For fox sake

Thank God you’re all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.

At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors don’t have a curfew, so the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show. 

It was fun for awhile, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway. 

Right after his eyes caught yours. 

You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.

Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each other’s throats for weeks.

Tonight is is counselor’s night out! It’s supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. It’s the night everyone looks forward to the most. 

You should be having fun—being young. Whatever that means. 

At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down. 

Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless. 

He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?

Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone else’s, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally just…snap. 

Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.

God, you have to do everything yourself, don’t you? 

You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lake’s edge. 

Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree. 

Stupid. 

Doesn’t he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? You’re surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight. 

You hope it does. 

His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on. 

You yank on his tent’s zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.

“God, you never could stay quiet, could you?” You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you. 

Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, glaring up at you. 

Despite yourself, your eyes catch on a delicious bicep, and his muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. It’s been torturous pretending you didn’t know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...

You clear your throat. “I just thought I’d let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.”

“What? I’m not—Jesus.” His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. “Get out.”

Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands. 

Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn around—something—because looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.

Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. “Oh, c’mon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” 

Lots of times, actually. 

Through the years, you’d been there for everything—watched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way. 

Because it wasn’t the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.

It was the days that followed.

The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and excruciatingly lonely at the same time.

The nightmares had a way of sticking to you like blood you couldn’t get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower. 

It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone else’s skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yours—ground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.

But all that came to a screeching halt last summer. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. “Let’s say that I was. You wanted to come over and…cockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.”

You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness. 

Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more. 

You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, the familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach. 

You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. “You think I give a fuck if you’re rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because you’re fucking whimpering and moaning—”

“—I was not whimpering.” 

“—and you’re incapable of keeping quiet—yes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.”

As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze. 

“You offering?”

Your breath catches.

You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himself—literally— and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care. 

But instead, you hesitate. 

Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, that’s for sure. And there are certain patterns he’s picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes. 

Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, he’s already batting the sleeping bag off his lap. 

“I knew it,” he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. “You’re so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where we bitch at each other all summer, and now you’re making up excuses to come into my tent—”

“Oh, trust me,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. “It’s not an excuse.”

“No?” he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. “Then, prove it.”

“Fine, but I’m only staying to keep you quiet,” you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look. 

“Sure. Whatever,” Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him. 

Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but you’re careful not to touch him. 

He wishes you would. 

You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not sitting here all night. God.”

Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense it’s almost painful. The way you’re sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.

And look at you—pretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much. 

Steve heaves a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks he’s doing a good job being quiet. But he can’t smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.

“Steve,” you hiss, warning lacing your voice. 

“Shut me up, then. Goddamn.” He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. “What are you even here for? I could do this myself—” At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. “—oh, fuck yeah.”

Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribs— so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart. 

He’s panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.

He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest. 

Honestly, he should’ve known this is how the summer would end with you. 

He’s known it, and yet, he’s run from it. 

Because the last time he had you…God, he’s been such an idiot. 

Last summer, when you came home from college for break, he’d been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then you’d grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.

Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing with…with something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much. 

He’d been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didn’t surface with anyone else. Only you. 

His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized… he was scared. 

Terrified, actually. 

Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlov’s dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bond…thing? He wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway. 

So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out the door. 

He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you. 

But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls he’d built up between him and his past came crashing down. 

So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder. 

His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, you’re here. You’re the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips. 

He’s still hard as a rock, but his hand isn’t cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.

Steve curses under his breath. “You wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that mouth?”

“W-what?” You snort. “You can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think you’re going to survive that?”

“Please? Just lick it. Just the tip.”

“Stop begging. Also, be qu—“

“Right. Right, I’ll be quiet,” Steve grumbles. “Just—if you’re gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.” Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.

Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look. 

“C’mon,” he urges, fighting back a smirk. “You know how I like it, baby.”

Shit. 

Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. You’re not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bed…you were his.

You shouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard. 

But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.

His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.

Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him. 

“Fine. But only because it’s faster.” You say.

Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden. 

You jerk your head up, and he can’t see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning. 

Steve’s hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesn’t just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn. 

You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way you’re practically holding hands across his chest.

“God, you’ve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,” Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. “You know that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Steve, you can’t call me a bitch at the same time you’re fucking my hand. Either we’re fighting or we’re fucking. Pick one. Jesus.”

“I don’t know.” His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. “We’re pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so g—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steve’s body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.

You can’t help but remember the panic that seized you when the Demobats descended on him. You’ll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over to see him pale and shaking, dripping in blood. 

You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.

“Don’t—” he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs your chin away. 

“What?” You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut. 

“What?” you repeat. “I was there, too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. “I just—really don’t want to be reminded of that right now.”

You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly. 

Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation. 

Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes. 

“Sorry, I’m—that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground. 

He combs through his hair again roughly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was just…there’s a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scars—”

You smile softly. “Reed, right? I’ve been thinking the same thing all summer.”

“Every time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you here—” He gestures towards you and he trails off. 

You don’t need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice. 

With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag. 

“It’s okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Just—two people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.” 

“Oh yeah? Is that all were?” His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. “Was that all it was for you?”

You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric. 

“No,” you say softly. “But everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feeling…” The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chest—like it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.

Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. “It’s not…bad, right? That feeling?” 

“No, Steve. It’s not bad.” 

A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. “At college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.” You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. “I was scared, like, what if they didn’t believe me, you know? And, well, I’m not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. She treats it all like it’s true, anyway.”

There’s a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance. 

“I’m sorry we fought the last few weeks,” you whisper. “I was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.”

Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. “And you had every right to be,” he says. “I was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, I’m getting better. At least, Robin says I am.”

You chuckle. “I’m sure she’s right.”

“But I am sorry, too. For that, and for…just for everything.”

You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything. 

“I’m proud of you for going to see a counselor,” you say into the dark after a long moment. “Does it help?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “But I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.” 

He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.

He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. He’s been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didn’t know how to accept it. Until recently. 

You see that now. 

His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his. 

“Steve, you’ve already done so much. For everyone.”

His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways he’s used them to pull orgasms from your body, one after the other.

All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back. 

Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.

You search his face for permission, because he already knows what you’re asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you don’t hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up. 

“Let me take care of you,” you say.

He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh. 

Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time. 

His chest heaves with a shaky breath. “Wait, no. No, baby.” 

You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. “You don’t want it anymore?”

“No—shit, of course I want it, but—” He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. Can…can you do that?”

You nod once. Then again. “Yes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasn’t—I was just—” your heart slams into your throat. “I still love you.”

A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steve’s face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back. 

“Good,” he says. “Now we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think you’re doing barging into my tent when I’m masturbating, you little brat?”

Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. “I told you! You were being loud.”

“Yeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.”

“That is the real reason!”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so you’re on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours. 

“Just admit it,” he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. “You wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didn’t you?”

Your panties dampen instantly, pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth on you after so long. 

You might have been at each other’s throats for weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him he’d just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, ‘is that all you got?’ Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to ‘give me more.’ 

Well, you could definitely give him more. 

“I don’t know, Harrington,” you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. “I hardly remember what getting head from you is like.”

His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, he’s moving—greedy hands tugging at your shorts. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. “I thought maybe you’d want me to do that thing my tongue that always—” A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see he’s sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you haven’t gotten to suck him off yet, but it’s probably better this way, to be honest. 

It’s literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjob—

Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans out loud, but you’re too blissed out by the stretch that you can’t even get onto him for it. 

Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.

You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open. 

“Missed those sounds you make,” he says, voice muffled against your pussy. 

Shit. 

You hadn’t even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.

He licks messy, broad strokes, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe. 

Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing bliss—

“Shut up,” Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal, glinting in the firework light, and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. “Seriously, shut up if you don’t want them to hear you.” 

“Wha—Steve!” You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. “H-help.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one who gives a shit if they hear.”

The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue. 

You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but that’s a mistake. 

He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning. 

“Cover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,” he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. “I’m busy.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth. 

Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly you’re squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it. 

You’re so wet—both from his mouth and your arousal—that your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and you’re powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you haven’t felt in a year. 

Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outside— loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you don’t have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you. 

You whimper again accidentally. “Steve—” 

“Okay, baby,” he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. His fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your knees falling open eagerly as he lines himself up.

When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long. 

Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching your skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.

“Still fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Goddamnit.”

You’re panting, arms wrapped around his shoulders, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. “Staying so quiet, look at you. You can’t ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuck—that’s like being tortured all over again.”

You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. “That’s not funny.”

He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that aren’t there. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just—oh yeah, grind that clit into me. That’s it.”

 Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind his thrusts causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake. 

His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and oh—fuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter. 

“Fuck—Steve,” you gush. “Please.”

“What do you need?” He rasps against your throat, sucking and biting. “I’m all yours.”

Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him. 

Only him.

“You need me to kiss you?” he says, breath hot in your ear. “Need me to shut you up?”

You nod frantically. 

“Go on, ask me for it.”

You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. “Kiss me, Stevie. Please, please—” 

“Fuck,” Steve groans at the nickname he hasn’t heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours. 

The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry. 

“Missed you, baby,” he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. “So much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.” He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?”

Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his. 

Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him. 

Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust. 

The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream. 

You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finally—you’re falling. 

Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steve’s cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you. 

He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know he’s close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit. 

“Mmhmm, mhhhmm.” Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against your cervix, painting your walls with his come, even as his tongue strokes your knuckles tenderly and reverently.

It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you. 

He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once he’s done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and it’s amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort. 

“So…truce?” Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.

Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy. 

Maybe it’s because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.

And because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harrington’s heartbeat will always be in your future.

“Truce.”

a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, my idea originally was not nearly as angsty, but don’t you just love it when characters highjack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.

The shower was still running and the owner of the bed he was in was nowhere to be seen despite the early hour. He took it as a sign. Clearly, his late night companion hadn’t wanted to wake him. There’d been no touching, no noise, no switched on lights or coffee made. That was fine by him, he was more than happy to skip the awkward morning after, he was totally okay with that.

He gathered his clothes from around the room, stumbling on unsteady feet as he yanked on his jeans and searched for his shirt. If he was entirely truthful, he was a little disappointed. He couldn’t remember a lot from the night before but he did remember how fucking attractive he’d found you. Too pretty to ignore, because he’d wasted no time in approaching you. He’d even danced with you, something usually only reserved for his Nanna at family gatherings. Although, the way he’d moved against you had been far from appropriate.

And then the taxi ride to yours— fuck, the taxi. He’d never been kissed like that. Whatever you’d done to him had made him feel like a teenager again. He’d been rock hard the entire journey, something that not even the eyes of the driver had quelled. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands or mouth off of you, both of you half stripped before you’d made it to the bed.

Steve bit his lip, remembering it. His gaze raked over the bed he’d just left, sheets twisted and sprawled near the foot of it, a pillow hanging off one side. Yeah, shit, it had been a good night. But still, he shoved his feet into his trainers once he’d found them, patted his jeans pockets to make sure he had his keys and slipped out the apartment door just as the shower switched off.

But of all the things that had happened in the last twenty four hours, seeing your face again was definitely the wildest.

He’d found out about the linecook position from an old friend. He’d been told that The Gate was a cool place to work. Fifty hours a week, overtime available and despite the fact the boss was too cheap to give health insurance, he was apparently never on site, which meant unlimited smoke breaks in the alleyway out back. He hadn’t even needed to apply, Eddie had told his boss that Steve was a solid choice and he knew him from working at a diner back home in Indiana.

Steve had got a text from Eddie the same day, telling him to turn up at seven thirty the next morning, bring his knives and that he’d take care of the rest.

But there you were. Staring at him through the glass door before you’d opened it and then stared at him even more, eyes wide as you took him in from head to toe. You were just as pretty as you had been the night before, even if the space under your eyes were smudged with tiredness. You looked cute in your work uniform, a little black skirt with an even smaller apron tied around your waist, a white polo shirt with The Gate’s logo on the chest tucked in neatly.

Fuck. Fuck.

He was standing like an idiot, finger pointed at his own chest and mouth hanging open because you very clearly recognised him. Which, Steve realised, was absolutely okay. And understandable. Because it had only been a little over four hours since he’d been buried to the hilt inside of you and he’d have probably felt a little stung if you hadn’t remembered his face.

But you definitely worked here and Steve had no idea if you were his shift supervisor or just someone he’d have to spend a lot of time with. He knew your face, the colour of your bedroom walls, the way your name sounded on his lips when it was coloured with a moan and how you liked to be kissed on the neck when you got fucked.

That was it. That wasn’t a lot of information and he didn’t have a lot of time to process much else. An added bonus was the leftover vodka that was still coating his insides and the sun was too bright, even with his sunglasses covering his tired eyes.

And, well, he was a man.

So he dropped his hand and smiled again, a little too fake and said, “hi, I’m here for the kitchen position. I’m Steve, nice to meet you.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Was he fucking kidding?

You stared at Steve with an expression of complete disbelief, the audacity of his words taking over from your shock at seeing him there. You couldn’t really see his eyes behind his sunglasses but he was smiling, warm and polite and suddenly you realised that you hadn’t said anything else for a minute now.

It turned out you couldn’t say much, but you managed to close your open mouth and smile back, awkward and polite, much like every other interaction at work. You gestured to the open door as you held it open, hating that you recognised the aftershave as he walked by you, silently furious that he was wearing the same one he’d worn when he’d approached you the night before.

What did he mean, ‘nice to meet you?’

Did you look that different? Did he seriously not recognise you?

You wanted to ask, you wanted to confront him. Your hangover made you mean, it made you square up for an argument that could never happen here because Eddie was coming out of the kitchen with a wide, easy smile on his face just as Steve pulled his sunglasses from his face.

“Harrington! Long time no see man, how you doin’?” He clapped the new guy on the shoulder before bringing him into a full hug, laughing as they jostled each other in the way only guys did. “Welcome to the city, big boy, it’s good to have you.”

Steve replied with something you didn’t hear because you were too busy staring, completely unashamed, at the side of his face. It was definitely the same guy. He had the same moles and freckles dotted across his skin, the same messy hair that curled under his ears and at the nape of his neck. And there was a hickey in the shape of your lips just under his jaw, a mark you remembered gifting him in your tiny hallway, right when he’d backed you into the wall and slid one large hand into the front of your underwear.

Someone was calling your name. Repeatedly.

“What?” You blinked, finding Eddie and Steve both watching you as you felt the heat of being caught creep up the back of your neck. “Sorry, I— sorry. Hangover.” You said as a way of explanation.

“This is Steve Harrington,” Eddie took Steve by the shoulders, giving him a little excited shake. “An old friend from back in Hawkins. We worked together at Jim’s old diner, I taught him everything I know, didn’t I? Steve this is—”

You didn’t listen to Eddie's introduction to you, you just watched as Steve nodded and smiled, polite as ever, eyes skating over you as if he was seeing you for the first time. His gaze lingered on the open buttons of your polo shirt, staring at the skin that had been marked by someone’s else’s lips - his fucking lips.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked back at Eddie laughing at something he said before he was introduced to Robin and Argyle too.

You spend too much time standing in Hopper’s office after that, your sore head pressed against the cool wall of the big ass metal safe he insisted on keeping beside the computer that was from the nineties. You felt like you were going crazy, like you’d only dreamed of getting absolutely railed by the hot new guy who was now in the kitchen, being shown the freezer and the pantry.

But the thump of your head and the ache between your thighs told you otherwise, and Jesus Christ, you tugged at your neckline, hiding the hickey there. It was him, right? It was definitely him. He was holding the same sweater he’d been wearing the night before. You’d tugged it off of him, you had stepped over it on your way to shower just hours before. How was he just acting like he didn’t—

The door to the office opened and when Steve stepped inside with you, it became infinitely smaller. It closed with a click behind him, the low lamp on Hop’s table making the already grey-blue walls look darker and moodier. Steve leaned against the wood and for a second or two, you both only stared at each other, as if remembering what the other looked like naked. You could recall the mole on his left shoulder, right beside the space you’d sunk your teeth into when he’d called you a good girl, the scratches you’d left on his back when he’d told you to ride him harder.

“Eddie said you know where I can find some whites?”

His sunglasses were in his back pocket now, his face the same one you’d invited back yours. There was zero doubt about it. His gaze was fixed on your own, a game of chicken neither one of you was willing to lose until— Steve’s eyes dropped.

A glance that turned into more, a heated look that lingered from where it started on your bare legs, drifting upupup over your hips and chest. His eyes met yours once more, but still, he didn’t say a damn thing.

Fuck it.

“Do we know each other?” Your voice was a lot more blunt than you intended it to be, but working at seven am with a hangover did that to a person. Your face was blank, neutral, at least you hoped.

Steve took his time to ponder it, face just as expressionless as your own before he shrugged, lips turned down. “Nope. Don’t think so.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

“Uniform is down by the bar,” you finally conceded, voice sharper than a chef knife. Cutting, only dulled slightly by a chipped ego. You didn’t know what the fuck you were supposed to say, but your pride was finding that swallowing the words down harder than a dry pill.

But what were you supposed to say? We fucked last night? You were in my bed this morning? Loved it when you went down on me, by the way, welcome to the team?

You didn’t say any of that, of course you didn’t. You did, however, knock your shoulder into Steve’s when you made for the door. He didn’t say a thing, but he did follow you. Too closely, and you could smell his aftershave, the same one from the night before. He followed you back to the kitchen, new chef whites in hand after he’d grabbed them from the bar and the room was already too busy to talk quietly.

The grills were aggressively noisy, sparks of hot oil landing on the tiles behind it, Eddie’s speaker playing music too loudly. Argyle was hammering fillets of chicken breasts with a wooden mallet as he prepped for lunch and you decided to very much not look at Steve as you spoke.

“Pantry door sticks a little, freezer temp jumps sometimes so let Eddie know if things start melting. There’s a set of knives in that second drawer over there and no opened toed shoes in the kitchen - you’d think that would be common sense but nobody told Argyle, apparently.”

Steve suppressed a smile and nodded. “Got it.”

“Hopper’s barely here so ask Eddie for anything you need, wages go out the last Friday of every month, deliveries come at six on Monday mornings and you want any of the wait staff’s help, you ask nicely. No one yells at my girls.”

You turned then, waiting for another agreement, eyebrows raised.

Steve let his eyes roam over you, his lips curving. “Right,” he said.

You felt yourself boil over at the sight of his smile, at the way his hair flopped in his eyes and you hated that you suddenly remembered yourself brushing it out of the way when you were kissing him hours before, your knees hitched at his waist, pressed into your own bed. “If you need a first aid box, you’ll have to buy one and try not to sleep with any other staff members before lunch.”

The kitchen halted to a screeching stop at that. Eddie’s spatula stopped half way to the pan and Argyle’s mallet tumbled out of his hand. Both men stared at you, their eyes flitting to each other and then to Steve, whose cheeks were pink from more than just the warm air. If anyone was planning on saying anything to you in return, they were too late.

You were storming out, hands slamming onto the door so hard it hit the wall behind it. “Welcome to The Gate,” you yelled over your shoulder, just as Robin was unlocking the front door and the first of the regulars poured in for their morning coffee.

It was going to be a long fucking shift.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Eddie let out a long, low whistle. “Dude. It’s been ten minutes. The fuck did you do?”

Steve was still staring at the swinging door, long after you’d disappeared from sight. He groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck that was prickling with an uncomfortable, embarrassed heat.

“Something bad, I think.”

Eddie appeared at his side, eyes glittering with amusement. “You know her, man?” He dug an elbow into Steve’s ribs, a gasp leaving his lips when Steve opened his mouth and didn’t respond. “Oh shit, you two totally banged.”

Steve still didn’t reply, instead, tugging on his chef’s jacket over his shirt, head bent and eyes avoiding Eddie and Argyle, who was back to filleting chicken and definitely listening in

“Dude, when?” Eddie was beside himself now, his grin too big and too happy at Steve’s miserable situation. “Did you not call her back or somethin’? I mean, you’d be crazy not to - I’ve been flirting with the girl for over a year now and she won’t crack—”

“Last night,” Steve was leaning over a butcher's block, his hands in his face as he regretted every single action he’d taken since he opened his eyes that morning. “Well, technically this morning. Like, five hours ago.”

Argyle dropped the premise of pretending to not listen. He snorted, looking over Steve with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Oh you’re so screwed, Eddie’s friend. Why you out here actin’ like you don’t know the lady?”

Steve scrambled for words, his hands gesturing helplessly to the closed door, out to where he couldn’t see you. “I— I don’t know, okay? I panicked. I woke up this morning and she was gone! I didn’t know she worked here! I thought— I thought it might have been easier to just pretend it didn’t happen, that we didn’t know each other.”

Eddie was staring, his features set in an unimpressed mask. “Jesus, Harrington, that’s so fucking dumb, even for you.”

“I know, okay!” Steve snapped and then crumbled once more. “Fuck, I was standing at the door and I don’t know, I thought she might have been my fucking boss or something, I don’t know how to be professional when it’s been in the fucking morning, I’m probably not legal to drive yet and my dick is still half hard from how many times she ro—”

The door swung open and Robin appeared. “There’s four people wanting to know where their bagels are, why isn’t anyone taking tickets? Eddie, what the fuck?” She gestured to where there was a trail of receipts hanging on the rack by the kitchen window and sure enough there were tables filling up, groggy eyed customers all waiting for breakfast.

Steve spotted you through the open hatch, your back to him as you took another order from a table taken by a tired looking dad and his three kids. There was already spilled salt on the wooden surface, an iPad blaring on the bench seat and despite the way he could hear you speaking pleasantly, your foot had set an impatient beat on the tiled floor.

He didn’t take his eyes off of you when you turned and walked towards the kitchen, heading for the hatch with your order in hand - he couldn’t. Steve was staring - blatantly. And for a second, maybe two, you looked back with just the same intensity, like you were sharing the same memory, both of you remembering the way the other had moaned their name, the way the bed had creaked and groaned with every stroke of Steve’s hips. Like you were thinking of doing it again, like neither of you would’ve minded a repeat in the back office, crushing each other against the lockers or on top of Hopper’s empty desk.

But then you reached the hatch and your gaze hardened. You slammed the order down with a sharp hand and when you lifted it, your middle finger saluted Steve before you walked away once more.

You told yourself you were okay with that because outside of sex—Ethan was everything you had ever wanted. He was smart, ambitious and he loved you, he offered you stability. But could he fuck you? Absolutely not.

“You know it's normal, right?” Your friend Nina tells you when you bought up your lacklustre sex life one Saturday night over drinks at your local bar. “A guy not making you come. Loads of women can’t come with a guy. You’re probably just too in your own head about it.”

You smile like it was good advice but the thing was—you knew you could come with a guy. Gator Tillman might have been emotionally unavailable but your ex boyfriend had known your body like the back of his hand. He knew exactly how to make you come with seemingly little effort. He knew you liked it when he said filthy words to you as two thick fingers pumped in and out of your needy hole, his thumb circling your clit just right.

“That good, huh mama?” He’d say in a husky voice, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips as you mewled beneath him, your fingers biting in the skin of his back as your hips chased his hand. “Look at ya—fuckin’ can’t get enough can ya? Soaking my hand like this—shit, baby. Yer making me so fuckin’ hard. Need to fill ya with my cock. Need to—”

The sound of your name pulls you from your thoughts. That memory of Gator making your pussy throb with the kind of excitement you hadn’t felt in well over a year. Don’t think about him, don’t think about him, don’t—

“Hmm?” You hum, looking over at your friends like you weren’t just thinking about getting finger fucked by your ex boyfriend.

“You okay?” Your other friend Soph asks you gently.

Were you okay? Probably not, considering you were thinking about Gator Tillman of all people. It wasn’t healthy, in fact it was incredibly unhealthy to be thinking about him at all. You broke up with Gator for a reason because not only had the two of you had been on and off for a long time, his emotionally unavailability had driven you insane, his refusal to say I love you—

“Yeah,” you say with a slightly forced smile. “I’m okay.”

You knew deep down, you were anything but. Guilt and shame were swirling in your gut like some sick cocktail when you realised that your thoughts about Gator had caused wetness to pool between your legs. You could feel the dampening of your panties. The realisation made heat burn in your lower stomach, made you have to squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to ease the need for friction between your legs.

Your phone buzzed on the table in front of you. It was probably Ethan, likely checking up on you, checking that you had got to the bar okay and that you were drinking enough water alongside the alcohol you were consuming. Being the sweet, kind and caring boyfriend that he always was. But also the one who couldn’t fuck you better than Gator could.

You started to wonder if anybody could fuck you better than Gator Tillman.

“Is that Ethan?” Soph asks you, nodding towards your phone.

You hum, nodding as you quickly glance at your phone to see Ethan’s name in your notifications along with some sweet message about him looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. You feel guilty that you feel almost nothing in response to his message.

“Oh, Ethan’s such a sweetheart,” Nina gushes, smiling brightly at you. “He treats you so well.”

You smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Because yes—Ethan was a sweetheart. He did treat you well. But he didn’t make your heart race, he didn’t make your cunt throb at the thought of him or make you feel anything even close to what you had felt with Gator.

You wanted to be obsessed with Ethan, you wanted to be crazy about him and you wanted more than anything to not care that he couldn’t make you come. But you couldn’t. You weren’t obsessed with him, you weren’t crazy about him and you did care that you hadn’t made you come. You just knew he was stable, that on paper he was the right, sensible choice. But no matter how much you tried—and oh, you had tried—you couldn’t make yourself love him.

You knew that the right thing was to break up with Ethan. But with the words from your friends who insisted that Ethan was good for you—better for you than Gator had been—they had taken refuge in your chest and refused to leave. And so, you stayed with Ethan and you felt like a damn coward for doing so.

“Is that—” Soph begins, her eyes on a spot somewhere near the bar.

Nina shakes her head, her eyes a little wide as she shoots a not so subtle glance your way.

“How’s the new job going, Soph? Is your boss still—”

But you had caught the glance your way and more importantly, you had seen what had caught Soph’s eye.

Gator fucking Tillman.

Gator Tillman—who still looked as devastatingly handsome as he did that day you finally broke up with him for good. Gator Tillman—who was talking to some pretty brunette at the bar. Gator Tillman—who apparently still had some kind of hold over you as your traitorous heart did something funny in your chest. Something it had never done around Ethan. The guilt gurgles in your gut.

“We can leave,” Nina suggests as she notices your gaze on Gator and the brunette he was likely chatting up. “If you want to. I think they’re doing two or one cocktails across the—”

“—no,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “It’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

You tell yourself that you were fine because you had moved on. Because you had Ethan.

But that green eyed monster roaring in your chest at the sight of Gator with another woman said otherwise. 

You barely listen to Soph ramble on about her new job as you watch Gator duck his head down to talk directly into the woman’s ear. Something twists in your gut when she smiles back at him, when she reaches out a hand to squeeze his arm. Your pussy clenches at you remember what those arms had felt like. Those arms that had once been wrapped around your waist as he had you almost folded in half, bent over the front of his truck. His chest pressed against your back as his thick cock fucked into you, hips snapping against your ass while he grunted about tightly you were squeezing his—

“Does anyone want another drink?” You ask your friends suddenly, stepping out of the booth with legs that felt unsteady, the ache between your legs now near impossible to ignore. “It’s on me.”

Nina and Soph both glance at your barely touched passionfruit martini before shaking their heads.

“Are you sure you’re o—”

You don’t hear the rest of the sentence. You were already walking towards the bar.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, your blood thrumming as it was pumped around your body when you finally approached the bar, less than ten feet away from where Gator and the pretty brunette were standing.

You were just going to order another drink, you tell yourself. You were just going to—

“—being a deputy sheriff sounds so dangerous,” the brunette was saying to Gator, her hand still gently caressing his arm. 

Gator snorts with laughter and you make the mistake of looking over at him—to find that he was already looking right back at you.

“Danger don’t mean nothin’ t’me,” Gator replies, his hazel eyes on you as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

God, you hated that your cunt pulses with need in response.

You roll your eyes despite wanting nothing more than for Gator to push up the skirt of your dress and fuck you until you were drooling over the bar.

“Miss? Can I get you anything?”

You blink, turning to the bartender who was looking at you expectantly. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, squeezing your thighs together beneath your dress as you take a moment to collect yourself. “Can I get a—”

“—passionfruit martini,” a voice that went straight to your already needy cunt drawls as a large hand plants itself on your lower back. “The fruitiest thing y’have for this sweet girl.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” You ask Gator as soon as the bartender turns her back, attempting to keep the breathlessness out of your voice when you glance at him. You vaguely registered the brunette that he had been talking to walking away from the bar with a disgruntled expression and it was hard not to feel a little bit smug about it.

“Orderin’ ya a drink,” Gator retorts, his hand on your lower back dipping lower for a brief second to your ass before he withdraws it with a knowing look in his eyes as your breath hitches in your throat. “That alright with ya, mama? Or is yer little trust fund boyfriend gonna have a problem with that?”

Your face warms and your stomach turns at the old pet name before your head snaps in his direction. “How did you—”

“—know about ya new boyfriend? Baby, nothin’ goes on in this town that I don’t know ‘bout. Especially when it comes to ya.”

You swallow. A glass of passionfruit martini is placed down on the bar in front of you but you pay no mind to it as you watch Gator’s tongue glide across his lower lip because you can’t help yourself.

“I’m happy,” you tell him and the lie feels like poison on your lips.

Gator hums and you instantly know that he didn’t believe you. Of course he didn’t, because Gator Tillman still knew how to read you. 

“Sure ya are,” Gator smiles before he nods over to the bartender, signalling to add your cocktail to his tab. “That’s why ya keep lookin’ at me like that.”

The room suddenly felt too hot. Everything was buzzing around you. You have to take a long sip of your drink just to give yourself something to do but even the alcohol doesn’t offer you any comfort.

But you don’t deny it. Because you couldn’t deny it.

“I’m looking at you in disgust,” you tell him.

“Disgust?” Gator repeats with great amusement, his eyes seeming to sparkle as he looks at you. There was something else there too. Something that made your heart race in your chest. And when he leans in and his breath hits the skin of your neck, you do nothing to push him away despite knowing you should. “Baby, I can smell how much ya want me from here.”

You should have slapped him. You should have pushed him away and told him to fuck off, remind him that you had a boyfriend. You should have told him that Ethan was everything he wasn’t. That he was kind and considerate. But you did none of that. You didn’t even deny it because try as you might—you could not lie to Gator Tillman and you were so wet that your panties were sticking to your puffy lips.

“Not denyin’ it, huh?” Gator drawls in amusement, reaching out a large hand to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “That dumb boyfriend of yours doin’ a good job takin’ care of ya? Or is he leaving my girl all high and dry?”

Your face burns and your stomach feels as though your insides were suddenly made of molten lava at his words.

“I’m not your—”

“—yer always be my girl,” Gator tells you. “Ain’t that right?”

You say nothing because there was not a single part of you that wanted to deny it—that Gator Tillman still had a part of you that he refused to give back.

But then you remember that no matter how good the sex was with Gator, it didn’t make up for the way he always left you second guessing, how he had never wanted to talk about feelings and how he had said nothing when you finally found the courage to say the L word.

“Thank you for the drink,” you say tersely, picking up your glass and finding the strength to step away from Gator. “But I have a boyfriend who is waiting at home for me.”

“Is that right?” Gator asks in mild amusement but you knew him well enough to see the flash of jealousy in his eyes. The thought of making him jealous makes heat spread through your gut.

“Yeah,” you say, lifting your drink to your lips and taking a sip, Gator’s eyes carefully tracking your every move—at the way you lick the corner of your mouth. “And after he picks me up and takes me to his place, I’m going to let him fuck my brains out.”

You didn’t care that other people heard you, you didn’t care about the fact other people at the bar were looking at you. All you cared about was Gator’s reaction—the way his face fell slightly, the way his hands twitched like he wanted to reach for you but stopped himself.

You take another sip of your drink, the fruity alcohol having no effect in comparison to the man standing in front of you.

“Have a nice life Gator,” you tell him, turning to leave with your heart hammering in your chest, a tight grip on your cocktail but Gator’s hand shoots out to stop you.

“What are you—”

Gator’s large, warm hand that was wrapped around your wrist tugs you closer. His touch—the one you had missed so much—causes heat to spread through your body.

“—y’know I still think about ya?” he husks, his other hand grazing your shoulder and causing goosebumps to erupt across your skin. “Especially when I’m fucking my cock with my fist.”

It was crude, it was vulgar, it was everything Ethan wasn’t and that was exactly why it made you feel as though you were alive again. 

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, your throat uncomfortably dry, your cunt throbbing with need for the man in front of you.

“And yet ya love it,” Gator murmurs, leaning in so to breathe the words in your ear while his fingers dig into your skin as though attempting to leave a mark. “Can see ya squeezing yer thighs together, mama. She probably misses me, huh? Yer sweet pussy wants me that bad?”

You swallow, so turned on by his words, his touch, by him that it was a physical ache.

You had a boyfriend, you remind yourself—you had a boyfriend who loved you—who was better for you than Gator ever was.

But no matter how many times you told yourself that, you couldn’t pull yourself away from the man that stood in front of you and you certainly couldn’t deny Gator’s words. Because you were wet, you did still want him and you wanted him badly. And so, perhaps it was lucky that your friends had finally decided to step in.

“Hands off, Tillman,” Soph tells him as Nina pulls you away from Gator with an uncharacteristic stern expression. “She’s got a boyfriend and better off without you.”

Gator laughs at Soph’s words and you watch as his flicker back over to you. His gaze holds you captive for a brief moment and you don’t even register the cocktail glass being taken out of your hand as he looks back at your friend with an amused expression. “Sure. Keep believin’ that, sweetheart.”

With a scoff, Soph and Nina pull you out of the bar with a promise to never go back. 

But within the hour, you unblock Gator Tillman’s phone number.

It was around eleven o’clock when you finally decided to call it a night.

“Oh c’mon,” Nina pouts when you grab your purse. “Just one more hour, please?”

You shake your head, your phone tight in your grasp and screen purposefully shielded from your friends’ eyes. “No, I really gotta go. Ethan, um, Ethan’s picking me up.”

Both Nina and Soph ‘aw’ in unison and you smile, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Should we walk you to his car?” Soph suggests, already grabbing her jacket.

You were thankful for the dark lighting in the club, so that Soph and Nina could not see the warmth of your cheeks, the slight panic in your eyes.

“No,” you say quickly and with a reassuring smile. “No—I’m good. Thank you though.”

It took another five or so minutes to say goodbye to your friends. You felt your phone buzz in your hands repeatedly and you tried your best to ignore it as you gave both Soph and Nina a final hug goodbye. 

The cold night air hits you as soon as you walk out of the club, biting at your exposed skin as you walk towards the all too familiar truck parked a little way up the street.

Gator Tillman sits in the driver's seat of the pickup truck, legs spread and large hands resting on his thighs as he watches you walk towards him. It was hard for him not to smile. He leans over to open the passenger seat door for you.

“Hey, pretty mama,” he greets you as you climb into the truck with legs that feel almost like they were made of jelly. “Couldn’t resist me, could ya?”

You swallow thickly at his words, guilt gnawing at your insides like a viscous monster as he places a hand on your thigh. You hate the relief that his touch gives you. And so, you say nothing, just staring at the thick digits that rest over the skin of your thigh, at the goosebumps forming at his touch.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You had a boyfriend, one that adored you, one that had been checking in on you all night to make sure you were okay, one that loved you and loved you loudly. 

And yet, you knew what you felt for Ethan wasn’t love. It wasn’t even close to love. Because the only man you had ever loved was sitting right next to you.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper quietly, taking in a deep breath before you turn your head to look at Gator. “We broke up, I have a boyfriend and—”

“—and yet yer in my truck,” Gator smirks in smug satisfaction, his fingers moving an inch or so higher up your thigh, his eyes watching you carefully. “That means somethin’.”

“That I’m a bad person,” you say quietly, looking away from him to glance down at your phone, which you saw light up with a text from Ethan. “A horrible, horrible person who is going to—”

You stop yourself, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as you tuck your phone away and back into your purse. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Goin’ ta, what?” Gator asks and you almost gasp in surprise as he lifts your chin with his finger, an act surprisingly gentle for Gator even if it was to make you look at him. “Go on, pretty, finish that sentence.”

The air in Gator’s truck suddenly feels thick with want, with tension, with something that you couldn’t quite name. 

“Gator—” you begin, a million and one things that you wanted to say, your heart thumping loudly in your chest as your eyes lock with his. But the words die on your tongue as you finally allow yourself to give into his touch, your legs spreading apart just so.

Gator’s eyes flicker down to his hand on your thigh for a brief moment but otherwise, he doesn’t dare look away from you.

He murmurs your name in a gentle voice, one that you barely recognise coming from a man like Gator Tillman and that was perhaps your breaking point.

Your hands reach up to cup either side of Gator’s face and before you could really register what you were doing, before your conscience could creep back in and stop you from doing something that you may come to regret—you pull him towards you and your lips meet in kiss that sent heat searing through your entire body.

Gator reacted immediately, the hand that wasn’t on your thigh was cupping the back of your neck and tugging you closer, kissing you back with a kind of hunger that made your core ache. Warmth spreads through your gut as Gator wastes no time in pressing the wet heat of his tongue into your mouth, his hand on your thigh disappearing beneath your dress. You part your thighs further on instinct.

“There she is,” he murmurs against your lips, smirking as he thumbs over the damp patch that had formed in your panties which causes you to whimper against him. “There’s ma girl.”

And just like that—he pulls himself away from you. You whine, your hands clinging to him in desperation as he withdraws his hand from between your legs, chasing his lips as he pulls away from you. 

“Why did you—” You stop, completely breathlessly as he lifts the fingers he had pressed against your clothed cunt and sniffs them shamelessly.

“Ya still smell fuckin’ incredible, baby,” he drawls, making your mouth feel incredibly dry as he breathes in your scent. “But m’not takin’ ya here. Ain't no way. Want’ta spread ya out and take my time with ya. Okay?”

You nod, your body nearly trembling with want. Your cunt clenches around nothing and your lips part slowly as you watch him palm the large bulge that had formed in his jeans before he starts the engine.

The next fifteen minutes or so were nothing short of torture. You were beginning to wonder where on earth he was taking you. He certainly wasn’t taking you to the Tillman ranch nor was he taking you to your apartment. You didn’t ask him where exactly he was taking you because you couldn’t even look over at Gator as he drove because knowing he was already hard, already aching for you made the heat surging through your veins turn only hotter, made the space between the two of you feel small.

And when he finally pulls into some sort of fancy looking hotel parking lot, you turn to look at him in surprise.

“Gator, is this—”

“—only the best for ya,” he murmurs, not looking at you as he unbuckles his seatbelt, the tips of his ears turning red. “Wasn’t gonna fuck ya in a shitty motel.”

Despite how utterly unromantic those words sounded, you felt your heart double in size.

“Sweet,” you say with a small smile that Gator doesn’t return. But he does climb out the truck first to open your door even if he does plant a smack to your ass shortly after.

Gator whistles between his teeth, twirling the key to the hotel room around one of his thick fingers as you walk through the fancy lobby. You glance up at the twinkling chandelier above you, at the ceiling above that glittered in the light and you wonder just how much Gator had splashed out on the room for the two of you. 

Gator’s hand doesn’t leave your lower back the entire time as you walk towards the elevator. His presence doing nothing to help the ache between your legs, the simple touch making you feel more alive than you ever had with Ethan. The dull reminder of your boyfriend makes shame twist in your gut but you look at Gator to district yourself. You find him already looking at you.

You don’t break eye contact the entire elevator ride to the fifth floor.

And when Gator opens the hotel door for you, you can’t help the small gasp that leaves your lips. 

“Gator,” you say, completely breathless as you look around the room with wide eyes—at the expensive decorative golden carpet beneath your heels, at the plush royal blue loveseat, the floor to ceiling windows and finally the california king sized bed that sat in the middle of the room, white sheets that were so pristine that you were sure cost more than your monthly rent.

You were in such a state of awe that your body jolted when you felt Gator’s arms wrap your waist from behind.

“Where’d ya wanna go?” He asks against the skin of your neck, grinding himself against your ass, his cock thickening beneath his jeans. “The couch?” He whispers, pressing a kiss just over your pulse. “The floor?” He sucks gently at your skin, smiling when you arch back against him. “The bed?” He murmurs before his tongue darts out to lick a stripe up your neck while pressing himself more firmly against you.

Your eyelids flutter shut, heat coiling in your gut deliciously and making it impossible to resist him for even a second longer.

“Anywhere,” you breathe, turning around in his arms so you could face him. “I just want you.”

It was perhaps the most honest thing you had said in four months.

And it was those words that pull a rare, genuine smile from Gator Tillman before he finally leans in and crashes lips against yours.

His mouth was warm and insistent against yours, tongue licking into your mouth hungrily as though desperate to relearn every part of you he had missed. You melt into him, your fingers already tugging at his shirt as his hands roam over you to squeeze the globes of your ass.

“Missed ya, baby,” Gator groans against your mouth before pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and sucking gently.

You whimper against him at the action, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you continue your attempts to tear it from his body. Gator doesn’t do a damn thing to help you, seemingly too focused on your lips, on the way you were whining against him as though you were desperate for him.

“Did’ya miss me too?” Gator asks you, pulling away just to look at your face, at your spit-slick lips, at your flustered expression.

“I did,” you breathe out, one of the buttons on his shirt popping out in your eagerness to tear it off his body. At the sight of his chest hair peaking through the half unbuttoned shirt, your pussy throbs in anticipation. Fuck. You had missed his chest hair. Ethan was almost silky smooth compared to Gator and the sight of the dark, coarse hair over Gator’s chest made you almost feral and you can’t help but lean in and lick along the coarse hair in one, languid swipe. “I missed you s’much.”

Gator groaned, genuinely groaned out loud and the sound went straight to your dripping core.

“C’here mama,” he grunts, his palms cupping your jaw and pulling your lips back to his.

Gator kisses you like he was starving and you kiss him back like he was the air you breathed. Desperation for each other was seared into each and every kiss, a complete lack of care for how messy and wet the kiss was. In fact, the messy glide of your tongue against each other only made you more desperate for each other.

You finally manage to peel off his shirt and you smile in victory before letting out a small shriek as Gator’s hands hoist you up. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, your lips not leaving his as he walks you over to the luxurious bed waiting for the two of you.

You expect him to throw you onto the bed, expect him to manhandle you the way he always did.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t.

Instead, Gator Tillman lowers you gently down onto the bed as though you were something precious.

“Gator,” you gasp out, reaching for the buckle of his belt but he stops you with surprisingly gentle hands. “Please, Gator. I want—”

He shushes you, pressing a finger to your lips to silence you as his hazel eyes drag over your body, at the dress that was fluttering over the tops of your thighs, just exposing the slither of deep red lace hidden beneath your dress.

“—and I wanna take my time, baby,” he tells you, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he leans away from you and to gently grab one of your calves. “Ya deserve that shit.”

Your lips part as you watch him slowly—ever so slowly—take off the heels that you had been wearing. The entire time, he doesn’t break eye contact, not even as he kissed along the skin of your ankle.

Your entire body was thrumming with want. You were so turned on that the ache between your thighs was becoming almost painful and you could barely stop yourself from squeezing your thighs together.

The moment you do however, Gator’s eyes darken and his palms were quick to stop you, spreading your legs even further apart and causing a whine of utter desperation from leaving you. 

“Look at you,” he hums, licking his lips at the sight of the damp patch in your panties, the darkened fabric making his achingly hard cock stir beneath his clothes. “Fuck, I need’ta see her, baby.”

You nod feverishly, your body practically shaking with anticipation as Gator tries his very best to peel the dress off your body without tearing it. You, however, didn't care in the slightest if he ripped the dress to pieces.

The moment Gator finally saw what you were wearing beneath—the deep red, lacy set that he had once bought you for Valentines’ Day, Gator let out a noise that you prayed you’d never forget.

“Fuuck, baby,” he breathes out, leaning in to press a kiss to the swell of your breast and groaning at the feel of your skin against his lips. “Look at ya. Fuckin’ look at ya. Fuckin’ masterpiece and all f’me.”

It was the most poetic thing you had perhaps ever heard Gator say and it sent waves of something that felt like electricity through you. 

“Gator, please—” you whine, your back bowing off the bed as one of his hands brush down your back to unhook your bra. He seemed to lose his gentleness in his haste to get it off your body but you didn’t mind, not when his mouth quickly latched itself over one of your nipples. You let out a moan that the room next door was sure to hear. But you didn’t care, not when he was sucking hard on your pebbled peak, swirling around the sensitive bud with his tongue as his other hand came up to knead the breast his mouth wasn’t working on.

You weren’t holding back—after months of sex that left you feeling unwanted, unsexy and incredibly frustrated, you were finally allowing yourself to live in your pleasure. You allowed yourself to focus on Gator’s tongue, his hands and the groans that were muffled against your tit in his mouth.

Ethan was never enthusiastic the way Gator was about your pleasure, in fact, you often wondered if Ethan even really cared about your pleasure since he never touched you unless he got something in return and he certainly had never moaned shamelessly at the feeling of your breasts in his mouth like Gator was.

“S’good,” Gator groans against you before he switches to your other breast, his mouth giving it the same feverish attention as the other. “Fuckin’ missed these s’much. Most perfect fuckin’ pair of tits.”

Gator could have happily spent the entire evening lavishing your tits with his mouth, could have died there in all honestly. But you were writhing beneath him, hips bucking upwards and clearly desperate for more. 

“Stay still, baby,” he tells you before he blows air onto your nipple, tongue flicking the sensitive bud and causing a whimper to escape from your throat. “Stay still.”

You whine but the moment you feel his hands spread your thighs again, you know better than to listen to him. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, deft fingers now tracing over the skin of your thighs before they wrap around the last bit of lace that covered your most intimate part from him. “Good girl.”

You can’t help the whimper that escapes you at those words.

“Gator—”

You were about to beg him, about to plead with him to stop teasing you but Gator Tillman seemed to get your message loud and clear.

He tugged your panties down your legs, almost ripping them off entirely in his eagerness to strip you bare. He stared down at the lace crumpled in his hand for a moment before lifting it to his nose and you watched—lips parted—as he breathed in your scent. He moans, loud and shameless as you fill his nostrils, the musky, heady smell making his hip buck against your thigh and you feel the thick, heavy outline of his cock. He was painfully hard but he was too busy smelling your soaked panties to really care.

“Fuuuuuck,” he moans into the material before letting it drop onto the sheets beside you so that he could let his eyes finally feast on the sight of you beneath him. You were sprawled out on the plush hotel bed, the expensive white sheets beginning to tangle from where you had been writhing against them in pleasure. He watches as your breasts heave, looking up at him, nipples still wet with his saliva before finally, finally his eyes drift down to your cunt and he marvels at the sight of it—glistening with your slick beneath the warm lights of the room.

“Jesus, baby,” he whispers, voice almost reverent as he leans in to kiss along your navel. Your body jolts slightly from the contact but Gator’s large hands hold your hips down, preventing you from moving too far. “Already s’fucking wet f’me. Drippin’ onto these expensive sheets. Fuck, mama.”

You feel his hot breath hit your inner thigh and the whimper that escaped you was borderline pathetic. You were so desperate, so ridiculously turned on that you were sure it wouldn’t take much for Gator to bring you to the edge. Just the way he was looking at your pussy was enough for more slick to dribble down between your folds.

You hear him tut gently and you look down just in time to watch one of his fingers brush gently through your curls before it glides easily between your folds, parting them gently. That first touch felt like something close to electricity surging through your body—you felt pleasure course through your entire being.

“Look at how neglected she’s been,” Gator murmurs as he leans in, breathing in your heady scent, his nose nudging lightly against your clit in a move that had you whimpering beneath him. “Can’t be havin’ that, can we, pretty?”

You have no time to respond, no time to even begin to think of a reply before Gator finally, finally dives right in.

And when it came to eating pussy, Gator Tillman did not hold back. Not in the slightest.

His mouth seals itself over your cunt with a sound that was so loud and so obscene that you momentarily began to wonder whether or not you were dreaming. But as he licked a long, broad stroke from your entrance right up to your swollen, puffy clit—you knew that this was far too good to be a dream.

“Gator!” You mewl out, your hands flying to grab onto his hair, needing something to hold onto as your hips are unable to jerk upwards as he holds you down against the mattress. Your fingers tug at his hair as he circles your sensitive bud with the very tip of his tongue and he groans at the feeling, causing a vibration that makes your toes curl.

“That’s it, mama,” Gator mutters against you, his eyes not leaving your face as it twists with pleasure. “Taste fuckin’ incredible. Like home.”

If you weren’t feeling such intense pleasure from his tongue playing with your clit, you may have thought more about those words.

“Fuuuuck, Gator,” you moan, throwing your head back against the sheets as he flattened his tongue, dipping back down to your dripping hole that he lapped at greedily, slurping up your slick messily like it was holy water before pushing his tongue inside and fucking you with it. Gator didn’t seem to care that the mix of your wetness and his saliva was now dripping from his lips and coating his chin and he certainly didn’t care about the moans he was letting out against your cunt.

“Missed this sweet fuckin’ pussy,” He murmurs, smirking against your heat before he pulls away just to listen to your needy whines. “She’s missed me too, ain’t that right, pretty?”

You nod, opening your mouth to reply but whatever words were about to leave your lips were cut off entirely by a high-pitched moan as he pressed a finger to your oversensitive clit.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, grinning lazily at the way you almost convulse with pleasure beneath him as he begins to press circles against your clit with familiar precision. “Let me hear ya. Let me hear those sweet fuckin’ sounds of yers.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a sentence or even a coherent thought, not as he traced two fingers down your folds, smearing your slick over you messily before he pushed both fingers deep inside of you. You felt him curl his fingers, your eyes rolling back into your head as they pressed firmly against that spongey spot inside of you. 

And when his mouth returned to your clit and sucked the sensitive bud between his lips?

It was nothing short of ecstasy.

The dual sensation of his mouth on your clit and his fingers fucking in and out of you, pressing against that spot that made you see stars with every pump of them had you making noises you didn’t know you were even capable of. The wet sounds of his mouth sucking at your clit, of his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt fill the room, along with his muffled groans and your high-pitched moans. You weren’t even really aware of how loud you were being, not when it felt so fucking good to be worshipped the way Gator Tillman worshipped you the altar between your thighs.

“Yer so fuckin’ perfect,” Gator murmurs against you, his words slurring slightly, seemingly drunk on your pussy before he doubles down, fingers curling inside of you at the same as he sucks at your clit.

“Gat—Gator,” you gasp, not knowing anything other than his name. “Gator, I’m going to—”

“Ya gonna cum, baby?” He asks, not letting up for even a second as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge. “C’mon then, pretty. Be a good girl f’me and cum.”

It was the way he was looking at you, it was the fact that it was Gator and that this—he—was everything you had been thinking about for the past few months that you finally found yourself tipping over the edge.

You let out a cry, one that was sure to wake the whole damn hotel as your orgasm crashed through your body with an intensity you didn’t know was possible. Your walls squeeze his fingers as he works you through it, your pussy gushing around the digits while his tongue greedily savours every last drop.

You were trembling, feeling pleasure coursing through every single nerve in your body, your blood singing from the intensity of your orgasm. You were absolutely positive that Gator Tillman had sent you to another planet, another universe with his fingers and mouth and you wanted to live there for a little bit longer.

But the sound of Gator whispering your name pulls you back.

You sit up on your elbows, his face glistening with your release and looking so handsome that you wondered why you ever fucking left.

“Gator,” you gasp, your hands that were still in his hair pulling him toward you. “Gator, I—”

“—I know,” Gator breathes out, eyes seeming to sparkle in the warm light. “I know, baby.”

You met in the middle in a kiss that was so soft and so gentle that it took your breath away. You could taste yourself on his tongue but you didn’t care, not when he was kissing you like you were more precious than gold, not when he was holding you so close to his body like he was never going to let you go again.

He whispers your name again and he says it so lovingly that you almost didn’t recognise it but it made you cling to him tighter, made your body shake with an emotion you couldn’t control.

Your hands shake as they run over his skin, down his neck, over his chest, over the soft stomach that your cunt throb again before finally you reach his belt buckle. Gator doesn’t tease you this time, instead he groans into your mouth before he helps you with his belt, which he throws unceremoniously to the other side of the hotel room. You’re pretty sure you hear something clatter to the floor but neither of you really care as his jeans are the next item of clothing to disappear.

The outline of his cock through his boxers was enough to make your mouth water. You had almost forgotten how big Gator’s cock was but the size of the bulge in front of you was a truly glorious reminder.

“I don’t have a—”

“—I don’t care,” you say quickly, your fingers already tugging at the waistband of his boxers as you look hungrily up at him. “Just fuck me, Gator.”

With one firm tug, his cock finally springs free. It slaps against his stomach and sound goes straight to your core. You watch greedily at the way the ruddy tip is already leaking, precum dribbling down and running along his veiny length, making your mouth feel impossibly dry.

“D’ya wanna—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, you’re already pulling him down onto the mattress and pushing him onto his back.

“Oh shit,” Gator smirks, his hands finding your hips as you move to straddle him, your wet heat pressing against his thigh. “You gonna ride me, pretty? Is it my birthday or somethin’?”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging on your lips as your cheeks warm slightly.

“Don’t be shy,” he tells you, thumb brushing over your skin before he presses his thigh against you, the hairs brushing against your still sensitive clit and causing you to jolt slightly. “Ride me. G’on, baby.”

Despite his slightly commanding tone, despite the smug smile on his face, you could see the desperation and utter devotion in his eyes. He needed this—needed you almost as much as you needed him.

And so, you wasted absolutely no time in wrapping your fingers around his cock and lining him up with your entrance. You watch as his lips part and eyes widen, Gator Tillman momentarily speechless at your touch, before you begin to sink down onto his thick cock.

The stretch burns at first. Ethan was nowhere as big or as thick as Gator was and so, it took you a moment or so before you sank yourself down onto him completely. The moment you do, the moment you were filled entirely with Gator—was the moment you realise you had never stopped loving him.

“Ya okay?” Gator asks you gently, feeling you tense briefly and his hands cup your face in a gesture so sweet and gentle that you nearly forget to breathe. “I didn’t hurt ya, did I?”

“No,” you shake your head quietly, smiling at him as you watch his expression soften slightly, the relief in his eyes that he hadn’t hurt you. “I just—I just really missed you.”

Because you did. You had missed him, not just the sex. You realise that now. You always knew, deep down, that Gator loved you despite not being able to say it back. Because Gator Tillman may not have screamed it from the rooftops, but he said it in every gentle caress, every smile and every laugh meant only just for you.

Gator looks back at you carefully, blinking slowly as he studies the look on your face before he swallows, fingers digging into the skin of your hips. “I missed ya too. Sap.”

You smile at him before you laugh, your fingers dancing over the skin of his shoulders as you watch his lips twitch as though he’s trying not to smile too.

You had so much more you wanted to say to him, so much more you needed to talk about—but there would be time for that. 

You held onto his shoulders as you began to roll your hips, the slow grind making Gator swallow as your gummy walls squeezed snugly around his cock.

“Yer so fuckin’ warm,” he groans, eyes flickering down to watch the way your pussy was stretched around him, the sight making his stomach tighten. “Squeezin’ me like that, fuck, mama. Keep goin’.”

But you keep the slow grind, watching the way his throat bobs, the way his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth like he was trying to stop himself from moaning. The sight alone made you clench around him.

“Pretty girl—”

“—you gonna say please?” You ask him with a teasing smile, sinking down and rolling your hips in a move that had Gator gripping onto your flesh tightly.

Gator looked for a moment as though he would rather die than say please but another roll of your hips, one that had him fully seated inside of you caused him to let out a sound you didn’t even know he was capable of.

“Please,” he grunts, his hands moving to squeeze the globes of your ass as though desperate to keep you close to him. “Please ride me, baby.”

Who were you to refuse him?

You started to ride him properly then, rolling your hips as Gator’s hands on your ass guided you into a faster rhythm, one that his head rolling back and your fingers biting into the skin of his shoulders.

“Oh, fuuuck, Gator!”

It was hard to think clearly after that. His hands squeeze your ass, kneading the flesh as he aided you in slamming back down onto his cock repeatedly. Wet sounds fill the room once again, this time from his thick cock slamming up into you, the fat head of it bullying your cervix with each and every thrust. 

You mewl, moan and whimper, your hips meeting his movements as you grab onto the headboard behind him for leverage. The moment that you do, there was really no stopping the noises that left both your mouths.

You slam your pussy down around his cock over and over and over again, your tits bouncing in his face while Gator babbles mindlessly beneath you.

“Fuck baby, that feels s’fucking good. Yer so good. Fuckin’ made f’me. Don’t know—fuck—don’t know why the fuck I ever let ya walk away. Never again, pretty.”

You nod frantically, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as his hips thrust up to meet you, burying himself so deep that you swear you felt him in your gut. The coil inside you was tightening again, so close to snapping that you felt tears well up in your eyes owing to the sheer amount of overwhelming pleasure you were feeling.

“Look at me,” Gator says suddenly and the desperation in his voice makes you look down at him. “Look at me, baby. Want ya to look at me when ya cum.”

You whimper, the eye contact somehow making everything even more intense. It wasn’t just the pleasure and the heat building steadily up in your gut, but the emotion you felt in your throat, in your very bones, as you looked back at him.

“Gator—”

“—I know baby,” Gator grunts, thrusting up into you and looking at you with such gentleness that you couldn't bring yourself to look away even if you wanted to. “I know—and I love you too.”

A sound tears from your throat—a sob, a moan—you weren’t entirely sure. All you knew was that your second orgasm tears throughout your body, waves of pleasure crashing over you, making everything around you feel fussy as you squeezed his thick cock like you never wanted him to leave.

“Fuck—that’s it, mama. S’fucking pretty. Fuckin’ beautiful. Ya gonna make me—”

Gator doesn’t finish his sentence, a needy whine leaving his lips as he tips over the edge right after you. His hips stutter, slamming your pussy down around him one final time before he floods your pussy with hot spurts of his cum. You whimper, bordering on overstimulation as he keeps thrusting up into you, fucking his cum up into you, as deep as it could go.

“S’fucking good for me. Takin’ all my cum like a good girl.”

You whimper before collapsing against his chest, completely and utterly spent. Gator’s arms wrap around you in an instant, his cock still pulsing inside of you as he presses kiss after kiss against the sweat-slick skin of your shoulder.

You were both breathing heavily, both clinging to each other as though neither of you wanted to leave the hotel bed.

But it didn’t take long for the guilt to come back. The blurred image of Ethan creeping back into the back of your head.

As though being able to read your thoughts, Gator says your name quietly—almost tentatively.

“I really do miss ya,” he tells you, raising a cheek to brush his fingers gently across your cheek. “Not just—not just this, y’know but—all of ya.”

“Gator—”

“—I know, okay? I know ya think m’just saying shit because of what we just did but I—I really do love ya. A lot. So much that I spent fuckin’ way too much money on this fuckin’ hotel room so I could prove to ya that I can take care of ya too. Not just that trust fund baby ya been seein’.”

It takes a few moments to take in his words through your post orgasm haze but when you do, you finally understand just why Gator Tillman had splashed out on a fancy hotel to fuck you in.

“Gator,” you breathe out his name before you pull yourself away from his chest to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to spend money to prove that you love me,” you tell him quietly with a shake of your head. “You just have to say it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Gator expression shifts, as though quietly trying to understand your words before he swallows.

“Well, I do,” he says, looking away for a very brief moment before looking back at you. “I love ya, baby. I always have. Always will.”

You expect him to look away, for him to shy away from those words but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks back at you with a determined expression that makes the world around you almost cease to exist.

“I love you too,” you breathe out, your hands cupping his face before pulling him into a kiss that has his cock twitching inside of you.

“So, ya gonna break up with that prick now?” Gator asks, pulling away to pepper kisses along your neck, setting a fire along your skin. “Or can I fuck ya again first?”

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Only this morning, after Gator left for work, the window unit he'd had for nearly a decade finally kicked the bucket. Water had been dripping from it for weeks, both of you keenly aware that this summer would be the last before you needed to purchase a new unit. Now it seemed like next summer would become this summer as you texted Gator about your current predicament.

You did what you could to keep the small barn home cool: positioning fans, trying to create a cross-breeze, and endlessly scrolling through Google for any miracle suggestions. It was no use – the 100º heat swept through the rolling hills of the ranch without so much as a breeze to provide even a moment's reprieve. Sweat made your pajamas cling to your skin, adding to the discomfort of your warm state. There was little else to do besides strip down to your underwear and one of Gator's loose-fit cotton shirts.

You'd spent the day in next to nothing, keeping the curtains drawn, and a cool rag against the back of you next. Only the low buzz of the fan and soft murmur of voices from the television kept you company while you waited for Gator to return.

Sprawled out prone on your bed, you tried to keep your mind off the heat by scrolling through your phone, hoping something else might pull your focus. The midafternoon heatwave had scorched the ranch, leaving sweat to pool at your brow and slick between your thighs. It was nearly too hot to move from the bed, even when you heard the screen door slam against the frame.

The thud of his boots gently echoed across the wooden floorboards while Gator searched the house for you. Usually, you'd be out on the front porch to greet him or tending to some of your shared chores. Imagine Gator's surprise when he discovered you lounging in the bedroom with a full view of your ass on display.

"Oh well, what do we have 'ere?" he chuckled under his breath, quickly discarding his tactical vest and thigh holster. You flipped onto your back, eyes trailing over his frame as he continued to shed his work clothes. Standing there in his tight black shirt and dark cargo pants, Gator tugged his cap off his head, the gel refusing to hold from the humidity in the house.

He fanned himself as his dark eyes examined every inch of exposed skin, "Jesus, must be at least 85º in this damn room. Too hot, sugar, too hot."

You rolled your eyes, yet indulged him, "What's too hot? the house or...?"

Gator wet his lips, looking about ready to pounce on you. He finally tossed the ballcap aside, inching closer to the side of the bed, his shadow looming over you. He shook his head, and he puffed on his vape before throwing that aside too, "Both..."

"Gator..." you pursed your lips when his fingers began to trail up your shin, "It's too hot to be doing any of that."

"I come home t' you lookin' like pure sin and you're turnin' me down?" he huffed like a pouting child. Once his hand reached beneath your knee, he gripped harder and tugged you towards the edge of the bed, "What am I gonna do with you?"

"It's too hoooooot," you playfully kicked at his chest, only for Gator to grab both your ankles and pin them to his chest. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles on the bone as he looked down at you with a wolfish grin.

"gonna be hot well into tomorrow," Gator hummed, pressing a kiss to the heel of your foot, "no use trying to keep cool if there ain't any a/c."

You tried to think of some witty retort or deterrent, but you knew you'd lost this fight before it even started. And it was a fight you didn't quite mind losing. especially when Gator continued to trail kisses down your calf, eyes devouring what his lips hadn't reached yet. You were transfixed by the sight before you, Gator worshiping you with each press of his lips to your warm skin, heartbeat thudding against your ribs.

It wasn't until you felt the swipe of his tongue at the nape of your knee that you tried to stop him again, "Gator..."

"C'mon, mama," his nose nuzzled against the flesh of your inner, nipping at you when you tried to roll your eyes, “need to taste that pretty thang; nothing else to do to beat this heat.”

His other hand moved to cup your covered mound, the slick mixture of moisture and arousal coating the fabric and apex of your thighs. A small squeak escaped your lips as the pad of his middle finger added just a little bit of pressure. Your hips sank back into the bed as his lips continued their path, “Atta girl.”

Gator sank to his knees, tugging your thighs over his broad shoulders so that he could perfectly plant his face between your thighs. he made sure you were comfortable with a gentle pat against your hip once you settled into place. You expected him to dive right in and get straight to work, yet a silence lingered in the room. Right when you considered asking if he changed his mind, Gator pressed the tip of his nose to the bottom of your covered slit, dragging upwards as he inhaled your heady scent. 

You nearly gasped, gripping the bedsheet as you attempted to withhold your moan at the sensation. His tongue traced the juncture of your pelvis and inner thigh, collecting your essence with each satisfying swipe of his tongue. The salt of your skin mixing with your arousal was addicting. Gator licked a broad stripe up your clothed core before hooking his fingers into the waistline, slowly dragging the material away and observing as it tried to stick against your skin. 

Once your underwear had been flung across the room, Gator moved quickly, latching himself against your puffy folds. He lapped at your labia, gathering your arousal and coating his tongue with it before searching for your clit. He knew that he found it when he felt your fingertips scratch at the top of his head. Being the cheeky bastard he was, Gator nipped at your clit before soothing it over with his tongue. This was as much for your pleasure as it was his own, seeing you thrash like a needy thing beneath his hold. 

You released a shrill whine, begging for him to do more. Gator responded by bringing his hand back up to rub circles into your clit before delivering a quick smack. The sensation shocked you, jolting you back into full awareness, “Gator!”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” Gator smirked as he peeled himself away from your lower half. 

“Wha– where–?” You blinked up at him, eyes falling to where he was palming himself over the cargo pants. It was obvious by the firm indent in his pants that his cock was aching for some relief of its own. 

“Patience,” Gator tsked, hands yanking his fitted shirt over his head. A sheen layer of sweat covered the expanse of his chest and stomach, the beloved smattering of chest hair and his happy trail sticking down from the heat. Coming to your senses, you sat up and reached to undo his belt for him. However, his large fingers circled your wrist, preventing you from taking things further. “What’d I just say, sugar?”

You swallowed, eyes trailing up to meet his dark gaze, “Patience…”

“That’s right,” he hummed, dropping your wrist. Instead, Gator reached for the hem of your shirt, ridding you of all barriers. He swatted at your hand when you made a move for his pants again, “on your stomach.”

A chill ran down your spine at his tone, yet it did nothing to cool the tension between your bodies or the lingering heat. You made a show of it—rolling over onto all fours before crawling back towards the center of the bed. You could hear the rustle of fabric and the clink of his belt buckle as it hit the floor. There was no opportunity for a smart comment or any sort of back talk when Gator’s palm settled over the expanse of your low back, pushing you down against the mattress. 

A huff escaped you, the air stuttering out of your lungs from the way he coaxed your body into place. Gator hitched one of your legs to the side, bending it at the knee to provide adequate space for himself. His knees knocked against your thighs as he took his place, his body heat almost too much. 

Sometimes you wondered if Gator had a sixth sense for keeping you on the edge, especially when he did shit like this—taking his time in drawing out your pleasure. His hands settled on either side of your shoulders, his head dipping down to lick up your spine. You buried your face into the mattress, feeling yourself flush at the lewd action. No matter how many times you stumbled into bed with Gator, he always found a way to surprise you. 

Gator’s hand dipped down between your bodies, tugging at his cock a few times. A few drops of precum collected on his fingers. There was a hushed groan before he adjusted himself to hover over you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You didn’t have time to question him when he presented his fingers to your lips, urging you to lick them clean, “Go on, baby. Have y’urself a taste.”

Following his request, you kitten licked at the tip of his index finger before sucking it into your mouth. Gator easily worked his middle finger in, permitting his digits to be covered in your saliva. His essence and sweat danced on your tongue, an intoxicating mix. 

“Oh, look at you,” Gator cooed in your ear as he pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. he chuckled at the whine that escaped your lips, “Don’t worry, sugar. I’ll give you what ya need.”

His hand moved back down between your bodies, guiding his cock to notch over your entrance. The tip slid through your folds twice, collecting the slick that gathered and nudging at your puffy clit. Finally, he pressed his hips further, the first inches of his cock entering your warmth. Your fingers returned to the mattress, gripping the bedsheets at the pleasurable stretch of him. 

Once he fully bottomed out, both of you were able to breathe. Gator hid his face in the crook of your neck, willing himself to remain still while you adjusted to his length. The warm, firm press of his body to yours trapped in the heat brought a welcome reprieve of finally being with him during the insufferable heatwave. 

After you gave him a gentle nod, Gator slowly rocked into you, keeping the pace slow and sensual rather than his typical rough thrusts. You were pinned beneath, only able to accept the pleasure he provided you. 

His arm snaked around your throat as he hugged himself closer to your frame, the sweat aiding his movements. When he flexed his bicep, you could feel the muscle gently constricting your breath without cutting it off completely. Gator continued to rut into you while pinning you in the headlock; the sensation was dizzying. 

“Please… please…” You mewled, feeling the sparks of your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. As you panted against the firm hold around your neck, you nipped and licked at the tanned skin, teeth lightly grazing over the flesh. 

“I got you,” he hushed against your ear. Gator’s free hand moved to comb the hair out of your face before planting itself back onto the mattress for balance. He dipped his head back down again, but rather than pulling you back into a languid kiss, he licked the streak of sweat starting at the juncture of your jaw and up into your hairline, “So sweet. So mine.” 

His thrusts became harder and slightly reckless in their coordination. They lacked the precision of his drilling into you and were full of desperation to get both of you to completion. He nipped and sucked at whatever skin he could find, grunting into your ear while you both teetered at the edge, “Want me to come inside, mama? Want me leaking outta this pretty pussy?”

A sigh of agreement left your lips, but that wasn’t enough for Gator. he cradled your head to the side to get a better look at your fucked out expression, “Need to hear your words, sugar.”

Gator started to pull his arm away, but you latched onto it, urging him further, “Please, Gator. I need it. I– I–”

“I know. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” he let out a satisfied hum as he firmly planted his knees on either side of your thighs. Your nails dug into his forearms, leaving crescent shapes as you pistoned into you, the head of his cock perfectly punching the spot that made you see stars. You couldn’t control the noises escaping you as he continued to bring you right over the edge with a final squeeze of his bicep against your throat. 

“Sucking me in so good,” Gator grunted as your cunt tightened around him. Sweat collected between your bodies, making the skin of your back slick against his chest. The air was thick from the humidity and stench of sex, completely overwhelming your senses. 

A white heat enveloped your body as you reached your peak, hips bucking back against Gator, who continued his shallow thrusts to reach his own release. In your haze, you didn’t know when Gator finally came, only aware that he was finished once he collapsed over your frame, hugging himself tighter to you. Your breaths mingled with his own as you came down from the euphoric high. 

Heat continued to linger in the bedroom. Gator’s chuckle broke your daze, eyes blinking open as you watched his blissful expression, “What’s so funny?”

“The fuckin’ windows ‘re fogged up,” Gator smirked, pressing a satisfied kiss to your temple. 

You could only laugh at his statement, catching your breath as you remained entangled in your shared bed.

Maggie knew everybody. Not literally, obviously. Dickinson alone contained thousands of people, and Maggie would be the first person to tell you she didn't have the patience for most of them. But whenever a problem appeared, Maggie somehow already knew somebody who could help. So when she told you she had a contact who might be able to dig into the private investigator who supplied the photograph of Noah, you hadn't questioned it.

That was where you assumed you were heading now. The twins had been dropped at school. Dickinson High was already disappearing behind you in the rearview mirror as Maggie steered through town, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. The conversation had drifted in and out of the investigator all morning, though Maggie hadn't actually offered much information beyond the fact she knew somebody who could help.

Which was why you frowned when she suddenly flicked on her indicator and turned into the parking lot of a grocery store. Maggie parked, switched off the engine and climbed out without explanation. You were still sitting there when your door opened.

"Come on," she said. "I need to get some bits."

You stared up at her.

"I thought we were going to see your contact."

"We are."

That was apparently all the explanation available. A minute later you were following her through the automatic doors and trying to work out how exactly the morning had ended up here. The store wasn't particularly busy. A few shoppers wandered the aisles. Somebody was restocking shelves near the bakery section. The smell of fresh bread lingered faintly in the air as Maggie grabbed a cart and started pushing it towards produce.

You fell into step beside her. She wandered through the aisles at an unhurried pace, stopping occasionally to pick something up while chatting as though this were a completely ordinary shopping trip.

"I was thinking," she said, dropping a multipack of protein yogurts into the cart, "for the clubhouse, I know this guy. He works with steel. Repurposes industrial steel into furniture. I could give you his details, he makes some great pieces."

"Yeah, that sounds amazing. I have sent a few ideas over to Cal already, but the clubhouse I am thinking along the lines of that industrial, gritty feel." You smiled. "I've found an artist who does textured leather murals, they are so cool."

The Hanged Men’s clubhouse had become one of those projects you found yourself thinking about unexpectedly. While folding laundry. While driving. While answering emails. Every time somebody mentioned it, another idea seemed to appear. You spent the next few aisles discussing furniture, finishes and artwork while Maggie continued filling the cart.

At first, nothing about the shopping struck you as unusual. String cheese became granola bars. Granola bars became deli turkey. A container of pre-cut fruit landed beside bell peppers and avocados. Bread followed. Then milk.

The Big House consumed groceries at a frankly alarming rate. Between Ford, five children, Maggie and the constant stream of family moving through the property, food never lasted particularly long. But this wasn’t the usual Heaton weekly shop, it wasn't until several aisles later that you started paying closer attention.

Everything Maggie picked up felt practical somehow; Beef jerky, trail mix, bananas, probiotic yoghurt drinks, vitamin waters, electrolyte drinks, sparkling water. You found yourself looking into the cart every few minutes as the collection grew. Then the freezer section arrived and Maggie continued adding things without hesitation; frozen pasta bowls, microwave rice, premade breakfast sandwiches.

At this point you were thoroughly confused. You couldn't remember the last time you'd seen Maggie buy microwave rice. You followed her towards the vitamins, still trying to make sense of it. Maggie stopped in front of the shelves and began examining labels with surprising concentration. She picked up one bottle, frowned, replaced it, then picked up another.

"I usually get the multivitamin," she said instead. "But this one doesn't have Vitamin D."

She picked up a second bottle.

"But they only have Vitamin D with Calcium. What do you think?"

You leaned slightly closer to read the labels.

"Um, I mean, the multivitamin should be--"

"I'll just get both."

Before you could finish, both bottles landed in the cart and Maggie started walking again. You followed, even more confused than before. The checkout lanes were coming into view when Maggie pointed towards a display beside you.

"Can you grab those gummy worms?"

You reached for a bag.

"No."

You looked up. Maggie pointed towards another packet.

"He likes the blue raspberry ones."

You exchanged the bags and dropped the blue raspberry flavour into the cart. Then your brain caught up. ‘He likes the blue raspberry ones.’ You frowned. Who does?

The question remained lodged in your head while the groceries were scanned, bagged and loaded back into the trolley. Maggie chatted politely with the cashier throughout the transaction, tipped the young bagger afterwards, then started pushing the cart back towards the doors.

Maggie loaded the groceries with the same efficiency she seemed to apply to everything else in life. You settled in beside her as she pulled back out onto the road. Dickinson slid past outside the windows. Gas stations. Fast food signs. Small businesses. The sort of roads you'd driven down often enough that you barely noticed them anymore.

You were just considering asking where exactly the two of you were headed when Maggie spoke first.

"How did you get on with the garages?" she asked. "Because I think I can probably move all of Ford and Brooks' fleet servicing over there and I can have a word with Junior about the Sheriff's Office contracts. I know enough business owners that I could have those books filled on fleet vehicles alone."

You glanced across at her. For a moment you wondered if she was deliberately avoiding other topics of conversation. Then again, Maggie had spent the better part of two weeks talking about the clubhouse, the garages and the surrounding properties whenever she got the chance. She seemed genuinely interested in the project, which wasn't entirely surprising. Maggie liked building things. If somebody handed her a blank piece of paper and enough money, she'd probably try to redesign half of Stark County.

"Well, I looked into it, and with the land already there we could add the two-storey garage easily, but if we want them to have a service yard, maybe for Brooks' oil tankers or eighteen-wheelers, then we'll need more land. The land either side of them is available, but I don't really know much about the permit side of stuff."

"I can look into the zoning permits."

The answer arrived so quickly that it almost made you laugh.

"It was more of a long-term thing," you said. "When we get a profit going. It's a big expense up front."

"Makes no sense to wait. Do all the work in one. I'll make some calls."

You smiled despite yourself and shook your head. Working with Maggie had always been like that. No idea was ever dismissed. No project was ever too ambitious. During the early days of the Grace Foundation you'd watched people explain, repeatedly, why something couldn't be done. There wasn't enough funding. Not enough staff. Not enough time. The building was too expensive. The programme was too ambitious. The timeline was unrealistic. Maggie listened politely to every objection and then started solving them one by one.

It was one of the reasons so many Foundation projects existed in the first place. You supposed you'd expected some version of reality to creep into these conversations eventually. The biker businesses weren't charities. The garages needed to turn a profit. Expanding too quickly carried risks. Purchasing land wasn't exactly a small expense. Apparently Maggie didn't see much distinction.

The conversation about the garages carried on for most of the drive. Every time you thought the subject had been exhausted, she found another angle to examine. By the time she finally turned off the main road, you were fairly certain she'd mentally expanded the garages twice and opened three additional revenue streams. It was only when the apartment complex came into view that your attention shifted.

Mallard Heights.

You recognised it immediately. Ford had developed the property several years ago, one of the larger residential projects he'd taken on in Dickinson. Four-storey apartment buildings sat behind secure gates, all muted beige siding, stone-edged exterior walls and tall windows designed to make the units feel larger than they actually were. The landscaping was immaculate. Young trees lined the walkways. Decorative grasses filled carefully planned beds. Everything about the place projected the sort of quiet, understated luxury that attracted professionals willing to pay extra for convenience.

Maggie punched in a code at the gate and drove through. A moment later she pulled into a visitor bay and switched off the engine. Before you could ask anything, she was already climbing out.

The groceries appeared from the trunk with surprising speed. Maggie handed you several bags before loading the rest into her own arms and heading towards the entrance. You hurried after her. The glass doors sat beneath a covered entranceway. Maggie balanced the bags against one hip and pressed the buzzer panel.

A second later the lock buzzed and the door clicked open. The elevator carried you to the third floor. Maggie shifted the groceries slightly higher in her arms before leading you down the hallway towards apartment 316. She never got the opportunity to knock, the door opened immediately. Inside stood a boy. Well, a man, technically, probably.

He looked somewhere in his early twenties, though there was something so thoroughly unpolished about him that your brain kept insisting he was younger. Soft brown hair stuck up in every direction as though he'd only recently rolled out of bed. Thick-rimmed black glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose. Wired headphones hung around his neck, the earbuds dangling against a faded Pac-Man t-shirt that looked old enough to have attended college itself. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, his socks didn't match and he was standing in the doorway holding a bowl of cereal.

Your confusion deepened considerably. Who was this? How did Maggie know him? Was this the contact? And who under the age of eighty voluntarily used wired headphones?

The boy hadn't even looked up. He was busy shovelling cereal into his mouth while talking at a speed that suggested his brain had started the conversation several minutes before the rest of him arrived.

"So octopuses recognise individual humans," he said around a mouthful of cereal. "Like they learn faces. There was this research thing, and this octopus kept squirting water at one specific keeper that it hated, which honestly is totally fair because I'd probably be pissed too if somebody kept poking me in the brain. But yeah, octopuses learn patterns and they are proper tricksy."

He spoke in a loop; each sentence seemed to generate three additional sentences before the first one had finished. Maggie seized the brief pause with the timing of somebody who had clearly done this before.

"Good morning, Bug."

Bug? You blinked. That couldn't possibly be his real name.

Before you could question it, Bug had already wandered back into the apartment, still eating cereal and apparently continuing a conversation nobody else had knowingly joined. Neither of you had actually been invited inside, Maggie simply stepped over the threshold. You followed her because at this point, it seemed the only option.

The apartment turned out to be considerably larger than you'd expected. Then you turned left and realised most of the living room had been sacrificed to technology.

The sofa still existed, technically. It had been pushed against one wall as though somebody had remembered at the last second that living rooms were supposed to contain furniture. The rest of the space was dominated by an enormous U-shaped desk right in the centre of the room. Computers occupied every available surface. Six monitors glowed softly beneath the warm yellow light cast by two standing light bars. Cables ran everywhere. Across the desk. Beneath the desk. Along the floor. Coiled beneath monitors and disappearing into mysterious devices you couldn't identify.

It looked less like an apartment and more like somebody had built a command centre and accidentally left a sofa in it. Bug had already reclaimed a large ergonomic chair positioned in the middle of the setup. He spun slightly as he sat down, still eating cereal.

The kitchen sat just beyond the living room and looked significantly less organised. Dirty plates and bowls occupied one side of the counter. More electronics had somehow migrated into the room. Several cables snaked across the breakfast bar amongst chargers, batteries and various pieces of equipment you still couldn't identify.

Maggie surveyed the space with the expression of a woman who had seen all of this before. She deposited the grocery bags onto the only clear section of countertop she could find and crossed the room towards the curtains.

"Bug, you wouldn't need the sunlight lamps if you just opened the curtains and let the actual sunlight in."

"But my lamps don't contain UV radiation, and they don't cause a glare on my screens."

The curtains slid open, sunlight flooded the apartment, Bug looked personally offended by it. You bit back a smile. By now he had reached the bottom of the cereal bowl. He tipped it upwards and drank the remaining milk directly from the bowl before lowering it again. Maggie watched him.

"When was your last actual meal?"

"Cereal counts if there's vitamins in it," Bug mumbled around a mouthful.

"No, it doesn't."

"The box literally says, 'with added nutrients,' that counts."

"It doesn't."

Bug appeared unconvinced. He stood, carrying the empty bowl towards the kitchen just as you started unpacking the grocery bags you'd been carrying. His eyes landed briefly on the counter. Then on the groceries. Then on you. His expression brightened.

"You bought groceries. And an additional human. She's pretty, she looks like you, that's weird. I didn't mean you were pretty. Hang on. No, you are pretty, but not in like a weird way. It sounds weird when I say it like that."

Maggie didn't even look up.

"Bug, this is my granddaughter. I've told you about her."

"Grace's daughter," Bug said. "Statistically speaking motor accidents are actually way more survivable than people think if emergency response times are under nine minutes, but rural infrastructure screws the numbers because people hit trees at high speed and then there's no trauma centre nearby, which honestly feels like a design flaw. Like surely they should learn the statistics and then make more trauma centres."

His attention abruptly shifted to the groceries.

"Hang on. Did you buy me avocados?" He looked genuinely alarmed. "Maggie, I don't know how to cook an avocado."

"You're a smart boy," Maggie replied. "You'll figure it out."

Maggie tossed him the bag of gummy worms and Bug caught it against his chest.

“Blue raspberry, my favourite! You remembered,” Bug smiled. “You know, there is no such thing as a blue raspberry. But in the fifties, candy manufacturers were panicking because cherry, strawberry and watermelon had all like, monopolised the colour red. So, if they had made red raspberry then consumers got confused. So they used Blue FCF to make up a fictional fruit profile. And, yeah, we’re essentially eating a marketing strategy.”

“You are eating a marketing strategy,” Maggie corrected.

You were still trying to process the speed of the conversation when he set the cereal bowl down and finally focused properly on you.

"You're the one with the heart thing, right?"

Your stomach dipped slightly. Years of experience had made you familiar with what usually followed; the awkward sympathy, the uncomfortable questions. Occasionally somebody asking to see the scar. Instead Bug simply nodded to himself, it seemed his question was rhetorical.

"People who grow up with chronic medical conditions usually score higher in emotional perception studies." Bug continued. "Something about hyper-awareness. They get good at reading people because they spend so much time being monitored themselves."

That was not where you'd expected the conversation to go. At all. You opened your mouth to thank him, or question him or just, you know… respond. Unfortunately Bug's brain appeared to operate at a speed that made ordinary conversational turn-taking impossible.

"There's actually some research. Don't know. Some university. I can't remember." He waved vaguely with one hand. "Anyway, they did this research about post-traumatic resilience in children with long-term illnesses, and they develop stronger attachment patterns and have better emotional intuition."

Across the kitchen Maggie had started unpacking groceries or rather, half unpacking groceries and half conducting an audit of Bug's refrigerator. Expired food appeared one item at a time before disappearing into the trash.

"Bug," she warned. Clearly trying to save you from the speed of his impromptu lecture.

He stopped.

"Sorry, I talk a lot. That was all like science-speak for 'you seem nice.'"

"Um. Thanks?" You smiled.

"You're welcome. Oh, also, people who go through major medical stuff when they're young statistically develop higher distress tolerance, so you get like scary good at functioning even if you're scared or distressed. Which sounds bad but it's actually a good thing."

Maggie closed the refrigerator door. Several empty energy drink cans had somehow materialised in her hands, she held them up.

"These better not be from this morning."

Bug glanced at the cans, then at Maggie.

"If this is gonna be a lecture about sleep schedules and stuff, then I wanna point out Einstein literally hallucinated and everybody still let him invent math."

"No, Bug. It's a lecture about the sheer amount of artificial crap you consume."

Bug continued talking while you unpacked groceries. The subject changed three times in less than a minute. Energy drinks became caffeine metabolism, which somehow became sleep studies, which then became a lengthy argument for why society unfairly judged highly intelligent people for keeping terrible hours. By the end of it, you weren't entirely sure whether he was defending his lifestyle or conducting a Ted talk.

Maggie appeared to have stopped listening somewhere around the second sentence. She moved past him, placing a hand lightly against the middle of his back.

"Come on."

Bug continued talking as Maggie guided him gently out of the kitchen and back towards the living room.

You found yourself smiling as you watched them. The interaction had the oddly familiar feeling of something rehearsed, not because either of them were performing, but because they'd clearly done this dozens of times before. Bug barely seemed to notice he was being steered across the apartment. Maggie barely seemed to notice she was doing it.

The enormous desk dominated the room. As soon as Bug sat down, Maggie nudged the chair forwards slightly. Almost instantly his hands found the keyboard and mouse. It was strangely automatic, one moment he was talking, the next he was half turned towards the monitors, fingers already moving across keys. Maggie rested a hand on his shoulder. For the first time since you'd arrived, Bug stopped speaking. His head tilted back slightly.

"Scott Grady," Maggie said. "Private Investigator."

Bug nodded once, then reached into his pocket. You watched him pull out an old iPod, the sort you hadn't seen in years. He fitted the wired earbuds into place, pressed play and turned back towards the monitors. The transformation was remarkable. Within seconds windows were opening across multiple screens. Lines of information appeared and disappeared before you could properly register them. His fingers moved constantly, jumping between keyboard shortcuts and mouse clicks with a speed that made your eyes hurt just watching.

Maggie seemed entirely satisfied. She left him to it and returned to you. The kitchen gradually transformed around the two of you. Maggie loaded the dishwasher while you gathered empty cans, bowls and miscellaneous rubbish from every available surface. It felt strangely natural, as though you'd both silently agreed that the least you could do was clean his apartment while he worked.

Maggie found the dishwasher tablets without looking. She'd been here before, that much was obvious. But by the ease with which she moved around the space you suspected she’d been here a lot. Now that you noticed it, traces of Maggie seemed to exist throughout the apartment.

The sofa was the first thing that caught your attention. You recognised it. The same manufacturer had supplied furniture for one of the Grace Foundation housing projects several years earlier. Maggie had insisted on them despite complaints about the price. People deserved comfortable furniture, she'd said at the time.

The artwork was even more familiar. Several framed prints rested against one wall, carefully stacked beside a bookshelf. Cecily Brown. You recognised the artist because Maggie loved her work. There were several originals hanging throughout the Big House. Except here they weren't hanging. Their place on the wall had been taken by a huge whiteboard.

Your eyes drifted over a maze of arrows, diagrams, reminders and handwriting that seemed to move in six directions at once. Most of it made absolutely no sense. One small note had been squeezed into a corner. Trash on Wednesdays. The absurd normality of it made you smile.

The apartment felt like a collision between two entirely different people. One half belonged to a genius who apparently communicated exclusively through information dumps and energy drinks. The other half belonged to Maggie, in the quiet evidence of somebody making sure another person was looking after themselves.

"He's... talkative."

She laughed, warm and genuine as she filled the kettle.

"He does talk a lot. And fast. Luckily for me, his brain is just as fast." There was unmistakable fondness in Maggie's voice. She poured hot water into three mugs and glanced through the doorway towards the living room. "But he is nothing short of genius."

A few minutes later Maggie handed you a mug of tea. She kept the second mug for herself, balancing it alongside a glass of water and the other mug as she crossed the apartment towards Bug's desk. You watched her place the water and mug beside him first. Then, she reached into her pocket and produced several vitamins.

Bug didn't question it. Maggie placed them beside the glass, Bug reached over, tipped all of them into his mouth and swallowed them with a gulp of water before returning his attention to the monitors.

You stared at both of them, neither appeared to find this remotely strange. Bug removed his earbuds, draped them around his neck again and pressed pause on the iPod. Then he spun the chair around to face the two of you, one knee tucked beneath him in a way that would make a chiropractor wince.

"So," he said. "First, private investigators are basically legally sanctioned stalkers, and they are like, super sketchy, just by nature. But yeah. Scott Grady. Licensed in North Dakota since 2008. Divorced. Affair. Two DUIs but both pled down."

Maggie sipped her tea as Bug continued.

"He's got a strip mall office under Grady Investigations LLC, which is incredibly uninspired branding honestly. Like, dude, use your imagination. He hunts. With a crossbow. Which is serial killer behaviour if you ask me. Correction. Divorced twice. No children though. Both ex-wives are remarried. He lives alone. Small mortgage. Car payment overdue twice in six months. Middle-aged white man, financially unstable but tries to look successful. Majority of his business reviews are fake. All come from the same IP."

Your eyes drifted towards Maggie; she looked completely unsurprised by his efficiency and Bug just kept going.

"Mostly he works domestic cases. Cheating spouses, which is ironic because both of his divorces state extra-marital affairs as a reason for divorce. Handled a few custody disputes. No violent history. Well, no charges. No major debt except the occasional delay on the car payments. Possible gambling habit."

That finally got a reaction, one of Maggie's eyebrows lifted slightly. Bug immediately turned back towards the monitors. His fingers danced across the keyboard. Windows opened and disappeared faster than you could track them before a bank statement appeared on one of the screens. He pointed.

"Cash withdrawals around sports betting dates."

You stared. Bug had been working for what? Fifteen minutes? Maybe less. And somehow he had assembled an entire life. The sheer volume of information spread across the monitors felt impossible.

"This is insane," you said in awe.

Bug looked genuinely puzzled.

"Actually statistically speaking, gambling addictions are pretty common,” His attention shifted back towards the screen. "The insane part is that the guy has been using the same password for fifteen years. Also he reviews gas stations online. Very aggressively."

"Is that relevant?" Maggie sighed.

"Well maybe not. But it's weird."

Bug clicked through several more screens. Information continued appearing; addresses, photos, maps, business records.

"Office is above a pawn shop at a strip mall on Twenty-Sixth. Apartment is over by Hillside Baptist. Office lease renewed three months ago. Security cameras on the rear alley and two overlook the front parking lot. There's only one way in, side staircase. Pawn shop owner is twitchy with a shotgun but isn't a fan of sleazy Scott. There have been… seven complaints in the last year between them both. Two other lots on the strip are vacant. Then there's a laundromat and a record store," he frowned thoughtfully. "Which is crazy because no-one uses physical media anymore."

Maggie had long since stopped reacting to the tangents.

"Chances of me getting him when he's in the office without making a scheduled appointment?" She asked.

Bug's fingers returned to the keyboard, more windows appeared. Then one of the monitors filled with footage of a small strip mall.

"Well," Bug said, "he's there now."

He pointed towards a black vehicle parked outside the building.

"That's his Lexus."

"This is live?" You leaned forward slightly.

Bug glanced over his shoulder. His expression suggested you had asked whether water was wet.

"Yeah. Hacked the traffic cam at the stoplight opposite,” he said nonchalantly, then turned back to the screen. "He's in the office most days. Judging by the electricity bill and reports from the pawn shop owner, all the complaints are from daytime hours. Guess Scott isn't exactly booked up."

His fingers started moving again. More windows flickered across the monitors. Code. Emails. Schedules. Records. The pace made your head hurt. Eventually he stopped on an email inbox.

"He's got a delivery scheduled for Tuesday. One of those seven-am-to-seven-pm delivery windows, so likelihood is he'll be in all day. There's no delivery note to pass it off to one of the other stores."

Maggie considered that for a moment, then took another sip of tea.

"Are you busy on Tuesday?"

Maggie's question seemed to catch Bug completely off guard. He swivelled in his chair so quickly that one of the wheels squeaked across the floor.

"Me?" Bug pointed at himself.

Maggie nodded.

"Well, I don't exactly have a thriving social calendar. Unless you count arguing with strangers in coding forums, which I do because one of them was objectively wrong about encryption protocols on like several different levels. Hang on. Why?"

"I need you to come with me somewhere."

Bug stared. For a moment it genuinely looked as though she'd suggested relocating him to the moon.

"Like... outside?"

Maggie took another sip of tea.

"Generally that is where 'somewhere' tends to be, yes."

You hid your smile behind your mug. Bug, meanwhile, looked increasingly alarmed.

"But usually when you need me, you bring the problem to me. Which is ideal. Efficient. I like that. I have my stuff here. There is minimal sunlight. Less... people." Still looking at Maggie, he pointed towards one of the monitors. "You want me to go there. To meet this... Scott? I don't... I mean I can interact with people, obviously. I'm doing it right now."

His eyes flicked briefly towards you.

"I don't know you, but like, you seem good." Then he looked back at Maggie. "This guy does not seem good."

"You don't have to talk to him. I need your brilliant brain. I'll do the talking. I'll bring my security guy. You won't even have to take your headphones out. Scott Grady will have computers that I need access to," Maggie continued. "And you are my man for that, Bug."

The effect was immediate; you could practically see the panic leaving and the interest arriving. Bug turned back towards the monitors, his fingers started tapping absently against the desk.

"It's actually super common that private investigators are technologically seventy-three years old. So he's probably running Windows like... nine. On something that sounds like a lawnmower. But he'll absolutely have backups. Guys like that always keep backups because they're paranoid... and divorced. I don't know why those things link, but they do."

Maggie simply waited as Bug continued his train of endless thoughts.

"But he'll have external hard drives somewhere. Maybe cloud sync if he pretends to understand technology. Although judging by his password management, unlikely. Oh word, if he still uses local storage, I can test my new extraction program. It's like... mostly legal. I swear."

"Mostly?" Maggie queried.

"Mostly. But if he's got mirrored drives and no proper encryption, I could probably clone the whole system in under four minutes. Six if he's one of those weird old men who labels folders things like 'Taxes Final FINAL 2'."

You laughed, Bug looked delighted somebody appreciated the joke.

"And honestly I've been needing a real-world test environment because simulations are boring and my last sandbox accidentally melted my graphics card."

"That explains the credit card charge," Maggie smiled into the rim of her mug.

"Shit." Bug winced, then immediately corrected himself. "Sorry. But in fairness it needed an upgrade and now it's super powerful. Swear I spent like four hours modding it."

"So you'll come?" Maggie asked, trying to shift to the original point.

"Oh yeah," Bug shrugged. "Tuesday's cool."

Just like that, after five minutes of resistance and approximately three hundred words of objections, he agreed with complete indifference. You suspected this happened to Maggie often. Bug turned back towards the monitors and began closing windows. One by one, the endless collection of bank records, emails, maps and camera feeds disappeared. The investigation apparently complete, he picked up his mug and swivelled around again. Then took a large sip, the reaction was instant; his entire face scrunched up.

"Ugh." He stared into the mug. "Is this made with grass?"

"It's herbal,” Maggie said amused. "Good for you."

"Tastes like grass. You know in the 19th century, apothecaries used to mix herbal tea with mumia, which is actual, pulverised Egyptian mummies. So, I guess tasting like grass is significantly better than tasting like Tutankhamun."

"I'll pick you up at ten on Tuesday," Maggie said. "I need you on top form, so eat, sleep, shower."

Bug immediately looked offended.

"I shower; it’s actually a really cruel stereotype that people who like computers and gaming don't shower. We still respect personal hygiene."

"I know you shower, Bug." Maggie's smile widened. "I just mean look after yourself. Don't sit on your game all night."

Bug considered this, then drew a tiny cross over his heart with one finger.

"Promise. I will only play in sociable hours."

Maggie eventually took your mug and carried it with hers through to the kitchen, leaving you standing beside Bug's desk while he continued examining the tea with visible suspicion. The apartment felt quieter than when you'd arrived, though that was mostly because Bug wasn't currently explaining something. Somewhere beneath the desk, a computer hummed steadily. The sunlight Maggie had forced into the apartment stretched across the floorboards, cutting through the warm yellow glow of the light bars.

"It was nice to meet you, Bug."

"Oh yeah, you too. Kind of makes sense seeing you. She talks about you kinda different. Like you're the moon."

"The moon?" You stared at him.

"Yeah. Like constant. You know people navigate by the moon? Like that. Did I do it again? Was that weird? Sorry. I like space stuff. It was meant as a good thing. She talks about you a lot."

Before you could think of a response, Maggie returned. She moved naturally into your space, her hand settling briefly against the small of your back as she stopped beside you.

"You ready?"

You nodded and Maggie looked towards Bug.

"Tuesday. Don't forget. Write it on your board or something."

He was already moving. The chair rolled backwards across the floor as he jumped to his feet and crossed the room in three quick strides. The whiteboard occupied almost the entire section of wall where the artwork should have been. Bug uncapped a marker and scribbled quickly. Tuesday 10am Maggie. Then he underlined it twice. Apparently satisfied, he dropped the pen and followed you towards the door. You and Maggie had almost reached the foyer when Bug spoke again.

"Hey, Maggie?"

"Yeah?" Maggie turned back.

For the first time since you'd met him, he seemed slightly hesitant, not nervous exactly. Just uncertain.

"My left monitor's dying. There's this little blue line through the bottom quarter and sometimes it makes this noise like a microwave, I can work around it, I guess. I don't have to… It's just annoying. And it's giving me a headache when I look at it. And I saw this OLED one online with better refresh rates and colour accuracy and--" He stopped himself abruptly. "You know what, never mind. It's fine. It's like a tiny blue line."

Maggie looked entirely unimpressed by the attempt to backtrack.

"Bug, you don't have to ask me. Just get what you need."

"It's kinda expensive though."

"You use it every day," her answer came without hesitation. "And I don't need you developing some sort of eye condition because you're staring at a broken screen. Just buy the monitor."

Relief flashed briefly across Bug's face, Maggie reached for the door, then turned back again.

"And while you're at it, can you please replace that kettle? That handle is so wobbly you're going to end up with third-degree burns when it breaks."

"Kettle." Bug nodded seriously. "Got it. Thanks, Maggie."

"No problem," Maggie pulled the door open. "And Bug, if you close those curtains when I leave, I will have them removed."

A look of horror that crossed his face.

"That feels unconstitutional. UV radiation is literally poison. Everybody talks about the sun like it's this magical life source and not a giant nuclear death orb. Like yeah, vitamin D, sure. But skin cancer rates should humble humanity significantly more than they currently do."

"Um, actually,” you interrupted. Both of them looked at you. "Those windows are UV protected. They filter out 98% of UV. I put in the order myself when Ford built this place.”

Beside you, Maggie grinned as she pulled the apartment door closed behind her.

The drive out of Mallard Heights passed in comfortable silence. You sat watching Dickinson slide by beyond the passenger window, but your thoughts remained firmly back in apartment 316.

Even now you weren't entirely sure what you'd expected when Maggie said she had a contact who could help. Certainly not him. Not the mismatched socks. Not the cereal. Not the ancient iPod and wired headphones. Not the way he seemed capable of pulling apart a stranger's entire life in the time it took most people to answer an email.

The thing that lingered wasn't Bug's intelligence, though that had certainly been memorable. It wasn't the six monitors. It was Maggie. The version of Maggie you'd just spent an hour watching.

She'd listened to every tangent with the same attention she gave everybody else. She'd let him finish. She'd answered the question hidden underneath whatever detour his brain had taken to get there. You pulled your legs up onto the seat and turned towards her,.

"When you said you had a contact, that was not who I was imagining."

"No?"

"No." You smiled. "Not even slightly."

"Bug is somewhat... unconventional."

"I think that's the politest description of him possible," you laughed

"I'm sure you were expecting somebody more like Junior."

You thought about it. She was right. You had been expecting somebody older. Somebody established. The sort of person who looked important. The kind of contact Maggie usually referenced when she was trying to solve a problem.

Instead you'd been introduced to a twenty-something who lived surrounded by technology, drank tea he hated because Maggie told him it was good for him and appeared capable of hacking half the state before breakfast. Somehow it felt more like Maggie than the alternative would have.

"How did you even meet him? Is his name actually Bug?"

"No,” Maggie smiled. "He has a government name. But Bug is what he chose. So, Bug is what I call him. We met at the outreach centre.”

"The Grace Foundation outreach centre?"

The Outreach Centre was one of those places that had become so woven into the fabric of Dickinson that people rarely stopped to think about it anymore. The building had been there for years, one of the earliest Grace Foundation projects, created long before the organisation grew into what it was today. If somebody needed help and didn't know where to start, the Outreach Centre was usually the answer.

People walked through those doors carrying all sorts of problems. Some needed help applying for benefits. Some needed legal advice. Some needed medical care they couldn't afford. Others simply needed somebody willing to sit down beside them and help untangle whatever mess life had dropped in their lap. The entire purpose of the building was contained in one very simple rule: nobody got turned away. You'd heard Maggie say it countless times over the years. The specifics might change, the programmes might grow, the services might expand but that rule never did.

"Was a few years ago now. Four years, I think." Maggie continued. "I had gone over there because we were having a problem with the computer system. Nothing major, just enough that it was driving everybody insane. Bug had come into medical because he'd cut his arm and needed stitches. One of the nurses was complaining about the computers while she was patching him up and apparently he overheard and he fixed it. Took him no time at all.”

You smiled, that sounded about right. After watching him dismantle a private investigator's life before finishing a cup of tea, it was difficult to imagine a Foundation computer system posing much of a challenge.

"Afterwards I asked what he charged, for fixing it and he said he would take thirteen bucks."

"Thirteen?" You repeated, unsure you heard her correctly.

Maggie nodded.

"Turns out there’s this place on Ninthdoes all-you-can eat pancakes for $10.99, and the other $2 were for an energy drink. He drank the energy drink before the pancakes even arrived.” Maggie shook her head fondly. "He'd run from his last foster placement. Had nowhere permanent to stay. No real plan beyond whatever came next."

There was no drama in the way she said it. No attempt to make the story sadder than it already was. Maggie rarely spoke like that. She stated facts and trusted people to understand the weight of them on their own.

"So I got him an apartment," she delivered the sentence with exactly the same matter-of-fact certainty. "For the first two years he was on Cartwell. I signed him up for online school so he could finish. Then when Ford finished Mallard Heights, I bought the apartment in Bug's name and moved him there. He's worked for me ever since. Information gathering mostly. Software development. Apps. He built a game at one point. He's brilliant."

You smiled. Not because of the apartment or even because of the story. Because of the way she'd said it. Maggie loved people in a way that often went unnoticed by anyone who wasn't paying attention. She wasn't often verbal about it. Instead she showed it, it leaked out of her every pore.

"Do you always buy his groceries?"

A small smile appeared on her face at the question.

"Bug forgets he's a person sometimes. If he gets into something he can lose three days without noticing. I like to make sure he has what he needs and that he isn't fuelled entirely by candy-coloured energy drinks and artificial flavourings. He has money. More than enough, actually. I pay him for his work. He's sold software, apps, licensing rights," Maggie’s expression softened slightly. "But children who grow up without anything sometimes struggle with the idea that things belong to them."

You thought about the monitor and the way he'd asked and then quickly tried to take the request back.

"He gets overwhelmed," Maggie continued. "So I do what I can to make it easier."

The Yukon continued steadily along the road. You watched another row of storefronts pass by.

"I'm taking it he didn't approve of your interior design?" You smiled.

That finally earned a laugh from Maggie, and she looked at you with a warmth in her eyes that you’d been missing these last few days.

"I tried to take him shopping for the first apartment. He told me he didn't need a bed because he already had a couch. So I furnished the second apartment myself and told him it came like that. Obviously, he’s since added his own… twist."

"You mean the control centre in the living room?" You laughed.

"I'm just glad he doesn't work from a laptop in bed," she quipped back.

The quiet settled comfortably after that. Maggie drove and you watched the road ahead. But one thing wouldn’t leave your mind.

"Why him?"

The question slipped out before you could overthink it. Maggie glanced over.

"What do you mean?"

"Well... I'm sure there were dozens of people at the outreach centre who needed help that day. And even if it was just him, you could have sent him to one of the secure living projects. So why didn't you?"

Maggie didn't answer straight away. For a while there was only the sound of tyres against asphalt and the steady hum of the engine. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than before.

"He's spent his whole life preparing for things to run out. Food. Money. Places to stay. People. I guess I wanted to make sure he never had to feel like that again."

The answer sat in the space between you. Simple. Honest. Maggie.

"People underestimate him. They look at the way he talks. The way he moves. The fact he can't hold eye contact for more than thirty seconds. And they decide what he must be before they've actually gotten to know him. Most of his life he's been made to feel like he's too strange. Too loud. Too difficult. Like brilliance only counts if it arrives packaged correctly."

Maggie tapped the steering wheel. Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Bug spent years being told there was something wrong with him. There isn't. He sees patterns other people miss. He remembers everything. He teaches himself things most people couldn't begin to understand. The world looked at that boy and decided he was broken because he didn't perform like everyone else. I don't need Bug to become somebody else. He's stronger than he looks."

You couldn't help but smile. Maggie glanced over at you, a smile of her own working at the corners of her mouth.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. Just... you said that about me."

"I meant it then too."

・❥・

The house had settled into that strange late-night quiet that only ever existed after everybody else had gone to bed. There was no such thing as silence in the Big House. But compared to its usual state, it felt almost peaceful.

You had come to the kitchen for a bottle of water before bed and were halfway through opening the refrigerator when Maggie appeared.

The sight of her made you pause. Maggie had always possessed an almost supernatural ability to appear composed. It didn't matter what she was doing, Maggie always looked as though she had slept eight hours, exercised, moisturised and solved three problems before breakfast.

For the first time in years, she looked tired. Not tired in the casual way people complained about being tired. Properly exhausted.

It had been nearly a week since she'd locked Noah in that bathroom. Nearly a week of sleeping in his room. Nearly a week of listening to him vomit, sweat through sheets, beg, cry, rage and suffer. Everybody had offered to help, but Maggie had treated Noah's withdrawal the same way she treated every other crisis. She had planted herself in the middle of it and refused to move.

Even now she was wearing one of her expensive silk pyjama sets, cream coloured and immaculate despite the circumstances, but the shadows beneath her eyes told a different story.

"How is he?" you asked.

"Ate something without throwing it up." Maggie said crossing towards the island.

"Well, that's something."

"Yeah," Maggie agreed. "It is. Just came for my laptop. I had a look at those zoning permits."

Of course she had. The thing about Maggie was that she genuinely seemed incapable of sitting still. Most people would have spent the last week focused entirely on Noah. Maggie had apparently found enough spare time between monitoring withdrawal symptoms and changing sweat-soaked bedding to review municipal planning documents.

"Land to the left is under an agricultural permit," she said. "No idea why because it's dust. But the land to the right and behind is all public land. Open zoning. So we can definitely expand out those ways."

Immediately your brain switched tracks, the excitement of the garage refurbishment taking over once more.

"Amazing. So what do you think? Right side? Then we can have a separate turning off the main road?"

"Land's up cheap, so I've spoken to the accountant. He agrees it's worth buying both. Left the offers with him. Should have it signed by Monday."

You just stared at her. Money had never really been a commodity in the Heaton family. Not in the way it was for most people. You had grown up understanding that there was always enough. Bills were paid. Emergencies were handled. If something broke, it got fixed. If somebody needed help, it was provided.

But that didn't mean you were blind to it. You knew what money was worth. You knew most people didn't casually acquire neighbouring parcels of land because they might be useful in the future. Most people couldn't afford to make mistakes on that scale.

Maggie could.

Sometimes you thought the rest of the family had become slightly desensitised to it. Brooks and Ford certainly had. They discussed six-figure sums with the same energy other people discussed weather forecasts. But you never quite had.

Maybe because Maggie had trusted this project to you, the nerves were more fraught. The redevelopment was already costing a fortune. Every contractor seemed to uncover another expense. And now Maggie was buying more land.

Believing in it enough to invest even more.

Believing in you enough to invest even more.

The thought settled heavily in your chest. What if she was wrong? What if all this confidence she had in you was misplaced? What if the project failed? What if you failed?

"What if I fuck this all up?"

The question slipped out quietly enough that you hadn't really intended for her to hear it. But Maggie heard everything.

"Baby, you won't fuck it up. You are amazing at this. You've been doing it for years for the foundation. This is just slightly..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Gruffer territory. And even if it doesn't work out, that's fine too. Do you know how many times I fuck it up?"

A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. You folded your arms and leaned on the counter.

"Hardly ever," you said.

"Maybe not so much anymore," she admitted. "But I did. Your Granddaddy once had to call a ranch over in Montana and tell them I'd died because I had taken it upon myself to purchase thirty-five heifers without telling him. I'd decided it was a good idea to get into ranching. Me? A rancher? Can you imagine?”

You looked her up and down; silk pyjamas, manicured nails. The woman who thought camping counted as an episode of Survivor. You couldn't, not even slightly. Apparently neither could Grandad Wayne.

"Wayne had to call the breeders and tell them, 'I'm real sorry, but my wife's dead and I can't take them heifers no more.'"

You burst out laughing, the sound filled the kitchen. For a moment Maggie laughed too, and the exhaustion didn't disappear exactly, but it softened around the edges.

Maggie didn't talk about your Grandaddy very often. Neither did Ford or Brooks. It wasn't some family taboo. Nobody went quiet when his name came up. Nobody changed the subject. It was simply that Wayne had been gone for more than twenty years now. Ford and Brooks had both spent more of their lives without their father than with him, and somewhere along the way Maggie had become enough parent for all of them. You sometimes wondered whether that was why his absence didn't feel like an absence at all.

The Big House was full of Maggie. Her habits. Her routines. Her rules. Her fingerprints were on every aspect of the family. Even the things that had originally belonged to Wayne had eventually become absorbed into Maggie's orbit. When people spoke about the Heatons, they spoke about Maggie, not Wayne.

Yet when she did mention him, it was never sad. That was what always struck you. There was no grief attached to the stories. It was always fondness, always affection. Usually accompanied by the sort of exasperated amusement reserved for people who had spent decades learning each other's faults.

You had heard some stories, little anecdotes you held onto. Wayne teaching Ford how to drive and ending up in a ditch. Wayne accidentally setting fire to a barbecue. Wayne spending an entire summer convinced he could build a fishing boat despite having absolutely no experience building boats. And now apparently Wayne had once faked his wife's death to stop her buying thirty-five cows.

You were still smiling when Maggie stepped forward. Her hand settled briefly against your cheek before she tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. Then she pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

"It's going to be fine, Baby. I trust you. Cal trusts you. You just need to trust yourself."

You offered her a small smile, and she pat your cheek fondly and made to head back to the front door. Back to the Cabin. Back to another restless night spent listening to Noah through a locked door. You watched her walk away and just before she made it to the living room, you added.

"Maggie, tell Noah I love him."

She turned back with a tired smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

"Been telling him every day, Baby."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

"Goodnight, beautiful girl," she said.

"Night, Maggie."

Then she disappeared. You stood there for another moment before turning towards your room.

In the quiet of your bedroom, you found yourself thinking about Wayne. About thirty-five unwanted heifers. Just little moments. Mistakes. Misadventures. Things that had probably been irritating at the time and hilarious twenty years later.

Maybe that was what happened when you loved somebody long enough. The sharp edges wore away. The frustrations became stories. The disasters became family legends.

Without meaning to, your thoughts drifted to Gator. You pictured yourselves thirty years from now. Old and grey and telling your grandchild one of the dozens of ridiculous moments that seemed insignificant now but might become stories later. Stories that would survive long after the details stopped mattering. Stories you could laugh about.

The thought settled warmly in your chest. Because for most of your life, the future had always felt slightly uncertain. Not frightening exactly, just difficult to picture. Doctors appointments and surgeries had a way of teaching you not to look too far ahead. Yet lately you found yourself doing it more and more.

Thinking about next year. Five years. Twenty.

Thinking about Gator being there for all of it.

Maybe that was the real gift hidden inside Maggie's story. Not the reminder that people made mistakes. The reminder that sometimes you got lucky enough to have somebody beside you long enough to laugh about them afterwards.

The room was dark except for the soft glow of the lamp beside your bed. You closed the door behind you and crossed the room slowly, setting the bottle of water down on the bedside table before climbing beneath the covers.

Then you reached for your phone. Gator was working tonight. You knew roughly where he'd be. Somewhere out in the county. Sitting in his patrol car. Drinking terrible gas station coffee. Pretending he wasn't tired while keeping half an eye on whichever stretch of road he'd been assigned to watch. The thought made you smile; you opened your messages and typed out a quick goodnight. The reply arrived almost immediately, like he'd been waiting for it.

Gator: Goodnight, Baby ❤️

You stared at the message with a smile for a second longer before locking your phone. Then you plugged it into charge and set it back onto the bedside table. The room fell quiet again and before long, sleep found you.

But sleep didn’t last long. One moment you were buried beneath warm blankets, the room dark and quiet around you. The next, your phone was vibrating loudly against the bedside table and dragging you unwillingly back into consciousness. You groaned and reached for it without opening your eyes properly.

The screen blurred in the darkness. You squinted at it for a moment before the letters finally resolved themselves into something readable.

Logan.

That woke you up instantly. Logan never called, certainly not in the middle of the night. A knot of unease tightened in your stomach as you swiped to answer and lifted the phone to your ear.

"Logan?"

The response didn’t come, at first all you could hear was wind. Strong enough that it crackled through the speaker. Then came a sharp sniff, then another and finally, Logan’s voice.

"I'm such a fucking asshole. I just ruin everything."

You frowned. His words were slurred together, thick with alcohol. Somewhere behind him the wind continued to howl, carrying with it the hollow sound of open space. Outside. Definitely outside. You pushed yourself upright in bed.

"Logan, where are you?"

But Logan carried on as though you hadn't spoken.

"I keep thinking, if I just…fuck… I shoulda seen it. He’s my baby brother. He’s off his head all the time and I don’t even notice?!”

The words cracked apart midway through the sentence. For a second you closed your eyes. Noah. Of course it was about Noah.

The whole family had been carrying it differently. Brooks had become quieter. Ford had thrown himself even harder into work. Maggie had practically moved into Noah's room. Even Gator seemed more subdued than usual whenever the subject came up. Logan, apparently, had decided to get drunk and emotionally implode.

You reached over and switched on the lamp beside your bed. Warm light flooded the room as you swung your legs over the side of the mattress.

"Hey. Hey, okay. Where are you?"

Again, Logan ignored the question or maybe he simply couldn't hold onto one thought long enough to answer it. His breathing came hard and uneven through the phone.

"I’m the one’s supposed to look after him. I just thought he was weird, lazy, tired…shit… I dunno, Baby. I dunno. He’s my baby brother. Why didn’t I know?”

His voice cracked completely and the sound that followed was unmistakable. Logan was crying. Not the quiet sort either. The kind of crying that happened when somebody had spent hours holding something down and finally ran out of energy to keep doing it. You pulled open a drawer and started searching for clothes.

"Logan, It’s ok, we know now, he’s here, he’s safe.”

You balanced awkwardly as you stepped into a pair of jeans, keeping the phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. Your heart ached for him. Because beneath all the drinking and self-hatred was something painfully simple. Logan loved Noah.

"Logan," you said gently. "Please tell me where you are. I'll come get you. It's gonna be okay."

He sniffed hard. For a second you thought he might finally answer but instead he carried on talking.

"Dad used to bring us fishing out here and I used to be such a fucking asshole. Wouldn’t let Noah use my shit, would mess with all his bait. And he just took it, like he’d never fight back. I should have been teaching him, helping him and instead I was being an asshole.”

The guilt in his voice was almost unbearable. You grabbed a sweatshirt from the back of a chair and pulled it over your head. You took a deep breath. There was no point trying to argue with him right now. Drunk people seldom listened and guilty drunk people listened even less. You just needed to find him.

"Where, Logan? Where did you used to fish?"

For a moment there was only wind. Then:

"We used to walk along the stupid rocks. Balancing on the stones and I'd always push him in."

You froze. The image appeared instantly. Not because Logan had described it particularly well, but because you knew exactly where he was talking about. The stepping stones. A cluster of broad flat rocks near the bend in the Heart River where the current slowed enough for you to climb across.

And suddenly the wind made sense too. The open riverbank, the exposed bend. The fact that Logan was currently very drunk and sitting beside moving water in the middle of the night.

Your stomach dropped but you knew exactly where he was. You couldn’t fix whatever Logan was feeling tonight, but you could make sure he got home safely. Pulling the phone away from your ear for a moment, you switched him onto speaker.

"I should've known," he was saying. "I live with him, Baby."

Your thumbs moved quickly across the screen, texting Gator as you head through the house, grabbing your keys from the bowl at the front door and jogging across the yard to the Bronco.

                You: 911 Logan @ Heart River Bridge. Meet u there.

There was no point waiting for a reply. If Gator saw that message, he'd come. It was as simple as that. You turned the key in the ignition and Logan’s voice broke out over the car speakers.

"I can hear him from my room. I can hear him through the wall."

“Logan, I’m coming to get you, okay?”

You pulled the car out of the yard and sped off down the county road while Logan continued to cry out of the speakers.

"I can hear him crying. Chucking his guts up."

"Can you just take a deep breath for me and don't do anything stupid?"

For a second all you could hear was wind, you panicked, pressing your foot down harder on the accelerator.

“Logan, just keep talking to me, yeah? Tell me about fishing. I’m shit at fishing. You guys never let me come; I was so jealous.”

The drive to Heart River Bridge normally took twenty minutes. Fifteen if you were in a hurry. You made it in thirteen.

The entire journey passed in a blur of headlights and dark roads. Your hands gripped the steering wheel while you tried to keep Logan on the line. Logan never really stopped talking. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he apologised. Sometimes he drifted into stories from years ago as though they were happening right now. You let him. The important thing was that he stayed on the phone.

Twice you saw Gator's name flash across your screen. Then a third time. You ignored every call; there would be time to explain later but right now you couldn't risk losing Logan.

By the time you turned onto the bridge road your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. The narrow stretch of asphalt appeared ahead of you and your headlights swept across the old stone bridge. Then they caught a figure. Relief hit so suddenly it almost made you dizzy.

Logan.

He was pacing back and forth beside the stone wall, hands dragging repeatedly through his hair. Even from a distance you could tell he was drunk. Unsteady. Agitated. But he wasn't on the edge, and he wasn't in the water. He was alive and that was enough.

You didn't even bother turning the engine off. The Bronco rolled to a stop, the parking brake went on, and you were out of the driver's seat before the vehicle had finished settling.

"Logan!"

His head snapped up and then the phone slipped from his hand. It hit the asphalt with a sharp crack but neither of you even glanced at it. You were already running towards each other. The collision almost knocked the breath from your lungs. Logan folded into you so hard it felt less like a hug and more like somebody desperately grabbing hold of a lifeline.

“Hey, I got you.”

That was all it took, the little bit of control he'd been clinging to shattered and his entire body shook. The sort of crying that came from somewhere deep inside a person. You could feel it in the way he held onto you, the way his hands gripped the back of your shirt, the way he bent down to bury his face against your shoulder.

The wind tore across the bridge around you, tugging at your sweatshirt and whipping strands of hair across your face. Somewhere beneath the bridge, water rushed through the darkness. Behind you, the Bronco's engine continued to idle steadily. But everything else faded into the background, all that mattered was Logan.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”

You tightened your grip on him, your hand moving up to his hair.

“No, we’re not apologising. I’m glad you called me. I’m here.”

It was true. Terrifying as the phone call had been, you would take this over silence every single time. You would rather have Logan drunk and sobbing on a bridge than sitting somewhere alone with these thoughts.

“I should’ve known,” his voice was a broken sob.

You closed your eyes, trying not to cry yourself.

“He’s my brother.”

“I know.”

“I shoulda fucking known, Baby.”

You kept your arms around him as he cried. He was bent awkwardly to reach your height, most of his weight leaning into you. Under normal circumstances you would've complained. Told him he was crushing you. Tonight you just held on tighter.

You tipped your head back towards the night sky. An old habit, as though looking upwards might somehow stop tears from falling. A wash of red and blue suddenly spilled across the darkness, the flashing lights painted the stone walls of the bridge in alternating colours.

A car door slammed. When you looked over your shoulder, Gator was standing beside his patrol vehicle. For a moment he didn't move. His gaze flicked between the abandoned phone lying in the road, you, and finally Logan himself.

Embarrassment flooded Logan’s face so quickly it was almost painful to watch. One second he had been crying into your shoulder, the next he was aware of who was standing there. His best friend. The guy he'd spent years drinking with, hunting with, getting into trouble with. The guy who probably hadn't seen him cry since they were teenagers. He scrubbed aggressively at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and cleared his throat, trying desperately to pull himself back together.

Gator had seen Logan drunk more times than he could count. He'd seen him angry. Seen him get into fights. Seen him laugh so hard he threw up behind a bar. Seen him break his arm trying to jump a dirt bike over a drainage ditch because he'd been convinced it was "definitely makeable." But he had never seen him like this.

Logan looked wrecked. His eyes were swollen and red. His face blotchy from crying. His whole body seemed to be sagging beneath the weight of something too heavy for him to carry. Without saying anything, Gator reached out and grabbed the back of Logan's neck. Then he pulled him into a hug.

Logan folded again. Whatever composure he'd managed to scrape together the second he'd spotted Gator disappeared again. Gator felt him shake. Felt the breath catch in his chest. Felt the first broken sob before he heard it. And God, that hurt.

Because Logan wasn't a crier. Logan got angry when he was hurt. Got loud when he was scared. Got reckless when he didn't know what to do with himself. Seeing him cry felt wrong. Yet here he was, crying into Gator's shoulder while the river rushed beneath the bridge and the patrol lights painted everything blue then red then blue again.

Gator tightened his grip slightly, just enough to say he was there. He understood. Hell, he'd been carrying his own version of the same guilt all week. Noah wasn't just Logan's brother. He was Gator's too. And now every conversation from the last year suddenly felt suspicious in hindsight. The human brain was cruel like that. It convinced you that all the signs had been obvious after somebody pointed them out.

Still holding Logan, Gator turned his head slightly. His eyes found you standing a few feet away, checking on you had become instinct a long time ago. Relief settled through him, sure you looked frightened, worried. But you weren't crying and you weren’t clutching your chest or struggling for breath. Thank God. He wasn't sure he could've handled that tonight, nor could you.

Logan shifted against him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Gator rubbed a hand across the back of Logan’s neck. The apology wasn't really for him. He knew that. Logan was apologising to Noah. To Brooks. To himself. To anybody who might listen.

"Ain't gotta apologise."

"Yeah, I do." Another shaky breath. "I fucked everything up."

Slowly, Gator pulled back enough to get a proper look at him. His hands stayed on Logan's shoulders, holding him at arm's length. Looking directly at him. At the man who'd been his best friend for most of his life.

"Yeah?" Gator asked.

Logan sniffed, took a shaky breath, before his eyes settled on Gator’s. And Gator thought about Maggie sleeping in Noah's room every night. About you racing across half the county because Logan had sounded upset on the phone. Nobody in this family knew how to quit on each other. Things could be broken. People could screw up. Lives could become complicated and messy and painful. But the Heatons never seemed to believe any of that meant you stopped trying.

“Then we fix it,” Gator said.

You watched Logan swallow and give a small nod. Gator squeezed the back of his neck reassuringly before steering him gently towards you and the waiting cars.

"C'mon," Gator said. "Let's get ya home."

You followed behind them, the wind tugging at your hair as you crossed the bridge. The adrenaline was finally beginning to ebb now that Logan was safe and with every step you became a little more aware of the cold.

Logan moved without argument. That worried you almost as much as the phone call. Ordinarily, Logan would've complained. He would've made a joke. He would've told Gator to quit acting like his dad. Instead he simply let himself be guided towards the Bronco, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The passenger door opened and Gator helped him inside. And Logan let him. You weren't sure you'd ever seen that happen before.

For all their years of friendship, most of Logan and Gator's affection was usually hidden beneath insults, shoulder checks and arguments about absolutely nothing. They were the sort of men who would drive three hours at two in the morning to help each other bury a body and then spend the entire journey calling one another idiots.

Yet here was Logan allowing himself to be looked after without protest. The sight made your chest ache. Gator shut the passenger door and immediately turned towards you. You barely had time to register it before he was pulling you against him. You rested your forehead briefly against his chest.

"Thank you for coming."

You felt him press a kiss into your hair.

"Always. I'll always come." When he pulled back, his hand lingered against your cheek. "Y’good t’drive him? I'll follow."

You glanced towards the Bronco where Logan was now slumped against the passenger window looking utterly defeated.

"I'm fine." You nodded.

Gator gave you a look. Not because he thought you were lying exactly. More because he knew you. He knew "I'm fine" could mean anything from genuinely fine to actively dying and refusing to inconvenience anybody. One hand settled against your jaw, gently turning your face back towards him.

"M'only gonna ask once," he said quietly. "Cause I know y'hate the fuss. But I need t'know you're okay."

His gaze searched your face for a moment before dropping lower. The movement was so familiar it almost made you laugh. Without thinking, his hand drifted towards your chest, fingertips brushing lightly over the fabric of your sweatshirt where the scar sat hidden beneath it.

"S'not tryna jump out yer chest?"

The concern in his voice was genuine enough that your smile softened. You reached for his wrist and guided his hand flat against your sternum. Let him feel it for himself, the steady rhythm beneath your ribs.

"I'm okay." You looked up at him. "I think my brain was too busy trying to get to Logan to bother telling my heart anything was wrong. I can drive him back."

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. For a moment he studied you, making absolutely certain you meant it. Then he leaned down and kissed you. When he finally stepped away, he walked you to the driver's door and pulled it open before you could reach for it yourself.

"I'll be behind ya."

The drive back to the ranch passed in near silence. Logan had exhausted himself. Whether it was the alcohol, the crying or simply the relief of not being alone anymore, you weren't entirely sure. Whatever the reason, he spent most of the journey slumped against the passenger window staring out into the darkness. Every now and then a sniff broke the quiet. Once or twice he scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Otherwise he said nothing.

The road unwound beneath your headlights while the county slept around you. Empty fields. Dark tree lines. The occasional distant porch light glowing against the horizon. The radio remained switched off. Neither of you seemed capable of pretending normal conversation existed. Instead, your attention kept drifting towards the rear-view mirror.

And every time the same pair of headlights remained there. You wondered if Gator even realised how reassuring that was.

Probably not.

By the time the ranch finally appeared ahead of you, exhaustion had settled into your bones. The adrenaline that had launched you out of bed and halfway across the county had finally burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but tiredness. Your shoulders ached. Your eyes felt gritty. Even your thoughts seemed slower now. The familiar gravel road appeared in your headlights, and you turned onto it.

Beside you, Logan barely reacted. The Big House emerged from the darkness a few moments later, warm light spilling from the porch. Behind you, Gator's headlights swept across the yard as his cruiser followed you in.

By the time you climbed out of the Bronco, Gator was already halfway across the gravel yard. You reached the passenger side and pulled Logan's door open.

Logan unfolded himself from the seat with considerably less grace than he'd entered it. He wasn't crying anymore, but he looked exhausted in a way that seemed to go beyond alcohol. He swayed slightly the moment both feet hit the ground. Before you could reach for him, Gator was already there. One arm slid around Logan's waist, steadying him.

You fell into step beside them as they crossed the yard. Your hand remained lightly against the back of Logan's hoodie, partly guiding him, partly reassuring yourself that he was actually here. You pointed Gator towards the side door attached to your bedroom.

Inside, your room was dark and warm compared to the night outside. You crossed to the bed and pushed back the covers on your side while Gator guided Logan towards the mattress. Logan sat heavily, then promptly looked as though he might simply fall sideways and remain there forever.

You crouched in front of him and began untying his shoes. He didn't even seem particularly aware of what you were doing. Behind you, Gator disappeared towards the kitchen for some water. You straightened and helped Logan tug his hoodie over his head, his hair emerged sticking up in every direction. Under different circumstances you would've laughed, tonight you simply tossed the hoodie onto a chair and helped him lift his legs onto the mattress.

The second his head touched the pillow; he curled onto his side. It reminded you of Nicky or Rhodes when they got ill. Something about misery seemed to reduce everybody back to the same vulnerable shape. You pulled the covers over him, tucked them beneath his shoulder, then brushed his hair gently back from his forehead. Logan looked up at you through red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry, Baby.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe.” Your fingers lingered briefly against his temple. “I love you, Logan.”

“I love you too,” his voice soft.

Gator returned carrying a water bottle, he placed it on the bedside table without comment then crossed the room and began to strip off parts of his uniform. You walked over while he was halfway through the process.

"Thought you were on shift?"

"Called in on m'way here. M'done f'the night. This is more important."

The simplicity of it hit you somewhere deep in your chest. You leaned up and kissed him gently. By the time you climbed onto the bed, Logan already appeared half asleep. You settled yourself on top of the covers beside him. Close enough that he wouldn't wake up alone.

Logan remained curled on his side facing away from you and you instinctively tucked yourself against his back, resting one hand lightly against his arm.

A moment later the mattress dipped again. Gator had grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and snapped it open before settling behind you. The blanket floated briefly through the air before dropping over both of you, cocooning you and Gator together on top of the covers while Logan remained bundled beneath them.

It should probably have felt ridiculous, all three of you squished into your bed. But it just felt necessary; it reminded you of that time, back in high school when all the power had cut out in a storm and the four of you had built a fort in the living room, safety in numbers. Gator’s arm slid around your waist, and you leaned into him, a soft kiss landed on your shoulder.

For a long time you simply lay there listening, to Logan’s soft snores and the occasional creak of the house. Eventually Gator’s breathing deepened into sleep, not long after that, yours did too.

・❥・

By the time you opened your eyes, pale morning light was already filtering through the curtains. For a moment you simply lay still.

Logan remained asleep beside you, curled tightly beneath the covers. The sight tugged unexpectedly at your heart, he looked smaller, gentle. Like somebody had stripped away all the noise and left only the exhausted little boy underneath. On your other side, Gator was still asleep too, dead to the world, face half buried in the pillow, one arm thrown heavily across your waist.

Carefully, you lifted his arm and settled it back onto the mattress, he grumbled something unintelligible into the pillow. You paused for a second to make sure he settled. Satisfied neither man was about to wake up, you slipped from the bed and padded quietly across the room.

You wandered through to the kitchen, already thinking about coffee. That plan lasted all of ten seconds. Your hand had just reached the kettle when voices drifted through from the living room. Ford and Brooks. You couldn't see them from where you stood, but you could picture them easily enough. One of the sofas. Coffee mugs. Probably still in yesterday's clothes. Neither of them had looked particularly interested in sleeping these past few days. Then Brooks spoke and something about his voice made you stop, careful not to make any noise or interrupt the room.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he said.

Brooks wasn't a particularly emotional man. Not outwardly. Like most of the Heaton men, feelings tended to emerge sideways. Hearing genuine vulnerability in his voice felt strange.

"I know," Ford said quietly.

"It's Noah. He’s the good one. I never have to worry about him. Logan, sure. Logan came out screaming. Fucking fighting and… loud, always something. But Noah? He’s like his mama. Thought he skipped all the bad parts of me. That boy is all Sophia. He's all gentle and quiet."

Sophia was Logan and Noah's mom, and the few times you'd met her growing up had only ever left you wondering how on earth she and Brooks had ended up together. She was tiny where Brooks was imposing, gentle where Brooks was loud, patient where Brooks charged through life like a bull through a fence. She taught elementary school, which somehow made perfect sense the second you met her. Everything about Sophia felt soft.

She lived in Florida now and had remarried years ago, but the boys still spoke to her often, especially Noah. Listening to Brooks talk, you couldn't help wondering what she'd make of all this. Then again, maybe that was exactly why Maggie hadn't told her. Sophia was over a thousand miles away and there wasn't a damn thing she could do except worry, and if there was one thing Maggie understood, it was how unbearable that kind of helplessness could be.

You leaned back against the kitchen counter and stayed exactly where you were. Part of you felt slightly guilty for listening. The larger part recognised that trying to leave now would almost certainly result in some noise announcing your presence. At this point, remaining still felt less like eavesdropping and more like self-preservation.

Around the corner, Ford was quiet for a moment before he spoke again.

“Quiet kids hide the hurt better. Look at Nicky. You think I ever worried about him? My sweet, kind boy? No, I didn’t worry. And then he’s punching kids at school because I hadn’t noticed he was hurting. We just gotta learn from the mistake, brother.”

You smiled as the memory appeared. Sitting beside Ford in the hospital after Rhodes had broken his arm. The conversation they'd had about Nicky. About how easy it was to miss things when a child wasn't actively demanding your attention. At the time, you'd wondered how much of it had actually landed. Apparently more than you'd realised.

“What if this never goes away?” Brooks sounded tired.

“It probably won’t. Addiction ain’t a broken arm, Noah’s gonna have to work at it.”

The words settled heavily in the quiet room. There was no false reassurance in them. No promise that everything would magically be fine. Ford had never really been that sort of person. He preferred uncomfortable truths to comforting lies. When he spoke again, his voice dropped lower.

“But he won’t be doing it alone. Maggie’s already got him set up with counselling through her centre. NA meetings too. We’ll all help out, driving him there, picking him up. Sitting with him if he needs it. That’s what we do, we close ranks.”

You could practically hear the shrug in Ford's voice, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world and maybe for the Heatons it was. Families came in all shapes and sizes, but one thing you'd learned quickly was there were few like yours. The Heatons had a tendency to respond to crisis like a herd of buffalo. Everybody moved in the same direction. Everybody closed ranks. If one person was struggling, suddenly there were ten people standing beside them.

“I don’t know how to help him.”

The crack in Brooks' voice made your chest ache, but Ford's answer came immediately.

“Keep showing up. Listen to him. Just love him, Brooks.”

Silence followed, then a broken sob, a sharp inhale. The unmistakable sound of somebody trying very hard not to cry and failing anyway.

“Christ. I’m sorry,” Brooks sniffed.

“Stop apologising for being upset.”

Another sniff.

“I don’t want him to hate me.”

The fear in those words caught you off guard. Because underneath all the guilt and worry and frustration, that was what this was really about. Brooks wasn't frightened about Noah. Not in this moment. He was frightened that somewhere along the way he'd damaged something he couldn't fix.

“He doesn’t hate you. None of us do,” Ford assured him.

The conversation grew quieter after that. You couldn't make out the words anymore, just the low murmur of Ford's voice and the occasional sound of Brooks trying to pull himself together.

You stared down at the kettle for a moment, suddenly understanding why Ford and Maggie had become such a formidable pair over the years. Maggie was the one who solved problems. Maggie made plans. Ford, on the other hand, seemed to understand that sometimes people didn't need solutions. Sometimes they just needed somebody to sit beside them while they fell apart.

You couldn't help yourself. Maybe it was guilt from overhearing in the first place. Maybe it was the simple fact that hearing somebody cry had always made you want to move towards them rather than away. Either way, before you'd properly thought it through, you found yourself leaving the kitchen and heading around the corner into the living room. Brooks noticed you straight away.

"Jesus, Baby. Sorry. Didn't mean for an audience."

His eyes were still a little red, and for a second your heart squeezed painfully. Seeing him look so uncertain felt wrong, like seeing a fence post bent out of shape after a storm. You just smiled and crossed the room, dropping onto the sofa beside him, you wrapped your arms around him and hugged him tightly.

Brooks hugged you back instantly. His arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you into his side while he rested his chin briefly on top of your head.

"Thanks, kid. I'm alright."

The words sounded suspiciously like somebody who was not, in fact, alright. Still, he was smiling when you pulled away, and that felt like an improvement. You stood and glanced between the two brothers.

"Coffee?" You asked, because it felt like all you could offer in the moment.

Ford checked his watch.

"Suppose it's a bit too early for whiskey."

A reluctant laugh escaped Brooks and that felt like a small victory. Back in the kitchen, you switched the kettle on and began pulling five mugs from the cupboard. Brooks wandered in a few minutes later and settled onto a stool at the island while you measured out coffee. He looked calmer now, though still tired around the eyes.

A few minutes after that, you heard footsteps on the staircase, you looked up to find Ford carrying Josie on his hip. It was almost comical how quickly Brooks changed the second he saw her. Josie seemed to possess some sort of supernatural ability to improve anybody's mood. Ford deposited her into Brooks' arms without so much as a warning and Brooks instantly softened.

"Good morning, beautiful girl," he said, pressing a kiss to her head.

Josie responded by shoving both hands into his beard. Her tiny fists disappeared into the thick gruff while she giggled with delight. Brooks pretended to nip at her fingers and Josie squealed. Having a baby in the house was basically free therapy. Nobody had ever said it out loud, but everybody seemed aware of it.

Ford joined you at the counter just as the kettle clicked off. He grabbed the milk from the fridge while you started pouring water and together you moved around each other with the sort of easy familiarity that came from years of shared kitchens and shared mornings. By the time the coffee was finished, Brooks was still completely occupied making Josie laugh.

You gathered three mugs into your hands and turned towards the hallway. Ford's eyes immediately narrowed. His gaze dropped to the collection of coffee, then back to you.

"Didn't have Gator down as someone who shared.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Funny.”

Ford looked entirely too pleased with himself. You glanced briefly towards Brooks. He remained completely distracted by Josie, who was now trying to investigate whether his beard detached if she pulled hard enough.

"It's Logan," you said quietly. "I'll explain later."

Understanding flickered across Ford's face, he leaned over and pressed a kiss onto the top of your head.

"Guess I'll make a start on breakfast for the five thousand."

"I mean, you could have had less kids," you say as you move out of the kitchen.

"I can find some more."

You stopped and looked back at him with a frown. Ford stared back, then his expression shifted, his brows knitted together as realisation dawned.

"Yeah, no. I only heard it as I said it. I take that back."

"Probably best," you laughed.

・❥・

The last few days had done Logan good. At first, you'd assumed his sudden migration to the Big House had everything to do with Noah, giving himself a bit of distance. Now, though, you weren't so sure.

The Big House had a way of absorbing people. It was difficult to remain isolated when there were children running through hallways, somebody always making coffee or cooking or talking or just… there. There was a closeness that existed here, because Maggie had spent years deliberately creating it. Left to its own devices, the family operated more like a particularly affectionate cult. And Logan had finally stopped fighting it.

He hadn't softened exactly; Logan was still Logan. But the performative distance had dissolved. The stand-offishness. The brashness. It had seemed to disappear. A few days ago he'd come home from work carrying a carton of milk, had announced he'd noticed you were running low and thought somebody should pick some up.

You'd nearly hurt yourself trying not to react, had simply thanked him and not made a scene. Then watched him spend the rest of the evening pretending he hadn't quietly done something thoughtful.

It helped that Gator was around so much too. Whenever he wasn't working, he was usually here. Sometimes because of you. Sometimes because of Logan. Mostly because Gator had become so deeply embedded in the family that nobody really questioned his presence anymore. He simply existed within the ecosystem of whatever chaos was unfolding that day.

Summer break had only aided the process. With the kids home, the Big House was louder, messier. Movie nights had become a regular occurrence. Mario Kart tournaments had grown increasingly competitive.

The kids adored both Logan and Gator. Rhodes in particular had become attached. You suspected it was because Logan possessed the exact level of supervision Rhodes preferred, namely none. Which was how Logan currently found himself on his hands and knees in the grass while Rhodes climbed over him like a mountain.

Sunday afternoon in the Big House had followed it’s predictable pattern. Everybody ate too much at lunch, declared they were never eating again, then immediately dispersed into familiar routines. If the weather was bad, the house filled with films, board games and enough noise to shake the walls. If the weather was good, everybody migrated outside.

Today the backyard was full. The kids had claimed the grass, dragging half the adults out with them. Logan was still trapped beneath Rhodes, who appeared determined to use him as a piece of playground equipment. Every time Logan managed to escape, Rhodes found a way back on top of him. The fact that Logan seemed to be enjoying himself only encouraged the behaviour.

A little further across the lawn, Gator and Walker were throwing a football back and forth. You'd noticed recently that Walker had started following Gator around in much the same way Rhodes followed Logan. It was difficult to blame him. Gator possessed the sort of easy patience children gravitated towards, particularly boys who wanted somebody to throw a ball with them.

Ford had claimed one of the outdoor sofas. Josie sat on his lap while Nicky coloured at the coffee table nearby, deeply focused on whatever masterpiece he was creating. Ford, meanwhile, was attempting the impossible task of convincing Josie that she should draw on her own piece of paper rather than improve Nicky's work for him. Josie's interest in art appeared secondary to her interest in removing every lid from every marker she could reach.

At the large outdoor table, Brooks was listening patiently while Tucker showed him something on his phone.

You paused for a moment in the doorway and simply looked at them. Families always looked different from a distance. The complicated parts blurred together until all that remained was the shape of people who loved each other finding ways to occupy the same space. You turned away from the yard and headed back into the house to find Maggie.

・・

Gator watches you slip through the back door and then returned his attention to Walker, chucking him the ball once more.  Gator missed football sometimes. Usually when he had a ball in his hands and room to move, he remembered how much he'd enjoyed it. The constant motion. The rhythm of practice. The feeling of reading a field and knowing exactly where everybody would be before they got there.

Walker launched the ball towards him. Gator caught it easily. The kid had a decent arm. Better than decent, honestly. Most of the things holding Walker back had very little to do with talent.

"You're plantin' too narrow. Widen out an' use y'toes not y'heel."

Walker looked down, adjusting his stance. The next throw came a second later, Gator caught it cleanly.

"S'better. Got more power behind it."

"Coach says I drop my shoulder," Walker says, checking his stance again.

"Coach's right. Y'bare left when y'hesitate."

"I don't hesitate," Walker frowns.

"You jus' did it."

"I was thinking!"

"Yeah, well don't. Gives 'em too much time."

"But I have to know where to throw it."

"I've seen ya play, y'always know where t'throw it. You're jus' second guessin' y'self."

Gator tossed the ball back; Walker caught it and went quiet. Thinking. Gator had learned fairly quickly that Walker wasn't one of those kids who needed constant encouragement. He needed confidence. The ability to trust what he already knew. Most of the time the right answer was sitting there in front of him; he just spent too long questioning himself before acting on it. Gator knew that feeling all too well.

Walker threw again; Gator returned it. A comfortable rhythm settling between them.

"You ever get looked at before senior year?" Walker asked, a little sheepish.

"Little bit," Gator shrugged.

It was one hell of an understatement. There had been scouts, camps. Coaches, recruiters. More conversations than he could count. For a while it felt like everybody wanted something from him. He'd been all-state. Fast enough to turn heads. Strong enough to matter. He'd thrown one hell of a curve ball and run a four-five forty. The sort of quarterback people noticed.

Back then, people talked about his future like it belonged to him. Funny how that worked, most of them had never met Roy. College had never really existed as a possibility in Roy's version of events. Roy liked talking about football when it made him look good. The second it threatened to take Gator somewhere beyond his reach, the conversation changed.

The ball arrived again slightly higher than expected, Gator fumbled the catch before recovering it at the last second. Walker noticed and the little shit looked delighted with himself.

"Coach reckons maybe if I bulk up some more I could start getting camp invites next year."

"Probably."

Gator’s answer was simple because it was true. Walker had the talent for it. The kid just needed to stop apologising for taking up space. Walker caught the return throw and stood there turning the football over in his hands. Then he widened his stance exactly how Gator had shown him, planted his feet properly and launched another pass. The curve wasn't perfect, but it was good.

"You been talkin' to him 'bout it proper?"

"Kinda."

"Coach knows what he's doin'. Listen to him."

The words came more seriously than he'd intended. Partly because he'd had the same coach during his own final year of high school. The man had been one of the few adults who'd looked at Gator and seen something other than trouble. One of the few who'd expected more from him than surviving graduation. That sort of thing stayed with a person.

"An' if schools start sniffin' around, don't get stupid over flashy bullshit."

"Like what?" Walker laughed.

Gator caught the ball one-handed and glanced down at it.

"Facilities. Money. Girls."

Gator lifted an eyebrow and Walker's face immediately betrayed him.

"I wouldn't--"

"Yeah, alright Loverboy," Gator laughed.

He launched the next throw, his curve ball still worked. Age and lack of practice hadn't taken that from him yet. Walker had to jog three steps sideways before catching it with a grunt. When he returned it, Gator tossed the ball from hand to hand.

"Jus' think it through proper. Talk t’Coach. Talk t’Ford. Go somewhere they wanna build you not use you up."

Walker nodded, not the distracted sort of nod teenagers used when they wanted an adult to stop talking. A genuine one, the kind that suggested he'd actually listened. The feeling that settled in Gator's chest surprised him slightly. Pride?  Not because Walker was good at football, but because he had asked. Because somewhere along the way this kid had apparently decided Gator was worth listening to. That was still a strange thing to get used to.

Most of Gator's life had been spent being the example people pointed away from. The troublemaker. The cautionary tale. The kid teachers expected to screw up eventually. Nobody had looked at him the way Walker was now, like he might know something worth hearing. And he found he liked it more than he'd expected.

His gaze drifted across the yard. The entire family seemed to be spread out beneath the afternoon sun. Brooks was listening to Tucker explain something with all the seriousness of a business meeting. Ford was trying to prevent Josie from inhaling a marker pen. Across the grass, Logan was losing a wrestling match against a five-year-old. Rhodes had somehow managed to pin a him to the grass. Gator wasn't entirely sure how; he wasn't entirely sure Logan knew either.

The sight made him smile. That was the thing about the Heatons. The whole world could be falling apart around them and somehow they'd all end up squeezed around the same dinner table trying to figure it out together. It wasn't that bad things didn't happen here. They did. More than their fair share, honestly. It was that nobody ever seemed to face them alone.

And every now and then Gator still found himself surprised that they'd made room for him inside that circle too.

"You gonna teach me how you throw that curve?"

Gator looked back, Walker was grinning now.

"Tryna steal my moves, Heaton?" Gator smirked.

"C'mon, please. I'll be like your protégé."

That earned a proper laugh. Shaking his head, Gator walked over and nudged Walker's shoe with his own.

"Alright. Move this leg back," he pointed down at his stance. "Dig in."

・・

Other people probably wouldn't have noticed the change in Maggie. She was still organising things. Still making phone calls. Still attending meetings. To anybody looking from the outside, she appeared exactly the same. But you knew better.

The difference wasn't in what she was doing, it was in what she wasn't.

Maggie usually filled space. Not in an overbearing way, but with her presence. Her humour. Her opinions. Her constant commentary on whatever happened to be in front of her. Lately she'd been carrying herself differently, moving through the days with a quietness that felt wrong, as though all her energy was being spent somewhere nobody else could see.

You were loading the last few dishes into the dishwasher when you noticed the plate she'd set aside. Another meal for Noah. The portions had been getting bigger. Progress measured in mouthfuls and clean plates. You closed the dishwasher and turned just as Maggie picked up the tray.

"You busy or can you give me a hand?" she asked.

"Not busy, what do you need?"

"I'm gonna move Noah out of the bathroom, but I need to get his room ready."

A smile pulled at your mouth. Not because Noah was better, far from it. But because Maggie wouldn't be moving him unless she thought he could manage it.

"Yeah? Okay, sure, of course. You wanna go now?"

Maggie smiled back. The expression was genuine, just tired.

"Now's good."

The Cabin always held a silence that was never truly possible in the Big House. As soon as you stepped inside, it settled around you like a living thing. Maggie set Noah's plate on the counter and disappeared into the laundry room while you crossed to the fridge and grabbed a handful of water bottles. By the time you turned around, she'd returned carrying a basket of clean bedding balanced against her hip.

The silence only deepened as you climbed the stairs. Somewhere behind the locked bathroom door, Noah was there. You knew he was, yet there was no sound. Nothing but the creak of floorboards beneath your feet as you entered his bedroom.

Maggie immediately set to work. You started stripping the bed while she moved around the room closing windows. One by one she checked the locks before slipping the small key into her back pocket. Then she moved to the dresser, opening drawers and removing things. At first you assumed she was tidying, that was until you noticed the box; a razor, some belts, scissors.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“Controlling variables,” she replied without looking up.

You glanced back towards the box, surely she didn’t think…

“You think he’s gonna hurt himself?”

She paused for a brief second and turned to meet your eyes across the room.

“I just don’t want to give him the chance.”

You looked at her for a moment, even as she turned back to the dresser. You weren't sure Maggie genuinely believed Noah would hurt himself. What you did know was that she'd spent the last week watching somebody she loved suffer and she'd reached the point where she wanted control over something. So you let it go, let her have it.

The fresh sheets snapped through the air as you pulled them over the mattress. Then you crossed to the bedside drawers. Most of what you found was junk. Old receipts. Chargers. Random bits and pieces Noah had forgotten to throw away. Near the back of one drawer, though, you found two disposable lighters. Without a word, you dropped them into Maggie's box.

Eventually Maggie seemed satisfied. She stood in the middle of Noah's room with the box balanced against her hip, her eyes moving over the space one last time as though checking for anything she'd missed. Watching her, you were struck again by how truly exhausted she looked.

You understood why she'd done it. Maggie liked control. More than that, she liked protecting people. Somewhere in her mind, keeping everyone else away from the worst of Noah's withdrawal probably felt like an act of kindness. The problem was she'd been protecting everyone except herself. You stepped closer and rested a hand gently on her arm.

"Why don't you go downstairs? I can help him. You need a break, maybe some quiet?"

Maggie's mouth opened to argue, you leaned forward and kissed her cheek before she could.

"Maggie, I got it. Please. Go sit down."

For a moment she just looked at you, hesitant. Then, finally, she nodded. The box remained tucked beneath her arm as she headed for the door, at the threshold she paused and glanced back.

"Thanks, Baby."

A second later the bedroom door closed behind her. You stood quietly in the room, listening to her footsteps retreat down the staircase until the room fell silent once again.

You stood outside the bathroom door for a moment before opening it. Not because you didn't want to go in. You did. More than anything, you wanted Noah out of that room and back somewhere with clean sheets and air that hadn't been breathed too many times. But wanting to help him and being ready to see him were not quite the same thing.

You hadn't seen Noah properly since last Sunday. A week was not a long time in ordinary life. In a house like this, a week usually disappeared between laundry loads, grocery runs and school pickups. But this had not been an ordinary week.

You took a slow breath and made yourself settle before you unlocked the door and stepped inside. The smell hit you first. It was vile, acrid in a way that made your stomach turn, sour with old sweat, sickness, damp towels, stale air and something underneath it all that seemed to belong only to bodies in distress. You had to force yourself to breathe through your mouth and looked down.

Noah was on the floor. Maggie had given him a duvet and pillow, and he had made a small, miserable nest of them beside the bath. He was curled tightly beneath the bedding, his body turned in on itself, knees drawn up, one hand tucked beneath his face. He didn't stir when you entered.

The stillness frightened you enough that you moved closer before you could stop yourself. Only when you crouched beside him did you see the faint movement of his chest beneath the duvet. Breathing. You stayed there for another second anyway, watching the shallow rise and fall, letting that tiny proof settle something inside you. Then you stood and crossed to the window.

The latch stuck slightly before giving way. Cool air rushed in when you pushed it open, stirring the heavy stink of the room.

You gathered the towels from the floor without thinking too much about what was on them, piling them into your arms and carrying them through to the bedroom. The clean towels Maggie had brought up were still stacked neatly beside the bed, you carried them back into the bathroom. Then you flushed the toilet.

The sound stirred him. At first it was only a slight movement beneath the duvet. A shift of one shoulder. A faint, pained sound in the back of his throat. Then Noah's eyes opened.

"Hey," you said softly.

Noah tried to move. He pushed one hand against the floor, attempting to turn himself upright, but his arm shook beneath him, and he barely made it halfway before giving up. You crouched and slid a hand beneath his elbow.

"It's okay. I've got you."

The second you touched him, the reality of what the week had done to him became impossible to ignore.

He was damp with sweat. His shirt clung to his back. The duvet smelled awful, the pillow worse, and beneath all of it Noah himself smelled like a corpse. His skin had taken on a greyish pallor that made him look almost translucent. His eyes were hollow, dark-ringed and raw. There was stubble on his jaw and sweat at his hairline. His hands trembled even as you helped him sit against the wall. And worst of all, beneath the exhaustion and sickness and pain, there was embarrassment.

"Sorry," his voice came hoarse, barely more than a scrape. "It's disgusting."

"You've been sick," you said gently. "Not your fault."

He didn't look convinced; you hadn't expected him to. Shame was not a rational thing. It didn’t respond well to reason, no matter how carefully you offered it. Still, you kept your expression calm as you helped him settle with his back against the wall. His body seemed to fold into the support, too tired to hold itself upright for long. Once he was steady, you peeled the duvet away from him as carefully as you could.

You carried it out to the bedroom and threw it into the hallway with the towels. The pillow followed a moment later. When you returned, Noah was still slumped against the wall with his eyes half closed. You crossed to the bath and turned on the taps.

Water thundered loudly into the tub. You tested the temperature with your fingers, adjusting it until it was warm but not too hot. His body had been through enough without shocking it further. You added some bubbles and as the bath filled, you glanced back at him.

He had spent seven days in this room. Seven days sweating poison through his skin. Seven days sleeping on a bathroom floor. Seven days being reduced to the worst, weakest, most helpless version of himself. You couldn't fix that. You couldn't make the week unhappen. But maybe you could give him clean water. Clean towels. A bed that didn't smell like sickness. Maybe dignity lived in details after all.

There were some acts of care that only worked if nobody treated them like a big deal. You'd learned that years ago. The moment people started fussing, embarrassment crept in. Pride woke up. Suddenly the person who needed help became painfully aware that they needed it. So you kept your expression calm as you moved around the bathroom, gathering together shampoo and soap, setting them along the edge of the bath as though this were all perfectly ordinary.

The bath filled steadily while Noah sat against the wall watching you through half-lidded eyes. When the water was deep enough, you switched off the taps and turned back towards him.

"Can you stand?"

Noah tried; the effort lasted all of a second. His arm trembled beneath him, and his balance went with it. You caught him before he could fall, your hand under his elbow, steadying him until his feet were properly beneath him again. The shirt came next; you lifted it carefully over his head and tried not to let your reaction show.

Noah had never looked like the rest of the Heatons.

Logan had inherited the broad shoulders and thick build that seemed to run through the men in the family. Ford had it. Brooks had it. Even Tucker was growing into it. They occupied space naturally, built sturdy and solid before they'd even reached adulthood. But Brooks was right, Noah had always belonged more to Sophia. Taller than most people realised but narrow through the shoulders, smaller. But never this small. His collarbones standing proud beneath pale skin, every ridge of rib clear beneath the pallor. You looked away before he could notice you'd noticed.

The shirt landed somewhere in the hallway. The sweatpants followed. They barely seemed attached to him anymore. The waistband slipped easily over his hips and pooled around his ankles. You steadied him while he stepped free of them and guided him towards the bath. Only then did you allow yourself a small smile.

"You know I love you, but I'm really hoping you've at least got it in you to take off your own boxers."

The corner of Noah's mouth twitched just a little as you closed your eyes.  There was a rustle of fabric, a tired huff of amusement. You kept your eyes closed.

"Hold on to me," you said, offering a steady arm.

His hands settled lightly around your forearms; you felt him lean his weight against you as he stepped into the bath and lowered himself down.

"All good," he croaked.

When you opened your eyes again, Noah had folded himself into the water the same way he'd folded himself into the duvet. Knees drawn up. Arms wrapped loosely around them. The bubbles concealed most of him.

"You don't gotta do this," his voice quiet and shy.

You picked up the washcloth.

"I know."

Noah looked away, the silence that followed felt easier than conversation. People often imagined comfort came from saying the right thing, but most of the time it didn't. Most of the time comfort was simply presence. Somebody staying when they had every reason to leave.

The cloth moved gently across his arms and shoulders. Warm water replaced cold sweat. The smell of soap slowly pushed back against the smell of sickness. By the time you worked shampoo through his hair, Noah's eyes had drifted shut entirely. When you rinsed his hair, the water ran cloudy into the bath.

When you finally stood, your knees cracked in protest.

"Stay put. I'll be back."

Outside the bathroom, the fresh clothes were waiting where Maggie had left them. When you returned, Noah hadn't moved much. His head rested on his knees now, damp hair falling across his forehead. You set the clothes down and picked up a towel.

"You good to get out? Can use me as a support."

Noah lifted his head; the nod he gave was small and tired. You closed your eyes and held your arms out, a second later his hands found them. His weight settled against you as he climbed carefully from the bath. Wet feet met tile. The towel disappeared from your arm. More rustling followed. Then:

"Done."

You opened your eyes. The towel sat securely around his waist; another draped around his shoulders. You guided him to the closed toilet lid and helped him dry off and dress, trying not to pay too much attention to the trembling in his hands or the way his skin was already damp again. Those things weren't important right now. What mattered was that he was clean.

You guided Noah slowly across the room and towards the bed. When he finally settled against the headboard, he looked around the room briefly before his eyes found yours again.

"Don't get too excited, you've only graduated from the bathroom," you teased.

A tired laugh escaped him.

"I'll take it."

The sound made something inside your chest loosen. Not because it was funny. Because it was normal, hearing him laugh, however weakly, felt like seeing a small piece of himself returning.

You crossed to the dresser and grabbed two bottles of water. One for him. One for yourself. You watched him take several mouthfuls before screwing the cap back on with hands that still weren't quite steady. For a moment he simply stared at the bottle. Then:

"I didn't mean to--"

"I know."

"I never wanted--"

"I know, Noah."

You suspected Noah had spent most of the last week trapped inside his own head replaying every mistake he'd ever made. Every lie. Every excuse. Every opportunity to ask for help that he'd let pass him by. Noah set the water bottle down.

"Maggie hates me."

The words were so earnest that your heart broke a little, because you knew he believed it.

"She doesn't hate you."

"She hardly talks to me."

You looked down at the water bottle in your hands, at the condensation running down the side, anything to stop yourself reacting. Because if Noah could have seen Maggie this week, really seen her, he'd never have said it.

"She's terrified, Noah," you looked back up at him. "You really think she would survive losing one of us? I had to send her downstairs because she was unplugging your charger cables thinking you might tie them around your neck or something. She has slept in this room every night while you've been in there. Has barely left it actually. She loves you, Noah. We all do."

Noah pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"I fucked everything up."

"You were sick."

"I lied to everybody."

“Well... yeah. You've got me there,” you smirked.

A breath of laughter escaped him before his face dropped again.

"Everyone's mad at me."

You reached over and placed your hand on top of his. The difference startled you, his fingers felt fragile. You try not to focus on it, instead squeezing gently, reassuringly.

"No one is mad. You know what Maggie hates most about all this? What we all do? Is that you were suffering alone all this time and didn't feel like you could tell any of us."

For a moment he simply looked at you, then his fingers curled loosely around yours.

"I just didn't think anyone would care."

You thought about the Big House. About Nicky making him a plate and a card and asking relentlessly after him. About Brooks crying on the sofa in the early hours. About Logan crying beside a river because he'd convinced himself he'd failed as a brother. And Noah thought nobody cared. Even before this; Ford making enough breakfast to feed a small army, Tucker making bulk bowls of popcorn for film night. A painful laugh escaped you.

"Noah, this family cares when somebody skips breakfast."

The laugh caught him completely off guard, it slipped out before he could stop it. And there he was. Not the addiction. Not the withdrawal. Not the shame. Just Noah. He was still in there.

“You remember before my second surgery? When I had to wear that heart monitor for 24 hours? And the doctor had said to just rest, no excitement, no doing anything. And I was miserable because it was the night of the Fourth of July bonfire. I don’t even know why I cared so much about that stupid bonfire, but in that moment it was everything. Then you idiots; you, Logan and Gator, turn up at my porch door and snuck me out. And we went, and we ate way too much and we watched the fireworks.”

“And it screwed up all the readings,” Noah smiled. “I remember.”

“And Maggie was MAD,” you laughed. “Like super mad, because I had to do the monitor all over again, but even that time. You didn’t leave me. None of you did. Gator and Logan bought pizzas, and you put the air mattress up in the living room, and we just watched trash tv all day. Because you cared. You cared that I was scared and I was sick and I just didn’t want to be alone. A lot can be said about us Heatons, but no-one can say we don’t care.”

You squeezed his hand once more before standing. The television remote sat on the dresser, and you picked it up, dropping it beside him on the bed.

"I'll let you sleep; you look knackered. Maggie will be up later; she's made you dinner. Maybe if you're feeling up to it in the next few days I'll come sit with you, we can watch old reruns of The Crocodile Hunter."

The smile that appeared this time reached his eyes. Steve Irwin had practically been a religious figure to the two of you growing up.

"Sounds good."

You nodded and gathered up the damp towels. When you reached the doorway, Noah's voice stopped you.

"Thanks, Baby. I love you."

You turned back. The afternoon sunlight was catching in his damp hair. He still looked exhausted. Still looked fragile. Still had a long road ahead of him. But he was alive.

"I love you too."

You pulled the bedroom door closed behind you and locked it. The lock still felt slightly unnecessary. Maggie had arranged for it to be fitted two days ago, and nobody had argued with her, mostly because nobody had the energy to. Realistically, Noah could barely walk across a room at the moment, never mind stage some dramatic escape attempt. But fear wasn't always rational, and this week had taught you that Maggie's imagination became a dangerous thing when she felt out of control.

When you reached the living room, you found Maggie curled into the corner of the sofa asleep. For a moment you simply stood there. She must not have slept properly in days. Not really. Not the kind of sleep that restored anything. Just snatched hours and half-waking dozes between checking on Noah. Carefully, you retrieved a blanket from the armchair and draped it over her. Maggie stirred slightly but didn't wake, sinking a little deeper into the cushions instead.

You retreated back into the kitchen and grabbed the notepad from the counter.

Didn't want to wake you. Noah is sleeping, told him you'd bring him food later. Love you – Baby x

You tore the page free and carried it back into the living room. The note found its place on the cushion beside her, somewhere she'd see it the moment she woke up.  

・・

Gator had been half-listening to three different conversations at once when Tucker appeared in the back doorway. The afternoon had settled into that comfortable lull that always seemed to follow Sunday lunch. Brooks was still at the table. Ford had long since abandoned any pretence of supervising and was simply enjoying the sunshine.

You'd disappeared with Maggie a while ago, Gator wasn't particularly worried. He figured you were helping with Noah. Still, every now and then he found himself glancing towards the Cabin.

"Yo, highlights are on in ten. You coming?" Tucker called.

The question pulled his attention back to where Tucker's head was poking around the back door. For a second Gator wasn't entirely sure Tucker meant him. Then he realised nobody in this family really made distinctions like that anymore. Invitations tended to be issued collectively.

"Yeah, comin'," Gator called back.

Tucker nodded and disappeared back inside. Beside him, Brooks shifted Josie slightly higher in his arms and pushed himself to his feet. She'd fallen asleep sometime during the afternoon, her cheek squashed against his chest while he absent-mindedly rubbed circles across her back.

"Lemme put her down and I'll join you. Ford, baby monitor in her room?"

"Yeah, shelf above her crib. Just flick the blue switch on the camera and leave the lamp on."

Brooks nodded and headed towards the house, the rest of them followed shortly after. Ford rose from his chair and whistled sharply across the yard.

"Nicky, Rho. Inside now."

Inside, the living room was already beginning to fill. Walker had claimed one end of the sectional. Tucker occupied the other. Logan collapsed heavily between them; Rhodes immediately climbed into his lap. Nicky climbed onto Tucker. Gator found himself a seat and settled back while the television murmured quietly in the background.

The highlights hadn't started yet and the room was still full of conversation. Walker was talking football. Tucker was talking over Walker. Rhodes was talking over both of them. A few moments later Ford appeared from the kitchen. Gator didn't notice him until a hand landed on his shoulder; he jumped slightly. Ford laughed and when Gator looked up, there was a beer being held out towards him.

Gator accepted it and Ford gave his shoulder an absent-minded pat before moving on and handing another bottle to Logan. The interaction lasted maybe three seconds. Yet as Gator watched Ford circle around the sofa and finally drop into a seat, he found himself thinking about how often things like that happened here.

Not the beer. The touch. The casual physical affection. Nobody seemed self-conscious about it.

The Heatons leaned against each other when they talked. They squeezed shoulders as they walked past. Kids climbed into laps without asking permission. People kissed foreheads, hugged hello, hugged goodbye, sat close together on sofas even when there was plenty of room elsewhere.

It was everywhere. Small enough that most people probably wouldn't even notice it. Gator noticed it because he'd spent most of his life without it.

Growing up, he'd never realised how tense he was all the time. Not until he started spending time here. Roy's house had never felt comfortable. Home had been somewhere you stayed alert. Somewhere you learned to read moods and measure words and disappear into your bedroom whenever possible.

The strange thing was that Gator hadn't even felt fully comfortable in his bedroom. Not really. There had always been something performative about existing in that house. As though every interaction carried some expectation attached to it.

The Heatons weren't like that. Ford hadn't handed him a beer because he wanted something. Maggie didn't invite him to dinner because she owed him. Logan didn't treat him like family because he'd calculated a benefit. Their affection wasn't transactional, it wasn't conditional. It just... existed.

Across the room, Logan was now trying to explain football strategy to Rhodes, who clearly had no interest whatsoever and was instead attempting to climb over the back of the sofa. Walker was laughing. Tucker was arguing. Ford was shaking his head into his beer. The room felt full. And sitting there amongst all of it, Gator found himself relaxing into the cushions without even thinking about it.

Because that was probably the biggest difference of all. Here, he never felt like he had to earn his place.

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Joe and you were in the kitchen. You were leaving for a friends fourth of July celebration in an hour.

“Do you think the jello will set in time?” you take a swig of the vodka used for the jell-o shots wincing at the taste.

“It should at least I hope so.” He snags the bottle taking a swig wincing as well. “Alright enough of that we can’t show up plastered.”

You nod in agreement grabbing the cap and tossing it to Joe. You turn back to your cake placing the final berries on top. You slide the cake toward him.

“Ta-da!” you exclaim making little jazz hands. “The bottom is a bit un even but we don’t have to talk about that.”

“This looks so good babe!” he pulls you into his side. “You need to bake more often.” You turn and smile up at him and he plants a small kiss on your lips. “Ok better start getting ready I don’t want to be late.” he says with a light pat on your ass.

“Okay can you put the lid on that for me?”

“Of course let me know if you need anything else.”

Joe was always like this offering to help and reaching out even more when you did ask for it. He was always there to help with anything whether it be a mundane task or a more effort full task.

You finish getting ready and load up the car and you are happy to realize the jello had set in time.

“You ready?” Joe says closing the trunk.

“Yeah!”

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The night goes perfect everyone is laughing having fun and of course a little more than tipsy thanks to the jell-o shots and a few beers. It was now getting dark and someone had brought sparklers. You and Joe light yours and that’s when he gets a mischievous look in his eyes.

“Joseph David Keery don’t even think about it.” you say as he teasingly whips his sparkler towards you. You squeal laughing. “Don’t! Dude you’re gonna set something on fire.” He laughs throwing his head back.

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Once it got later the sky had darkened completely and the first firework caught light in the sky. Everyone huddled to grab lawn chairs and blankets. Joe pulls up a chair on the grass and pats his thigh. You smile and take a seat on his lap curling into his chest. The fireworks were gorgeous. One after the other fired into the sky. You sit in silence apart from the pop of fireworks and occasional Oos and ahhs from your friends. That’s when you catch Joe looking at you with a different look in his eyes.

You groan dramatically. “What now?” you laugh out.

He chuckles. “Nothing I’m just really happy and you’re really pretty.”

Your stomachs flips all this time and he never fails to make you swoon. You place a soft kiss on his cheek then his lips. You look into his gorgeous eyes seeing the reflection of the bright colors in the sky in his pupils. “I’m really happy too and you’re really gorgeous.” He smiles pulling you closer resting his head on your shoulder. “I love you so much Joe.”

None of those things meant anything.

At least, not to the two of you.

To everyone else, they seemed to mean absolutely everything.

By the time Joe finishes the set, the venue has already begun emptying into the streets outside, people spilling through the doors in clusters still talking about the show as amps buzz faintly somewhere behind the stage. He disappears backstage with the rest of the band, towelling the sweat from the back of his neck while somebody passes him a bottle of water, but even as everyone else is talking over one another about the crowd and joking about the one song they'd nearly derailed halfway through, his phone is already in his hand.

you coming?

Your reply arrives almost immediately.

ten minutes away :)

Joe smiles before he even realises he's doing it.

Matt notices first. "Oh, there it is."

Joe looks up. "What?"

"That face you make whenever she texts you."

Joe frowns. "I don't make a face."

Dalton snorts from the other side of the room. "You literally grinned at your phone."

"I grin at lots of things."

Jake folds his arms. "Name three."

Joe opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Wes bursts out laughing. "We rest our case."

Joe rolls his eyes. "You guys are unbelievable."

"No," Matt replies, grabbing his jacket. "We're just observant."

Ten minutes later, the band have claimed the corner of a small bar a few streets from the venue, the sort of place with sticky wooden tables, faded concert posters covering every available wall, and music just loud enough that conversations blur pleasantly into the background. Drinks have barely arrived before the door opens again.

Joe looks up automatically.

And then you walk in.

The change is immediate.

The tiredness that had settled over him after the show disappears completely, replaced by something so bright and instinctive that nobody at the table even bothers pretending not to notice anymore. Before you've had chance to take more than a few steps inside, Joe is already on his feet, weaving effortlessly between tables until he reaches you.

"There you are."

He wraps you in a hug before you've even managed to shrug your coat from your shoulders, lifting you briefly off the floor.

You laugh. "Hi to you too."

"You made it."

"I said I would."

"I know."

He still doesn't let go straight away.

When he finally does, it's only because you gently laugh and nudge his shoulder.

"I need to actually take my coat off."

"Oh."

Joe immediately takes it from you before folding your coat over one arm, grabbing your hand, leading you back to the table, and pulling the empty chair beside him away from the table with his foot.

"There."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

By the time you sit down, the two of you have already disappeared into your own conversation. You ask how the show went. Joe immediately launches into the story about the audience member who somehow ended up onstage during the encore. You laugh. He laughs because you're laughing. You steal a sip of his drink without asking. He doesn't even look up, simply reaches across to pull your own glass a little closer when the waitress sets it down out of your reach.

At one point, your hand lands absent-mindedly on his forearm while you're telling him something, and neither of you seems remotely aware you've done it.

Around the rest of the table, however, everyone is watching. Again.

Dalton slowly lowers his pint onto the table. "This is getting ridiculous."

"They're literally flirting," Matt says.

Jake shakes his head. "They've been flirting for two years."

"Closer to three," Wes mutters.

Joe finally notices the suspicious silence.

"What's up?"

"Nope," Dalton says.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"It isn't nothing." Teddy, who has been quietly watching the entire interaction unfold with the exhausted patience of someone who has seen this exact scene dozens of times before, finally speaks. "You know you crossed the entire bar the second she walked in, right?"

Joe blinks. "I was saying hi."

Matt nods solemnly. "By picking her up."

"I hugged her."

"You lifted her."

"She hadn't even taken her coat off yet," Dalton adds.

Joe looks down. Realises he's still holding your coat over one arm. "...Oh."

"You carried it for her," Jake says.

"There wasn't anywhere else to put it."

"You pulled her chair out."

"I was being polite."

"You've looked at her," Wes says, pretending to count on his fingers, "roughly fifty times since she sat down."

Joe laughs awkwardly. "I have not."

"You absolutely have," Matt replies.

"I don't think we were flirting," you say carefully.

Every single member of the band groans in unison.

"They're doing it together," Dalton sighs.

"They're validating each other's delusions," Wes adds.

"It's honestly fascinating," Jake says. "Like watching two people insist water isn't wet."

Joe looks completely bewildered. "You guys are reading way too much into this."

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. "Joe."

"What?"

"You drove four hours on your only day off because she said she missed you."

"It wasn't just because-"

"You learnt to make her favourite pasta."

"She was sick."

"You cancelled plans because she had a bad day."

"She needed somebody."

"She is the first person you call after every show."

Joe pauses. "...I call my mom."

"After her," Dalton says.

Another pause. "...Yeah."

Matt looks around the table. "I'm done."

"So am I," Wes agrees.

Then Adam, who has spent the entire conversation quietly sipping his drink with the expression of a man who has reached the absolute end of his patience, sets his glass down with a decisive clink.

"Oh, for God's sake."

The table falls silent. He looks directly at the pair of you. Then, loud enough that several nearby tables glance over, "Will one of you PLEASE just kiss the other one so the rest of us can all move on with our lives?"

Silence crashes over the table. The music keeps playing. Someone laughs somewhere near the bar.

Joe stares. You stare.

Then, almost perfectly in sync, the two of you slowly turn to look at each other before facing everyone else again with matching expressions of complete and utter confusion.

"...What?"

Nobody says anything for a few long seconds.

Joe is still staring at Adam as though he's waiting for someone to laugh and reveal the whole thing has been an elaborate joke. You aren't faring much better, your gaze drifting slowly around the table, only to discover that every single person is looking back at the pair of you with exactly the same expression.

Not smug. Not even particularly surprised. Just relieved.

Matt is the first to break the silence.

"Thank God."

Joe blinks. "For what?"

"Somebody finally said it."

"You all... agree with him?"

There is a chorus of incredulous laughter.

Dalton actually looks offended. "Joe."

"What?"

"You seriously think Adam just invented this?"

"I mean..."

Jake lets out a long sigh and leans back in his chair. "I don't think either of you realise how exhausting you've been."

"What does that even mean?" you ask.

"It means," Wes says, pointing between the two of you, "that we've spent the last two years watching the slowest burn in human history."

Joe opens his mouth to protest. Nothing comes out.

Matt beats him to it.

"No, actually," he says, holding up a hand. "Don't argue. I want to try something."

Joe immediately looks suspicious. "...Matt."

"No. Just listen."

He points at Joe first. "Last November. Chicago."

Joe frowns. "What about Chicago?"

"It started raining after soundcheck."

"So?"

"You gave her your jacket."

Joe shrugs. "She was cold."

"You spent the rest of the evening freezing."

"I had another hoodie."

"You absolutely did not."

Joe hesitates. "...Okay."

Matt turns towards you. "And you."

You immediately point at yourself. "Me?"

"You spent the entire night trying to secretly warm his hands every time nobody was looking."

Your eyebrows pull together. "I was not."

Dalton laughs. "You literally tucked them inside your coat."

"Oh." You blink. "...I did do that."

"Exactly."

Jake joins in next. "Remember Nashville?"

Joe groans immediately. "Oh, come on."

"What happened in Nashville?" you ask.

Jake looks delighted. "Joe lost his voice after the show."

You nod. "I remember."

"You cancelled your own weekend plans, drove six hours with homemade soup, then stayed until he felt better."

You look genuinely confused. "He was ill."

"Yeah," Jake says. "Exactly."

Before either of you can respond, Wes jumps in.

"What about Christmas?"

Joe rubs a hand across his face. "...Please don't."

"Oh, we're absolutely doing Christmas." Wes grins. "You spent three days trying to find the out-of-print vinyl she'd mentioned wanting once in passing."

Joe shrugs. "It made her happy."

"You drove to three different record shops."

"...Yeah."

"You called my mom asking where she'd seen it."

Joe looks down into his drink. "...Maybe."

Matt points triumphantly across the table.

"And she." He looks at you. "Baked Joe's favourite cookies and posted them overnight because he said rehearsals had been stressful."

You feel your cheeks warming. "I just..."

"You decorated the box."

You say nothing.

"You drew little guitars on it."

That is admittedly true.

"You wrote 'don't forget to eat' on a Post-it, which Joe still keeps, by the way."

Joe slowly turns to look at you.

"You still have that?" you ask quietly.

He laughs once. "It's on my fridge."

Silence surrounds the table. It's not awkward, per se. Just... different. The room suddenly feels much smaller than it had ten minutes earlier.

Javi, who has hardly spoken all evening, finally sets his glass down.

"You know what the weird part is?"

Nobody answers.

He looks between the two of you.

"None of those stories are about grand gestures."

Joe frowns. "What do you mean?"

"They're all tiny." He smiles. "That's why everybody noticed before you did."

The table falls quiet again.

Because he's right. None of it had ever felt extraordinary.

Not the late-night phone calls. Not driving across states because one of you was having a bad week. Not remembering birthdays, favourite meals or coffee orders. Not automatically reaching for each other's hands in crowds. Not the hoodies. Not the hugs. Not the way Joe looked for you in every audience before he looked anywhere else.

They had simply become... normal.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Joe turns towards you. You're already looking at him.

"...Have we really been that oblivious?"

You hold his gaze for a long moment before a small, helpless laugh escapes you.

"I think..." You shake your head, still smiling in complete disbelief. "...maybe we have."

For the first time all evening, nobody around the table says another word. They don't need to.

The teasing is over now. They've already made their point.

All that's left is for the two of you to decide what to do with it.

Soon after, the others very conveniently disappear.

There is no grand intervention, no theatrical announcement that you've both clearly got something to discuss. Instead, the evening simply seems to rearrange itself around you with suspicious efficiency. Matt announces he's going to order another round despite the fact that everyone's glasses are still half full. Dalton remembers somebody recommended the pizza place next door and insists on investigating immediately. Wes suddenly decides fresh air sounds like an excellent idea, Jake volunteers to go with him, and within the space of barely a minute, the table that had been so loud only moments earlier has dissolved into organised chaos.

Joe watches them disappear with narrowed eyes.

"...They're doing this on purpose."

"They're absolutely doing this on purpose."

He looks back towards the bar, where Matt catches his eye from across the room. Matt raises his glass. Then, with absolutely no shame whatsoever, points meaningfully towards the front door.

Joe laughs under his breath. "They're unbelievable."

"They've earned the right, I think."

"I hate that you're right."

"You don't hate it."

"...No."

A few minutes later, the two of you step out into the cool night air together, leaving the noise of the bar behind. The streets are quieter now, washed in the amber glow of streetlights and still carrying the lingering warmth of the day, and for the first time since Adam's spectacular outburst, there's nobody else filling the silence for you.

You start walking without really deciding which direction you're going, and Joe falls into step beside you.

For several minutes, neither of you says a word. Not because it's awkward; it never has been. If anything, it feels unusually comfortable, both of you quietly turning over the same conversation in your minds, trying to fit years of ordinary memories into an entirely new shape.

Eventually, Joe lets out a quiet breath. "I keep thinking about what they said."

You glance across at him. "Me too."

"I've been trying really hard to prove them wrong."

"And?"

He laughs softly, shaking his head. "I don't think I can."

You smile to yourself, eyes dropping briefly to the pavement beneath your feet. "No."

"I keep replaying all those stories."

"So do I."

Another silence settles between you. This one feels different. Less uncertain. More thoughtful.

Joe rubs absent-mindedly at the back of his neck, a habit you'd watched him do a hundred times before whenever he was trying to untangle something in his own head.

"I always thought..." He trails off, searching for the words. "I don't know. I thought I was just lucky."

You look over. "Lucky?"

"To have you."

His answer comes so naturally that he doesn't seem to realise what he's said until it's already hanging between you.

He stops walking. "So that's what it was."

Your heart stumbles. "What?"

Joe laughs once, quietly, more at himself than anything else.

"I think..." He looks down at the pavement before lifting his eyes back to yours. "I think I've been in love with you for a really long time."

There is no flourish to it. No carefully rehearsed speech. No dramatic declaration. Just the truth, spoken with the kind of quiet certainty that only arrives once somebody has finally stopped arguing with themselves.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then you find yourself smiling. Not because it's funny. Because it's such an unbelievably Joe thing to say.

"So have I."

His eyebrows lift. "You serious?"

You nod slowly. "I just... I don't think I ever knew that's what it was."

A laugh escapes both of you at almost exactly the same moment. Not because anything about this is particularly amusing. Because the relief is so enormous that laughter seems to be the only place it has left to go.

"God," Joe mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.

"What?"

"We're such idiots."

You grin. "The biggest."

"I've spent years convincing myself I just really liked hanging out with you."

"I drove to Toronto because you texted me saying you were having a bad week."

"I know."

"I learnt how to cook your favourite dinner."

"I know."

"You've got one of my hoodies."

"I've got three."

Joe closes his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

"You've only just realised?"

"I think everyone else realised somewhere around 2023."

The two of you dissolve into laughter again, the sound echoing softly along the otherwise empty street.

When it fades, Joe looks at you differently. Not because his expression has changed. Because now he isn't pretending not to. His eyes drift slowly across your face, lingering in a way they never have before, and something inside him seems to settle.

"So..."

"So?"

"Can I kiss you?"

The question is so earnest, so quietly hopeful, that your heart aches.

You smile. "I was wondering how much longer it'd take."

His own smile arrives slowly, almost disbelievingly, before he steps closer.

The first kiss is impossibly gentle.

Not tentative because either of you is unsure. Tentative because you've both imagined this moment so many times, whether consciously or subconsciously, that neither of you quite trusts it's actually happening.

His hand rises carefully to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin as though he's memorising the feeling. You smile into the kiss before you even realise you're doing it, and Joe immediately laughs against your mouth.

"What?" you murmur.

"I can't believe this is real."

"I was just thinking the same thing."

He kisses you again. A little longer this time.

When you finally pull apart, it's only far enough to look at one another.

Then one of you smiles. The other starts laughing.

And somehow you're kissing again almost immediately.

The years between you don't disappear in one dramatic moment. They unravel slowly, kiss by kiss, smile by smile, every quiet laugh dissolving another layer of restraint until it feels impossible to remember why you'd ever pretended this was just friendship in the first place.

By the time Joe reaches for your hand again, the gesture feels exactly the same as it always has.

Except now you both understand why he'd never really let it go.

Neither of you could have said afterwards whose idea it had been to go back to Joe's.

One minute you're wandering aimlessly through quiet streets, still laughing every few steps because apparently the entire world had known before you did.

The next, you're standing in the doorway of his flat, neither of you making any real attempt to go inside, before he's kissing you again, and then again, every kiss somehow carrying years of unsaid things that words had never quite managed to reach.

The front door barely clicks shut behind you before the rest of the world quietly ceases to matter.

For a moment, you simply stand there in the quiet of Joe's flat, the silence almost startling after the noise of the bar. Your coats are abandoned somewhere near the door, neither of you bothering to hang them up, your foreheads resting together as though you both need a second to catch up with what just happened.

Joe laughs softly. "I still think I'm dreaming."

"You've said that three times."

"I know. I keep hoping it'll start sounding less ridiculous."

"It won't."

His smile widened, though there was something wonderfully vulnerable about it now. The confidence he wore so easily on stage had vanished somewhere between your first kiss and the journey home, replaced by a kind of quiet awe that made your chest ache.

"You really meant it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "When you said you've been in love with me too?"

You answer with another kiss. Slow, patient, certain.

His hands settle carefully at your waist, almost hesitant now, as though everything that happened outside suddenly feels infinitely more real within the privacy of his own home. Every touch carries a question. Every kiss seems to ask if this is still okay, if you're still here, if either of you is about to wake up and discover the evening had been imagined.

When you finally pull back, you smile.

"I don't think I could've made it any clearer."

Joe laughs, the sound warm and breathless.

"You'd be surprised how oblivious I've apparently been."

"You and me both."

The laughter fades naturally into another kiss, and this one lingers a little longer. Your fingers disappear into the curls at the nape of his neck almost automatically, and Joe lets out a quiet, involuntary sound that makes you smile against his mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a noise."

"I absolutely did not."

"You absolutely did."

He rolls his eyes, though they soften almost immediately when you look at him like that, your smile somehow making his heart race even faster than it already was.

He kisses you again before either of you can say anything else, his hands slipping a little lower against your back as yours trace absent-minded circles beneath the hem of his T-shirt. The room seems to grow smaller around you, until all that exists is the warmth of his body, the quiet hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, and the overwhelming relief of finally being allowed to touch each other without pretending it doesn't mean anything.

"I don't think I'm ever gonna get used to this," he murmurs.

"To what?"

"Being able to kiss you."

You smile. "Better start practising."

He laughs softly before kissing you once more, slower this time, the smile lingering between your mouths until it naturally deepens. His hands settle more confidently at your hips now, drawing you a little closer, and when he instinctively begins to guide the two of you towards the bedroom, neither of you questions it.

It feels less like a decision than the inevitable continuation of a conversation that has been waiting years to happen.

The bedroom is dimly lit, the bedside lamp casting everything in warm amber light as Joe closes the door quietly behind him. For a second, you simply look at each other again.

Neither of you seem in any hurry. There is no urgency now. Only years of wondering what this might feel like, finally giving way to the reality of it.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt first. Joe watches your hands for a moment before looking back up at your face, and whatever he sees there makes his expression soften all over again.

"You sure?" he asks gently.

You nod. "So sure."

He smiles, relief and affection blending so completely that they become impossible to separate. You push his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, and Joe reaches up almost tentatively to brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.

"We don't have to rush," he says quietly.

You laugh, though it comes out softer than intended. "I know."

"I mean it."

"I know."

You cup his jaw. "I've been waiting years, Joe. Another thirty seconds isn't gonna kill me."

The kiss that follows carries all of it with it.

Years of almosts. Years of lingering hugs that lasted a second too long. Years of reaching for each other's hands without understanding why. Years of convincing yourselves that friendship was explanation enough.

Your hands drift over his bare chest slowly, every touch unhurried now. The conversation outside the bar changed something - not between the two of you, because nothing fundamental has changed there at all - but within the moment itself. Whatever pressure there might once have been to impress one another has quietly disappeared. The only thing left is the remarkable ease that has always existed between you, now stripped of the final layer of restraint.

Joe smiles into the kiss.

"I love you."

The words slip out so naturally that he doesn't seem to realise he's spoken until after they hang between you.

His eyes widen slightly. "...Too soon?"

Your heart swells, and you laugh softly, cupping his face in both hands.

"No." You kiss him once. "I love you too." You kiss him again.

Joe leans down until his forehead rests lightly against yours, then exhales softly through his nose, beginning to peel the hem of your shirt upwards.

He pauses, smiles, looks at you, and asks quietly, "Can I?"

You lift your arms in a silent yes, and he pulls your shirt over your head, your fingers sliding automatically into his curls. His eyes visibly widen as he looks down at you. You suddenly feel very thankful you decided to wear your favourite lace bra this morning. Joe seems pretty thankful, too.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“Can you blame me?”

You grin slightly.

Joe kisses you slowly. Once. Twice. Then deeper when your hands tighten in his hair.

The room seems to grow warmer as his hands settle instinctively at your hips, his thumbs brushing slow circles there as though he's trying to commit the feeling to memory.

For a moment, he begins to sink towards his knees, his fingers catching lightly at the waistband of your jeans before you stop him with the gentlest pressure against his chest.

He looks up immediately. "What?"

You only smile. "Sit down."

His eyebrows lift. "You sure?"

"So sure."

He searches your face for another second, looking for even the smallest flicker of uncertainty, and whatever he finds there finally convinces him. A smile tugs slowly across his mouth as he lets you guide him backwards until the backs of his knees meet the mattress, sinking obediently onto the edge of the bed without taking his eyes off you for even a moment.

His hands hover uncertainly for a second before settling carefully against the backs of your thighs, as though he's still asking permission despite everything that's already happened.

You step between his knees, looping your arms loosely around his neck before leaning down to steal another kiss. It's slower than the last one, unhurried, and you feel him smile almost immediately.

When you pull back, he's still looking at you. Not at your body - at you.

He blinks once. "...Hi."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. "What?"

"I just..." He shakes his head, smiling to himself. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do right now."

"You seemed to be doing alright a minute ago."

"I was kissing you."

"And?"

"I've had years to think about kissing you."

You grin. "This bit's new?"

"This bit's very new."

He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck before looking at you again with an expression that is somehow equal parts nervous and completely, hopelessly in love.

You kiss him again, smiling into it halfway through, and for a few seconds neither of you seems particularly interested in doing anything except proving to yourselves that this is real.

That is, until you sink down to your knees in front of him.

Your palms slide slowly up his thighs, and you hear him draw in a sharp breath. His eyes never leave your face for long, even as your hands continue exploring, repeatedly lifting back to meet your gaze as though reassuring himself you're still smiling.

He swears he blacks out for a second when you gently run your hand over him through his jeans, the other hand scratching lightly through the hairs of his happy trail.

His hips buck upwards instinctively into your touch, and you glance up at him with a smirk.

Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans, and he gives you a nod before he lifts his hips to help you pull his jeans and underwear down in one go.

You can't disguise the way your eyes widen, pupils dilated as you take him in for the first time. You aren't sure if you're more flustered by the size of him or the adoring, blissed-out look on his face.

When you finally look up again, your own confidence falters for a second beneath the weight of his expression. Definitely the look on his face.

"What?"

Joe smiles. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

You feel your cheeks redden immediately. "You really know how to make a girl self-conscious."

"No." His smile softens. "The opposite."

He reaches out instinctively, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before letting his hand linger against your cheek for the briefest moment.

“You sure this is okay?” he manages, though any further words die in his throat immediately when you wrap your hand around the base of him.

He hisses, his head falling back back, and you watch his throat move as he swallows, watch his hands find the edge of the bed to brace himself. You stroke him once, twice, learning the feel of him in your hand - the heat, the velvet skin over the hard length, the way his breath hitches when you tighten your grip at the tip.

Then you lean forward and take him in your mouth.

Joe makes a sound - a broken groan that's almost your name - and his hand finds your hair again, not pulling, just holding. You move slowly at first, tasting him, feeling his pulse against your tongue. The salt of his skin, the musk of him, the way he fills your mouth - you want to memorise this too.

"Honey-" the word falls from his lips, strained and desperate, and you take him deeper. You feel him hit the back of your throat, and you breathe through your nose, steady, letting yourself adjust. His hips make a small, involuntary thrust, and you feel the thrill of it - that you could make him lose control like this.

You set a rhythm. Your hand at the base of him, your mouth working the head, your tongue finding the spot under the ridge that makes his legs tremble. You learn his body as you go - the way he breaths faster when you hum, the way his hips rock forward when you suck harder, the broken syllables of your name that fall from his lips like prayers.

"I'm close," he said, and his voice was wrecked. “Baby, I’m- I’m not gonna last if you keep that up,” he groans, weakly pulling you off him by gathering your hair into a makeshift ponytail.

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, panting heavily, completely overwhelmed by the sight of you beneath him.

Then suddenly Joe's helping you back up from the floor, one hand cupping your cheek almost instinctively before guiding you gently onto the bed. There isn't any urgency to the movement anymore. If anything, the pace seems to slow with every passing minute, as though both of you are becoming increasingly aware that you've got nowhere else to be.

You unhook your bra while he crawls back over you, his thumb brushes lightly beneath your eye, and you reach up to kiss him, instinctively now.

His hands find the waistband of your jeans, though this time he hesitates just enough to look back at you, a silent question in his eyes.

You answer by nodding, smiling so warmly that he has to laugh under his breath before carefully helping you out of them, his attention returning to you immediately.

For a second, he simply looks at you. Not in the way he had before, not with obvious hunger. With quiet amazement. The way he's looking at you as though he's trying to memorise every detail of your face, and despite yourself, warmth rushes into your cheeks.

You kiss him again, and he melts into it almost instantly.

He slowly lowers himself down your body, pressing a trail of kisses as he goes.

One of his big hands palms at one of your breasts, teasing the nipple with his thumb, while his lips latch onto the other, and the dual sensation has you keening.

Joe groans deeply into your skin before continuing on further down your stomach, until he reaches your inner thighs.

"This okay, baby?" he asks for what feels like the hundredth time this evening, and every time you just can't wrap your head around the fact that this is really happening.

You can't help the grin that pulls at your lips as you nod at him, and then his hands are on your bare thighs, pushing them apart, and you let him. You want him so bad you can barely breathe. Want his mouth on you, want to feel the thing you've been dreaming about for years become real.

"Yes," you whisper, and the word comes out like a prayer.

His fingers hook the edge of your underwear - a simple cotton pair, nothing special, and you almost apologise before he pulls them down your legs, slow and deliberate, kissing the inside of your knee as he goes. The fabric slides away, and you're left bare on his bed, the air between you thick with anticipation.

Joe looks at you. You see him looking, his hazel eyes dark in the dim light, and you feel yourself flush - not from shame, from wanting. From the weight of his gaze on the most intimate part of you.

"You have no idea," he says, his voice rough, "how long I've wanted this."

Then his mouth is on you.

The first touch of his tongue makes you gasp - a hot, wet stroke that parts you and finds the place you've been aching for him to find. He groans against you, the vibration sending a shock through your body, and his hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer, opening you wider for him.

Joe takes his time. He tastes you like you're something to savour, his tongue circling, dipping, pressing. You hear yourself make a sound - a low moan that seems to come from somewhere deep in your chest - and you don't care. Your fingers find his hair, tangle in the dark mess of it, and you hold him there as he works you closer to the edge.

"Joe-" His name is a plea, and you feel him smile against you.

"I've got you." Three words, murmured into your skin, and then his tongue finds your clit, pressing, circling, and your hips buck against his mouth. He holds you steady, his grip on your thighs firm, and you feel the orgasm building - a hot, tight coil in your belly that you let yourself fall into.

He doesn't stop. He keeps going, pushing you higher, and you're gasping, your nails digging into his scalp, your thighs trembling against his ears. When you come, it's with a cry that breaks out of you, a sound you've never made before, raw and honest and his.

He doesn't pull away. He works you through it, gentle now, his tongue soft against your sensitive skin, and you feel aftershocks ripple through you as you collapse back against the mattress. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body loose and trembling, and you feel him press a kiss to the inside of your thigh before he crawls back over you.

Joe's mouth is wet with you, and in the dim light, you see the satisfaction in his eyes. He doesn't look smug, just... complete. Like he's wanted something for so long and finally has it.

"You ready for me, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, Joe," you whisper, and he leans in to kiss you again.

Softer this time. Slower. Like both your nerves have finally caught up with you. Like it’s suddenly dawned on both of you what the next step actually is.

Joe presses gentle kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, grounding your nerves as he grabs his cock to line himself up with your entrance.

The groan he lets out against your neck sounds almost carnal as he pushes inside in one slow, steady thrust. You're so dripping wet he's met with no resistance, but the stretch burns regardless. He stills inside you for a moment, attentive, waiting for you to let him know he's okay to carry on.

"Move, Joe. Move," you plead.

His thrusts are steady, deep, his eyes locked onto yours, lips brushing gently over each other as hushed gasps make their way from one mouth to the other.

He grabs your thighs to lift them over his shoulders, the position so intimate, pressing your knees almost to your chest as he fills you over and over, and the angle makes him hit a spot so deep inside you nobody else has ever touched before. You're seeing stars as he kisses you breathless, swallowing the loud moans and whines you're sure would embarrass you in any other situation, but right now you couldn't care less.

Not when he lifts his thumb up to his lips, sucking on it for a moment to get it wet, before bringing it down between your bodies to start rubbing steady circles on your clit.

You're coming apart on his cock, what feels like mere seconds later, your legs quivering over his shoulders, tears of ecstasy streaming down your face.

"Where, baby? Where do you want me?"

"Inside, Joe. Please, need to feel you," you plead. His hips stutter with a loud moan, the loudest you think you've ever heard him, as you feel him finish deep inside you.

He collapses on top of you seconds later, letting go of your legs to fall to the bed, his head resting on your breasts, rising and falling with your unsteady breathing.

Your fingers find his hair, as Joe presses one last lazy kiss against your sternum, then shifts just enough to look up at you properly, curls a mess, lips swollen from kissing you, eyes soft in that way that gets you every single time he looks at you.

"You know I'm never getting over the fact you love me, right?" he murmurs.

Your chest aches warmly as you smile down at him, fingertips brushing slowly through his hair.

"Good," you whisper. "Wouldn't want you to."

For a long while afterwards, neither of you says anything.

The room has settled into that peculiar quiet that only ever follows something life-changing, the bedside lamp still casting everything in warm amber light while the city carries on somewhere beyond the window, blissfully unaware that the entire shape of your world has shifted in the space of a single evening. Joe lies sprawled beside you with his head still resting comfortably against your chest, one arm draped lazily across your waist as though he's worried you might somehow disappear if he lets go for too long. Your fingers drift absent-mindedly through his curls, scratching gently at the nape of his neck, and every now and then he lets out the smallest contented hum without seeming to realise he's doing it.

Eventually, he tips his head back just enough to look at you properly.

His hair is a complete mess, his lips still pink from kissing you, and there is something so wonderfully open about his expression that it almost catches you off guard. He looks happy in the uncomplicated, almost disbelieving way people do when something they've wanted for so long has finally happened and they haven't quite caught up with it yet.

"You know what's funny?" he asks quietly.

"What?"

"I genuinely thought I was doing a great job hiding it."

You can't help laughing. "So did I."

"No, seriously." He shakes his head against you with a groan. "I thought I was being subtle."

"You thought driving four hours because I texted you saying I'd had a bad week was subtle?"

"I was being supportive."

"You learnt to make my favourite dinner."

"You were stressed."

"You remembered the name of my primary school teacher because I mentioned her once."

"...That one might've been a little weird."

"A little?"

He laughs, covering his face briefly with one hand. "Oh, God."

"What?"

"We're never living this down."

You already know exactly what he means. "Matt's going to be unbearable."

"Dalton's gonna make a spreadsheet."

"Wes will somehow claim he predicted it first."

"He absolutely will."

"And Jake's going to spend the next six months reminding us we argued with them."

Joe groans dramatically before burying his face back against your shoulder. "I hate that they're right."

Your fingers find his hair again, gently combing through the curls that have become increasingly impossible to tame over the course of the evening. "I don't."

He looks up again, eyebrows lifting. "No?"

You smile, brushing your thumb lightly across his cheek. "If this is what they were trying to get us to..." You shrug softly. "I think they did us a favour."

He studies your face for a long moment, the smile returning so gradually it almost seems to unfold rather than appear. "I've wasted so much time."

You shake your head almost immediately. "We both did."

"Yeah." He looks into your eyes with so much devotion, you feel yourself blushing. "Let's make up for lost time."

For a while, neither of you speaks again. There doesn't seem to be much point. Every silence between you feels different now - not emptier, but fuller somehow, no longer crowded with all the things you'd both spent years carefully refusing to say.

Eventually, Joe reaches for your hand beneath the duvet, threading his fingers through yours with the same effortless familiarity he always has. The gesture is identical to every other time he's held your hand over the years.

The only difference is that now you both understand why he's always reached for it.

dividers: saradika-graphics

The apartment feels different when you step inside.

It isn't because anything has changed. The lamp still casts its familiar amber glow across the living room, your shoes are still kicked beneath the small table by the door, and the book you'd meant to finish sits facedown on the couch where you left it that morning. The room has spent the evening waiting for you, untouched.

Only you don't feel like the same person who walked out of it.

Javi slips off his shoes beside the door without thinking about it. He's done it enough times that they end up in the same corner they always do, as your apartment has long since become another familiar stop between rehearsals, late-night takeout, and movie nights that lasted far longer than anyone planned.

He glances toward the kitchen.

"You still keeping the terrible tea in the same place?"

The question is so wonderfully ordinary that it takes you a second to answer.

"...Yeah."

"Good." He nods once, already heading that way. "I'd hate for tonight to be the night you suddenly developed good taste."

A laugh almost escapes before you can stop it.

Almost.

You shake your head as you follow him, slower than he is.

"I didn't know you drank tea."

"I don't."

He opens the cabinet above the stove without looking, reaching automatically for the kettle.

"But emotionally, it feels like the right thing to make."

That one earns the smallest smile.

He catches it out of the corner of his eye but has the decency not to mention it.

Instead, he fills the kettle at the sink, the rush of water briefly filling the apartment before giving way to the familiar metallic click as he settles it onto the stove.

Only then do you realize you're still standing near the kitchen doorway.

"You planning on supervising," he asks, "or are you just making sure I don't steal your mugs?"

You blink, looking down at Javi’s blanket that Joe put around you, still around your shoulders like you're seeing it for the first time.

"Oh."

You slip it from your shoulders and fold it over one arm, fingers lingering briefly against the soft fabric before setting it carefully across the back of a dining chair.

"I guess I forgot it was still on."

"I figured."

He says it casually, already reaching into another cabinet for two mugs, one with a faded band logo and the other chipped slightly around the handle.

Neither of you comments on the blanket again.

Javi leans against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other as he studies you for a second.

"You eat dinner?"

The question catches you off guard.

You open your mouth to answer, then stop.

You try to think back.

The evening blurs together until you honestly can't remember.

"I..." You let out a breath. "I don't know."

Javi nods once, as though that answer tells him everything he needed to know.

Without another word, he wanders toward your pantry.

Cabinet doors open.

Something shifts.

A box slides across a shelf.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Assessing the situation."

"My pantry doesn't need assessing."

"No?"

A moment later he appears holding up a box of pasta, raising one eyebrow.

"You sure about that?"

You squint at it from across the kitchen.

"It's fine."

He turns the box around and taps the expiration date with one finger.

You walk closer.

"...Four months isn't that bad."

Javi laughs.

"It is when it's measured in expiration dates."

Despite yourself, you laugh too.

It's brief, and it disappears almost as quickly as it arrived, but it loosens something inside your chest all the same.

"I was going to make dinner," you mutter.

"Were you?"

"...Eventually."

"Mhm."

He places the box back on the shelf and reaches for his phone instead.

"We're ordering food."

"I can make—"

"You could," he agrees, already scrolling through a delivery app. "Or you could let me buy you dinner and save innocent pasta from meeting its expiration-date destiny."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, okay."

The kettle clicks off before either of you says anything else.

Steam curls upward as Javi pours the water, filling both mugs before handing one to you.

The warmth settles immediately into your palms.

Only then do you realize how cold your hands have become.

You wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat sink slowly into your fingers.

"Thanks."

Javi lifts his own mug in a small salute before taking a careful sip.

The kitchen fills with the quiet sounds of cooling tea, the hum of the refrigerator, and a delivery confirmation buzzing softly from Javi's phone on the counter.

Everything about the room feels impossibly ordinary.

And after everything that happened an hour ago, ordinary feels like the kindest thing either of you could have found.

Javi takes another sip of his tea before setting the mug down beside him.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," he says after a while.

The words are simple enough that they almost disappear into the room.

He rubs a thumb absentmindedly around the rim of his mug before looking back at you.

"But if you want to..." He shrugs one shoulder. "I'm here."

You lower your eyes to the tea in your hands.

"I wish I hadn't noticed it."

Your voice barely carries across the kitchen.

Javi doesn't answer right away.

He just waits.

"I wish I'd stayed in the living room," you continue. "Or... I don't know. I wish I'd gone home five minutes earlier. I wish I'd never walked into the hallway."

You let out a quiet breath, watching it ripple the tea.

"Because now I can't un-hear it."

The words hang there for a moment.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with any of it." You shake your head, searching for language that never seems quite big enough. "Joe saying what he said. Wes..." Your voice catches briefly. "Wes not saying anything."

You stare into your mug.

"It just keeps replaying."

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

It isn't really a laugh at all.

"It feels like I walked into something that wasn't mine... and somehow I left carrying it."

Javi rolls the mug once between his hands.

When he finally speaks, his voice is as even as it was before.

"I don't think you walked into it."

You glance up.

He meets your eyes for only a second before looking down again, watching the steam disappear from his tea.

"I think it was already there. you just happened to be standing where you could finally see it."

You look back down at your mug.

"I didn't want to."

"I know."

He says it so naturally that it almost sounds like the end of the sentence instead of the beginning of another one.

You stare into your tea for a long moment before speaking again.

"I keep thinking about Wes."

The words leave your mouth so quietly you almost aren't sure you said them.

Javi doesn't interrupt.

"The way he just... shut down." You trace your thumb absently around the rim of your mug. "It was like there were a hundred things he wanted to say, and none of them made it out."

You let out a slow breath.

"And Joe..." You shake your head. "Joe was the opposite. He said exactly what he meant. Like he'd already had the conversation in his head before it ever happened."

Outside, tires hiss against wet pavement somewhere down the street.

"It felt wrong," you admit. "Like I was watching something I wasn't supposed to see."

Javi sits with that for a while.

When he finally speaks, his voice is thoughtful, almost distracted.

"I've seen them like that before."

You look up.

He isn't looking at you yet.

"I've known those two a long time," he says. "Long enough to know last night wasn't the first time they've ended up standing on opposite sides of the same conversation."

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

Not because it's surprising.

Because it means the hallway wasn't an accident.

It was history.

"Then why does it feel like I found out something I wasn't supposed to know?"

Javi smiles faintly to himself.

"I don't think you found out something you weren't supposed to know."

He looks over then.

"I think you saw a side of them you hadn't seen yet."

The distinction settles somewhere deeper than you expect.

You lower your eyes again.

"I don't know that I wanted to."

"No," he says quietly. "I don't imagine you did."

"You know," he says after a moment, "people always assume being in a band means you know everything about each other."

A small laugh escapes him.

"I wish."

You glance over.

"We know who's going to be late."

He counts them off on his fingers.

"Who forgets cables."

"Who never remembers to eat before rehearsal."

You can't help smiling.

"And who complains about loading gear every single time."

"That's everybody."

"Exactly."

The smile fades as naturally as it arrived.

"But the important stuff..."

He shrugs.

"Half the time we're guessing too."

That surprises you.

"I thought you all told each other everything."

Javi laughs outright this time.

"No chance."

He leans back in his chair.

"We've spent years in vans together. Hotel rooms. Green rooms. Airports." He shakes his head. "You learn people's habits way before you learn what's going on inside their heads."

He falls quiet again.

"Joe..." He thinks for a second. "Joe doesn't usually say something like that unless he's been carrying it around for a while."

Your fingers tighten around the mug.

"And Wes?"

Javi's gaze drifts toward the window.

"Wes has this habit."

He smiles to himself.

"When something matters, he finds about twelve other things to talk about first."

You think back.

The jokes.

The teasing.

The way he always seemed to move from one conversation to the next without ever staying in one place for very long.

The hallway.

The silence.

"Oh."

Javi nods once.

"Yeah."

You sit with that for a while.

"So what was last night?"

He doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, he reaches over and nudges your mug a little closer.

"Drink your tea."

You look at him.

"I'm serious."

Despite yourself, you take another sip.

It's gone lukewarm.

Javi smiles.

"Better."

You shake your head.

"You avoided my question."

"I did."

"So?"

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck.

"I think..." He pauses, searching for words he doesn't seem interested in forcing. "I think whatever that conversation was, it didn't start last night."

Javi watches you over the rim of his own mug before standing.

"C'mon."

He nods toward the living room.

"The couch is considerably more comfortable than these kitchen chairs."

You follow him.

The couch dips slightly under his weight as he sits, leaving enough space beside him without making a point of it.

The delivery app announces that your food will be there in twenty-three minutes.

Javi stretches one arm along the back of the couch and glances over at you.

"For what it's worth..."

You look up.

"I've known those guys a long time."

You wait.

He smiles to himself.

"And somehow they still manage to surprise me."

He doesn't say anything else.

He doesn't have to.

For the first time since the hallway, it feels like you don't have to figure everything out tonight.

Maybe you couldn't if you tried.

The apartment wakes slowly.

Morning light filters through the blinds in uneven bands, laying thin stripes of gold across the hardwood floor. Dust drifts lazily through them, visible only when it catches the sun before disappearing again.

With a quiet sigh, you push the covers back and sit on the edge of the bed.

The apartment is still.

No soft laughter from the kitchen. No cabinet doors opening. No sound of someone moving around while trying not to wake you.

Javi had left sometime before you got up.

You make your way toward the living room, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

On the coffee table sits a folded sticky note, held down beneath your television remote.

Your name is scrawled across the front in handwriting that somehow manages to lean in three different directions at once.

You smile before you've even opened it.

Inside, it reads:

Coffee's made.

There's a blueberry muffin I stole from my own apartment. It's yours now.

Eat something.

- Javi

You shake your head, folding the note closed again.

"Stole," you murmur to the empty room.

The coffee is still warm.

Not fresh, but warm enough that you pour yourself a mug anyway.

The smell fills the kitchen almost immediately, grounding in a way you hadn't expected. You lean against the counter, wrapping both hands around the mug as you look out the window above the sink.

The street below has already started moving.

A woman walks an impossibly happy golden retriever that insists on greeting every tree along the sidewalk. Across the street, someone wrestles two overstuffed grocery bags from the trunk of their car while balancing a phone between their shoulder and ear.

The dishwasher hums softly as you begin loading it, grateful for the excuse to keep your hands busy. The motions come automatically—rinse, stack, close the door. Wipe the counter. Fold the dish towel. Straighten the chair someone had left slightly crooked.

One task quietly becomes another.

You aren't cleaning because the apartment is messy.

You're cleaning because order feels possible.

Understanding doesn't.

The apartment finally looks like yours again.

Or close enough.

You carry your empty mug back toward the kitchen just as three soft knocks break the silence.

You stop.

For a moment, you simply stand there, mug still in your hand, listening.

Another three knocks.

When you pull the door open...

...you aren't surprised.

Not really.

Wes stands on the other side with his hands buried deep in the pockets of a faded gray sweatshirt. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends as though he'd left the house before it had finished drying. He looks like someone who has been awake for hours, even if he hasn't been out of bed for very long.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

His eyes meet yours.

Then, almost sheepishly, he smiles.

"Hi."

You step back from the doorway.

"Do you want to come in?"

The question lingers between you.

Wes looks past your shoulder into the apartment before his eyes find yours again. He hesitates just long enough that you wonder if he's going to say no.

Then he nods.

"...Yeah."

He steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

Neither of you seems to know where to stand.

Finally, he lets out a quiet breath.

"I almost didn't come."

The words settle into the room.

You study him for a moment before asking, "Why?"

His shoulders lift in a small shrug.

"I figured..." He glances toward the window, then back to you. "I figured you deserved at least one normal morning."

Your eyes drift briefly around the apartment.

The empty coffee mug in the sink.

The folded blanket resting over the couch.

Javi's crooked handwriting on the note you'd left sitting on the table instead of throwing away.

You smile, though it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"I don't think I was going to have one anyway."

Wes lets out the smallest laugh, more breath than sound.

"Yeah," he says quietly.

"I kind of figured that too."

You nod toward the kitchen.

"Coffee?"

He looks at the mug in your hand before answering.

"...Sure."

The answer surprises you.

"You drink coffee now?"

He smiles for the first time since you opened the door.

"No."

That catches a laugh before you can stop it.

"Then why did you say yes?"

He rubs the back of his neck, looking faintly embarrassed.

"I didn't really know what else to say."

The honesty of it hangs between you for a second before you turn toward the kitchen.

"Well," you say over your shoulder, reaching for another mug, "you're getting coffee anyway."

"I'll pretend."

"You'll hate it."

"I probably will."

You fill another mug, adding only a splash before setting the coffee back.

When you turn around, Wes hasn't sat down.

He's wandered only a few steps into the living room before stopping beside your bookshelf. His attention lingers on the framed photo tucked between a stack of novels and a small potted plant.

It's one the band took months ago after a show—everyone squeezed together, smiling into someone's phone camera. Javi is making a ridiculous face. Joe is laughing at something just outside the frame. Wes is looking at the camera but somehow still looks like someone caught him halfway through saying something.

He notices you watching him.

"I forgot you had this."

You glance at the picture.

"I forget it's there."

He smiles faintly.

"Javi still complains that's his worst picture."

"It is."

"It definitely is."

Wes is still looking at the photograph, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the bookshelf. His coffee sits untouched on the coaster you'd slid toward him, growing cooler by the minute.

You watch him instead.

The picture.

The bookshelf.

The window.

Anywhere but you.

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it.

"What?"

His head turns slightly.

"You've looked at everything in this apartment except me."

His eyebrows lift.

"I have not."

"You've looked at the picture."

A finger.

"The bookshelf."

Another.

"The window."

"The coffee."

"I don't even like coffee."

"Exactly."

He laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"I looked at you."

"For about three seconds."

"I was nervous."

The words come out so matter-of-factly that neither of you seems prepared for them.

His smile fades first.

Then yours.

The room settles again.

"You were?" you ask.

Wes lets out a breath through his nose, looking down at the mug in his hands.

"I am."

You lean one shoulder against the kitchen counter, giving him the space to either leave the sentence there or continue.

He chooses neither.

Instead, he takes an unnecessarily careful sip of the coffee.

His face immediately twists.

You can't help laughing.

"Oh, that's awful."

"I told you."

"I thought you were exaggerating."

"You thought wrong."

He sets the mug down with a quiet wince.

"I don't know why I drank more than one sip."

"You were committed."

"I make bad decisions under pressure."

The joke hangs in the air for a second before he realizes what he just said.

"...Well."

You smile.

"There you are."

He blinks.

"What?"

"You're doing it again."

His forehead creases.

"What am I doing?"

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment.

"Talking around it."

Wes stares at you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh, dropping his head.

"Let me guess Javi told you I do that."

A small smile touches your lips.

"He didn't have to."

Wes watches you carefully.

"You kind of make it obvious."

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, laughing under his breath.

"...Do I?"

"You've talked about coffee."

"The bookshelf."

"The picture."

"My window."

He sighs dramatically.

"The window was interesting."

"It wasn't."

"No."

"It really wasn't."

Another laugh slips out of him.

This one stays a little longer.

When it fades, he looks down at the floor between you.

"I always do this."

His voice is quieter now.

"When I know what I need to say..."

He trails off.

"...I keep hoping I'll accidentally arrive there by talking about everything else first."

You don't answer.

Not because you don't have one.

Because this doesn't feel like the kind of sentence that should be interrupted.

He folds his arms loosely across his chest and leans back against the wall, eyes still lowered.

"I kept thinking about last night."

You wait.

"I kept replaying it."

Another pause.

"Not the part where you heard us."

His fingers tighten briefly where they're tucked beneath his arms.

"The part after."

You frown slightly.

"When you looked at me."

His eyes finally lift.

"I've never seen you look at me like that before."

The words aren't dramatic.

They're almost curious.

Like he's still trying to understand them himself.

"I couldn't tell if you were hurt..."

He hesitates.

"...or disappointed."

The room grows very still.

Outside, someone laughs somewhere in the parking lot below before a car door slams shut.

The sound disappears as quickly as it came.

You hold his gaze.

"I think I was trying to understand you."

Wes nods slowly.

"Yeah."

A faint smile crosses his face.

"I think that's what scared me."

The words linger between you.

You watch Wes over the rim of your mug.

"What would you have said?"

Wes laughs under his breath.

Not because it's funny.

Because, somehow, you'd managed to ask the one question he'd been carefully walking around since he'd knocked on your door.

"I don't know."

You raise an eyebrow.

"You don't?"

"I do."

He shakes his head almost immediately.

"I just..."

Another laugh, quieter this time.

"I don't know how to say it without sounding ridiculous."

You can't help smiling.

"I'll take my chances."

His eyes meet yours then.

Really meet them.

For a long moment, neither of you looks away.

Finally, he pushes himself away from the wall and begins wandering again—not pacing exactly, just moving slowly through the room until he stops beside the window.

"I've spent a lot of time convincing myself that I knew what was going on," he says, watching a cyclist disappear down the street below. "With the band. With touring. With... everything."

He slips one hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

"And then yesterday..." He lets the sentence trail off before trying again. "Yesterday Joe asked me a question that I couldn't answer."

You don't interrupt.

"He didn't corner me."

The words come slowly now, each one sounding like it's been turned over more than once before being spoken.

"He just..."

Wes smiles to himself, though there's very little amusement in it.

"He asked me something I'd been avoiding asking myself."

Your chest tightens.

"Hm and what was that?"

He looks out the window for another second before answering.

"Why I cared so much."

The apartment grows quiet again.

You already knew the question.

Hearing it now feels different.

Because this time it isn't coming from the hallway.

It's coming from him.

"I kept thinking," he continues, almost to himself, "that if I ignored it long enough, it'd stop being true."

His fingers curl briefly against the fabric of his sweatshirt pocket.

"It didn't."

Silence settles gently between you.

Not awkward.

Not uncertain.

Just full.

You lean lightly against the counter.

"So..."

He glances over.

"...was Joe right to ask?"

Wes closes his eyes for the briefest moment.

When he opens them again, he isn't looking out the window anymore.

He's looking at you.

"I think..." He exhales slowly. "I think Joe knew something about me before I did."

The admission hangs quietly in the morning light.

Then, almost without thinking, you ask the question that's been waiting beneath everything else.

"What happens now?"

He lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that isn't really laughter so much as disbelief.

"I've been trying to figure that out since I left last night."

His eyes drift toward the window again before finding you.

"I think..." He stops, the familiar habit almost pulling him somewhere safer.

This time he catches himself.

A small smile crosses his face.

"I'm doing it again."

You smile back.

"A little."

He nods.

"Yeah."

The room falls quiet.

When he speaks again, his voice is steadier.

"I don't know what happens now."

The honesty of it settles between you.

"I know I don't want to pretend yesterday didn't happen."

Another pause.

"I know I don't want you to feel like you have to choose anything today."

His gaze doesn't leave yours.

"And I know..."

He swallows.

"I don't want to lose you."

The words land softly.

Not as a declaration.

As a fear.

You hold his gaze, your own thoughts suddenly too tangled to separate.

Lose me.

The words echo louder than they should.

Because somewhere underneath them is another question neither of you has said out loud.

Lose me to what?

To Joe?

To the band changing?

To whatever this has become?

Wes doesn't answer the question.

Maybe he can't.

Maybe neither of you can.

The silence stretches between you, full of things neither of you knows how to name.

Then—

Three quiet knocks sound from the front door.

Neither of you moves.

🌙the potion circle:

@keerygirlie98

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@kiwiiscar

His lips are stained with just a little residual red, and you suck the popsicle back into your mouth, smirking at him.

Since then, he hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off you, and you thought it was bad when you’d first stripped off your tank top to reveal the bikini top you were wearing underneath it. You were past the point of worrying about how you looked in a bathing suit in front of your family and extended family—your friends didn’t care, your husband didn’t care, and it was too damn hot for you to care either. You’d worn a pair of jean shorts anyway, which stuck to your legs like glue, so at least they wouldn’t ride up and show everyone that you hadn’t in fact, worn the matching bikini bottom.

You’d spent the rest of the afternoon playing with the twins, the two of them squealing and laughing as Roy found the old water guns from Gator’s youth in the shed, you letting them team up against you to spray you with ice cold water from the hose, ending up soaking wet in the scorching sun, dripping with sweat and water as you urged them to calm down so they could sit quietly and eat, which didn’t help. They had the giggles for the rest of the afternoon, and insisted that you run around with them some more, chasing the bubbles they blew until they were out of reach or popped, following a grasshopper as it fled from your thunderous footsteps, until they lost sight of it and you returned to the family gathering.

“You’re too good with them,” one of your friends said as you slumped down beside her, leaning your sweaty, sunkissed self against Gator’s arm while they ran inside for a bathroom break and you got five minutes of silence amongst adults.

“They’re just kids,” you replied. “They need to have fun. Right, Gates?” You nudged Gator, and immediately regretted it.

“I mean, I ain’t complainin’,” he said, his arm slithering over your skin, a little damp with sweat, to cup one of your tits through the bikini top. “Got these things all wet ‘n slippery, gettin’ me all hot ‘n bothered just thinkin’ about ‘em.”

“Oh my god,” you said, elbowing him in the stomach and standing up; even as you did, his hand slid down over your side to your hip, then your thigh as you started to stalk away from him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yer irresistible,” he countered, sipping from his bottle of lukewarm beer, the sweat on the outside of the bottle pruning his fingers.

You flipped him off as you rejoined the girls, who grabbed one hand each and tugged you around behind them, making you try and lift them as they skipped on either side of you.

By the time you pulled yourself up into the cab of Gator’s truck hours later, the sun was starting to think about getting lower in the sky, but was still hanging up there, hazy and hot, the shimmering heat visible all along the road on the drive home.

“Fun day?” Gator asked, and you looked over, your tank top balled up in your hand, the other adjusting the air conditioning vents on your side of the truck.

“I could use about six naps,” you said, laughing. “Looking forward to the fireworks tonight. And a shower.”

Gator hummed, noncommittal. “Gonna be a fun evenin’.”

“I’m just glad to be sitting down,” you moaned, stretching your legs out a little. "I’m going to take a shower when we get home and then lie down until it’s time to go.”

Which is exactly what you did when you got home—though you only got as far as entering the bathroom. You’d untied your bathing suit top and unbuttoned your shorts, pushing them down a little over your hips, grimacing at how the denim stuck to your legs, still sweaty, practically glued to your skin, when the bathroom door opened behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder to see Gator, also shirtless, making his way in; you figured he had to take a piss, so you just continued undressing yourself, the scent of sun and sugar and sweat still clinging to you—to you both. You didn’t think much of it when Gator’s hand found its way to your lower back, until his hand slid to the side, gripping your waist, and he moved himself right up against your ass, still half-trapped in your jeans.

Glancing up to meet his eyes in the mirror, you took in his lascivious expression and immediately shook your head, even as he traced both hands now over your sides and up your warm skin, cupping your tits. You gasped as he pinched at your nipples.

“Gator—! I’m all sweaty.”

“Little sweat never hurt no one, sugar,” he said, licking a stripe up the nape of your neck, his front to your back. He boxed you in, pressing your hips against the vanity sink, and ground his hips against yours. Even through your denim shorts and the khakis he was wearing, you could feel how hard he was already. “Go on, tell me y’ain’t been wantin' this all day.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Yes, he’d been staring at you all day, and yes, you’d loved the feeling of his eyes on you, but you hadn’t really had a chance to consider it since you were basically on babysitting duty for Jessica and Maude. So, now that he was asking, well…

“Yeah,” you said, and he nosed at the wet hair at the back of your head, his tongue flicking out against your nape again, skin salty and hot. “But I’m—”

“Don’t give a fuck if yer sweaty, sugar, what part’a that ain’t ya gettin’?” Gator moved his hands down your chest again, and you could feel the little sheen of sweat collecting under your breasts, his hands sliding through it as he moved his palms flat down your stomach to press to the front of your hips.

“Let me shower first, and then we’ll—”

“We’ll just hafta shower again after,” Gator interrupted you. He took half a step back and spun you around, your eyes half-lidded with desire; he gave you credit for trying to be the voice of reason even when you were jonesing just as bad as he was. “So, whaddaya say? Y’giving me the green light?” His hands pressed against the outside of your hips, his first two fingers on your bare skin, the other two playing with the beltloops of your shorts.

“Yes,” you sighed, and even though the shorts took some finagling to work down your thighs, he pushed them off of you, helped you hoist yourself up half onto the sink, and then dropped to his knees on the tile floor of the bathroom, head perfectly between your legs.

“Holy god,” Gator said, his hands skimming up your thighs to push you as far open as he could, exposing your cunt to him, hair and skin both damp from the heat and arousal. “Don’t think I ever wanted ya this bad.”

“Fuck,” you said, one hand scrabbling against the edge of the sink to brace yourself, the other reaching forward to thread through Gator’s hair, soaked a little with sweat of his own, the strands thick between your fingers. His tongue flitted out against the expanse of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he said, breathing in the heady, musky scent of your pussy after a day of running around, of basking in the sun, of soaking up the heat. “Mm, a’right... got a little extra tang down here f’r me, huh? Like it. Love it,” he said, words muffled as he pressed his face back between your thighs, still slick with sweat, and you shivered half with self-consciousness, half with the thrill, as he inhaled deeply.

“Gator,” you said, coaxing him closer to the seam of your lips by his hair, and once his nose brushed against your mound, he opened his mouth and licked straight up, from your wet little hole to your clit.

He didn’t even pull away to make another smartass comment, didn’t have any words at all as he flicked his eyes up at you, making eye contact before just closing them and continuing what he’d started, just a little to the side.

He licked long, wide stripe up one side of your labia, collecting your arousal and the remnants of sweat that had collected there, tasting you at your most raw, most primal, almost animalistic in how he sucked at you, the obscene sounds of his tongue on you as he changed sides, the wet press of his mouth as he even delved into the fold of skin between your thigh and your mound, tasting you everywhere he possibly could.

Lapping at your entire cunt laid out before him, spread open, wide and all his for the taking, he laved over your whole pussy—lips, clit, your folds, your slit—until you were wet with his saliva and not much else, his tongue practically polishing your snatch until he pulled away and then, finally, pressed his mouth open against you. His hands pushed your thighs to the limit, spreading you open for him as you teetered on the edge of the sink, your folds slick and dripping once he spread you apart for his eager mouth.

Gator shifted his hold on your legs, curling his arms around your thighs to hold you above him as he mouthed at your folds, sucked your clit, licked and lapped and fucked you with his tongue, and the whole time, you heard him moaning too, groaning low in his chest as he ate you out like it was the last thing he’d ever do and he wanted to make sure he’d done it right, leaving behind no regrets.

Gator was so enthralled that his enthusiasm, his vigor, brought you to the edge before you even knew it was upon you, and you came, your legs spasming, pussy clenching up a little, a solid moan punched out of your throat as you lost your balance and slid off the sink right onto Gator’s face. His arms around your thighs held you up until you were able to slap your hands down on the sink again, keeping yourself stable as Gator kept his mouth on you, kept working the tip of his tongue from your clit to your hole, pulling away only once you were able to stand on your own.

“Fuck,” you breathed as he stood up, and the hair sitting hot and thick on his chest, soaked with drips of your arousal and his own sweat, tickled you as he leaned in to lick into your mouth, letting you taste yourself as he fucked you with his tongue. It was so strong, so rich, you tasted yourself, just...turned up a little more, and you groaned at how spending a few hours in the sun made things that much more tantalizing.

“Can’t get enough’a ya,” Gator said, lifting your hand from the sink and kissing each fingertip, your palm, down your forearm to your elbow and further, going so far as to press his mouth to the front of your shoulder, inhaling again.

“I’m sweaty,” you said again, self-consciousness clouding even your lust-hazy mind, and Gator pressed a short kiss to the fold of skin beneath your arm before he leaned up to kiss you—no. He was just speaking with his lips on yours.

“‘Nd I done told ya, I like it,” he said. “But I know yer tired ‘nd you wanna lie down, so. How about a quick shower before we take a nice lil’ nap?”

You lifted your arms, wrapped them around him, and tipped your chin up for a real kiss. “Perfect.” He kissed you one more time for good measure, then stepped away and turned the shower faucets on, letting the water run while he undressed himself fully as well. You could see the tan lines on his skin, the back of his neck a little red where the sun had been beating down on him, the same pink that his cheeks turned from a little exertion and the same pretty, rosy pink of the tip of his cock before he got too close to an orgasm and it flushed an even deeper color, reddening at the tip.

“Madame,” he joked, putting on a shitty French accent, holding out a hand for you to help guide you into the tub.

“Such a gentleman,” you said, but took his hand anyway and stepped into the bath. The water was cool, just enough warmth so it wouldn’t give you the shivers. 

To Gator’s credit, he fully let you bathe, washing your hair and he even helping scrub your back, kissing your shoulders as he did, and once you started to lather up your lower half, he spun you and grabbed your wrists.

“Let me,” he said, and you obeyed because you knew you’d get to clean up for real in just a little while.

He pushed you against the wall, the coolness of the tiles actually feeling wonderful on your heated skin, and as he curled two fingers into your pussy, you circled your arms around his neck and pulled his face to yours for a kiss. He obliged, letting you suck his lower lip and tongue as he circled your clit with his thumb, and just as you felt your cunt clench down in interest on his fingers, you were shaking your head.

“Wait,” you said. “No, I—want your cock.”

“All ya had ta do was ask, sugar,” Gator said, and kissed you again even as he put his hands to work. With one, he reached down to curl around your thigh, propping it up on his hip to give himself room to fuck into you—and with the other, he angled the head of his prick against you, slotting the tip into your pussy but—not moving further.

“Gator,” you whined, trying to sound threatening but probably not managing it.

“What?” he asked, like he didn’t know why you were upset. He jerked himself off against your pussy, the tip just barely breaching you, spreading you open but not actually moving in further than a centimeter or two—barely even enough to be considered inside of you, really. He just… kept his hand moving, jerking his cock off, his fingers nudging your pussy lips on each upstroke, until you were flexing your hips, pushing against him, trying to move onto him yourself.

“Fuck me,” you said, annoyed and desperate.

“What’s that?” Gator asked, like he couldn’t hear you over the rushing shower water despite being inches from your face.

“I said fuck me,” you said, keeping your voice low because he was egging you on on purpose and you refused to rise to it.

“Sorry, sugar, come again?”

“I’m trying to!” you yelled. “Fuck me! Fucking fuck me, Gator, oh my—god—!”

As your voice increased in volume, his impish grin had only grown wider and wider, until he shoved into you with one fluid motion, his cock pushing between your walls, spreading them open, impaling you on him until he was entirely seated in you, full of his heavy, fat, dick.

“That whatcha wanted?” Gator asked.

In lieu of answering, you nodded, whimpering, your forehead against his as you pouted, because now that you’d gotten your demand exactly, you were still at his mercy, even though you were rolling your hips and trying to fuck yourself on his cock. 

“That’s my good girl,” Gator said, and he lifted his chin up to kiss you, soft and sweet, still tasting like beer and cherry popsicles and your own pussy, your own musk; the kiss lasted longer than you could have hoped for, before he was pulling back out and then moving right back in, starting to fuck you at a slow, steady pace, the one you loved, where it felt like he was moving further into you with every single thrust, where it felt like you actually could never pull apart from each other after he drilled his cock into you to stay.

You kissed him languorously, reveling in the feel of it, the feel of him, lips on your lips and hands on your thighs and his cock in your cunt, stretching you out around his thick length.

“Play with them titties,” he muttered to you, because as much as you liked it—he liked watching you do it. "Go on."

You felt your cheeks warm again, like the sun had been beating down on you from in your own bathroom, but you slid your hands down his arms to your own body, fingertips trailing up your sides and front until you reached your breasts, toying with your nipples, rubbing and rolling them, pulling them to peaks as Gator watched, his lips parted a little, until he ducked down to try and take one into his mouth. The angle didn’t quite work, but it didn’t stop him—you just cupped your tit and lifted it to his mouth, and as he sucked you tipped your head back into the corner of the shower, sighing wistfully as Gator canted his hips against yours, sucked at your nipple, and then—oh—started rubbing your clit with his thumb again, too.

You would sleep good as fuck after this, of that you were sure. Fuck the fireworks, you’d be happy to let your husband make you see stars for the Fourth of July instead.

Gator pulled you closer to him, his free hand wrapping around you, palm flat on your lower back as he worked you up higher onto his hips, your shoulders leaning against the wall as he supported your weight otherwise, fucking up into you, the angle affording you the opportunity to have the ridge of his cock grinding against your g-spot now, every single time he moved back into you, and with the pressure inside of you mixed with the pressure on your clit, his thumb rubbing smooth circles over it, with his mouth on your nipple, and with your other hand tugging at the other sensitive nub yourself—it didn’t surprise you at all when you felt yourself tensing up, ready to come, the rush between your legs building and building and then impossible to bear, unknowably strong and then you came—

Your cunt spasmed around Gator’s cock, the release in your lower body making you half-moan, half-scream in relief, and you had no knowledge of it until Gator was licking into your mouth again, mumbling words that you were still too fucked out to comprehend, his hips sliding against yours, his cock buried deep inside you as you felt him twitching uncontrollably as he came, filling you so amply that you could already feel it dripping right back out of you around his cock.

“—kin’ squirted,” he said. “Ya fuckin’ squirted, didja hear me? Fuckin’ Christ in Heaven, sugar, you fuckin’ came all over me.”

“What?” you asked, as Gator bullied you up against the wall of the shower, his arms wrapped around you, tight as anything as his cock started to soften inside you, spent, both of you panting a little.

He lowered one hand down between you again, fingertips rubbing over your clit, making you gush weakly around him again, aftershocks rattling you, legs jerking a little around his hips.

“This perfect lil’ puss squirted fer me,” he said, kissing you again. “Next time ya better not let it go t’waste in the shower again.”

Your brain finally clicked back to its On setting as he pulled out of you. “You’re so gross.”

“How many times I gotta tell ya I like it ‘fore it sinks in, huh?” He said, tapping on your temple with his clean hand, now that your feet were firmly back on the shower floor. “Now, lemme clean ya up f’real, yeah?”

A small smile curved your lips. “Yeah,” you replied, and let your husband help you wash up. You did the same for him, and when you both curled into the sheets for a late afternoon nap, it was accidentally on purpose that neither of you remembered to set an alarm for the fireworks show.

Since there was really no room for you by the stove or the counter, the table was already set, and you were hungry, you hesitantly made your way over to the empty seat beside Gator, his eyes trailing you the whole time. 

Bowman’s chair was empty as well, and when you pulled your seat out from the table, you lowered yourself into it, waiting for a reprimand from Roy, but he was still focused on the twins. Gator was the one who spoke instead.

“This ain’t what I meant,” he said, voice low but hurried, like he wanted to say it without anyone else but you knowing. “Just—y’hear that, a’right?”

You turned to look at him, scrunching up your face, because you didn’t understand but you didn’t want to hear shit from him either. You just met his eyes, then lowered your gaze and looked away from him again, over at the twins. Jessica waved to you from across the table, while Maude spoke.

“Why did you leave,” she didn’t ask, but demanded. “We woke up. You were gone.”

“The floor isn’t super comfortable,” you said, putting on a slightly exaggerated frown. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Jessica said, but before Maude could comment, Karen and a few of the ranch hands’ wives began carrying over food, pitchers of juice, and serving. Karen gave you a look, taking in the sight of you already seated, and pursed her lips, but sat down in her seat across from Gator and waited for Roy to lift his hands to say grace.

As always, you kept your face angled down and only moved to place your hands in Bowman’s and Gator’s. Bowman’s grip, as always, was firm and sturdy, the way you’d expect someone to shake hands, while it felt like Gator had held your hand differently every single time you’d placed your palm atop his. This time, it was loose again, his hand simply a place for yours to rest, not holding it but just letting it sit on his palm as though it were a bird alighting on a branch. You pulled it back as soon as “Amen” rung out from around the table, and watched as Karen served Roy and the girls, then herself, and then placed the utensils back into the bowl. It was clear what you were meant to do.

Even so, you refused to. You served yourself eggs and potatoes and, to make your point, stuck the serving spoons back into the dishes before pouring yourself juice and then picking up your fork to eat. Karen, Roy, Gator, and even Bowman all stared at you as you began eating your breakfast, leaving Gator’s plate empty.

After a moments’ hesitation, Gator lifted his hand to help himself.

“Stop.”

All eyes—all eyes—at the table turned to Roy, who was focused solely on you.

“Allow me to explain something to you,” he said, looking pointedly at the fork in your hand, plainly meaning for you to put it down. You didn’t, and when you didn’t, Roy looked down at his plate, amused, almost, a cold smile on his face. “Now, what you need to understand is that if I choose to discipline—well, you. Karen. My children”—your heart sank at the thought of Roy hitting either of those little girls across from you—“I do it to teach them something. Instruction.” He smiled just a little wider. “Guidance. Do you understand that?”

You swallowed, thickly, audibly probably, but didn’t acknowledge Roy other than keeping your eyes on his.

“First time, I’ll admit…” He snickered. “You got me, little miss. Caught me off guard. Really, you did it to yourself.” Beside you, Gator tensed, but Roy continued speaking before he could interject, like there was some chance he actually might. “I’m not sure what other choice you thought I might have after you tried something like that. But I digress. I’m explaining this to you so you understand that the next time you try to pull a stunt like this one—not serving Gator here his breakfast, talking back, ignoring or disobeying what you’re told to do—you won’t get a warning. You’ll get a lesson learned on the back of my hand.” He leaned over the table toward you; even Gator flinched a little backward. “Is that sinkin’ in?”

You said nothing—what was there to say? Your cheeks were hot and your stomach was in knots; he’d just threatened you in front of his staff and his family. Even the twins were silent, and yet your only response was to reach your hand out to pick up the spoon you’d stuck in the eggs and pile some onto Gator’s plate.

&&

Neither you, Gator, or Karen spoke during the meal, though the girls were chatty enough, and by the time Roy dismissed the hands and their wives, to let them go about their business out in the fields or the barn or in town, you stayed seated because Gator did, and you didn’t want to incur Roy’s ire more than you already had.

“You’ll be with Karen today,” Roy said, looking at you. “Help with the girls, shadow her as she does the finances. Learn a little bit about caring for a home.” He sipped the dregs of coffee remaining in his mug. “And you,” he said, directing it toward Gator. “You’ll be helping finish the bathroom over in the other house.”

“Dad,” Gator started to say, but Roy spoke over him.

“The sooner it’s all buttoned up over there, the sooner you can move your things in. At least the basics.” Roy stood up, gesturing to you, indicating that now he was speaking to you. “In time he’ll be fully moved in, so I hope you didn’t get too comfortable in there.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, just as cold and bitter as you felt. “I didn’t.”

Roy either missed or ignored your tone and just slid his coffee mug over to Karen, who stood from the table and crossed to the coffee maker to refill it, sliding the carafe out from where it was still half-full and pouring him another mugful. 

As Karen handed him the mug, her free hand curling over his shoulder, Roy continued, “I hope you don’t think Gator will make the same mistake twice.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, choosing not to acknowledge the way you saw Gator turn to look at you out of the corner of your eye.

“You don’t fuckin’ learn,” Gator said, drawing a frown from you and what appeared to be a smirk from Roy.

“She’s your problem now, son,” Roy said. “Make sure she knows how you deal with ‘em.”

Gator didn’t look away from you, didn’t even react to what Roy had said. You had the wherewithal to understand, at least, that there was something unsaid between the people still left in the room, yourself excluded, and you also understood that whatever it was, it would make itself known when Roy allowed it to be. Keeping you in the dark, keeping you ignorant, was his greatest weapon.

The tension grew thicker each moment that you all sat there, Roy leaning against the back of his chair, nursing his coffee mug, until finally he placed it down half-finished beside his plate.

“Day’s growing long,” Roy announced. “Get to it. I’ll be at the station if you need me,” he added to Karen. And then, to you and Gator: “I can’t wait to see what you do with the place.”

&&

Your first task, while Karen cleaned up the kitchen, was to get the girls ready for the day, after which you joined Karen while she went through bills and wrote out checks and made phone calls and checked on the girls and then sat with them for more lessons, which you’d experienced before, early on in your time here. They didn’t want you to leave after you made them lunch, but Karen was all too glad to see Bowman come collect you once the work was finished on the bathroom, and you had to admit that you were thrilled to get out of the main house and back to the small little haven you’d been given, even though now it was going to house Gator along with you. He’d been acting differently, acting like he wanted you to trust him, but you wouldn’t and you weren’t going to. Ever. He was from here, this crazy fucking place, and you couldn’t trust anyone. You barely even trusted Jessica and Maude not to tell Karen or Roy anything you said, and they were children. All of it going on around you, to you, was making you paranoid.

And Aidy. You just had to hold out hope that no one had found her and that she was still ok after being alone for so long. How could you feed her without Gator knowing? You’d have to sneak her out of the mudroom and upstairs into the bathroom where you’d stashed the milk supplement. God forbid he found the ones you had downstairs in a kitchen cabinet.

The door to the carriage house was not only unlocked when you arrived, but it was fully open. You scowled—that would just be letting cold air in and the heat out. You had half a mind to ask if Gator was raised in a barn, but… well.

Stepping into the house, leaving Bowman outside, you took a look around the living area, glancing into the kitchen. Both empty. 

“Hello?” you called, your voice tight and throaty, worried that he would be in here, worried that he wouldn’t be. It felt like walking into a haunted house, the belly of the beast, a lair where anything could be lurking. But there was no answer.

Emboldened, probably and stupidly unwise, you pulled the front door closed behind you, tired of the chill that it was allowing to permeate the room, and made a beeline for the mudroom and uncovered Aidy from where you’d left her. She began purring as soon as you picked her up, squeaking and meowing and wiggling from inside the towel you’d left her wrapped up in. You held her tightly to your chest, wanting her to not only feel your warmth but to feel comfort, feel security. If you couldn’t have it, at least she could.

It was too risky to mix food and feed her in the kitchen, so you just positioned her against your body and peeked out of the mudroom door, just your head looking down the hallway.

“Hello?” you called again, waiting for an answer, but still, there wasn’t one. 

Where was he?

Holding Aidy close, trying to keep her well out of sight, you bustled past the downstairs bathroom—you'd look at it later, like you really even cared about the way they’d rebuilt it—and hurried into the kitchen. Positioning the cat so she would be out of sight if he surprised you in there, you grabbed a cup and a spoon, then scurried up the stairs. The bathroom on the second floor was right across from the balustrade, and as you rounded the newel post at the top of the flight, you heard shuffling footsteps from further down the hall.

You rushed toward the bathroom, desperate not to be spotted, and glanced over to your right at the last moment. Gator was emerging from the master bedroom just as you passed through the bathroom door.

“Hey,” he said, but you slammed the door shut, hoping that a closed bathroom door still afforded you privacy even with a Tillman in the house. You didn't move from where you stood in the center of the room, cradling the cat, and you heard the floor shifting a little as he approached.

There was a pause, then a couple of quiet knocks. “Hey.”

“I'm a little busy,” you said.

“Yeah, uh—listen,” he said.

“I'm busy,” you said, exasperated and not even faking it.

“A’right. I'll—be downstairs. I wanna talk to ya.”

You said nothing in response, and after a moment you heard him walk away, the stairs creaking as he descended.

Exhaling heavily, you lifted Aidy to your face, pressing your nose and mouth against her before letting her rub against your cheek, and then you deposited her, towel and all, into the sink, turning to face the toilet.

If they'd found it, you would have been punished. If they'd found it, you wouldn't be standing here right now with a hungry kitten depending on you. If they'd found it, you would have known. 

And still, as you reached for the lid to the tank, your hands shook with nerves. If the food was missing, there was nothing you could do for Aidy. Nothing.

The porcelain scraped as you lifted the lid, but the containers were still there, and you could have sobbed with relief.

“Hey, it's ok, Aidy,” you said, quietly, and also to yourself, mostly. “It's still here.”

You checked both containers, wiping them dry with toilet paper, and they still seemed fully sealed and perfectly ok to give to the kitten. Replacing the lid on the tank carefully so as not to alert Gator that you weren't just going to the bathroom up here, you went about mixing some of the milk powder with water from the tap, stirring it thoroughly and then offering it to Aidy on the spoon. She drank it ravenously, and you took a shaky breath. She must have been starving.

Petting her gently with the thumb of your other hand, you let her eat her fill, then watched as she snuggled back into the towel and fell asleep. Before lifting the lid off the toilet tank again, you chanced a look under the sink and were thrilled, actually, to see various cleaning products had been placed there. It appeared to be a lot of what you'd been provided to clean the house, along with extra rolls of toilet paper, some drain cleaner, and various cleaning brushes. You shoved the milk containers into the far back, where Gator would probably miss them—if he ever even went under here at all, which you doubted—then straightened up.

You'd done your work for the day, apparently, because all you'd been told to do was figure out how you (and Gator, but fuck him) wanted to organize the house. As far as you were concerned, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted with the furniture as long as he stayed out of the smaller bedroom that you'd claimed for yourself. Rubbing your face with both hands, you turned to the mirror, looking at your reflection. You looked the same, you guessed—it had been a couple of rough weeks, but you were proud of yourself for holding up. The bruise on your eye was fading, but it was a sickly green, turning from the purple it had been previously, with some yellow stretching down your cheek and up near your temple. You stared as long as you could, but then had to turn away—it was making you sick to your stomach, the thought that Roy had done that to you and no one had even seemed to care, much less think twice about it.

A thought struck you—and only part of it was you trying to delay having to go downstairs to talk to Gator. You stripped your clothing off, turning the water on in the shower, and watched as it ran brown for a couple of minutes as it heated up. This house, somehow, actually had hot water. You could have laughed—you hadn't taken a warm shower since you'd been brought here. Once the water draining out of the bottom of the tub was clear, you stepped in, realizing after you did that there weren't any toiletries there, no shampoo or soap but you didn't fucking care. The water was hot and your skin thrummed as it beat down against you. You ran your hands over your body, grinning as you closed your eyes and held your face beneath the spray. It felt like the water was cleansing you, even though you couldn't slough off anything without soap.

The water ran over you for a long time—long enough that your fingers turned pruney and your body felt numb with the sheer temperature of the shower. Steam had filled the room—you could see the mist hovering above you, and when you turned off the water and drew the curtain to the side, the air was viscous, thick, and without the hot water cascading down onto you, you felt a little chill.

There were no towels in here either, other than the one Aidy was wrapped in, but you didn't fucking care about that either. That shower was one of the first things you'd done without permission on this ranch that wouldn't get you in trouble. And that felt freeing.

&&

After practically leaping from the bathroom into your small bedroom to tuck Aidy away and dress yourself, you hesitantly walked downstairs with your hair dripping onto your shoulders. You'd found, upon opening the closet, that all of the clothes you'd had in the main house were hung or folded neatly for you, and the clothes that you'd arrived in were there too. Your jacket. Your own boots, not the workboots you'd been given.

You tried to remember that this was not a kindness, it was undoubtedly a manipulation to make you trust them, because they'd given you your own property back.

You grabbed a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, pulling on thick socks as well, then returned to the first floor. Gator was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, clearly waiting for you. He had his phone in one hand, scrolling, and was tapping each fingertip in turn onto the table. He looked up at you as you walked into the kitchen.

“Home sweet home, huh?” you asked.

Huffing a sigh, he locked his phone, set it down on the table, and then gestured to the chair perpendicular to him. “Sit.”

You didn’t move, just watched him.

He watched you back, the scowl fixed to his mouth, and then kicked the chair out by one of the legs, his foot against it, skidding it across the floor. “I said, sit.”

A beat. Two. Stretching into a long moment. Then, you said, “No.”

Testing the waters. Testing him. You saw the irritation flick across his face, but just as quickly his expression turned impassive again.

“Fine,” he said. He kicked his feet up onto the chair that he’d moved away from the table, crossing them at the ankles, and looked up at you. “We need t’set some ground rules.”

“Like what?” you asked. “You’re here to watch me. What could I do?”

Gator continued as though you hadn’t spoken. “Y’ain’t gonna try t’run again. Y’ain’t gonna make me look fuckin’ stupid like that again.”

“You made yourself look stupid,” you said. “You left the door unlocked.”

“You know you ain’t s’posed ta go out.”

You looked at him like he was the dumbest fucker on the planet. “Yeah, because your dad is holding me fucking hostage. I’m not supposed to go out because I’m a prisoner. Jesus Christ, you’re even dumber than you look.”

Gator tensed, you saw him, but he managed to keep himself steady in his chair. “Now, you listen,” he said, and his voice was shaking with the effort of remaining seated, you could tell. You’d touched a nerve. “This could all go one’a two ways. Either you listen t’me ‘nd mine, ‘nd maybe yer time here ain’t so fuckin’ bad. Or, you keep talkin’ back and learn”—each word thereafter grew louder, angrier, so much so that you took half a step back with each syllable he spit out—“every fuckin’ LESSON the goddamn HARD way. So you tell me, girly—which sounds better to ya?  Huh? The easy way, or the way that ends the way y’don’t want it t’end?”

“You think I’m scared of you?” you asked.

“Oh, no,” Gator said, and with that, his boots hit the kitchen floor again and he stood up, but he didn’t make his way over to you. He just stood at the table, his hands leaning onto it as he bent slightly at the waist, lowering himself to look at you on your eye level. “I don’t think yer nearly fuckin’ scared enough.”

“And you care? What, now it bothers you?”

Gator’s lip curled up on one side, half grimace, half smirk. “You think I like this? Bein’ made t’play babysitter to a little uppity bitch who won’t behave?”

“Don’t blame me because you can’t remember the one thing you’re responsible for on this fucking ranch,” you said. “You had one job and you fucked it up. I guess locking a door is too complicated for someone who’s had everything handed to him since day one by Daddy.”

“And now I’m locked in here with ya,” Gator said, “so watch who yer fuckin’ talkin’ to.” He straightened up, rounding the table to step closer to you. “You ferget real easy, missy, I came ta get y’outta here. Brought ya food. Set the goddamn time for ya.” You rolled your eyes exaggeratedly, because the bar was literally below sea level and he still couldn’t find his way over it. “Only thing y’got between you and Roy is me.”

“Oh, right, I’m your problem now,” you said.

“Problem is fuckin’ right,” he said. “Any bullshit you pull reflects on me. ‘Nd the harder it is fer me around here, harder it gets fer you. Y’wanna act like y’got a fuckin’ sense’a self-preservation, look the fuck around ya.”

You studied him, keeping silent, because he was saying a lot more than he realized—or maybe he was giving you information without explicitly giving you information. Intentionally. Covertly.

“Is that why you do whatever he tells you?” you asked, a little quieter now, though you were still angry.

“We ain’t talkin’ about me,” Gator said. “We’re talkin’ about you, ‘nd how things’re gonna be now that we’re in this fuckin’ house together.”

It was your turn to continue as though Gator hadn’t spoken. “Why don’t you just—leave?”

And Gator—he did the same, both of you having a one-sided conversation at the other. “Yer gonna listen, startin’ now. Yer gonna do the work they give ya, shut the fuck up, ‘nd come back here at the end of the day.”

“We could both go,” you said, trying to speak over him. “We could—you have to know who the crooked cops are, right? The ones your dad has in his pocket. Find a good one who can help us.”

“There ain’t no us,” Gator said, voice very nearly cracking. “There’s me, and there’s you, and you gotta learn to listen to me. Get it? That’s how this shit works.”

“And then what? Hm? I just wither away and die on this ranch?”

Gator snickered. “If I’m lucky.”

“Fuck you,” you said. “Fuck you, and fuck this place, and fuck your dad for making you think this is how you have to be. You know it’s not like this out there, right? Off of this—dirt farm? I know you, you go—you go into town or the city or whatever. You see normal people. You see how—the world actually is. What did he do to you? To make you think this is right?”

Gator stepped closer, his boots heavy on the checkered tiles. “See, that’s just the thing. The world’s exactly what he says it is. Fuckin’ people out there—you—can’t see it. He got it all figured out. Cracked it. He knows what’s right, ‘nd that ain’t always the law, the written law. The law of the land’s what he follows.” He looked down his nose at you. “‘Nd those laws ain’t always pretty.”

You held his gaze for as long as you could, but finally, you turned away, shaking your head.

“Givin’ up?” Gator asked, as you moved away from him, back to the couch where you’d slept for several days. Where Gator had insisted he was trying to help you after Roy hit you. You didn’t answer his question, and you heard him snicker. “That was easy.”

“Fuck you,” you said again, half-heartedly, and he didn’t answer you but you did hear his footsteps approaching as you sunk down onto the couch.

“Gave my old man such a hard time, but y’just give up, just like that? Thought y’had more fight in ya.”

“I thought you did too,” you said, and given the silence, you could tell you’d thrown him.

“Fuck’s that mean?” he asked after a beat.

“Half the time you’re acting like you sympathize. The other half you’re your dad’s little soldier. Now you’re…whatever the fuck you’re being now. What, did he tell you you could do whatever you want with me in here as long as you convince me to behave?” You turned to look at him, at the indignant frown on his face, the way you could tell he wanted to be contrary but had no words to refute yours. “You made me ice. And now it’s, ‘this is how things are gonna be with us in this house together’ and ‘you’re gonna listen to me starting now.’” 

You let your eyes move over him, his shoulders, stretching the jacket that he’d offered to you. His wrist, twisted by his father when he defied him because you had first. His eyes, that had actually almost looked pained when you’d slapped his hand away from your face the first night you’d spent in here. 

“You didn’t know he was going to make you come in here with me, did you?” you asked.

Gator didn’t reply.

“So what changed between then and now, that you’re all big and tough and making demands?”

He held your gaze, his lips a thin line. “How ‘bout we don’t ask each other questions," he said, and the tone and inflection, despite the phrasing, let you know he was telling.

“Only if you think about the answers to what I already asked you,” you said. “Are you just having a tantrum because he punished you?”

“I ain’t havin’ a tantrum,” Gator said dismissively.

“You didn’t know, you obviously aren’t happy—and you’re not even trying to change his mind. He broke you and now he wants you to break me, is that it?”

“You don’t know what yer fuckin’ talkin’ about,” he said.

“You just can’t see it. Or you don’t want to.” You looked up at him from the couch, and his demeanor had shifted, from the asshole who’d come in hot to the man plaintively trying to get you to just listen. 

“Ain’t nothin’ t’see,” he said, dismissively.

You scoffed. “Keep telling yourself that.” You turned back around, staring into the corner of the room, waiting for him to leave or go upstairs or better—outside, locking you in with your solitude, which you’d come to realize you’d been taking for granted.

“You, uh,” he said, and despite yourself, you tipped your head a little, betraying that you were listening because you didn’t want to even acknowledge him. “You really only 21?”

Taking a moment to internalize the question, you shifted yourself on the couch to look at him, your elbow pressing into the cushioned arm as you turned, an unamused smirk set on your lips. “Not yet.”

“You’re 20,” he said, and his expression, which you could tell he was fighting to keep unreadable, looked troubled. You wondered which version of him was the real one: This man, or that monster.

You bit back the gibe about being proud that he could do simple math and instead just shrugged. “Does he tell you anything?”

Gator opened his mouth, closed it, and looked toward the front door, the afternoon sun shining in through the window. “When he wants me t’know it, yeah.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice low, and the afternoon ticked slowly by as you both spent the rest of it in silence.

“I mean, yes, I will go with you, if only to make sure you don’t end up drooling over the wrong nerd in a fedora.”

“I avoid men in fedoras like the plague,” you replied.

Your sister rolled her eyes at you. “I remember—”

“That was in high school,” you said. “And I dumped him after he said m’lady.”

“So what time are we going?” she asked you, finishing up folding the towels she’d just pulled from the dryer and picking up the stack, heading over to the linen closet in the hall.

“After dinner?” you replied. “If you don’t mind me staying.”

This time, she rolled her eyes. “You practically live here anyway.”

“Only because my game room isn’t set up yet. I need this bar.”

“And you need me as your wingwoman,” she said. “Chinese ok for dinner?”

You grinned. “You know who you’re talking to, right?”

&&

Sue’s—the new retro barcade that was currently hosting its grand opening—was a short walk from your apartment. Your sister had made you stop at your place on the way so she could steal some of your clothes, not wanting to look like a normie (her word, not yours). You’d told her it didn’t matter what she wore, but that didn’t stop her from taking your Kingdom Hearts 2 t-shirt and tying it up into a cute crop top.

You, however, had opted for your Ms. Pac-Man shirt because the bar was literally named after one of the ghosts and you were nothing if not a sucker for a gimmick. After a quick couple of pregaming shots, you two made your way to the bar, actually a little surprised that there was a line to wait on.

“Your people come out in droves for this kind of shit,” your sister said, and you just laughed a little to yourself.

“Yeah, well, we like to be let out of our enclosures on occasion,” you joked back, and she just rolled her eyes, stepping forward as the line moved, and after a few minutes, you were actually let into the bar itself.

It was dimly lit inside, but not too dim to be able to see, red and blue lights washing everyone and everything out, but the decor was great. Vintage arcade games lined the back wall, a pool and air hockey table were adjacent to the bar on either side, and you even saw a door to a separate room with a sign reading “PC방” above it. That sounded promising and kind of fun—but it was packed, and so you made your way to the bar instead.

A couple of cosmos later, and you were eyeing the retro Street Fighter II console while your sister was pushing you off of your stool.

“I’ll be right here,” she said, slapping her phone down on the bar and opening up her crossword puzzle app.

“So much for wingwoman,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder and making your way to the token machine. You fished a $10 out of your wallet, took one of the Sue’s Bar + Arcade branded cups to fill with your tokens, and then made your way to the Street Fighter game.

Just as soon as you placed a hand on it, someone else did at the exact same moment, and you sighed inwardly, because you’d definitely gotten there first, and you didn’t feel like getting into an argument with some douchebag about it.

“Oops, sorry,” the other person said, and when you lifted your eyes to his face, you found him smiling at you. He even retracted his hand.

“No problem,” you said, taking that to mean he was about to step away, and leave you to play as God herself (Chun Li) in peace.

“Well,” he said, and you tried not to roll your eyes in a way that was super obvious and allow him to see. “I’ve kinda been waiting for this game to open up all night.”

You shrugged. “I won’t be long. I want to go play Contra after,” you said, pointing over the guy’s left shoulder to another console.

He looked, and then turned right back around. “Would you believe that was my next stop too?” He smiled again, and you noticed, as the overhead lights shifted from red to blue, the freckles on his cheek, the way his eyes crinkled a little.

“No shit,” you said, a little smile making itself known. But just a little one.

“Nope,” he said, and you watched as his smile faltered a little, obviously unsure of how to progress the conversation. That tracked for a guy in a barcade.

“Well,” you said, plucking a couple tokens out of the cup you’d settled onto the console. “What if we play this together… and then move over to Contra?”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, then held out your hand, introducing yourself.

He took it, shaking your hand, then spoke. “I’m Keys.”

“Keys. Really?” you asked.

“Really,” he said, keeping a straight face, and you just laughed quietly.

“Ok, gamer,” you said, “let’s go.”

You chose, of course, Chun Li, while Keys went with Dhalsim.

“I’ve never seen anyone pick him before,” you commented, and Keys just smirked over at you.

“I’ve played a lot of Street Fighter in my day,” he said. He reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pair of glasses, slipping them on. You bit your lip, because he looked even cuter with them on.  “Just watch.” 

And you did. Because he schooled you. You were no slouch when it came to the game either, and even though you’d decided on best two out of three, it didn’t even matter—he wiped you in all three games, because you’d insisted on the third after he won the first two.

Sighing heavily, you rested your arms on the edge of the console and pressed your forehead to it, scowling to yourself because you didn’t want him to see how upset you were.

“Hey, c’mon,” Keys said, his voice soft even though he had to speak loudly over the din of the bar. “I didn’t want to go too easy on you… figured you wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“No, it’s fine. I just—I’ve never had my ass so thoroughly handed to me before,” you said, straightening up.

Keys gave you a small smile before he spoke again, leaning his hip on the game. “Could I also maybe… pay for a drink to be handed to you?”

“You want to buy me a drink?”

“Least I could do,” Keys said, “for destroying you. In a video game, I mean.”

“Yeah, ok. True.” You picked up your cup of tokens and followed him over to the bar, sitting opposite your sister. When you looked over, she was watching you, and she waggled her eyebrows at you, nodding approvingly as Keys removed his glasses and slipped them back into his pocket. You subtly flipped her off as Keys ordered a Guinness (draft, not bottle), and then he turned to you, his hand accidentally nudging your upper arm as he did.

“Ack, sorry,” he said, and it brought you back to high school when you guy friends would touch you unintentionally. Half awkward, half endearing. “What did you want?”

“I’ll just have a cosmo,” you said to the bartender, and Keys grinned.

“Pink like Sue,” he said, as the bartender filled a glass with beer for Keys, then stepped away to go mix your drink up.

“Only at first,” you replied. “She turned purple later.” 

“Very true,” he said, sipping his drink. “So—you’re into retro games, clearly… Street Fighter and Contra. What else do you like to play?”

“A little bit of everything,” you replied, nodding to the bartender when he placed your cocktail in front of you with a napkin. The garnish was an orange peel, cut into the shape of one of the Pac-man ghosts. “I dabble, I guess.”

“Dabble,” Keys repeated. “In everything, really?”

“Kind of!” you replied. “Shooters, visual storybooks, walking sims… dating sims.”

Keys smirked. “Like the Arcade Spirits kind of dating sim, or the HuniePop kind?”

“Who showed you my Steam library?” you asked, and at that, you both laughed. “No, try Dream Daddy.”

“I think you can tell a lot about a person by their first dream daddy and their favorite dream daddy,” Keys said.

“Oh yeah?” you asked. “Who are yours?”

“First was obviously Mat,” Keys said. “But favorite? I dunno, there’s just something about Hugo.”

You lifted your drink to your lips, nodding as you took a sip, pondering deeply. “Ok. Yeah, I think you’ve just shown me a side of yourself no one else in here knows.”

“What about you?” he asked, leaning on the bar.

“My first was Craig,” you said, and he scoffed. “What! You have eyes. He’s cute.”

“He is…good-looking,” Keys agreed.

“And my favorite is Robert.”

Keys sucked his teeth. “Yeah, ok. I know you now.”

“Whatever,” you said, grinning into your cocktail. “Now that we’ve bared our souls, let’s just enjoy our drinks.”

You may have imagined it, but he moved a little closer, just a touch.

&&

“I am telling you,” you said, as the two of you wended your way through the crowd toward Contra. “Chris Redfield punching a rock is stupid.”

“Chris Redfield punching a rock, yes, would be stupid,” Keys agreed, as you reached the game, currently occupied by another player. He stepped up and placed a token on the console, signifying that he wanted to play next. “But he punched a boulder.”

“That’s what makes it so dumb,” you said vehemently, and Keys just nodded along as you went on your diatribe. “He’s a regular guy. He might be STARS or whatever, but they’re just regular guys.”

“Do you think Leon could punch a boulder?”

You stopped, biting the inside of your cheek. You’d told him just a few minutes ago how Leon was the ideal guy in the Resident Evil franchise, how he had it all: looks, one-liners, personality. Even in the newest installment where he was 30 years older and more grizzled, you’d still let him hit. (And then you felt absolutely mortified about saying that to a guy who you’d just met.)

“Shut up,” you said, and Keys laughed.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” he said, as the guy currently at the Contra console died, using his last life, and then ambled away from the machine.

“Thanks,” you said after him, because he could very well have chosen to play some more but let you and Keys have the machine.

You both slotted tokens in, and since this was a co-op game, kept your conversation going.

“I’m an Ada guy myself,” he said.

“You would be,” you replied, running your character through the sidescrolling game. 

“You like Claire?”

You scoffed, picking up a powerup in the game so your gun was better. “Try Countess Alcina Dimitrescu,” you said, and Keys hummed approvingly. “Or, honestly. Heinsenberg.”

Keys glanced at you. “How could I possibly measure up?”

You looked at him sharply, shocked that a guy who hadn’t even known how to ask you to play Street Fighter with him was being so brave now. Must have been the liquid courage of the beer.

“Well, you’re real, for starters,” you said. “So that’s like, several ticks in your favor.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Big time.”

Contra went great actually, and since no one was waiting for you after you’d both lost all of your lives, you started another game, the two of you working exceptionally well, in sync, and you got to the end of the game before both of you died one final time, the “Enter Token” message flashing on the Start screen again.

“Damn,” Keys said, but before he could keep talking, your sister popped up at your elbow.

“I’m gonna get out of here,” she said, looking Keys up and down, then turning back to you. “You good?”

“I’m good,” you replied, giving her a hug and a kiss goodbye.

“You coming back to my place?”

“Not sure yet,” you said, which was maybe a little too telling, but whatever. 

“All right. Have fun. Be safe,” she said, then pinched your elbow before she walked away.

“My sister,” you said, by way of explanation.

“I could tell,” Keys said, leading you away from the game over to the section of the bar featuring claw machines. “You look uncannily alike.”

“Because it’s so dark in here,” you said, watching as he pulled out a handful of tokens from his pocket and fiddling with them in his hand as he scoped out the machines. “She’s way older than me.” And she would kill you if she ever heard you say that.

Keys smirked, then took a step toward a machine, turning back toward you to make sure you’d follow. You did. You watched in silence as he poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, concentrating deeply as he put in the required number of tokens, moved the hook, nudged it again a little more, a little more, a little more—then slapped the button to lower the claw.

With bated breath, you both watched as the claw lowered down into the jumble of Kirby plushies, and because it had been quite expertly placed, hooked perfectly around one of the round little bodies and clamped down on it, lifting it into the air. For a moment it looked like it would fall out—but no, down he fell through the chute and into Keys’ waiting hand.

Your expression changed from pleased to surprised as Keys handed the plushie to you.

“How’d you know I like Kirby?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Everyone likes Kirby.”

You took it, hugged it. “Thank you,” you said. “I have plenty of tokens left over, too. I can try to win you something.”

“Maybe next time?” Keys said. “The lights in here are getting to me.”

“Oh,” you said, because again—you weren’t sure if he was angling or just informing you he wanted to leave. So, you took matters into your own hands. “Well, I have normal lights at my place. Like, warm white, low wattage. Super easy on the eyes.”

Keys nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Would you also happen to have, like, a Nintendo Switch?”

“I would,” you said.

“With… Mario Kart?”

“Of course,” you replied.

“Well,” he said. “I guess you convinced me to hang out with you some more. To be clear, it’s because you have a game I like.”

“Right,” you said, heading to the bar to close out the tab you’d made earlier with your sister. “Obviously, duh.”

The walk back to your apartment wasn’t overly long, but a few steps out of the barcade, you felt Keys’ fingers brushing against yours. Without acknowledging them, you turned your hand to his and let him take it. His hand was warm and soft, and as he laced his fingers in between yours, you turned and hid your face in the Kirby plush, because oh my god.

Your apartment was a very recent acquisition—you’d moved in like, literally, two weeks ago, and so everything was still shiny and neat and clean. The spare bedroom hadn’t been set up yet but all of your gaming stuff was in there.

“You can grab a drink if you want,” you said, gesturing to the kitchen, “I’ll be right back.”

You heard the refrigerator door open as you made your way down the hall, grabbing the milk crate that held your Switch stuff, and by the time you’d picked it up and turned around, Keys was silhouetted in the doorway. He reached in, flicked the light switch, and you saw his eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” he said. “You’re like… hard core.”

“I stream in my spare time,” you said. “Been a rough couple weeks without it.”

“I bet,” he replied. “If you want any help setting your stuff up… just let me know.”

“Thank you,” you said, “but for now, I need to kick your ass off Rainbow Road.”

His grin widened but his eyes narrowed. “Oh, you think so.”

“There will not be a repeat of Street Fighter,” you said. “I swear on my Atari 2600.” You jerked your chin to the side, where the retro console that had once belonged to your dad sat atop your otherwise empty desk, a place of honor since it was the only thing unpacked.

“Loser pays for dinner,” Keys said.

“It’s like… 10:30,” you replied.

“Breakfast then?” he asked.

You were so taken aback by his proposition that you scoffed, laughed, and then said, “You know what? Sure. Impress me and maybe I’ll let you buy me breakfast.”

“Wait… so I have to buy even if I win?”

You nodded. “Yup!”

Keys scoffed, but it was more of a laugh than anything else, and he took the milk crate of game paraphernalia from you as you led him back to your living room area, which was immaculate because you spent more time at your sister’s place than you did here. You’d slept at her apartment at least five nights since you’d moved in.

Despite your attempts to elbow Keys out of your way and set up the switch yourself, he didn’t let you, instead uncoiling wires and plugging things in, and so you just went to your kitchen and grabbed a drink for yourself, since you’d clocked that he’d already helped himself to a can of Monster, a wonderful choice after you’d both had alcohol. You grabbed the pitcher of iced tea instead and poured yourself a cup, carrying it back to the couch, sitting down and watching the boy you’d brought back here on a whim set up your video game console for you.

“You an Animal Crossing guy?” you asked.

“Eh,” he said. “I played during the pandemic but fell off of it. You?”

“Still logging in every day.”

“You have to show me your island,” he said.

“Maybe later,” you said. “You’re not getting out of this ass-kicking I’m about to bestow upon you.”

Keys smirked, coming to sit beside you on the couch, handing you one of the controllers and settling in, his knee absolutely resting against yours. You chose to ignore it because he was not going to psych you out using physical touch as psychological warfare.

“Let’s do best three out of five. First one’s a practice race,” you said, starting up the game.

“Sounds fair,” Keys agreed, and when you came in 1st and he came in 6th in the practice round, you felt much, much better about things.

But because the universe could not let you exist peacefully, you ended up tied with two races each after the practice round you’d given yourselves. You’d both already decided to have Rainbow Road as your last race, so it kept getting pushed back as you won, or as he won, and so race 5 was the lucky one. You selected Rainbow Road from the map screen, and then locked the fuck in as Keys took one last swig of his Monster, your tea all but forgotten and surely no longer iced after being out on the floor beside your couch for so long.

It was tense: He picked up a blue shell almost immediately, but you purposely held back just enough to keep yourself out of 1st place. You pulled out in front of Luigi (both of you laughing a little at the stankface he shot you as you passed) and once you heard the chime indicating that the shell was close to you, you eased back—a risky move—but Luigi shot past you, taking the blue shell in your stead—and you continued on your way, in 1st place leaving Keys no way to stop you, unless he managed to get another blue shell.

He didn’t—and you crossed the finish line moments later, 1st place in the race, and besting him three out of five.

“Fuck yes,” you half-shouted, tossing your controller to your side, where it bounced a little on the couch.

“That was slick,” Keys admitted, putting his controller down too, knocking back the rest of his room-temperature Monster. “You are the better racer.”

“You’re the better Street Fighter, and we’re both cracked at Contra, so I guess it all evens out.” You looked over at him, shifting yourself to face him but also settling a little further back on your couch.

“So, what do you like for breakfast?” Keys asked.

You glanced at the TV, the endgame race screen still playing, your character (Toadette) speeding around the raceway, victorious. You looked back at Keys, reaching out to put one of your hands on his knee, then leaned in and closed the distance between you, taking his lips with yours in a kiss, soft and sweet and innocent, not anything more than just something new and tentative, trying it out.

He kissed you back, though, parting his lips just a little against yours, pulling back just to move back in, his hand covering yours on his leg, the other moving to your thigh, skimming up just enough for you to know he was into it, but not necessarily wanting anything more.

“I guess you’ll find out,” you whispered in response, and he smiled, giving you a short peck on the cheek before pulling back. 

“Can I see your island now?” he asked. “I assume there’s an arcade area.”

“Right next to the museum,” you said. “Nothing like checking out some deepsea fish and then going next door to play Brake Tapper.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Keys said, stretching his arms along the back of your couch.

You grabbed your controller, switched to Animal Crossing, and then—in a move that you wouldn’t have considered if you didn’t get such good vibes from Keys—settled yourself against him. His arm moved down to hold you instead, his hand on your hip, as you gave him a tour of your own little slice of (virtual) heaven.

&& taglist: @sunriseinhawkins @ghostlyriddles @souperbloom @sheisjoeschateau @cheugy-djobe @cpnsteverogers @nowandajenn @configurre @cecesblogg @britt-mf @harringtondarling @valentine-night @charismatickeery @charlston-chews @bearwithegg @starkleila @sommie08 @xoxocelestial @kristywidget97 @calelundaa @mistyblueinks @projections-mortal @cupofdjoplease

In the grand scheme of things, you can consider yourself lucky. Luckier than most, at least.

Your parents are still married, you have a roof over your head and clothes on your back. You weren’t the richest family in the town, but you were comfortable. On the outside, you and your family truly were the picture perfect family of Hawkins.

You really shouldn’t complain.

But on nights like tonight, it’s hard to hold that sentiment.

The lock sitting on your desk ticks as the minutes pass closer to 2AM. You locked yourself in your room hours ago – more specifically after you heard the second pop! From the beer can opening downstairs. You knew it was only a matter of time and you were right.

It starts small. A drink at dinner. Another one to watch the game. A third one when his team starts to lose. A fourth after the game. A fifth because, well why not? Then it becomes a sort of game – how many more can he drink tonight than he did the night before?

It never stays small. Once the drinks settle, the arguing begins. Your parents – well mostly your father – scream all night. It’s not her fault, she’s just as stuck as you are. The house never looks good enough, the food is never good enough, her attitude is never good enough. You know it’s just as exhausting for her than it is for you, more actually.

Tonight’s worse for some reason. Earlier that week, your family had attended a small party in the neighborhood. According to him, your mother was flirting with one of the other husbands around and for a reason you didn’t even know, you’d spend the whole night embarrassing him.

When the argument really heightened, you made the mistake of stepping out. You dished out some of your own words you’ve kept bottled up, and then slurred words shot from his mouth and landed harsh against your skin.

You’re ungrateful.

You’re spoiled.

You’re an embarrassment.

You’re nothing without him.

You’re just like your mother.

Still, as hurt and scared as you were, you kept your head held high. You learned a long time ago showing fear meant he won and you weren’t going to give him that power. Your mother stood between you, earning back his anger to reflect on her as she silently begged you to go back upstairs.

Part of you wanted to stay and scream until your throat was raw. The other part knew whatever you did would come back worse on her. So you relented and left.

Now it’s two hours later and it doesn’t even seem close to being over.

It wasn’t always bad. Granted, you didn’t spent much time during the week actually talking to him and you never spent alone time together but I mean, he was there. He provided for your family.

Truly, it ended there.

But that should be enough, right?

You’re sitting in the middle of your bed, knees hugged to your chest and your back leans against the wall. The four walls around you do very little to suppress the sound of the argument downstairs. The walkman Steve got you for Christmas last year sits on the floor, broken last weekend by your dad.

Steve.

Your mind wanders to him at the memory of the gift.

You peek out your window across from you and see his. His blue curtains are pulled shut tight and there hasn’t been any movement from inside his bedroom since 11PM.

You and Steve have been best friends since elementary school. Through every awkward and stressful phase you can think of, you two were like glue. Growing up neighbors will make sure it stays that way. He’s your closest friend – and the boy you’re so helplessly in love with.

He knows about the hardships between you and your dad. Sort of. He knows you’re not the closest knit family he tries to pretend you are. He knows your parents bicker. But he doesn’t know just how bad it really is.

On the rare occasions you’ve confided in Steve about it, he would talk about his dad so you didn’t feel alone. In a lot of ways, they were similar. Good financial providers, working men, emotionally absent from their kids. But Steve’s dad stopped at borderline neglect. Yours didn’t stop even at physicality.

As you sit curled in your blanket, you want nothing more than to climb through his window like you’ve done your whole life and curl into him instead. Away from the arguments, away from the house, away from him.

But it’s late and showing up now means waking him up. Which means telling him the truth. Which means making yourself emotionally naked and you’re not even sure you’re ready to do that.

It’s unfair to him – burdening him with your issues when he’s sound asleep.

And maybe you were being dramatic. It’s not like your dad ever hit you. Some people have it worse; some people die because of their shitty parents. You can handle a few harsh words thrown your way every weekend.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you were ungrateful.

Every doubt in your mind is thrown out the window when you begin to hear glass shattering downstairs. A string of slurred curse words and brutal comments echo through your house and you know then, you can’t take it anymore.

You slip on your ridiculous bunny slippers (also gifted to you by Steve) and your legs guide you to your window on their own accord. Thankfully, there’s a large oak tree between your houses. The two of your have used those branches to climb onto your own roofs to get to the others.

As you climb onto the tree, to the roof, and to his window, all that’s on your mind is Steve.

How you know he’ll comfort you even if he has a million questions. How good it’ll feel to be in his presence again. How his house is always quiet and on days when he hates it, you love it.

You thank the past version of Steve for leaving his window unlocked and slightly cracked open. Like he knew you’d need him later. One hand holds onto the molding of the window and the other carefully slides the glass up just enough to fit through.

You’re still thankful Steve decided to put a lounge chair next to the window and that softens your fall through the sill. Sure enough, it’s deathly silent in his home. The only sound comes from the spinning ceiling fan above him. His room is dark and a little messy – some clothes thrown over his desk chair and a few random things undoubtedly left by Dustin strewn across the floor.

But you can make out his figure on the bed. He’s shirtless and the blankets are kicked to only cover his legs. He lays on his back, one arm tucked under his head and the other lazily resting along his stomach.

He looks so peaceful you almost turn back around so you don’t disrupt him. But with the window still open, you can hear the distant and faint sound of arguing still coming from your still open window and there’s no more fight left in you.

So instead, you tiptoe over to his bed and gently slide into the other side.

Sharing a bed isn’t weird for you two. Nothing between you two is weird anymore – it’s almost everyday someone new assumes you two are already together and you really wish that were true. Him offering comfort as a best friend is great but you’ve always wondered what the boyfriend version would feel like.

Honestly, probably not that different. The way he is with you is drastically different from anyone else. Even when he was with Nancy. It’s why your feelings for him are so intense.

You shuffle closer to him without the purpose of waking him up but when your foot accidentally nudges his shin, Steve’s eyes flutter open. You freeze as he blinks around his dark room, landing in the ceiling first and then the clock, then his widow and then finally to you.

His tired eyes widen just a bit when he recognizes you. You suddenly feel really small and you regret even coming. He says your name quietly, thick with sleep and confusion.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” It’s not unkind, simply confused.

You’re unsure what to say at first. It’s not exactly a good time to unload every family secret you’ve kept from him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” You finally land on.

It’s silent for a moment. You lay on your side facing him, hands clasped and under your cheek. Steve still lays on his back but he faces you.

He takes in your answer. When he looks at you, it’s clear he doesn’t exactly believe you – or at least that it’s the whole truth but whatever else he sees in your eyes is enough for him to drop it.

Steve doesn’t respond before he shifts to lay on his side and gently pulls your hands from where they are under you. He holds both of them in one hand and tugs you into him. One hand slides beneath your neck, curling and gently rubbing your back. The other rests over your hip.

The warmth of him consumes you immediately. It’s exactly what you needed. You hadn’t even realized you’d been shaking until your skin meets his and every nerve in your body finally relaxes.

Steve is all too aware of the rigidness of your body and the way you melt into his hold. Your arm wraps around his middle, your nails almost digging into the skin of his back but he doesn’t mention it. You face gets buried into the skin of his neck.

Your throat burns at the feeling of just .. relief. It feels like you’ve been denied air for a thousand years and he’s finally that first breath of fresh air. He offers you the comfort you’ve been wanting to seek for years now but have been too ashamed to ask for.

Your body can’t even hold back when the tears begin to flow. Steve feels them soak his skin first, and then he feels the shaking of your back and shoulders, and he knows. He knows without you even saying it.

Steve’s known for a while that the story you’ve given him about your dad isn’t exactly true. Not that it’s a lie but it’s a more than filtered version. He also knows what it’s like to feel judged, or labeled ungrateful for mentioning it, so he never pressured you.

As he holds your crying frame in his arms, he begins to regret that decision.

Steve gently shushes you, his lips pressing soft kisses across your temple and into your hair. You’re not sobbing and that’s somehow worse. It’s small, helpless whimpers and cries muffled into his neck.

He lets you cry as long as you need, holding you just as tight as you hold onto him. When you finally catch your breath, he cups your cheek in his large palm and gently pulls your face from where it almost sticks to his skin.

It’s a little hard to see in the dark but his eyes adjust to take you in. Your eyes are still closed when he looks down at you. Your thick lashes are wet and stick to your cheeks, tear stains trailing beneath them. Your lips are parted, sucking in short and sporadic breaths. His heart breaks at the sight of you.

He places another kiss to your forehead and it’s so achingly tender, your hand reaches up to grip his wrist that holds your face. He lets you without hesitation.

“What happened?” He murmurs gently.

Your bottom lip wobbles and you inhale a shaky breath.

“I hate being there, Steve,” You confess and once that happens, it all begins to spill out. “I hate hearing them argue. I hate hearing him say those kinds of things about me and my mom,”

Steve’s heart pinches. His thumb strokes across the apple of your cheek. “What kind of stuff?“

That’s when you hesitate.

Because what if you say it and Steve agrees? What if you tell him everything and he confirms every bad thing your dad has ever said about you? What if –

Steve pulls you from your thoughts. “You can tell me anything, okay?” He whispers. “Anything, honey,”

He speaks to you with such gentleness and grace. He’s soft and tender with you that it makes your heart bleed. It cracks every hard foundation you’ve built around yourself.

You pause for a second, trying to find your words and to talk without crying again. “He..He says that I’m ungrateful, and that I’m a dis-disappointment, and sel-selfish. That I’m the reason he is the way he is and that – that I’ll never be any-anything without him.” Your voice breaks all throughout the confession of tonight. More tears fall from your eyes and down your cheeks, sliding over his thumb. You pull your face away from his hold and duck under him, nuzzling into the pillow under you.

“That’s not true.” His response is quick and final. “None of that is true. You’re none of those things, honey. You’re kind and so smart and so damn caring of everyone around you.”

His words bring more tears to your eyes but for a completely different reason. This time it’s relief and tenderness filling your chest.

He keeps talking. “You can be anything you want to be and that’s because of you. Not him.” He shifts to pull you back to him, and encourages you to look at him. He coaxes you to open your eyes and look at him. Your name sounds like a melody when it comes out of his mouth. “You’ve spent years listening to him say all these bad things about you and now I want you to listen to every good thing I’m about to say to you.”

You blink up at him, speechless now.

“You are kinder than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re so patient – with me and with every one of the kids we’re stuck with,” Another tear slips down your skin. “You’re so smart, smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re the bravest person I know. Brave enough to fight of alien monsters and Russian soldiers,” Steve gives you a sad smile and a gentle laugh slips past your lips. “And you are not selfish. You have always put everyone’s needs above your own, even when you shouldn’t.”

He leans his forehead to rest against your own. One of his hands moves to grab yours that rests on his chest and intertwines his fingers with yours. He raises it to his mouth, planting a kiss to the center of your palm.

“Everything he said to you was because he can’t deal with himself. You’re not to blame for any of his actions. I don’t care how many times he’s said to you, he doesn’t know you like I do. And if he can’t see the most beautiful and loving girl right in front of him, then that just proves what I already knew – and that’s that he doesn’t deserve you, he never did.” Steve keeps your gaze fixed on him and by the time he’s finished, you feel like a puddle at his feet.

His words had the exact effect on you that he intended. For every terrible comment your dads instilled in you, is replaced by the sweet words Steve gave you.

Your brows pinch again and before you know it, your burying yourself against Steve again. He accepts you immediately. His arms circle your waist and he holds you close to his chest.

“I love you so much, honey. If you ever think of the things he’s said, think about that instead. How much I love you,”

His confession is more than just the friendship ‘I love you’s the two of you have shared over the years and you both know it. Even if now isn’t the right time to delve into what it means and how your relationship should change, it’s everything to you.

He is everything to you.

You nod against his skin and for the rest of the night, he holds you tight. Until you fall asleep and even after, all the way until morning and even after then.

summer was coming to an end sooner than you’d like. you just might even say it was the best summer of your life. there was endless movie nights, random adventures with the kids (who weren’t technically kids anymore, more like soon-to-be seniors in high school), self-care nights with max, and soft moments with him.

steve harrington. the boy you’d been in love with since you were a kid.

he practically lived at your house at all times due to how close him and your brother, jake, were. steve was at every family party, dinner, outing, all of it. he’d become such a normal part of your life that you couldn’t tell when you began to look at him differently. or maybe you’d always had this crush on him since the moment you met.

he was sweet and gentle and caring in a way that you didn’t know existed. your parents weren’t exactly the best image of love growing up. their fights got nasty and they often went long periods of time without talking. you knew from a very young age that that wasn’t what you wanted.

and with steve, he never allowed the smallest of disagreement to escalate into anything more. the moment he made a joke that hit you in a way it wasn’t supposed to, he was grabbing your hands and apologizing with that genuine glint in his eyes that made you melt. the second there was even the slightest tone to his voice, he was taking a beat to reset before apologizing.

you may call yourself delusional, but you could swear he’s only like that with you. the kids argue all the time. almost every other minute is spent arguing. whether that be over a movie, what snacks they want, who farted— it was always something. and yet steve would sit there and watch. sometimes he’d even join in with the teasing.

seeing the differences in how he treated you versus the rest of the world made it impossibly hard not to fall even more.

like the time when dustin had fallen off of his bike because his chain had snapped. steve hadn’t even bothered to help because he couldn’t stop laughing for a solid ten minutes, holding his stomach that was starting to actually ache. but the time you’d fallen off of your bike after attempting a trick a few years ago? he was calmly helping you up and into your house, sitting you down on the lid of the toilet as he cleaned up the blood and bandaged you up. he whispered sweet words the entire time so you wouldn’t panic at how bad the scrapes looked.

or the time when lucas ate mike’s leftovers that he’d been saving for this specific movie night. it was practically a war in the kitchen and all steve could say was shut up and watch the goddamn movie. but when jake ate your leftovers that you’d been excited to get home and eat? steve was back in his beamer to get you more.

it was the little things that made you fall down, down, down the rabbit hole of steve harrington.

the thing you always dreaded most was going back to school. sure, you loved it. like, really loved it. your roommates, allie and jackie, were the best people you could’ve ever imagined living with. they were fun and crazy and so full of life. they made forgetting about hawkins feel easy.

but the one thing you still could never forget was steve. even when you were at the bars, borderline plastered with men standing and sitting all around you, your mind was back to steve. none of them were as pretty as him or as sweet to you as he was. you sat and talked to one guy for hours and couldn’t help but compare the two the entire time.

then when you’d occasionally go home for the weekend or for break, you’d see him at your house like he always was and your mind would start wandering. it made you wonder what it’d be like to come home with him waiting for you. not jake, you.

it was a very dangerous game to play. and this summer, was teetering extremely close to the edge.

you were currently in your room, packing up all of your stuff again to go back to your dorm on campus in a few days, when you heard a knock. steve moved to stand in your doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. his hair was a little messy like he’d been messing with it recently and he was in worn sweats with a simple crewneck. and still, you thought he was so stunning. “need any help?”

you stood from your crouched position and placed your hands on your hips while analyzing your room. most of it was packed, now just the smaller more personal things. “uh, i think i’m just about done. thanks though,” you said with a smile. “keep me company while i finish?”

the corner of his lip twitched upwards as he nodded and moved to sit on your bed against the headboard, making himself comfortable like he always did. “of course. jake went out to get groceries. he said the fridge was looking sad.”

you let out a soft laugh and continued stuffing things into bins. “hm. i wonder why that is,” you teased. the two boys were like vacuums. if you didn’t hide your food in a secure location, it was one hundred percent going to be gone in the morning.

“wasn’t me this time,” steve said defensively, holding his hands up. he smiled to himself as he recalled the memory. “he practically inhaled everything last night when we got in.”

the lid to the storage bin clicked as you pushed it down into place. “yeah, sounds just like him. those everything sandwiches cannot be good.”

he huffed out a laugh and stared at his hands that were fumbling with the blanket. “yeah, they’re gross,” steve mumbled. you could see a wave of something unfamiliar wash over his face quickly before returning back to neutral. “you ready to head back to school?”

a long sigh left your lips as you stopped to look at him. it took a second to think of an answer. “i don’t know. i guess? i love it there but… i also just hate having to leave this place. as much as it sucks sometimes.”

his eyes held an intensity that should’ve terrified you. instead, it only had you more intrigued. “that’s good though, right? that you have something so meaningful here that it makes it hard to say goodbye.”

you snorted at that. “jeez, steve. when’d you get so poetic?” you moved to lay on your side beside him once your feet started aching, tucking a big lump of blanket under your head so you could look up at him easier.

he shrugged playfully and placed your legs over his lap, his warm hand resting on the bare skin of your calf. “guess i’ve picked up on a few things being a teacher and all.”

the subconscious movement of his hand running along the length of hour lower leg made it much harder to focus. you cleared your throat. “what about you? excited to get back to teaching?”

his posture relaxed slightly, like the topic of conversation made him go softer than he already was. “yeah, i am,” he replied with a smile he couldn’t fight off. his gaze was still fixed on his hands. “jus’ hope the team can have a better season this year. they deserve a big win.” steve finally looked to you, chuckling as the big grin across your face. “what?”

you shook your head. “nothing. i just like hearing about your job. the way you talk about them is really sweet.”

a soft blush coated his cheeks as his gaze broke away towards your calf again. a wave of sadness washed over his features. “i’m gonna miss you,” he said just barely above a whisper.

the corners of your lips pulled downwards into a frown. “you know, you can always come visit me like you and jake used to do freshman year,” you replied, analyzing the way he looked so focused on his hands rubbing your skin. “you haven’t even gotten to see my new place yet. the couch unfolds.”

the way you said it with such excitement should’ve made him smile or crack a joke about your enthusiasm for a couch. instead, his face fell. he mimics your frown. he wants to visit your again more than anything else. but sitting here, surrounded by boxes and bags full of your items, he can only envision your bright future ahead of you. one where you graduate and move far away to become someone great who can make real change. the realization hits him hard.

this was your senior year. its the time where you should be enjoying the last bit of college left. going to parties, experimenting, experiencing everything the world has to offer. and most importantly, meeting more people. not feeling like you’re trapped in the boring little hawkins that never did anything to deserve someone like you. “yeah. maybe we’ll have to do that,” he whispered, no real intention of following through with it.

not because he didn’t want to— no, of course he did. but college was your space and he quickly realized that after the first few times he visited. he didn’t want to scare off anyone who might become your entire future. was it a little silly? maybe. but to him, he thought it was the right thing to do.

your brows furrowed as you watched him. you sat up a little more, unintentionally scooting a little closer to him. his hand was now resting on the outside of your thigh with his thumb moving soothingly along your skin. “what’s wrong? you look upset,” you asked softly, searching his eyes for anything.

he finally lifted his gaze to look at you, void of anything but sadness. and still, he tries to force a smile onto his face. “nothing. i’m good,” he said quietly. his other hand that was still in the blankets was flexing out and bunching the fabric between his fingers repeatedly like he wanted to reach out and cup your face. “just sad to see you go so soon.”

you let out a soft laugh. “steve, we had all summer. i’d say this one was one for the books,” you joked playfully. the joke didn’t land. if anything, it made him even more sad.

“it was pretty fun, huh?” he muttered, his gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips. never in your life had you seen steve look so heartbroken.

the only sound to break the tense silence was your box fan in the corner of your room. the air began to thicken with the weight of unspoken words and confessions that had been building for the last three months. and subconsciously, you lean in just half an inch. your close enough to feel the soft puffs of air from him.

his eyes were fixed on your lips. how pretty and soft they looked. how badly he wanted to kiss you right now. he could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest as his fingers on your thigh dug into the skin slightly. his palms were beginning to grow hot and clammy as he took in your scent.

your faced were only centimeters away. and you really thought it might actually happen. that he might finally kiss you like you’d been waiting years for.

then he pulled away like he’d been electrocuted.

his eyes became glassy as he looked at you, his lips parting like he was trying to find the words to describe the internal dilemma in his head. “i’m sorry,” he whispered so quietly you almost missed it. “i can’t.”

you visibly deflated, your heart breaking in your chest. “what?” you questioned quietly. he could hear the sadness in your voice as you stared at him with big pleading eyes. getting punched in the face was definitely much easier than this conversation. “what are you talking about?”

he gulped nervously and retracted his hands from your skin like the contact burned him. “i can’t do this,” he replied softly, looking completely defeated.

your hands trembled with the fabric of the blanket as your eyes began to sting. “is it because of jake?” you asked. part of you wished it was. that’d be much easier to find a solution to than anything else. “is it because he’s your best friend? we’re not kids anymore, steve. he doesn’t get to dictate who we like.” he watched a flash of realization wash over your face as your bottom lip wobbled. “or do you… do you just not like me?”

his hands moved quickly to cradle your cheeks when you moved your head to look down. his thumb gently swiped at a tear rolling down your rosy skin. “no! no, i think you’re perfect. trust me, that’s— that’s not it at all,” he said quickly, not even skipping a beat. “it’s not that, or your brother. i promise.”

your sniffled sadly and looked into his brown glassy eyes. “then what is it?” you whispered brokenly, voice cracking more than you would’ve liked.

he moved to hold your hands in his instead like he needed something to ground him too. “it’s about you,” steve stated. “i mean… this is your senior year of college, y’know? this is your final year of fun before you have to go out into the real world. you should be going out to parties and— and meeting new people and trying everything life has to offer you. you have this amazing future ahead of you and i’m just… the guy who coaches baseball in a hopeless place like hawkins.”

there was a moment of silence before he held you a little tighter. “if i kiss you or— or tell you how i feel, you’ll go back to campus carrying all of this. and as much as it hurts me to not be able to do those things, i don’t wanna hold you back from living your life. i don’t wanna be the reason why you skip out on going to a party or feel guilty for having some fun because you feel tied down to me.”

your face fell as you stared at him. there was not a hint of dishonesty in his voice or on him at all. he looked completely torn and wrecked and above all, guilty. “steve. you can’t actually think that,” you began with a gentleness he didn’t think he’d deserved right now. you returned the firm hold on his hands and pulled him a little closer. “look at me. do you really think you’re a burden?”

he didn’t answer. the slight shrug if his shoulders and the slow slide of a tear running down his cheek was enough of an answer for you. “i’ve already lived three great years of the college life. i’ve gone to the parties, i’ve met all the people there is to meet, i’ve done it all. and somehow, the entire time, all i could think about was you,” you admitted, putting your whole heart on the line now. “all i could do was wish i was sitting right here, talking to you. you’re not holding me back from anything, steve. and i really don’t want you to think that, because out of everyone else in the world, you’re still the one i wanna be with.”

you could feel and see steve tense up at the confession. there was no going back now. a summer of lingering touches and gazes, flirting so subtle that everyone else missed it, and late night conversations had led you both straight to this moment.

and steve was fucking terrified.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered so quietly you thought you’d imagined it. he sniffled brokenly and wiped at his eyes, pulling away from you. “i can’t do it.”

just like that, he was gone. he was shuffling off of your bed and slipping downstairs through the front door before jake could come in and ask what happened.

you’d cried the entire night. you barely even slept because of it. the embarrassment of laying all of your feelings out on the line and leaving the ball in his court, just for him to walk away like none of it meant anything to him. it killed you more than you liked to admit.

it’d been three days without seeing him and today was the day you’d be leaving.

jake was currently doing a once over of your car to ensure it would run smoothly all the way to university while robin gave you a big, bone crushing hug. “don’t forget about me while you’re gone,” she mumbled against your shoulder. “and pleaseee bring some of allie’s pie home for thanksgiving.”

you could help but laugh as you pulled away, wiping your tears as you did so. no matter how many times you’d done this previously, it still felt just as hard every time. especially when you were missing a certain someone.

the kids (teenagers actually) all ambushed you into a big group hug, each muttering their goodbyes all at the same time. when you finally got to your parents, you heard the loud engine of some expensive car. your eyes lit up as you looked to the end of the block.

it was just some new red sports car.

jake watched your shoulders drop as your hopes of seeing him one last time shattered. that was what hurt the most. the realization that whatever had been brewing between the tow of you was actually over.

your brother pulled you into a hug, an uncharacteristically sweet one, and muttered a very soft i’m sorry. you weren’t actually sure if he knew what he was apologizing for or if steve had told him what happened, but it was enough to make you cry a little harder.

steve’s leg bounced anxiously as glanced at some of the pictures he’d found in his drawer while searching for his wallet that you all had taken over the summer at nearby photo booths. one in particular had caught his eye. he leaned his elbows on his knees as he stared at it and frowned.

you two were sitting down side by side in the booth, his arms around your waist while yours were around his neck. you were smiling big while his lips were pressed to your cheek. it was meant to be a silly photo, but with the timer counting down unnaturally fast, the two of you picked a random pose. it was actually embarrassing how much he looked at this photo.

something inside of him clicked instantly. he jogged down the steps, almost missing a few, and ran out to his key, quickly shifting it into drive before speeding off towards your house. he didn’t care about the speed limit or the fact that he didn’t have his seatbelt on. he just cared about making it in time to see you. and as he rounded the corner of your street, his heard sank.

your car was gone.

and still, he pulled up to the curb and got out in record breaking time. his hair was a mess, his clothes were completely wrinkled, and his eyes were bloodshot. yet part of him was still optimistic. he needed to see you. he needed to say a real goodbye. but when the front door opened to reveal jake with the slightest frown on his lips, steve knew he was too late.

your brother stepped out onto the front porch as he approached, a cup of coffee in his hand. he looked at his best friend’s disheveled state with the quiet panic behind his eyes, and sighed.

he didn’t yell at steve or ask where he was. he just gave him a comforting pat on his back and a sad smile across his lips. “she just left, man,” jake said softly, voice full of sympathy. he turned to head back inside, leaving the door open for him to follow.

steve stood there, with his heart in his stomach, staring at the road you’d just driven down minutes ago.

🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧

almost a year later, and you were finally done. all that was left for you now was graduation in a week.

this particular school year had felt like it dragged on much longer. perhaps it was the fact that you didn’t go home at all like you typically did. or maybe it was because for half of the first semester, you couldn’t stop thinking about the dreadful interaction that happened between you and steve just before you left.

allie and jackie were good at making you forget about all the bad things in your life. you spent countless nights laughing with them while sharing a bottle of wine, staying out until the early hours of the morning at the bars, doing anything and everything possible. it felt better than you’d ever admit.

but now you were in your car, trunk and backseat (and your passenger seat too actually) completely filled with bags and boxes. they were stacked so high you could barely see out of your back window. the drive home was familiar in a way that made your stomach churn with excitement. you had really missed your brother and your friends.

even though you’d be on the road for a while, you didn’t even bother stopping for food or to rest. the adrenaline of getting home was enough to keep you full and ready to go for the entirety of the ride.

a big, wide smile spread across your lips as you pulled into your driveway. you were practically out of the car before you could even fully put it into park and shut it off. you headed up onto the porch and opened up the front door, only to hear the deafening silence of the house.

your brows furrowed as you called out to your parents and jake but got no response. there was a small white note on the dining table that caught your attention. it read ‘see you soon to celebrate. love, jake’.

if anything, you were even more confused now. then there was a loud knock at your door. you cautiously walked toward it and looked through the peep hole to see two familiar faces.

as soon as the door swung open, robin was squealing excitedly and practically tackling you into a hug. vickie was standing beside the two of you, laughing loudly at the interaction.

“oh my god, dude. it feels like it’s actually been forever,” robin muttered into your shoulder before finally pulling away to allow her girlfriend to hug you too. “i hope you know how devastated i was to know you weren’t coming home with pie.”

vickie snorted as she pulled away from you. “she cried when you two got off the phone. like real tears.”

robin glared at her, though there was no real malice in it. “you weren’t supposed to tell her about that,” she whispered incredibly loud without even realizing it. she then turned her attention back to you and ushered you inside the house, following behind you. “ok, hurry up and go change. we’re going on a little walk.”

your face scrunched up in confusion. you were already in comfortable clothes. “what do you mean? why can’t i just go like this?”

she smacked her lips and gestured to her and vickie’s outfits. they both had on much nice outfits than you did. “no, dingus. not that kind of walk,” she teased with a chuckle. “just trust me. put on something cute so we can get going.”

the realization quickly became apparent. “is this about jake’s note?” you asked, a knowing smirk on your face. “how did you guys even know when i’d be getting home?”

robin shrugged. her expression was telling a completely different story. “women’s intuition.”

“we stood at the end of the block for half an hour waiting,” vickie corrected, doing her best to hold back a laugh.

you snorted at that. “you guys are ridiculous,” you remarked playfully as you turned to head up the stairs and into your bedroom. most of your clothes were still packed up in your car. fortunately enough for you, you found a nice pair of jeans and a flattering shirt that could be considered dressy for whatever occasion.

the second you reached the bottom step, the girls were grabbing each of your arms and basically dragging you outside and down you street.

and before you knew it, you were at the bar.

nerves flooded your stomach as they pulled you inside. you’d never been here before but it was safe to say that the place was packed. not to the point weee you couldn’t move, but definitely to a point where you were squeezing through to get past.

“there’s my favorite grad!” you heard from in front of you as your brother— evidently already tispy —shimmied through the crowd to pull you into a suffocatingly tight hug. “congrats, kid. proud of you.”

you pulled away from him and placed your hands on his shoulder to steady him. “thanks, jake,” you smiled. “how much have you had to drink already?”

he gave you that smirk that meant he was up to no good. “not nearly enough,” he replied with a playful wink. one of his friends from work, damien, approached from behind him with four shots in his hands. he quickly passes two to jake, kept one for himself, and handed to last to robin. “to the grad!”

the group cheers’d to you and downed the shot, your brother shaking his head at the disgusting burn. you could hear robin coughing behind you while vickie chuckled and handed her some water. you weren’t entirely sure what alcohol they’d given you, but it was probably in the top ten worst drinks you’d ever had.

as you made your way to the table behind jake, you ran into multiple of his friends. they each congratulated you with a hug and offered to buy another round, which you’d politely decline each time since you were trying to hold off on getting too hammered.

once you finally got to the table by the wall where your party was seated, you froze. your heart had dropped to the depths of your stomach and almost stopped beating right then and there. because there he was.

steve harrington.

sitting at the table that was meant to be celebrating you tonight.

almost as if he could sense the pair of eyes on him, he turned his head and his gaze caught yours. a slow smile spread across his lips as he stood from his seat to greet you. he set the beer he was nursing onto the table and took long strides over to you. “hey,” he beamed. he had this calm, warm confidence that radiated from him as he approached and pulled you into a gentle hug. “congratulations.”

you wrapped your arms around his torso and let out the shaky breath you’d been holding in. “thank you,” you mumbled against his chest.

the two of you stayed like that for a few seconds longer than you should’ve, his chest against the top of your head like you guys molded perfectly together. when he finally reluctantly pulled away, you didn’t miss the way his eyes trailed down your frame. “want a drink?”

you shook your head with a tight-lipped smile. “no, i’m okay for now. thank you though,” you replied gratefully. but he was already grabbing ahold of your hand. “steve, seriously—“

he flashed you a toothy grin and began taking a few steps backwards. “oh, come on. we’re supposed to be celebrating,” he teased playfully. “one drink. that’s all i ask.”

you didn’t have time to protest. he was using the hold on your hand to pull you along with him as he used his own body to clear a path for you, effectively preventing anyone from bumping into you or spilling their drinks on you.

he pulled out of of the high chairs for you and waited for you to be seated before taking a seat in the one beside you. “anything you like in particular?” he asked, one elbow propped up on the table with his chin resting in his palm. his other hand was flat on his thigh.

the attention made your cheeks flush a soft red. “i usually just go for shots whenever i go out with my roommates,” you said honestly, slightly embarrassed that you didn’t have a big palate like the others did. “i’m not the biggest fan of the taste so i’d rather just get it down quick.”

he didn’t judge. of course he didn’t. steve would never. he nodded along as narrowed his eyes at you slightly as he thought. “okay. how ‘bout something sweet then?” he suggested, the hand on your thigh moving to trace shapes over your knee as he stared at it.

your gaze followed his to watch his pointer finger press small circles into your jeans. “what if i hate it?” you asked.

he let out a huff akin to a laugh and lazily grinned. something about the way he looked was doing things to you. “you won’t. just trust me. it’s good,” he said confidently. “and if you do hate it, i’ll get you something else.”

you mimicked him and propped your elbow up with your chin in your palm. “i’ll pay you back.”

his eyes found yours again, brows furrowed slightly as his head tilted the slightest bit. he almost looked offended. “what are you talking about?” he replied, his voice light hearted and playful. “when have i ever asked you to ‘pay me back’?”

you shrugged. “that just means i have a big debt to pay back.” you couldn’t help but begin to feel small under his intense gaze. “which i intend to start paying back.”

steve waved it off like that was the most ridiculous thing you’d ever said. “don’t worry about it. i wouldn’t have done any of those things if i didn’t want to.”

the bartended finally made his way over to the two of you, his eyes mainly focused on you. “what can i get for a beautiful woman like you tonight?” he asked, winking as he leaned on the counter with his palms flat on the surface below the bar.

you pursed your lips into a thin line and looked to steve, unsure of what he had planned.

he noticed the slight tense in your posture instantly. he placed the hand on your thigh over the back of your chair instead, pulling your chair the slightest bit closer with his knee slotting between yours. his eyes never left yours. “can i get a beer,” he began, searching your face one last time like he was really contemplating what you’d like. “and one tequila sunrise please?”

the man nodded like he’d taken the hint and went to prepare the drinks. you glanced at him, then back to the boy in front of you. “tequila sunrise?” you questioned curiously.

the corner of his lip quirked up as he gave you a curt nod. “you’ll like it,” he assured. “thought about a sex on the beach but you don’t like peaches.”

your heart swelled at the fact that he’d remembered something so small. within a few short seconds, your drinks were placed in front of you two. the gorgeous gradient was enough to make you love it already. “thank you,” you replied gratefully when he slowly slid it over to you, careful not to spill. you gave it a small swirl and took a sip. “wow. oh my god. it’s really good.”

steve had this proud smile on his face as he took a swig of his beer. “what can i say,” he replied with a playful cockiness as he shrugged.

you lightly shoved at his shoulder and took another sip. your eyes widened as you remembered something. “robin told you me you got your own place,” you said, genuinely excited for him.

he nodded and took another sip. “mhm. just bought an apartment a few blocks down from here,” he stated, doing his best to stay humble. you could see just how proud of himself he was. “just somewhere temporary for now. jake and i found a couples places a few towns over. thought it’d be fun to get out of here and settle down somewhere nicer.”

you smiled. that sounded nice. “oh boy. that neighborhood is really gonna hate to see the two of you coming,” you teased softly, earning a laugh from him.

“yeah, they definitely will,” he smiled to himself. “the houses are nice. a lot cheaper too. and they’re next door to one another.”

you nodded along and glanced down at your knee that was brushing up against his. “that sounds like the dream.”

he hummed in agreement. “you’ll have to come visit. see the place for yourself and tell me what you think.”

you could feel your face grow hot almost immediately. “i’d love to,” you said, voice shaking a little to much to sound sure. the alcohol was definitely starting to hit you a little bit by now. if it weren’t for the help of it, you surely wouldn’t have asked the next question that left your mouth. “so, my roommate allie has some extra graduation tickets. she didn’t want them going to waste, soo she gave them to me. and i was wondering, if maybe you wanted to go?”

there was a pause of silence as you sipped your drink and he stared at you with a look in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. “you obviously don’t have to or anything. i just— i don’t know. i figured i’d ask,” you nervously rambles. “robin and jake are carpooling and you know how much they can argue over stupid things. not that that’s the only reason i want you to go but—“

“i’ll be there,” he said gently to stop you from freaking yourself out. he was looking at you with a softness you’d never seen before.

you took a deep breath. “really?”

he nodded and smiled. “of course i will. wouldn’t wanna miss it for the world,” steve replied. “i’m a little offended that you asked me last but i’ll—“

you lightly slapped his arm that was around the back of your chair and glared at him, though there was no real bite behind it. it made him chuckle. “you know that’s not how i meant it. you’ve always had an invite. you’re just the hardest to contact.”

“i know,” he whispered softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “i really missed you.”

your heart did a little flip in your chest as you looked down at your drink that was just about empty. “i really missed you too, steve.”

he wanted to say sorry for how things left off between the two of you. he really did. but that would only open up old wounds that he was sure would ruin your night. and you didn’t deserve that. so the second you looked down, he got you a refill and swapped your glass for the full one. “c’mon. let’s get back to the table before jake kills me for stealing you for too long. think i just nance and jonathan come in too,” he stated as he stood up, offering you a hand as you hopped off of the high chair.

you took the outstretched hand and allowed him to lead you through the crowd back to the table where your brother and his friends were dishing out more shots. “just in time,” jake hollered excitedly. he’d always had this dream of getting fucked up with you once you were of age.

everyone held their glasses up in a cheers before throwing back the shot and setting the empty cups down onto the tray. steve took yours from you and placed it down with the rest while nancy came over to greet you excitedly.

as the two of you briefly caught up, steve was pulling out the chair with his jacket on it for you to take a seat whenever you were ready. nancy took a seat beside you with jonathan on her side, and robin and vickie across from you. steve was standing next to you between your chair and the wall, his beer in one hand and the other on the back of your chair to keep people from bumping into you as he argued with robin over something silly.

the rest of the night went by in a blur. you had shots practically getting shoved down your throat every few minutes, steve watching over you with a quiet protectiveness, robin and nancy pulling you around the bar to dance, and jake demanding you drink even more.

it was around two am now and majority of the group was beyond drunk. fortunately for you all, steve and damien lived in the same apartment complex nearby. the worst part was that it was still a twenty minute walk.

jake had effectively gotten you absolutely plastered. not to the point where you couldn’t stand or enough to make you puke everywhere, but enough to make steve worry about how you were gonna make it. you were practically beginning to fall asleep leaning against him in your chair.

so he had scooped you up carefully, your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, while his hands held underneath your thighs as respectfully as he could. he was great at handling his alcohol. so it was no surprise that he was fully functioning better than anyone else was.

jonathan was carefully monitoring nancy as she walked, not quite beside her but also not behind her. just close enough to catch her if she fell at any given moment.

vickie was going through it beside steve. she was fully supporting robin’s weight against her with the help of jake, who was not sober enough to be helping. he was spluttering nonsense and cracking jokes the entire walk home that had the rest of their friends laughing obnoxiously loud.

once you all finally made it, half of the group split to damien’s apartment, while your brother, robin, nancy, vickie, and jonathan stayed with the two of you.

steve mumbled something to jake about the key in his back pocket, which he quickly reached for and unlocked the door. he pushed it open so steve could enter first and make his way towards his bedroom while the others prepared the pullout couch and the floor.

he could feel the slow thump of your heartbeat against his chest as he kicked the door shut and gently sat you down at the edge of his bed. you flopped back immediately, dramatically sighing. it made him chuckle. “you okay?”

you nodded lazily, even though he couldn’t see it, before humming. “mhm. jus’ tired.”

he sank down to his knees and carefully untied your shoes then gently slid them off of your feet. he placed them neatly by his door and moved to his closet. “i know. ‘m gonna find you some clothes ‘nd then we can get ready for bed, ‘kay?”

the only answer you could offer was a barely there hum of acknowledgment as you rolled onto your side to get comfortable. he quickly gathered up some sweatpants and a hoodie he didn’t wear very often and made his way back over to you. “c’mon. how ‘bout you get changed really quick?”

you groaned in protest but took his hand as he helped you up and led you to the bathroom connected to his room. he gestured for you to enter while holding out the clothes. “jus’ lemme know when you’re done,” he said, shutting the door behind you.

with a little but of stumbling around and a few close-calls to falling, you were finally changed. his clothing was extremely comfortable and oversized. you opened up the door. “all done.”

his eyes scanned over your figure, in his clothes, in his apartment. he thought he might actually be dreaming. he stepped inside and moved around you, his hands gentle on your waist as he did so to get to the other side and pull out a spare pink toothbrush. your brows furrowed as you looked at it. “why do you jus’ have this laying around?” you slurred tiredly.

he chuckled to himself and wet down yours and his before squeezing out a big bead of toothpaste on each. “this is the usual crash spot since i live so close to the bars. gotta keep a few extra just incase. and one so happened to be pink.”

you let out a sleepy sigh and began brushing your teeth, staring at yourself in the mirror. you couldn’t help but look over at him every now and then. something about this felt so domestic. the way he was taking care of you. the way you had on his clothes. the way you were literally doing your nighttime routine with him. this was basically all you’d ever wanted.

once the two of you were all finished up, he grabbed out his face wash and a headband, gently sliding it over your forehead to pull your hair back. your brows furrowed slightly at how prepared he was, until he did the same for himself to keep his hair out of the way too. makes sense.

he turned the sunk back on and pumped some of the liquid into your hand before extending on of his own to do the same. “wait, stevje,” you interrupted. “can you watch my back please?”

now it was his turn to look confused as he stared at you through the mirror. “what?”

“can you jus’ like— can you watch my back for me? whenever i wash my face, i get scared that someone’s gonna, like, kill me or something while my eyes are closed,” you explained, a bright blush coating your cheeks from the alcohol and the embarrassment. “‘cause then i can’t defend myself.”

he swallowed down the laugh bubbling in his throat to not embarrass you even further. “yeah. of course. i’ll watch your back,” he said with a warm smile. and he did. he let you wash your face completely and pat it down dry before even thinking about washing his own. and once the two of you were all done, you moved back to his room. “you take the bed. i’ll sleep on the floor.”

you stared at him like he was crazy. “steve, what? no. it’s your place, you can—“

he was already placing a spare blanket on the ground with some extra pillows. “no, seriously. it’s okay. i’ll take the floor.”

this wasn’t a fight you were giving up. “that’s not fair. i will—“

he cut you off with a small smile. “hey, it’s okay. i don’t mind. i wouldn’t have offered it if i did,” he replied softly. “you had a long night. you should really take the bed.”

you huffed out a breath if defeat when he sat down on the ground. “why don’t you jus’ sleep up here with me?” your heart was hammering in your chest. never would you have said something like this if you were sober. “it doesn’t have to be weird.”

there was a beat of silence as he thought. he nodded slowly even though you couldn’t see him. “yeah, okay,” he said hesitantly. “sure.”

he crawled up onto the bed on the opposite side of you, making himself comfortable under the covers.

it took all of ten minutes before you both were knocked out, and wrapped up in one another.