to tell you that he did, in fact, know whatever you were about to say, because usually people just hit him with “Alligators can’t live in salt water like crocodiles” or “Alligators were around when the dinosaurs were,” which he had known for years. But he didn’t know about their eyes.

“Wait, really?” he asked.

“Yeah!” you said. “Well, kind of. They don’t glow on their own, but if you shine a light on them they shine back at you.”

“Next time I see an alligator, I’ll try it,” he said, and you laughed. “Oh, hey—what’s your name?”

As you were about to reply, the receptionist you’d spoken to when you arrived called out a name and you looked over, then back at Gator.

“That!” you chirped, giggling, and hopped up out of your seat. You took a few steps away, then turned and waved to him. “Bye, Gator.” When you smiled at him, your dimples made an appearance, and he very nearly swooned where he sat.

“Mr. Tillman,” came a voice from behind him. The principal was ready for him now. 

&&

Gator didn’t usually consider girls his friends—according to his daddy they were for wifing and making babies—but you were the exception to the rule. As the years passed, you two ended up spending more and more time together, even sharing some classes in high school. He thanked his lucky stars that he was in chemistry and later biology in senior year with you, since science was your favorite subject as a whole and he just didn’t have a head for things like that. You’d sit together in the library, him flirting and you totally oblivious while you showed him how to balance a chemical equation or show him a mnemonic device to remember the organelles in a cell.

Today, you were going over the process of mitosis.

“So, one of the biggest parts of mitosis is when the DNA replicates,” you said. “Remember what does that?”

“Yeah,” Gator said absently from across the table, doodling in the margin of his notebook. “Mitosis. Cell division.”

“Right!” you said, trying to encourage him to keep talking, since that wasn’t what you asked. He only preened for a minute before returning to his drawing.

You always cut him a lot of slack, but it did bother you when he did this. “And what replicates the DNA?” you prompted, and he shrugged.

“An enzyme, I think?”

“Gator,” you implored; even though he was right, he was so nonchalant about it. You wished that he would take school just a pinch more seriously. “How will you get a high enough grade on the midterm if you aren’t gonna actually study?”

“I don’t need to pass biology,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna work for my dad.”

You scoffed. “Police officers still need to be educated.”

“Police officers need ta know about mitosis?” he asked. “Says who?”

You rolled your eyes. “You need at least a high school diploma. Which you won’t get if you don’t pass the midterm and the final.”

“Hey,” he said putting down his pen. “Look, I know what does it, ok?”

You scowled at him. “Tell me.”

“DNA helicase. It pulls the DNA apart so it can be copied.”

You grinned then, wide and bright. “Yes! See what happens when you apply yourself?” Spoken like the class president and valedictorian-to-be you were.

“Ya know…” Gator said, voice dropping a bit.

“Hm?” you replied, already checking your notes for the next topic to go over with him.

“If I were an enzyme, I’d wanna be DNA helicase.” He waited for you to look up at him, questioningly, so he could tell you why. “So I could unzip your genes.”

You leveled him with a stern look, but slowly, gradually as he wiggled his eyebrows, you laughed, and his mischievous smile grew.

“You’re such an ass,” you said, but he only chuckled in response.

“Someday,” he said. “Someday you’ll see what a catch I am.”

“Pass biology first, and then if we’re both not married by 40, I’m yours,” you joked back.

“I’m holding you to that,” Gator said, but you didn’t reply, instead turning your textbook around to go over a diagram with him.

&&

After graduation, Gator did exactly what he said he was going to do and started to work for his daddy in the sheriff’s department, Roy pulling strings to allow it.

You went away to college.

For the first couple weeks, you kept in touch pretty regularly, texting or chatting in Instagram DMs, because he pretty much replied to every single story post you made. He’d send you gym selfies, trying not to read too much into it when you sent him back heart-eye or sweating emojis. No matter that he’d been vying for your affections unsuccessfully since the 7th grade—you thought of him as a friend and he never crossed the line, nor did you ever tell him

to stop flirting. It just felt like your normal dynamic and had been for 6 years.

Both of you had dated other people—well, you’d dated. Gator had hooked up and would come up with myriad reasons why he never called any of those girls back, but the actual reason was they simply weren’t you. It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying, it was just that most of the girls he met from Lehigh didn’t like his family, and the girls he met from out of town laughed at his name. It was a no-go from the outset.

Your longest run had been with a guy named Cody, one of Gator’s circle in high school and now a fellow member of the police force. You’d broken up with him the summer after high school, telling him that it would be easier to do it now, rather than spend the whole summer just waiting for it to happen in August.

Because that was the whole of it, really. You were considerate, kind, funny without being mean, everything Gator wasn’t. You were soft and sweet, and it wasn’t that Gator wanted to ruin that, or whatever the cliche was in books or movies, the urge to corrupt something pure. No—he just wanted a taste of that compassion for himself. He wanted to know what it felt like to be so utterly cared for. His mama had left, Nadine had left, and his daddy wasn’t the type to show Gator any love but the tough kind.

Maybe that was fucked up of him—God knows you’d told him enough times he should see a therapist—but having a girlfriend like you could help him see his own self-worth. Of that, he was sure. You’d told him many times that he was enough, that what his father said about him wasn’t all true, but if that was the case why was it so hard to find anyone besides you who seemed to genuinely care for him? Even the girls he’d slept with—once he got them molly or even just weed from the evidence lockup, they stopped calling. Gator was of no use to anyone until they needed something from him, and once they got it, he was nothing again.

Except for you. You were the only friend he’d ever had that was unconditional. When he’d gotten too drunk at a bonfire out in the woods at 16, and you were the only one he knew with a learner’s permit, you came and got him, even though you weren’t supposed to drive alone and never at night. You hadn’t asked for anything in return, just gave him a kiss on the forehead and a bottle of water when he got into your car.

Or the time he’d failed his senior English final and, instead of notifying Roy, he asked you to do something, anything, and you used your position as the class president to talk to the teacher, secure a one-week extension for him to re-take the test, and tutor him before the grades were finalized and turned in. He’d scraped by with a C, but at least it wasn’t an F. Again, you’d done it for him in exchange for nothing, and when he asked why, you simply said “Because that’s what friends do, Gator.”

You were a cotton candy-wrapped dream in pink cowboy boots, sweet to look at and even sweeter to talk to, everything he could want.

So when you came back from your first semester at college, he’d wanted nothing more than to pick you up in his truck, take you for a night drive, and tell you everything. How much you meant to him, how long he’d felt like that, how sweet you were to him and how goddamn sweet he was on you.

But when he’d texted you, asking if you were free to grab something to eat and catch up, you replied almost an hour later. Apologizing first, of course, then explaining that your parents had surprised you with an early Christmas present—a trip to New York City to go museum hopping and see the giant tree in Rockefeller Center. You’d be gone for almost the whole break and heading right back to school after. But you’d totally catch up in the spring! And you had so much you wanted to talk to him about. He’d suggested texting, but you said no. It had to be in person.

He agreed, only because what he wanted to say to you had to be in person just the same.

&&

As soon as the weather changed, Gator was counting the days. Life in the force wasn’t nearly as glamorous as Roy made it seem, and Gator, despite being the sheriff’s son, had to learn the hard lesson that nepotism wasn’t his daddy’s way. He started from the ground up, but he worked hard as hell to prove himself—harder than the other deputies, he thought—because he had everything to prove and everything to lose.

But when spring arrived, Gator had you to look forward to. And when you’d texted him the time your flight was getting in, that you expected to be home late that evening, he made sure that he finished all his paperwork for the day and that he’d be able to take the afternoon highway patrol rather than the night one that he normally had.

Cody hadn’t wanted to switch shifts, but Roy was apparently feeling particularly generous that day, and gave Gator a rare break, letting the two of them switch.

The cruiser’s engine hummed as Gator idled in the shade of some trees off the road, waiting for someone to do something stupid in front of him. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, checking the clock on the dash for the fifth time in at least 5 minutes. 3:07.

For fuck’s sake, last time he’d looked it’d been 3:05, just switching to 3:06.

The afternoon passed slowly, but he handed out a few tickets, snagged some more contraband for the evidence locker, and was heading back to the ranch when his phone ding!ed in his pocket. He glanced at it and smiled, just a little—you’d sent a fullbody selfie from the airport, bags behind you and phone held high, angled just right so he could see you were still wearing your cowboy boots—still pink. It made him chuckle a little. Some things really never fuckin’ change.

He spent the rest of the evening hyping himself up for what he was about to do, which consisted of blasting metal music in his room, hitting his vape too many times, and a pep talk (or three) in the mirror. He was a winner. A winner.

&&

hey gate!! sorry its so late… i just walked in the door. did you still want to meet up?

Gator wouldn’t say he’d been staring at his phone, but he wouldn’t not say that either. The entire night, his body had been buzzing with anticipation for you to let him know you were home, and when you finally texted, he had responded to the affirmative in barely a minute flat. He was tromping down the stairs in his joggers and t-shirt, grabbing his Stark County Sheriff ball cap and jamming it onto his head, just because…you’d finished a whole year of college. All he’d done was arrest a couple of shoplifters, give out speeding tickets, and a whole lot of paperwork. He wanted something to show off to you, to feel proud of. You were an undergrad, pursuing a dream. He was a deputy sheriff, and that had to count for something.

The drive to your house wasn’t a short one, but with the way Gator drove, it was. He pulled into the end of your driveway after only 10 minutes, knowing full well that you probably shouldn’t have expected him for at least 25. He parked, cut the engine, stepped out of the car, and spun his keyring around his index finger a few times before pocketing it.

Your house was dark, but he could see the lights in the basement were on—that was where you’d always hung out, where you’d done homework or watched movies when you were younger, the door at the top of the stairs fully open always, because your parents didn’t trust him. (Fair enough, he’d always kind of thought, but you kept him well enough at arm’s length that he wouldn’t have tried anything. You barely ever responded to his blatant come-ons anyway.)

He hopped up onto the porch, just one step, the wood creaking a little as he did so, jingling his keys nervously in his pocket. He’d stared down a guy who’d been robbing a liquor store once, holding a gun on him, and in that moment he hadn’t even felt as nervous as he did right now. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hand to knock, but before he did, the heavy front door opened, leaving just a screen door between you.

“Gate!” you whispered, but loud enough to basically be regular speech. “Hi! My parents are getting ready for bed, we have to be quiet.” You reached to the door handle, unlocking it from the inside and letting him step in. Before he was even through the threshold, still holding the screen door open with one arm, you had glommed on to him, hugging him tight. He laughed a little, wrapping his free arm around you and ushering you back, effortlessly lifting you off your feet and taking a step further into the house so he could let the door swing shut.

“Wow, ok,” you said, once you had your footing again. “I guess all those pictures from the gym weren’t just for show.”

“Thought I was just sendin’ ya thirst traps for no reason?”

“I’m sure you had a reason,” you said, eyes flashing with a bit of the mischief usually reflected in Gator’s own eyes. “Deputy.”

“Ah, ok, I see now. Y’like a man in uniform.”

“Yep,” you replied easily—your banter with Gator was always easy, always playful, always enjoyable. “Although, pretty sure the only official thing you’re wearing right now is that hat, and even that’s pushin’ it a bit.” You eyed his sweatpants and tennis shoes, which he toed off and left beside the door.

“Yeah, well,” Gator said. “I’m off duty right now. I can swing back around tomorrow if you wanna see it that bad.”

Your eyes crinkled as you smiled, then turned and led Gator to the kitchen, stopping at the fridge. “Thirsty?”

“You got anything good?” he asked, watching as you pulled open the refrigerator door. “Pop or water,” you said, before smirking at him over your shoulder. “Got some beer for the cookout my parents are having for Memorial Day. They won’t miss it. Unless you’re gonna bust me for underage drinking.”

“Pretty hypocritical for me ta bust ya if I’m doin’ it too,” he said, and you just laughed, closing the door and gesturing to the basement door with your chin.

“It’s in the garage, I’ll grab it. Head on down.” You opened the door opposite the one that led to the basement, and while Gator descended the steps he heard you clinking around in the other, larger refrigerator your parents kept outdoors.

He alighted the stairs, glancing around, but the basement looked exactly the same as it had the last time he’d been down here, during your high school graduation party (or really, the afterparty, which was just for your closest circle of friends: Gator, Cody, and a few other kids from your science clubs. He never really fit in with them, but you kept him around anyway).

The pile of old board games was in the exact same spot, the little story that he’d tried to create with them still mostly the same, too: Hi-Ho Cherry-O, Don’t Wake Daddy, Guess Who?, Clue, Sorry!, Trouble. He chuckled that Battleship had been added to the stack, wondering how he could incorporate that into the narrative, when the stairs behind him groaned as you started to come down, too, bumping the door closed behind you.

You’d put on a pink hoodie over your tank top, hood up, little wisps of your hair peeking out on either side of your face. He smiled at the sight, turning away so you wouldn’t see how fucking enamored of you he still was even after you hadn’t actually seen other for a year.

“Here you go!” you said, proffering him one of the four beer bottles you’d procured, stepping around him to sink into the couch, plunking two beers down onto the coffee table and trying to twist the cap off the one you still held, hissing when it didn’t budge.

“Damn it,” you said, readying yourself to stand up again. “Need a bottle opener.”

“I got one,” Gator said, stepping up and over the back of the couch, lowering himself to sit with his legs criss-crossed as he removed his keys from his pocket. He had a bottle opener on a keychain, and popped the beer he held open, trading it with you for the one you held, then opened that one too. He was halfway to taking a swig before he realized you were holding your bottle out for him

to tap his against. He did so.

“What’re we toastin’ to?” he asked.

You lifted the bottle to your mouth, letting it rest against your lower lip, thinking. He tried not to notice the way the glass bulbed your plump lip around it, and failed miserably.

“How about…new beginnings,” you suggested.

“New beginnin's?” he repeated. “Damn, I figured you’d say some shit like ‘old friends’ or ‘underage drinkin’.’”

You giggled, sipping the beer. “Nah, this one’s better.”

He took a sip too, turning to face you a bit on the couch, moving one leg so his foot was on the floor now. “So how’s college treatin’ ya?”

You shrugged, taking another sip. “It’s… fine. I was taking mostly AP classes in high school, so it doesn’t really feel that different to me. But I’m sure once I get to my higher-level classes, it’ll give me a challenge.”

Gator nodded—he’d been in the regular version of classes, and you’d helped him pass even though your own schedule was that much more packed with extracurriculars and homework. “Sounds like you’ll be teachin’ the classes soon enough.”

You laughed and shook your head. “I doubt that. Not sure if teaching is for me, really.”

“Why not?” Gator asked. “You’re pretty damn good at it. Taught me plenty.”

You gave him a small smile, humble, then shrugged. “You were just easy to teach. Hung on my every word. Still gave me a hard time though.”

“Well, when ya got a teacher that looks like

you,” he said, pressing his luck a little, just to flirt with you like old times. He hummed the melody of “Hot For Teacher,” and you rolled your eyes. “What? Van Halen may have had a point with that one.”

“Shut up, Gate,” you said, sipping your beer again, but there was no bite in it, and you settled into a comfortable silence. Eventually, you kicked your bare feet up to rest them on the edge of the low coffee table.

“So, do you like being a cop?” you asked, and he shrugged before answering.

“Not really sure what else I could do around here,” he said, taking off his hat, tossing it to the coffee table.

“That’s not true,” you said. “You’re smart, Gate, don’t…let your dad make you feel like you’re not.”

And coming from anyone else, that would have had him heated, had him seeing red—but you knew most of the details he never told anyone else, the late night texts about the fight he had with his old man, the way Roy would belittle him almost constantly.

“Yeah, I know.” He sighed and chugged the rest of his beer, grabbing for a second one; it opened with a soft hiss. “I mean—as far as the job, I like it, I guess. Ain’t really even been a year, yet, still kinda learnin’ the ropes.” His father had, of course, massaged the rules to allow Gator to be an officer right out of high school because he ran the whole county how he saw fit—but a lot of the time, Gator felt in over his head.

“Well, if you like it, you’ll get the hang of it.” You paused, sipping your beer, then put the bottle down on the coffee table. “Gator, I—” you began, at the same time he started talking too. 

“Listen, there’s—”

You laughed softly, gesturing to him to continue. “Go ahead.”

“Ladies first,” Gator insisted, and you smiled a little to yourself. Despite his upbringing, despite the way Roy taught Gator to “respect” women, he did his best most of the time.

“So…While I was at school there was this guy,” you said, and Gator’s hand squeezed so hard on his beer bottle that the condensation on it made it slip just a little in his grip.

“Uh huh,” Gator intoned, wondering if he could get away with zoning out during this conversation. Everything he had wanted to tell you was going right out the window.

“He was in like, most of my classes, cute, funny, we hit it off right away,” you continued, lowering your hood, so he could see your face clearly. “He wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“Sounds boring.”

You only smiled a little, ignoring Gator’s obvious goad and continued. “He was like…the perfect boyfriend. He called me when he said he was gonna, he brought me snacks that he knew I liked if I was studying.”

“So what, ya gonna marry him?” Gator asked, not quite managing to keep the edge from his voice.

“Well that’s the thing, right?” you said, and Gator’s actually felt his chest clench, like maybe the thing you meant was that yes, he was an ideal partner and you were in fact looking to get serious at 19 years old. “On paper he would be a great guy to marry someday.”

“I know lots’a guys who look good on paper,” Gator said. “Half’a the guys I book at the station are shitbirds and they all got degrees or office jobs. ‘N they fuckin’ suck.”

“You’re right,” you said, huffing a little sigh through your nose. “Because when I got back from New York? Wow.”

Gator frowned, his thumb working at the rim of his beer bottle. “What happened?”

“He acted like—like I blew him off the entire time I was there. Like there’s not a huge time difference? He basically told me that any time I didn’t text him back fast enough, he just kept thinking I was with another guy or—or partying in a club or something. I told him—”

“You were with your parents,” Gator said, and you held out both hands toward him like he was the only person who’d understood the point.

“Thank you! Yes! That’s what I said, I was like, ‘Dude, I was on vacation with my mom and dad.’ But he didn’t want to hear it so he dumped me.”

Gator inhaled slowly. He sipped his beer. “Want me to go kick his ass? I’ll do it.”

You looked like you were considering it, honestly, head tilted a little to one side. But then you shook your head.

“No. That’s not why I told you all that, though I do appreciate it. I, um… I should have led with something else,” you said.

“Like what?” Gator said, sipping his beer and wondering if you were going to want a second one or if he could just have all three to try and feel better about being rejected before he even told you shit.

“That as charming as he was at first, despite what he turned into, he…wasn’t really what I was looking for, you know?”

Gator stilled, staring at that third unopened bottle of beer. “Uh huh.”

“I wanted someone who like, really understood me. Who treated me the way I always wanted to be treated, just because he knew me that well.” You waited for him to turn to you, but he didn’t. “I was looking for someone a little closer to home,” you said, finally, your voice leading him just like it had in school, toward the answer he was looking for. When he finally shifted his gaze to you, you had a small smirk on your face. “You.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Gator said, but he couldn’t help the genuine smile that rose to his lips. “You fuckin’ with me?”

You laughed out loud. “Yeah, Gator,” you said. “I invited you over as soon as I got home from the airport, lookin’ like a mess, and told you that dating an absolute asshole at school made me realize I liked you the whole time, just to screw with you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then looked away, polishing off the second beer, settling his gaze on the Trouble box, which amusing, he had to admit. He felt like he was in deep but in the best way.

You gave him longer than he should have needed, but he still hesitated when you spoke again.

“Gate? Say something,” you said. “If you don’t feel the same way that’s…ok. I don’t expect you to, I know we joke around about it a lot.”

“Nah,” Gator said, putting his empty bottle beside the first one on the table. “Nah, it ain't been jokin'.”

You straightened up, giving him your rapt attention.

Gator opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again, then laughed, covering his face with both hands before looking up at you. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I been holdin’ a candle for you for years, and you liked me too?”

“Gator,” you said, voice soft as silk. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I been saying shit for years,” he said, leaning back against the couch cushions. “And I’m supposed to be the dumb one.”

You bit your lip, scooching yourself a little closer to him on the couch. “Guess it was me the whole time.”

“Damn right it was,” he said, turning his head to look at you sideways where it rested against the back of the sofa. “Some valedictorian you were.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said. “I’m just good at books, not boys.”

Gator just looked at you for a moment, a long one, his expression softening each second that slipped past. “C’mere,” he said, reaching out to loop his arm around your back, pulling you closer, into his side. You let yourself be swept up easily, your front against him as his other hand came up to cup your face. Without another word, he leaned up at the same moment he guided your face down toward his, and then your lips met in a soft, chaste, first kiss.

He felt you smile against his mouth and then pull away. Opening his eyes, he took in your sweet face, the half-smile gracing your lips, the way you looked at him the way you always had: With affection, care. There was something else there too, something with a little edge to it, but he couldn’t define it, didn’t care to. He was currently on cloud fuckin’ 9 after kissing you.

“Sweet,” he said, his hand still on your cheek. He swiped his thumb over your upper lip and you kissed the pad of it softly. “Sweet girl. What am I gonna do with you?” he mused.

“I have a few ideas,” you said, and the hard edge in your eyes shifted closer to the forefront.

“What’s that?” he asked, swiping his thumb back the other way. Before he could, you parted your lips and flitted your tongue out against his finger, tipping your chin up and taking his thumb into your mouth, sucking it, eyes closed.

Gator’s mouth dropped open—he had not expected that from you. Your hand moved to his wrist, holding his hand there as you sucked at him, before pulling his thumb out of your mouth and kissing down his palm to his wrist, finally opening your eyes to look at him again.

“Should I show you, or should I tell you?” you asked, and Gator had never heard you speak in that voice before, a bit of a lower register, husky and—God fuckin’ help him—hot, the weight of it going straight to his dick.

“Sh-show me,” Gator said, and you smirked, this time drawing his first two fingers into your mouth, tongue laving over them, between them, around them, bobbing your head just a little on them like you were sucking them off, and he felt so, so weak.

He’d never been in this position before—the one not taking the lead—but he didn’t think he hated it. In his imaginings, in his fantasies, you’d been that cotton candy dream girl—but here, you were sucking his goddamn fingers and, fuck, climbing onto his lap.

You straddled Gator, looking down at him. “This ok?” you asked, before moving to do anything else. 

“Fuck yeah, it’s ok,” Gator replied, meeting you halfway in a kiss that was almost the exact opposite of your first one: Tongues and a little bit of teeth—yours closing over his lower lip to bite him, tug at it, pulling a groan from his chest as you slotted your hips directly over his cock, already starting to chub up beneath you.

You kissed him hard, rolling your hips against him before straightening up and tugging off your hoodie. He stared up at you, dumbfounded—he had never felt this out of his element with a woman before, and he’d lost his virginity at the ripe age of 14 to someone way too old for him.

His hands came up to rest on your hips, his lips chasing yours now that you’d taken off the jacket, and you obliged him, kissing him rough and with abandon, tongues sliding together, first you deepening the kiss, then him, your hands clasping together at the nape of his neck. He sighed your name and you sighed his right back as you braced your knees on either side of him, grinding your still-clothed cunt against the ridge of his cock, now much, much stiffer than it had been previously.

“Do you,” Gator began, swallowing thickly before trying again. “Do you have anyth-thing?”

“Uh huh,” you replied absently, exhaling against his lips, and with one final nip at his lower lip, you pulled away, sliding backward off of him. He watched you go, shaking his head a little just to try and clear his thoughts, covering his face with both hands to ground himself, because you weren’t what he’d expected at all and he thought maybe, just maybe, he was a little bit in over his head.

When he lowered his hands, he watched you kneeling by the stack of board games. You had Trouble open and were withdrawing a handful of condoms, picking one—no, two, he saw—out of your palm and letting the others fall back into the game box. You closed the lid and shoved it back in its place.

“You keep rubbers in there?” he asked.

“In Trouble, yeah,” you said, smirking like it was clever. “In high school I had to hide them for me and Cody,” you continued, and Gator quirked an eyebrow. “Seemed like the...right place for them.” You lowered your face, half amused and half embarrassed.

“Ain’t bad,” Gator said, cutting you some slack, “Twister’s a good option too.” He lifted his face to hold eye contact with you as you walked back over, climbing back on top of him. His eyes didn’t leave yours as you put the condoms on the arm of the couch, running your hands over his hair, bouncing a little in his lap.

“Two?” he asked.

“Two. Just in case you can keep up,” you said.

He groaned into your mouth as you kissed him again and again, breaking apart from him only to tug off his t-shirt and then your tank top, diving right back in, your nose nudging his as you took his lips with yours.

Gator’s hands slid up your undulating thighs, up your waist and around to your front, cupping both of your tits through your bra, rubbing at your nipples through the flimsy fabric. You whined at the touch, and he did it again, feeling them perk up at the attention, poking against his palms as he rubbed you through the satin.

Your hands were on him, too, rubbing at his chest and then holding his shoulders as you kept grinding your hips down on him. He leaned in, mouthing at your chest before just tugging the fabric of your bra to the side, exposing your tits and licking over one of your nipples, teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

“Ah—yes,” you gasped, one hand curving around his shoulder, the other coming up to smooth over his hair again, curling around the nape of his neck as you held his mouth against your breast.

He hummed against your skin, lapping at the pebbled bud before switching, sucking the other one between his lips, worrying it just a little with his teeth. Your gasp was louder this time, followed by a buzzing moan, low in your throat, the movement of your hips faltering for the first time as he pleasured you with his mouth on your tits.

“Gate,” you sighed softly, mussing his hair as you slid your hand back up through it. “Want you—inside me, now—” The hand on his shoulder groped at the arm of the couch, grabbing one of the condoms and knocking the other too the floor, neither of you caring to retrieve it unless you needed it.

“Fuck,” Gator mumbled, the two of you hurrying to push your bottoms down, you nearly stumbling as you moved off him, tangled in your yoga pants as you pushed them off along with your panties. “Fuck.” Gator said it again without meaning to, eye level with your cunt as you stood in front of where he still sat on your couch. He could see how turned on you were, how wet, your arousal spreading onto your thighs. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You pushed his shoulder back against the couch and leaned over, removing his bottoms as well as you kissed him, slow, languid, lingering against his mouth as you splayed your hands out on his thighs. You pulled away when he gasped into your mouth, glancing down; his cock was red at the tip, shiny, so hard it was curved toward his stomach, leaving a little sticky spot of precome each time it pulsed from neglect.

“Ready?” you asked, and Gator nodded, his hands sliding up your thighs to rest atop your hips.

“Yeah. Yes,” he said, taking the condom when you held it out for him. He ripped the foil and rolled it on, pinching the very tip as he eased it down his length, so goddamn keyed up that he actually shivered a little just from touching his cock to do it.

You straddled him again, hands on his shoulders, looking down between your bodies as Gator held his cock steady for you. You hovered above him and he slid his hips forward just a touch, making sure the angle would work for you both—and then you were sinking down on him, slow but steady, the slide easy; your walls fluttered around him, wet and hot and fuck.

“Feel so fuckin’ good on my cock,” Gator bit out, not quite meaning to say all that, but you only rolled your hips against him.

“You like that?” you asked, squeezing down on him, before lifting yourself up just a little, thighs flexing, then dropping back down, fucking yourself on his cock.

“Yeah,” Gator half-sobbed—he couldn’t believe he was already as far gone as he was.

“Tell me,” you said, reaching down to take one of Gator’s hands in yours again, lifting it to your mouth. Gator watched you, his own lips parting in disbelief as you, yet again, angled his middle finger into your mouth, closing your lips around it, flexing your hips and your thighs, cunt rising and falling on his cock as you fucked yourself, steady like rolling waves, pleasure ebbing and flowing, closer and closer with each movement of your body into, against, around his.

“So—you’re so,” Gator said, transfixed by your lips around his finger. “So perfect—wet and—and oh my god, and, really fucking good.” His incoherence only spurred you on, sliding your lips all the way down his finger, past his second knuckle, tongue pressing against the underside.

Slowly, you let his finger slip from between your lips and, still holding his hand, cupped Gator’s cheek with the other. “Lie down for me,” you said, your thumb caressing his palm as you pushed yourself up and off his cock.

His cock slid out from between your folds, dragging against your thigh and smearing more of your own wetness there as he turned his body, staring up at you the whole time, his cock flagging to one side, the condom shiny with your arousal.

Climbing back over his legs, you gripped his side with one hand, leaning over him on your knees, and held his wet cock still for you as you found your entrance again with the tip. You sunk right back down onto him, sighing heavily as you took him to the hilt, feeling him deeper than before.

“Can I keep going?” you asked, teasing, and he took each of your thighs in his hands, squeezing them as he begged you to please keep going, please fuck me, god—

“I need your help,” you said, taking his hand again, and kissing the pad of his middle finger before lowering it down between your legs where he disappeared inside you. You pressed his fingers against your dripping pussy, and he didn’t need any other explanation—he was feeling for your clit with no hesitation, slick and slippery skin making it so easy to find the little bead, rubbing it in quick, short motions, back and forth and back and forth and—

You sighed his name, then lifted yourself up bodily to let his cock slip partially out of you, only to roll yourself back down, slapping against his front, the feeling of where you were joined and his fingers roving over your clit too good to bother trying to slow down. You fucked yourself even as Gator’s free hand skimmed up your thigh, the heel of his hand tickling your stomach as he reached to cup your breast, flicking your nipple with his thumb, then rubbing it at the same pace as your clit.

Your gut kicked when he did, a sharp cry of his name falling of from your lips, and he jerked his hips up into you in response as you tightened down around him.

“Fuck, Gator—!” you cried, slamming your cunt down onto him and rolling yourself over him back and forth, arching your chest into his hand. He rubbed at your nipple, your clit, taking the chance with your stillness over him to be the one to fuck up into you, just so he could hear you, hear your gasps and mewls, your cotton candy sweet whimpers—

“Fuck, wait, I—” he said, speaking to himself—he was the one moving. “Fuck, I’m coming, I, I—” He was saying words with no cognizance of actually saying them, bits and pieces of phrases leaving his lips as he bucked up into you once, twice, finally digging his heels into the couch and lifting his hips into you, body trembling with effort as he came, hard, deep inside you. His hand slowed on your clit—you reached down to take hold of his wrist.

“Don’t fucking stop, Gate,” you half-begged, half-demanded. “Wanna come on your big fat cock.” He felt himself twitch inside you, your heat still surrounding him. “Please, Gate.”

He took a deep breath, smelling your perfume, the scent of sex and sweat, the beer you’d been drinking—both of your hands came to rest on his shoulders as you bent over him, kissing him, loweing your front to his as best you could while he was still inside you.

Gator started circling your clit again, quickening his pace as you asked him to, lips against his mouth, your breath coming thin and short, fingernails cutting half-moons into his skin as you gripped him so tight. He licked into your mouth, swallowing each and every cry, moan, every sigh and swear and every time you whispered “Gate.”

Another few circles of your slick, swollen clit and he felt your body tensing, he thought even before you did. You tightened impossibly further on him, your cunt becoming a fucking singularity as you shattered on top of him, your pussy rippling around him, milking yet another dribble of spunk from him as your orgasm took you to the fucking edge and back. You kissed him like it was everything you’d ever wanted to do, and when you pushed yourself up and off of him, one had on the back of the couch, the other clinging to one of Gator’s as he helped you up, your legs were so shaky that you couldn’t stand, needing to collapse right back onto the couch.

Gator felt much the same—but he only brushed you hair back off your face, whispered “Jus’ wait here a minute,” and stood. He was actually able to walk, and he made his way to the bathroom in the corner of the basement, tying off the rubber and dropping it in the trash, cleaning himself with a bit of wet tissue, then grabbing a clean hand towel from the little shelf where they sat just waiting to be used.

Probably not for this, but far be it from him to leave you fucked out and dirty.

He realized, as he gently wiped your cheeks and chin, moving down to softly swipe between your legs, the towel was pink, too, just like your hoodie, your cowboy boots. Cotton candy dream girl, fuckin’ right.

He huffed a little laugh to himself, tossing the dirty towel to the floor.

“What?” you asked, sweet as spun sugar, as he handed you your yoga pants and helped you slip them back on.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your dress, the pins from your updo digging into your scalp, reminding you of how Joe had been playing with it before walking into the party. But you didn't have the energy to take any of it out. It felt wrong to undress like the night was over. Like you got to wash your face and climb into bed like none of it happened.

Your phone buzzed on the mattress beside you.

Joe: are you home

You stared at it for a minute, relief flooding your chest, before you typed back.

You: Yeah

Joe: can i come over

You wanted to say yes so badly your chest ached with it. But you also knew if he walked through the door, you'd fall apart all over again in a way you weren't quite ready for. You needed to sit in it first. You needed to feel just how much you'd wrecked tonight before you let him in to try and fix it, because some small, stubborn part of you didn't think you deserved the fixing tonight.

You: not tonight

You: i just need to think

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.

Joe: Okay

Joe: Here if you need anything

You pressed your hand over your mouth as you let out another choked sob. You wanted nothing but to be with Joe, apologising for how the night went, but you couldn't help but think he needed somebody a little less of a burden.

You didn't sleep much. You lay there running the whole night back like a tape stuck on rewind, the manicured hand on your arm, Joe's jaw ticking, "you get scared and you think it's me you're scared of." The thoughts warped your mind until the sky outside your window turned that pale, bruised blue that comes before sunrise.

By six, you gave up even trying.

You made tea you didn't drink and sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, phone in your lap, scrolling through headlines despite every gut instinct telling you not to. Your publicist had already messaged twice, and your manager had left a voicemail you hadn't opened.

The photos were exactly what you had expected. You and Joe, smiling like nothing in the world was wrong, his arm around your waist, your head tucked just so. It was a good photo. It was a lie, but it was a good photo, and somehow both of those things being true at once made your stomach turn.

Under it, a smaller photo. You, alone, starting to walk through the doors, head down, as a driver held the door open for you to climb in before you got too crowded by the paps.

Trouble In Paradise?

The article read, because of course it did. Because they had been debating which story to run, and the universe had just handed them a story wrapped up in a neat little bow.

You pressed your phone face down against the counter as you dug the heels of your hands into your eyes.

This was your fault. You knew it the way you knew your own name, no room for argument. Joe hadn't started it. Joe had asked if you were okay, and you'd turned it into a fight because some ugly, restless part of you needed there to be an argument. He'd tried to protect you from the journalist, and you'd punished him for it. He'd asked you not to turn it into something ugly, and you'd declared it already was, like you were daring him to prove you right.

You thought about the way his hand had slipped from your back, and you'd felt it like a physical loss. Instead of reaching for him, instead of asking him not to go, you'd needled him until he had a reason to.

That was the part that had scared you most. Not how frustrated he had gotten with you, but that you'd built the frustration yourself, brick by brick, like you always did, then acted shocked when the walls came crumbling down.

You thought about every version of this you'd lived through with other people, long before Joe. The way you'd learned that if you left first, if you were difficult first, it never hurt as much as waiting around to be left. You wondered, miserably, how many more nights like this it would take for that patience to finally wear off for good, and whether you'd even be able to blame him when it did.

By the time you'd given up on sleep, you had thought up a dozen apologies, and none of them were enough.

He showed up at nine the next morning.

You heard the knock before you heard your own name, soft, almost cautious, like he thought you might not answer.

You opened the door, and he was still in last night's shirt, sleeves rolled, dark circles under his eyes that matched yours. He didn't come in, just stood there in the doorway like he was waiting for permission, which broke something in you all over again, because Joe never asked permission for anything. He just did. He just showed up and made things okay whether you wanted him to or not.

Except last night you'd told him not to, and he'd listened, and apparently that lesson had landed harder than you meant it to.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"Hey."

Neither of you moved.

"I know you needed space," he said quickly. "But technically you had ten hours of it."

Despite everything, despite the heavy feeling sitting behind your ribs, the corner of your mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile. It was closer to relief.

"That's a technicality."

"My whole career's built on technicalities, baby." He shrugged.

You stepped back to let him in.

He didn't touch you at first, which felt strange after years of him reaching for you the second you were within arm's reach. He sat on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, and you sat curled into the corner of it, putting the whole length of the cushions between you, like the distance could protect the both of you from saying something you couldn't take back.

"I was thinking about what I said to you last night," he started. "In my head. On the way home. About a hundred times."

You didn't say anything. You just watched him.

"I shouldn't have said it like that," he continued. "The bit about you leaving, it came out uglier than I meant it to. Even if some of it was true, that's not, it's not how I wanted to talk to you about it."

Your throat tightened. "Did you mean it?"

He looked up at you properly. There was no anger lingering anymore, just exhaustion.

"I think when things get hard, you push," he said carefully. "I don't think for one moment you don't love me. I know you love me."

"I think," he continued, "some part of you is waiting for the moment I get fed up and go, and you'd rather cause it yourself than wait around for it to happen."

You wanted to argue. You opened your mouth to argue. But nothing came out, because you knew he was right. For God's sake, he had only repeated what you'd been telling yourself in the early hours of the morning anyway, and lying about it now would only further prove his point.

"I don't want to be scared of you leaving," you said instead, voice cracking down the middle. "I want to be scared of normal things. Bad reviews, getting older. God, even running out of milk. But not this. Not you."

"I'm not going anywhere." He said it slowly, like he was trying to make sure every word stuck.

"I wasn't going anywhere last night either, even when you told me not to follow you."

"I can't believe I put you through that. You shouldn't be the one trying to fix it, I messed up. I'm the one who picked a fight when we were supposed to be enjoying the night. It's not normal. It's not fair to you."

"Hey." His hand found yours, stilling the way you'd been picking at your fingers. "Don't start that."

You only looked up at him in confusion.

"You're building a case against yourself." His voice was gentle but firm underneath it, the way it usually got when he wasn't going to budge. "I know what you're doing, trying to reach a verdict before I can. Guilty, case closed, no appeal, because it's easier to sit in the punishment than actually talk to me."

You could only blink, throat closed, because he wasn't wrong, and being caught out that clearly made something in you want to shrink.

"What if I deserve the verdict?"

"You don't." His voice was adamant. "You said some things that hurt. So did I. That doesn't make you a criminal. You felt cornered and your defence mechanisms just kicked in. I'm not sitting here to list out your crimes, baby. I'm just trying to understand you."

"I hated the way it felt," you admitted quietly, throat aching, "when your hand left my back. I know it was small, and I probably imagined half of it. But it felt like the beginning of you deciding I was too much."

"I was overwhelmed," he said. "Not by you. By that woman practically pricing you up like a product right in front of me, and not being able to do a single thing about it without making everything worse for you. I froze, and that's on me. Not you."

You finally let yourself move, sliding down the couch until your knee bumped his.

"I don't think either of us handled it well," you said.

"No," he agreed, a small, exhausted laugh leaving him. "We were both thinking of the worst possible scenario. It was a little unhinged."

You laughed too, wet and sudden, surprising yourself with it. "Just a little."

He reached for your hand then, slowly, like he was checking whether you'd let him, and when you didn't pull away he simply laced his fingers with yours.

"I don't need you to be perfect at any of this," he said, quieter now. "The cameras, the parties, none of it. I just need you to let me stand next to you during all of it, instead of sending me away the second it gets hard."

You looked down at your joined hands, at the tiny white scar above his knuckle from some stupid rock climbing trip years ago, at the way his thumb moved slowly back and forth over your skin, like he usually did when he was trying to be patient with you.

"I just don't know how to stop being scared," you admitted.

"I'm not asking you to stop being scared." He tugged you gently until you gave up and let him pull you against his side, your cheek finding the familiar spot on his chest. "I'm just asking you to tell me when you're scared, instead of biting my head off in front of a camera crew."

"That's fair." You mumbled into his chest.

"I thought so."

You stayed like that for a while, the morning light creeping slowly across the floor, neither of you rushing to fill the silence with anything else. Somewhere outside, the world was already writing its own version of your night, headlines and theories and strangers deciding what your relationship meant. But in your apartment, it was just the two of you, his heartbeat under your ear, steady in a way nothing else in your life quite managed to be.

"I'm sorry," you finally said. "For all of it, the bar, the picture, walking away."

"I know." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm sorry too, for all of it."

"What a mess."

His chest vibrated under your head as he huffed out a laugh. "Tell me about it."

You closed your eyes, and for the first time since the party started, the noise in your head finally went quiet.

Eventually your stomach growled, loud and undignified, right against his ribs.

Joe went still. Then he started laughing, the kind of laugh that shook his whole chest and made your head bounce where it rested against him.

"Was that you or the couch?"

"Shut up." You shoved at him half-heartedly, fighting your own smile. "I haven't eaten since the four canapés at the party."

"Four canapés." He shook his head, already untangling himself from you and standing, tugging you up by the hand before you could protest.

"Can't have you fading away after everything we survived."

"Survived? Very dramatic."

"I almost lost you to a woman with crazy eyes."

You laughed properly now, the sound surprising you with how easy it came after a night that felt like it would never end. "She wasn't that bad."

"She absolutely was unhinged, and you know it."

He pulled you into the kitchen, and instead of letting go of your hand, he just kept it looped in his as he opened the fridge one-handed, squinting at the mostly bare shelves.

"We have," he announced, "eggs, a lime… and leftovers? I think?" He squinted at the container. You hummed beside him.

"Very impressive spread."

"I'm thinking eggs."

"Groundbreaking."

He nudged you back a step with his hip so he could reach for a pan, and you let him, leaning against the counter and watching him move around your kitchen in yesterday's crumpled shirt like he'd never once considered being anywhere else. Somewhere between Joe knocking on your door and this moment, the tightness in your chest had unclenched itself completely.

"Sit," he said, motioning to the stool. "You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."

"But you need supervising."

"You're literally swaying like you're about to fall."

You were, a little. You climbed onto the stool anyway, propping your chin in your hand, and watched him crack eggs with far more confidence than his actual cooking skills warranted.

"You know," you said, "for somebody who burns toast, you seem very sure of yourself."

"My cooking skills have grown."

"You always look like you're about to burst into tears when you cook."

"It's called being overwhelmed." He pointed a spatula at you without turning around. "There's a difference."

You were laughing again, really laughing, the kind that made your ribs ache. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound, and something soft moved across his face, like he'd been waiting all morning just to hear it. You noticed, and sobered up a little.

"Shut up and make eggs." You smiled.

"Yes ma'am."

He plated the eggs slightly wrong, one side charred and the other barely set, and presented them to you with far more pride than the dish deserved. You ate them anyway, sitting cross-legged on the stool across from him as he stole bites from your plate when he thought you weren't looking.

"That's your third bite off my plate."

"You made yours look so good, I got jealous of my own cooking."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

You did. You loved it so much it almost scared you again, in a completely different way than last night did, the kind that made you want to hold on to something for dear life rather than run from it.

When you'd both finished, he came and stood between your knees, resting his hands loosely on your hips, and just looked at you for a long moment.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of it.

"Nothing. I just missed your face, even if I did see it ten hours ago."

"That's so cheesy."

"I've had a long twenty-four hours. Let me be cheesy."

You reached up and smoothed down a piece of hair that had been sticking up since he walked through the door, more out of habit than necessity, and he leaned into the touch like he'd been waiting for it.

"Stay today," you said quietly. "Just us."

"Wasn't planning on going anywhere," he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. "Told you that already."

"Tell me again."

"I'm not going anywhere." His thumb traced slow circles against your hip, patient in a way that undid something tender in your chest. "Not today, not any day you're testing it either. So you may as well stop bracing for it."

You breathed him in, tea and sleep and something else that just smelled like home, and for the first time in longer than you wanted to admit, you actually believed him.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He kissed you then, slow and unhurried, nothing like the tense, careful distance of last night's version of the two of you. When he pulled back, he was smiling, the real one that reached his eyes.

"Now," he said, stealing a leftover piece from your plate, "since we're staying in, I vote bad reality TV and not moving from this couch for the rest of the day."

"You'll finally watch Love Island with me?" Your smile brightened ever so.

"Been planning it since the eggs."

You slid off the counter, lacing your fingers with his as you let him tug you towards the living room, the noise from the night before, blessedly, a thousand miles away.