envymeowz

His vision vignettes as he pours another sugar into his styrofoam cup of coffee. He only likes two, but now he’s lost count, opening packet after packet just to give himself an excuse to stay here.

Morning light pours in through the open windows on the east side of the office building, bathing you in gold. You’re so bright and beautiful, Keys can hardly even look at you. 

Briana’s voice filters through his thoughts, tuning him back into the conversation. “I like him and everything, but the sex is just—I don’t know—”

“Bland?” you offer. 

Briana pauses, giving you a weighted look before correcting. “Silent.”

You make a sympathetic sound, oblivious to your eavesdropper, whose cheeks are turning a charming shade of pink. 

“There’s nothing worse than a silent man in bed,” you say, stirring your coffee. “I mean, we want to hear what we’re doing to them, you know? Like, moaning a little won’t kill them. And add in a little dirty talk? God, that shit never fails to get me off.”

Another sugar packet rips in his fingers and he pours without really thinking. Good lord, this coffee is going to be undrinkable.

But the cup of joe is the literal least of his worries, since he’s shoving his hips up against the edge of the table just to keep from getting a hard at hearing you talk like that. You’re his co-worker. You sit across from him every day.

He can’t be getting hard at work. And especially, not right next to you. 

“Exactly!” Briana groans, enthusiastically. “So, I don’t know what to do about it.”

Keys’ head turns towards the open office floor, but his feet feel like they’ve grown roots, planting him right there in the dingy carpet, forcing him to listen. 

You hum, a familiar sound that means you’re thinking. “Well, if he’s into it, maybe listen to some spicy audios together? There are some really talented creators out there that can give you both some inspiration.”

He glances up just in time to watch Briana’s dark eyes cut over to you mischievously as she takes a sip. 

“Good idea,” she says, “I’m going to…” 

Somehow, Keys finally uproots himself and slips away with his cup of sugary bean water. 

He barely registers the rows of cubicles and windows swirling around him in colors of gray, blue, white, and black, too busy replaying your words over and over in his head.

…nothing worse than a silent man in bed.

…add in a little dirty talk?

…never fails to get me off.

His office chair squeaks under his weight and his glasses land on his desk with a clatter. Planting his elbows on his armrests, he breathes a deep sigh and scrubs his hands over his face. 

Focus, Keys. 

He replaces his glasses, and shifts forward in his chair, forcing his eyes back to his waiting code. The predictability of numbers—those never changing zeros and ones—usually settles him. But, not today. 

He tries hard to force all thoughts of you from his head but—oh, it’s useless. 

There you are, spread out on his navy sheets, writhing underneath him. His mouth trails soft kisses down your throat, over your shoulder, and lower…

You let out a needy whine, hands twisting up in his hair, legs parting for him on instinct. And in his imagination, he opens his mouth to say something hot—anything—but no words come. He wouldn’t know what to say. 

He has a few trademark moves in bed. I mean, who doesn’t? And the girls he’s been with always leave happy. 

But…is he silent? He doesn’t really know, actually. Never recorded himself…or anything…maybe he should—

“You good?” 

The world whips back into focus, and Keys jumps in his chair. Suddenly, the overhead light’s too bright, and the AC feels like an icy blast, and you’re there, standing over your desk, staring at him with concern. 

“What?” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Y-yeah. Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug, and take your seat across from him. “I don’t know, you just look…tired, I guess.”

He just grunts and returns his gaze to his computer screen. “Just…work stuff.”

You hum in agreement and turn back to your screen as well. 

As much as he bitches about being shoved up in the corner of the floor, the only space with a huge window immediately to his left, the spot really does have its perks. 

It’s annoying because it’s so bright he has to squint to see his screen most of the time. But the way the sun shines through the blinds, painting you in thin lines of shadow, lighting up your eyes and lashes?

He wouldn’t trade this spot for anything. 

Shit. Now he’s staring. 

Irritated, he forces his gaze away and pushes his glasses up higher on his nose. 

His hand finds his mouse and he navigates to his work, but for one fleeting second, his curser hovers over the new tab button. 

Now, Keys is a complete and total nerd, so, of course he’s no stranger to the internet. Especially the deep, dark parts of it. He’s fallen victim to those late night deep dives on reddit pages more times than he can count. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he remembers coming across those ‘spicy audios’ you gushed about earlier. 

What did you call them? Talented creators? Which ones were you talking about? What things did they say? What did you like about it?

All it would take is a few clicks on his keyboard, and he’d get all those answers to his questions. But he quickly shakes his head to clear it and pulls up his code with a guilty look over his shoulder.

The white wall stares at him, disapproving. 

What the fuck has gotten into him? He cannot be looking this shit up at work! 

He really has it bad.

When he’s back home, in the comfort of his own gaming desk, only then will he let himself investigate this newfound scrap of information on you. 

Later, he promises himself. Later. 

Well, it’s later. 

And Keys hasn’t got a single fucking line of code done yet. 

Which is why he’s stuck at work late, miserably trying to catch up on his project after everyone else has left for the day.

Everyone, that is, except for you.

Apparently, you also got behind, and you can’t afford to. Not with the new launch coming up.

Vinny came by to collect the trash a while back, and he didn’t see you in the back corner, so he turned off the lights, plunging you both into darkness. Neither of you have gotten up to turn them back on, choosing instead to work by the dim lights of your computer monitors. And even though the two of you keep saying you’re going to leave “any minute,” those minutes turn to hours, and you’re both still here. 

Alone.

The printer hums in the corner, and that blinking blue light on the side is driving Keys crazy. It keeps catching in the edge of his glasses, and the clicking of your mouse fills his ears. 

It’s constant. Unlike his. Which means you’re actually getting work done. Unlike him. 

Finally, your voice breaks the silence. 

“The street’s kinda loud tonight, isn’t it?”

Keys makes a noncommittal sound in this throat and doesn’t look up. 

Honestly, he hasn’t noticed the traffic humming far below the window, and he’s trying so hard not to look at you, not to think about you, that he doesn’t notice when you reach across over and grab his headphones by accident. 

It’s easy to get them confused. They look exactly the same, tangled up together at the edge of where your desks meet. Black. Standard issue. Company logo on the side. 

When Keys glances up and sees you with the headphones on, he sighs quietly in relief. 

It’s ridiculous, but up until this moment, he was hyper-aware of everything he was doing. Was he breathing too loudly? Could you hear his heartbeat? Was he readjusting himself too much when every thought of you in his bed gave him a hard-on? 

He tries to focus, he really does, but the numbers blur together on his screen. 

Music. 

That’s what he needs. 

He grabs the other pair of headphones, and when he settles them over his head, all he can hear is his own heartbeat slamming in his ears, reminding him of what a fucking loser he is. 

He should just ask you out. Like a normal person. But no. 

The foam cuffs press into the ear piece of his glasses, reminding him why he usually prefers the wired earbuds. But he’s lost them somewhere, and he can’t afford to go looking at the moment. 

The click of his mouse is silenced as he maneuvers it to pull up his music library. But, his cursor gets distracted on the way, hovering over that damn new tab icon in the corner.

He risks another peek at you. 

Your brows furrow and you readjust your headphones, eyes still on your screen.

Resisting the urge to scrub a hand over his face in frustration, he turns his gaze back to his computer. If he’s honest with himself, he won’t be able to get any substantial work done until he satisfies his curiosity.

It’s risky, doing this at work. But there’s no way you can hear anything, and Keys is getting desperate. 

After a few hasty searches, he’s navigating the depths of…erotic audios. 

His eyes widen as he scrolls past the sprawling inventory of tropes and storylines. There are so many different kinds of fantasies, how would he know what you’re into? He leans in closer, scrolling carefully down the list until he hesitates on one in particular. 

Talk Nerdy To Me. 

The small blurb underneath catches his eye. 

Your tutor tries a new tactic to get you to study for your big test. Just how sexual can his acronyms get before you decide to study anatomy a different way?

His cursor hovers over the LISTEN NOW button. 

This is harmless enough, right? There’s even a little story. Like an audio book. Just way shorter. And way more explicit. And…yeah, this is so wrong, on so many levels. 

Beneath his conscience, however, sits a burning curiosity. Keys is analytic at heart. If there’s a question, he wants to find the answer. And, if listening to this will help him figure out what to say in bed…

Fuck it. 

The silenced click of his mouse through his headphones is as loud as a gunshot.

He waits, breath caught in his chest, heel tapping restlessly on the carpet as the little blue progress bar starts to move. 

But he doesn’t hear anything. 

He frowns and readjusts his headphones. 

Nothing. 

On impulse, he skips to the middle. Just in case there was a silent lull there at the beginning. 

Still nothing. 

He leans towards the screen nervously, and as he shifts, he glimpses you from behind your computer screen—and freezes. 

You’re staring at him, cheeks flush in the dim lighting, chest fluttering with every breath. And small smirk begins at the corner of your mouth. It’s rueful and sinful, and… 

His stomach drops. 

Oh no. It’s in your headphones, isn’t it?

Oh, no, no, no, no—

His heart leaps in his chest as his hand flies to his mouse, scrambling to turn it off. 

Oh, God, where’s the stop button? 

There. That’s pause. Oh—he accidentally presses it twice. Now it’s playing again. 

HOW DO YOU CLOSE THIS FUCKING THING?

You chuckle breathlessly, watching your genius coworker—who can code literally anything, by the way— flail around like a fish out of water when all he has to do is simply push the little red X on the top right of his screen. 

The mouse starts to slip around in his sweaty palm and Keys gives up, slamming the power button on his computer, and enveloping the both of you in silence. 

You stare at each other over your desks for a long second. 

Then, Keys rips his headphones off and rakes a hand through his hair. 

See? This is what he gets for being fucking curious. It gets him in trouble. He just needs to stick with what he knows—

He opens his mouth to apologize, to explain, to—beg for his dignity back? But you just slip the headphones down to hang around your throat and level his gaze with a soft smile. 

“Was that Bennett Brooks?” 

“W-what?” Keys croaks, shoving his glasses further onto his burning face. 

“I recognize the voice actor. Haven't heard his stuff in forever, though. He’s good—voice is a little raspy for my taste,” you shrug prettily. “But good.”

He swallows. “Oh.” 

The silent office presses in around you, so quiet he can almost hear your lashes click together when you blink at him. Suddenly, you whip his headphones off your neck and thrust them onto his desk. 

They land with a clatter. 

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to take yours. By all means, don’t stop on my account.”

Keys lets out a choked sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a cough. This is definitely making it into the top three most embarrassing moments of his life. 

“I’m n-not...” he stammers, “Not into that. Like…that.”

You shoot him a knowing look. “No?”

“No! Listen, I just—” he scrambles for an explanation as you just fucking sit there watching him. Smiling at him. “It was just research. Okay? Not a big deal—” 

The words barely escape his lips before he realizes his mistake. 

“Research?“ Your eyes light up and you lean forward in your seat. His eyes drop to the white V-neck button down you’re wearing—that third button you leave unfastened haunts him every single day. “Research is my specialty, Keys.”

Yes, he knows that. You’re a data analyst for the company. One of the best in the region, actually, wasting your time at the desk next to his. He should apologize again, or confess he overheard your conversation at the coffee bar. 

But the embarrassment burns hot, so instead, he clears his throat and hooks a finger in his shirt collar that’s currently suffocating him.

“It’s stupid, really,” Keys says at long last, and he hates how it comes out crackly. He clears his throat again, like that will help dislodge the panic in his chest. 

It doesn’t. 

You shrug, tilting your head in that cute way you do. “Didn’t sound stupid to me.”

You’re being so nice about it. Why are you always so nice?  “You know, I could help.” Your eyes linger on him and the air seems to grow ten degrees hotter. Then softer, you add, “…if you want.”

And just like that, all thoughts of project and deadlines glitch and vanish from his mind like a crashed browser. 

He’s nodding before he’s even really given it much thought.  

You smile and sit up in your chair. God, you’re radiant. “Okay. Let’s start with what exactly you want to research. Is it audios, specifically? Or—”

“No, no, it’s just…I think I…” Keys’ bottom lip catches between his teeth before he heaves out a heavy breath. “I want to get better. I guess.”

“Better at what? Sex?”

This time, Keys doesn’t hesitate. “Dirty talk.”

“Oh.” Your eyes flick to his lips for a split second before meeting his again. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

Keys adjusts in his chair, his dick is already twitching in his pants. “Yeah? So, you like this sort of thing? Guys’ voices dirty talking you and stuff. That…” He swallows hard. “Gets you off?”

You shrug again casually, like you’re talking about the weather. “It’s one way, yeah.”

Keys nods again. Too fast. Way too fucking fast. 

“So, do you have anyone in mind?” You ask. 

His pulse leaps. “What?”

“Well, you’ve got to be researching this for a reason, right? I mean, curiosity is a valid enough, don’t get me wrong. But is there someone…?” you trail off, unsure of how to finish. 

A silent moment stretches out between you as Keys decides how to answer. The digital clock on the wall, the rise and fade of the passing lights, all seem to look between you—waiting for something. 

Finally, Keys sighs. “Well, there is this girl.”

“Aha!” You lean your elbows on your desk, eyes brightening with interest. “Tell me.”

“It’s new. Like—” he chuckles, averting his gaze. “Really new. So.”

“It’s okay, Keys. We’re friends! We can talk about this kind of stuff.”

“I know!” he says defensively, although he’s not really sure why. “She’s just…into this sort of thing. Dirty talk. I think.”

“You think.”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly, encouraging, if not a little teasing. “Okay…so, give me the rundown here. When’s your next date?”

“Uh. First one, actually. And…it’s…Thursday,” Keys stammers. 

“Thursday? Okay.” You look out the window. A passing car’s headlights shine across your face for a second before the computer light consumes you again. “Lucky girl. Where are you taking her? I mean—before the inevitable trip back to your place.”

 You swallow hard and busy yourself with re-organizing your pen cup as he scrambles for an answer. 

Chinese. 

You love that. 

He knows because the one time he picked you up for work when your car was in the shop, he caught a glimpse of your apartment through your front door. Your coffee table was littered with little takeout boxes, and he filed that away like a crow picking up a shiny screw and calling it a treasure. 

Yeah, he has it bad. 

“Uh. I was thinking that Chinese joint on the corner of Cross and Elm."

Your jaw drops. “I love that place!”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know.”

When you look up at him again, there’s a hint of a smile on your lips.

“Okay, so, we have three days to prepare you. What questions do you have?”

Leave it to you to make this sound like a standardized research paper. Well, now’s a good a chance as ever. He might never get this chance again.

Keys straightens in his chair, heel tapping the carpet so fast his leg is bouncing. 

“What do you—do girls,” he quickly corrects himself, “—want guys to say?” 

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Heat rushes to his face. “I mean, like, do they tell you how to…touch yourself? I don’t—I can’t even—”

“You’re overthinking it. There’s no magical combination of words to use." You gesture to his computer. "Here, let’s listen to the audio, it’ll help me explain—”

“Oh, no! We don’t have to do that!” Keys squeaks. 

You shoot him a look. “You said this is for research, right?”

“Yeah! Obviously. Totally.”

“Then you can’t half-ass it. If you really want to learn how to dirty talk for this girl, you gotta commit.”

He hesitates. 

“C’mon, Keys.” Your teeth close over the end of your pen and you gesture to his computer with your eyes, smirking as you settle into your chair. “Press play.”

Fuck. 

Your coworker, Keys, has been acting weird as fuck all day, and now you finally know why. 

He totally overheard your conversation with Briana at the coffee bar, earlier. 

Maybe it had something to do with the way you raised your voice on purpose, hoping to get through that head of hair and those brown eyes that seem to see everything except all the signals you’ve been dropping his way since you first started here. 

From behind your desk, you watch him eye the power switch on his computer like it’s some gigantic red button that says ‘don’t touch’ or else it will somehow World War III. 

Come to think of it, you might start World War III if it means getting your oblivious-as-he-is-cute-coworker to finally make a real move. 

Still, though, there’s a part of you that feels for the guy. He’s so nice, and good, and sweet, and fuck if you don’t want him to corrupt him a little.

Only in the ways he wants to be corrupted, of course. Which, apparently, involves digging into ancient audio porn on reddit after work hours. 

Oh, you are so into it. 

“Why are you so embarrassed, Keys?” you say gently. “Look, this is normal, okay? Being curious. And you want to make this girl feel good, right?”

The girl has to be you.

After all those coffees he’s brought you from that fancy place that he insists only adds three minutes to his commute, but in reality, probably adds, like, twenty? And the way his hand accidentally finds ways to brush yours, and then he acts as if he’s not jumping out of his skin at the contact?

If this girl is not you, then this crush you have on your nerdy, hot co-worker is about to be devastating. 

Keys blows out a breath. “Okay, fine.” 

His computer powers up with a familiar hum, and blue light cascades over his features again. 

God, he looks nervous. Why is that such a turn-on?

He looks so alone over there behind his desk as one lock of brown hair falls over his eyes, brushing the rim of his glasses, and suddenly, you get an idea. 

“Wait, actually, no—” you mutter, standing up from your chair. 

Keys jumps like you’ve shot him. “Yeah,” he says, scrambling to turn distract himself with something else on his computer. “Yeah! No, we don’t—this is—”

“—I’m coming over there.”

“What?” Keys’ gaze snaps to yours. Then, he gestures to the space beside him in his workspace. “Here?” 

But you’re already rolling your chair over the carpet and behind his desk. It’s a tight fit, with these ergonomic chairs. Their wide armrests knock together as you slide in beside him. 

Keys’ cubicle is different. 

Technically, it’s the exact same as yours. The dimensions are the same, as well as your surroundings, but it smells like his cologne, and there’s that stack of board games he keeps hidden under his desk. 

“Okay,” you sigh, settling back in your chair. “If we’re going to do this, we do it right. Which means, starting from the top. Clearly, you know nothing of the subject—”

“I—” he starts, but you shoot him a look that has his jaw snapping shut. 

“Now, dirty talk is a broad subject, so, what kinds of things are you into?”

Keys shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess, it depends on what she’s into. I mean…” He threads his fingers behind his head and leans back in his computer chair in an obvious attempt at casualness. “What are you into?”

Smooth. Real smooth. 

You decide to go along with it. 

“I like a little of everything. Praise, instruction, degradation, fantasizing…but not every girl is the same—”

“Okay, let’s just do that, then,” he cuts you off, nodding once like it’s been decided. 

You have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. “Okay, I’ll press play.” 

You shift lean forward and your palm closes over his mouse. It’s slightly damp, like Keys’ fingers were clammy when he last touched it. 

“Wait!” His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. “Like…out loud?”

You gesture to the darkness beyond. “Keys, no one is here.”

“No, I know, but…” his eyes sweep the empty floor, shoulder hunched to his ears. “Okay fine, just do it.”

You nod and turn back to the monitor. “We’ll just pick up where you left off, okay?”

“Oh. I didn’t—”

Bennet Brook’s voice cuts him off, filtering through Keys’ computer speakers with that deep, raspy voice of his. 

“—was pretty good. Okay, now let’s do the carpal bones. I have a mnemonic for this, actually, you want to hear it? Okay. Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can’t Handle. Yeah, it’s a little…suggestive? It just—it helps people remember okay? Yes! The sluttier the better. Look, it goes from thumb to pinky proximally, then pinky to thumb distally. Here, I’ll show you…”

You risk a glance over at Keys. He sits perfectly still, breath bated as Bennett leads the listener through the scene. 

“Now you’re getting distracted,” Bennet laughs breathlessly. “What positions do I—I’m trying to help you study. Oh my god, you’re so annoying. Look. If I answer, will you study? Yeah? Okay, fine. My favorite is—”

You reach forward and press pause. The silence in the office rushes in to fill the empty space, and your stomach swoops as you turn to Keys. 

“What’s your favorite sex position?” you ask abruptly. 

He looks at you, eyes wide. You don’t miss the way his knuckles whiten around his arm rest, clearly doing that thing where he resists the urge to push his glasses up again out of habit.

“What does this have to do with—”

You sigh. “Just trust me, and answer the question.”

“Uh…missionary?”

“God, okay.” You roll your eyes and reach over to hit resume again. “That’s such a lie, but whatever.”

Keys stops you with that hand on your wrist again. “Wha—lie?”

“Yes. Lie.”

He finally turns to face you, incredulous. “Oh, and you’re suddenly an expert on what I like in bed?”

Heat shoots down your spine at his words, but you just scoff. “You play as a fucking stripper cop in Free City. Now, tell me the real answer.”

After a moment Keys groans, then looks away. “I don’t know the word for it. Like, the name, or whatever.”

“Oh! That’s not a problem.” 

You reach for his keyboard, and before he knows what’s happening, you’re opening a new tab, and then, right in front of him, is a list of sex positions. 

With pictures. 

“Jesus!” He hisses, looking over his shoulder as if the wall behind you is somehow going to open up and reveal your boss or something. “I’m going to have to scrub my search history clean after this.”

“Relax,” you say, settling back in your chair. “Now, point.”

Keys lets out a heavy, resigned sigh and sits forward, squinting at the screen. Ten seconds later, he shakes his head. 

“It’s not there.”

When he looks over at you, he immediately rolls his eyes, because the look on your face is the clearest I-told-you-so look he’s ever received. 

“God, with how freaky you are, Keys, it’s a wonder you’re silent in bed—”

“Hey!” He interjects, glaring over at you. “I never said—woah, okay, why are you standing up? What are you doing?”

You plant hands on your hips, looking down at him. “Look, just maneuver me into whatever position it is, and I’ll find the name of it for you.”

“This is ridiculous.”

You huff. “This is a part of the research. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine, we—”

Without looking, he reaches out and grabs your waist. The warmth of his skin bleeds through your thin work shirt and a surprised squeak escapes you as he tugs you down.

You land in his lap with an undignified plop, facing him. Your stomach plummets as his knee presses against your core, but he makes a disgruntled sound, and grabs your thigh, pulling one leg up and over until you’re straddling him. 

Your pulse hammers in your ears as you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders and peer down at him. 

The dim blue glow of the computer reflects in his glasses and as his gaze meets yours, his expression makes your chest ache. There’s something so sweet there. Soft. Like flower petals against your skin. Fragile, too. 

“This is it?” you whisper.

A small smirk crosses his lips. 

“Okay, so, this is just straddling…” you say, but your voice trails off as his hands spread over your waist. They’re so big. How have you never noticed how big his hands were before?

You swallow hard. “Or, I think, it’s technically called seated cowgirl.”

“Really?” he asks, squinting up at you with a hint of cockiness you could get drunk on.

In your next breath, Keys’s fingers dig into your hips, and he spins you around on his lap. His chest is warm against your back, and his computer desk digs into your belly. You wiggle your hips back slightly to get away from the sharp edge, but still when his hard length presses into your clothed core. 

“What’s this one called?” His voice is deeper now, threaded with heat, and it makes your hands clench against the cool metal of his desk. 

“Reverse seated cowgirl,” you say, fighting to keep your tone even. “So, this is your favorite? Tell me why.”

His breath stalls in his chest, you can feel the way he hesitates against your spine.

The printer hums in the far corner of the office, and a car horn blares distantly from the street below. 

After a long moment, he exhales, and his breath ghosts over your ear, making your lashes flutter. 

“I like the view,” he admits softly. “Painted in blue-light, all needy—” Then, he lets out a quiet, “Fuck.”

Heat pools deep in your belly. He sounds…wrecked. Already. And you’re just sitting in his lap fully clothed. 

God, you could make this man beg. 

You tilt forward and look over your shoulder. His eyes lift to yours, then drag down to your mouth, your hips, and his bottom lip disappears between his teeth.

“What else?” you whisper.  

He doesn’t hesitate this time. “I like the control of it, you know? Like—” he huffs out a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe he’s saying these things. “Like maybe I’m just playing a video game, and making you keep my cock warm. And you just… just have to sit there and take it.”

His words—so filthy and shy—stir hot embers of arousal between your hips. 

“Shit, Keys,” you say with a breathless laugh. “That was so good!”

His eyes meet yours again. “Really?”

“Yeah! Okay, I’m pushing play again. I’ll skip forward a little, too, just so we get to the good stuff.”

He clears his throat. “You’re going to stay right here?” He taps your leg and his fingers linger on your skin. 

You pretend to jolt in his hold. “Oh! Sorry, I can move if you—”

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “It’s fine.” 

‘It’s fine’, he says, as if he’s not raging hard underneath you, holding onto your leg like he might die if you slid off him right now. 

He’s too easy. 

You press play. 

Immediately, sounds of kissing and rustling fill the room. Keys inhales sharply, his erection growing against your ass, and you barely resist the urge to grind down on him. 

“That’s it,” Bennet croons. “You take it so good for me, baby. Fuck, you’re incredible.”

The wet sound of hips meeting has Keys’ mouth dropping open. His eyes dart off the screen, like watching the loading bar is somehow equivalent to seeing these imaginary people fuck. 

“That’s praise,” you whisper over your shoulder. “Obviously.”

Keys looks at you, then. Really looks at you. You can feel the way he takes in the slight shift of your hips as you try to find some friction to release the building ache. 

He’s reading you. Analyzing the data. Recalculating.

Classic Keys. 

The sight pulls at something in your chest. Truthfully, that’s the reason you like him so damn much, the reason you’re pulled to him like a ship to a lighthouse. 

Because with Keys, you would be fully, and utterly known. 

“…always so needy?” Bennet groans. “Just wanna be bent over a desk and fucked, huh, baby? This what you need? So dirty, I swear to God.”

“Degradation,” you murmur, turning back to the computer. 

Bennett keeps going. “Oh yeah, just like that? C’mon, baby. Tell me what you want. Use your words.”

 “Instruction,” Keys says, beating you to the punch. 

You’re grateful your back is to him so he can’t see your self-indulgent smile. 

“…thought about this a lot,” Bennet groans, the sound effects growing faster and louder. “Like in the library on campus? When we’re trying to study but you’re sitting across from me, and I can’t focus…”

Your breath catches at the exact same second Keys goes still beneath you. 

“…I see it, you know. The way your hand brushes mine when you hand me a pencil. You think I don’t notice? Fuck—of course I’ve thought about you. Are you kidding? Every time I jerk my cock I think about you. How you’d sound when I’m fucking up into you like this. Oh, you like that, huh? Get you so cock drunk— oh, baby, that’s it—”

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly gone dry. 

That’s fantasizing.

But for some reason, you can’t even bring yourself to repeat it. To solidify it. To make it any realer than it already is. 

Can Keys tell how much you relate to Bennett's words? That every time you’re in bed at night, thoughts of him keep you up late, you’re rubbing your aching cunt, whining his name into the empty ceiling?

You’re soaking through your underwear now, but mostly from listening to Keys’ uneven breathing behind you. His fingers flex over and over against your work skirt, like he can’t quite get up the courage to slip them under the hem that’s riding up your bare thighs. 

In an effort to relieve his aching erection, Keys shifts in his chair. It’s a small enough movement, but it’s just enough to send his elbow into a cup on his desk. It falls with a dull thud, the water inside instantly soaking into the carpet.

You smack the space bar on his keyboard, cutting Bennet off mid-moan, and leap to your feet. 

Keys cringes and moves to stand, but you disappear behind your desk before he can blink, and reappear a second later with a roll of paper towels. 

“Here,” you say gently as you kneel in front of him. “Let me.”

Keys reaches down at the same time you raise up on your knees, and when you lift your chin, you find your faces only an inch apart. 

He doesn’t jerk back like you expect. Instead, he just finds the paper towel on the ground and gently pries your fingers off it, resuming the blotting himself. 

Your hands find purchase on his knees for balance, and they spread wider under your touch, almost subconsciously. 

Almost. 

You swallow. “Keys?” 

His shoulder muscles flex under his T-shirt as he works. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to keep listening to the audio…or…do you want to practice?”

“Practice?” He doesn’t look up, but his voice cracks. 

“Only if you want.”

Keys sits back into his chair, tossing the wet paper towel into the nearby waste basket. Then his eyes settle on you for what feels like the first time all night. 

Through his work khakis’, his erection presses an angry imprint. God, it looks so hard it probably hurts, confined like that. The air between you shimmers with that unsaid tension, the kind that releases butterflies in your stomach and in the chambers of your heart. 

But while exciting, it’s equally terrifying, putting yourself on display like this. You feel strangely vulnerable, even though you were just teasing him a few seconds earlier. 

“What are you thinking about right now?” you ask, voice soft. 

Keys looks away, jaw clenching. 

Suddenly, you wonder if you’ve misread this. Have you made him uncomfortable? What if there actually is a girl, and it’s not you, and you’ve just—

“Your mouth,” Keys says, cutting off your thoughts. 

Hope renewed, your gaze snaps to his. 

“Where?” 

He rakes a hand through his hair, and his glasses slant adorably on his nose with the motion. His chest rises and falls once, twice, and then he whispers, “My cock.”

God, just hearing him say that makes your panties slick. 

“Good,” you breathe. “Now, put it together.”

He huffs, a surprised laugh slipping from him before the heat returns to his gaze.  “I’m thinking about your mouth on my cock.”

The damp carpet fibers dig into your knees as you watch his Adam’s apple bob on a swallow.

“Do you want me to do that?” you ask carefully. 

There’s a certain irreversible tension sitting between you right now. It feels a little like waiting behind an ancient door, not sure if it will creak open and invite you in or vanish into a cloud of dust. 

After a long moment, Keys nods.

A triumphant thrill zips through you, but you keep yourself together and hold his gaze. “You have to say it—”

“Fuck, I want it.” The words rush out of him in a gasp, like they’ve been sitting behind his teeth, waiting their turn the whole night. “I want my cock in your mouth. Please.”

He’s barely got the words out before your fingers fly to his zipper. 

“Forgot about begging,” you mutter more to yourself, but he hears you anyway. 

How could you have forgotten that very important category of dirty talk? It’s one of your favorites, and it flew from his lips unprompted. 

He’s perfect. 

“W-what about the—cameras,” he protests weakly, even as his hips lift from the chair to help you slide his pants down his thighs. 

“The cameras don’t reach back here,” you assure him.

Hooking a finger in the band his underwear, you pull them down and reveal his cock. It sits hard and heavy against the happy trail on his lower stomach.

He sputters. “W-what? Wait—really? How do you know that?”

It’s only natural, digging into dark spots in the security systems at a new job. Especially when you have a coworker as hot as Walter McKeys.

Instead of answering, though, you shuffle forward and take him in your hands. His head tips back on a ragged groan and you relish the hot, velvety feel of him. It’s long and hard, and somehow, you always knew Keys would have a big dick. 

It’s always the nerds. 

Your pussy throbs, fluttering around nothing as you imagine him easing his length inside your slick core, whispering in your ear, telling you how well you’re doing, how much he’s wanted this. 

Keys sits ramrod straight, breathing sharply through his nose as you let your hands explore him. You stroke him from base to tip, fondle his balls, then reach down and palm his thighs. His stomach flexes beneath his shirt, and on impulse, you reach up and lift it until the fabric bunches just below his ribs. 

Soft tummy with muscles flexing underneath. A dark happy trail leading down. A glimpse of thicker hair littered across his chest. 

God, he’s delicious. 

What you wouldn’t give to have this man naked in your bed right now. Saliva builds in your mouth at the thought.

Can you die by horniness? Better research that later. 

You stroke him firmly a few times, and when you lean down, he groans softly.  

Glancing up, you search for any sign to stop, but his eyes aren’t on yours anymore.  They’re glued to your chest. 

You tilt your chin down to see what he’s looking at. 

The three unfastened buttons of your work shirt give him a clear view of your cleavage, and the glow of the computer monitor illuminates the dips and valleys prettily.

A relieved gasp escapes him as your hands start undoing the rest of the buttons. He nods as if you read his mind when your shirt falls open, revealing your black bra. 

Thank God it’s your cute one. Not lingerie by any means, but your nipples harden under his gaze, poking against the fabric. 

You keep your shirt hanging loosely over your shoulders, just in case someone were to walk in. Although very unlikely, the thought of getting caught with Keys still shoots a wicked jolt of pleasure through you. 

Wordlessly, you run your hands up his legs again until your fingers find his cock and resume your attention. 

Keys says something—more like whines it—but it’s too quiet for you to hear. The carpet presses into your knees as you lean in. His thick thighs bracket your shoulders, and when your breath ghosts across the head of his cock, they go hard as rocks. He makes a muffled sound in the back of his throat, then clears it roughly. 

You lean back to catch his eye. 

“Whatever your voice, or breath, wants to do…just let it happen,” you say. “Don’t worry about being loud, there’s no one here.”

He nods, drunk on the sight of you, desperate for your mouth. 

Those big hands reach down and gather your hair, and you scoot even closer, close enough to tap his dick against your lips with a soft smack. When you blink up at him, Keys curses under his breath, then stops himself. 

“Stop swallowing it down,” you chide. “Let me hear.”

Before he can say—or do—anything, you lick a broad, wet stripe up his length. His hips jerk in your hold, a ragged moan tumbling from his lips, unabashed. Your eyes shine with pride when you look up at him. And fuck, he’ll do anything to see that look again. 

You stroke him lazily. Like you have all the the time in the world here in the office after hours. Like you’ve been thinking about it for a long, long, time. 

Drool pools in your mouth as you coat him with your tongue. Then, your lips wrap around him and you slowly work your way down, inch by inch, listening to his whimpers, feeling the way his body vibrates underneath you. 

He’s still holding himself back, so you draw back up and suck gently on his tip before popping off him.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “Fu-forgot I was supposed to talk.”

You nod. “That’s okay. How do you like it?”

He starts to respond, but you envelop him in your warm, wet mouth again, and all words die on his lips. 

“Feels so good, I can’t—can’t—mmmph,” he groans as you relax your jaw and take him deeper, then whimpers pitifully when you come off him again. “My brain’s fried. Like, actually short circuited. I can’t think—”

You press your tits together and tilt your head. “It feels good, right?”

He chuckles, a ragged soft sound. “Fuck—yeah.”

“Just talk to me, then,” you murmur, fluttering your tongue along the ridge of his cock as it twitches in your hold. 

Something seems to click in his mind at those words, and his eyes harden as he stares down at you.

“You want to know why I’m always so tired?” he says, chest heaving. “I stay up all night, trying to get the work done I should be doing when I’m sitting at my desk. But I can’t. Because I’m—fucking hard—all the time. Because of you!”

You decide to reward him for that little speech—a great example of fantasizing and degradation—and relax your jaw again, sliding him deep into your throat. Deeper than before. Keys throws his head back on a groan. The stretch brings tears to your eyes, but you blink them back so you can look at him properly. 

His hair looks so pretty illuminated in soft streaks of blue from the computer, and gold from the street far below. Like a painting. 

Arousal floods your core, coating your underwear, and you can feel your clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat. 

You slide up and off of him to let your lungs expand and he inhales with you, like that took his breath away as much as it did yours. 

“Can’t stop thinking about what you’d feel like under me,” Keys pants. He watches you with heated eyes as you suck on his tip, stroking the rest of him steadily with both hands. “Or—or on top of me. What you’d t-taste like.”

Without thinking, you shove two fingers past your waistband, and straight through your soaked folds. The contact has you moaning around his cock, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure down his spine. 

Then, you slowly withdraw them. They glisten in the glow of the monitor as you raise them up to his face, and Keys wastes no time leaning forward and capturing them in his mouth. His tongue strokes up to your knuckles eagerly, and as the first taste of you floods his mouth, it seems to unlock something in him. Some rusty, spider-web filled, creaking lock shoves open. 

“Aghhh yeah,” he moans when you withdraw your fingers and suck him deep again. “That’s how I like it. However you do it, that’s how I like it, baby. Holy fuck.” 

Your eyes actually roll back at that, and your hand flies down to circle your clit without thinking. 

His eyes track the movement and he chuckles darkly. “Oh, you like that? You like hearing how well you’re doing?”

You whimper. Fuck, yeah, you do.

He bucks underneath you, like your mouth is just the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. “Just—fucking—on your knees for me? Shit."

Your eyes slide shut, lost in the salty taste of him as his precum mixes with your spit. His hand leaves your head and reaches down to tap your chin. 

“Eyes on me, baby,” he rasps. Your eyes flutter open in surprise.

You swallow around him in response and his jaw drops. He grips your hair again on instinct and you moan in encouragement as he starts to push you gently up and down his shaft. 

“Is t-this okay?” he asks, breath ragged. 

You nod, lashes fluttering as he hits that soft spot at the back of your throat. 

Truth is, you love this. 

Taking your rigid, calculating co-worker and turning him into something needy and honest. He’s wild, but with an edge of control. And somehow, you just know Keys could take you to the brink and keep you there like no other. 

You hollow your cheeks as he grinds in and out of your wet mouth, pulsing against your tongue and spitting out the filthiest words you’ve ever heard him say in your months of working across from him. 

You rub your throbbing clit faster, and he blinks down, watching you touch yourself to the feel of him in your mouth for all of three seconds before he’s yanking up on your hair. 

Your scalp tingles as you disobey his silent order, determined to have him come in your mouth. His base is slick against your puffy lips, and he damn near chokes on his tongue when your nose hits his stomach. 

“Holy—I’m gonna come,” he grunts, hips bucking. “Shit—baby, you’ve gotta—do you—”

He breaks off with a ragged moan as you grip his thighs and swallow around him—and then he’s spilling down your throat. 

His abs tense and release over and over in your view, and the view is so intoxicating, you’re only a few seconds away from your own release when he finally slips from your drooling mouth.

You don’t know what you expected him to do when he finished. Maybe probably crawl back into that shy, nice-guy, missionary shell of his. Instead, when his chin falls to his chest, his soft brown eyes have gone molten. He reaches down and pulls his pants back up, tucking himself back into his briefs, but he doesn’t bother with the zipper. 

“C’mere,” he demands, grabbing you by the wrist and yanking you up. Your legs wobble, but he catches you easily and pulls you down into his lap. “Ride my thigh.”

Your mouth drops open. “Ride your—”

“You heard me.”

In one smooth motion, he plunges a hand under your skirt and yanks your panties down your legs. His knuckles brush your wet folds and you gasp against him, grinding down instinctively against his knee. 

“Look at you,” he whispers. “Taking instructions. Soaking through my pants like that? Fuck yeah.”

Your breasts heave as you try to catch your breath, but now, you start to wonder if maybe you’ll just be in an oxygen debt forever at this point. Because with the way he’s looking up at you right now, there’s no way you can breathe. 

Your hips roll smooth and fast, and when he shifts his leg up slightly, meeting your movements, sparks shoot up your spine. Your head drops back, eyes slipping shut, but Keys is quick to pull your gaze back to his with a hand around the nape of your neck. 

He clicks his tongue. “No, I want to watch you. Wanna see you fall apart for me.”

“God, Keys,” you pant, “you’re a quick learner, I’ll give you that—”

He cuts you off by pinching your nipple through your bra, and when he grabs a handful of your bare ass under your skirt, your lungs officially forget how to expand. 

“Please,” you beg. “Keys—”

His hands fly to your hips, helping you rock back and forth on him. “What is it? What do you need? Need me to touch you?”

You whimper. “Yes.”

“Tell me where.”

You grab his hand and guide it under your skirt, but he pulls back at the last second. 

“That’s not telling me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, breathless and irritated. 

He smiles, then. And it’s positively radiant, white teeth winking in the dim light. 

“C’mon, use your words, or else I’ll have to stop,” he warns. 

But you’re not listening, because at that moment, he dips his head and captures your aching breast in his mouth, pulling a deep moan from your throat and putting an arch in your back. 

Your thighs burn, hips slowing to devastatingly desperate swivel in order to keep his mouth on you. The threads of his pants are warm and completely soaked through underneath you, and he’s licking and sucking your breasts through your bra like he’s trying to find a way to imprint his smell, his taste, onto your body.

The duel stimulation feeds that sprawling drive for more. Tremors start to run through your hands, making them claw restlessly at his shoulders and dive into his hair as your orgasm grows closer. 

Suddenly, Keys pulls back. He ignores your whine of protest and blinks up at you from behind his glasses. Your tongue darts over your bottom lip as your eyes drop to his mouth. 

His perfect…perfect fucking mouth. Soft lips, parted just slightly as he breathes heavily beneath you. The timber of his voice reverberates against your stomach as he talks. God, it’d be so easy just to lean in and press your mouth against his, feel that gentle glide of his tongue against yours…

Wait, is he saying something? You can’t fucking think—

“…not going to tell me, I have to stop.”

It’s only when his hands leave your body that the world slows to a stop. 

Cold air rushes in where his hands just were. Now you’re just needy and wet, grinding down on his pants leg in the middle of a dark office. 

“W-what?” you ask dumbly.

He shrugs. “I told you what would happen if you didn’t use your words.”

Your brain feels foggy, like your thoughts are traveling through a cloud, all the blooding your body pooled in your clit instead. 

“But I...” you whimper, “But, what—”

He rolls his eyes. 

“But I—but Keys—I just—” he mocks you, voice going higher on his register, and your mouth drops open in shock. 

He smirks at the look on your face and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “What? you thought I wasn’t serious? You made me do all this—and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it. I watched you getting off on the power trip of it all, and now it’s my turn. So, go ahead. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

Where the fuck did your nerdy, shy coworker go? And who have you turned him into? Your breasts heave in his face as you blink down at him, but he doesn’t so much as glance at them. 

“I’m right here,” he urges. “Go ahead. Ask for it. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

After a moment, you finally find your voice. 

“I-I want you to touch me.”

His hands instantly resume their place on your hips and your breath shutters in relief. 

Then he leans in, lips ghosting over your jaw. “That wasn’t so hard, huh? Where do you want to come? On my fingers?”

“Yes!” The word leaves your mouth broken and desperate. 

He hums. “Put it together.”

You exhale sharply, panting towards the ceiling in frustration. “Walter, I want you to finger fuck me until I come.”

He smiles against your throat. “Good girl.”

His hand finds your clit immediately and he rubs tight, hot circles that have your back arching.  

“Oh, God, don’t stop!” you beg. 

Your shirt slips from your shoulder and then his mouth is there, kissing the soft skin like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. 

The muscles deep in your core flex with your impending pleasure and you writhe against him desperately. Through it all, his hands stay steady, never wavering. Constant, and grounding. 

You raise up on shaky legs as his two middle fingers circle your entrance and your pelvis tilts, eagerly seeking that internal friction. 

He presses in, just a little, and your body welcomes him greedily. The sound of his fingers disappearing inside you making him groan out a slurred curse. 

“Shit, baby—both at once? So wet for me, oh my God.” 

When his fingertips brush that spongey spot that makes you see stars, your chest vibrates with your moan. The pressure on your clit is too much, and not enough, and everything all at once—it’s overwhelming. It's perfect. 

Your hips snap into his palm, driving his fingers deeper and he lets out a choked sound as you whine, needy and breathless. 

“There you go. That’s it,” he murmurs into your neck. His glasses knock into your throat as you tip your head back to give him better access. “Take what you need.”

That white-hot band of pleasure finally snaps as you clench around his fingers, and your orgasm rushes through you in a torrential wave of bliss. Keys slowly withdraws his fingers and helps bring you back to each with soft kisses to your chest, thumbs tracing circles into your thighs as you collapse on top of him. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp, running a hand through your hair, gazing down at him through heavy lids. “That was…”

“Good?” he asks eagerly. 

You smile. “Perfect.”

And you mean it. You really do. 

His fingers brush over your bare shoulder and your breath catches again as your eyes connect with his. The stoplight on the street below turns green, reflecting in his glasses, and because you can’t help it, you smirk down at him. 

“So, about this girl...” he murmurs. 

Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“This date—”

“Yeah?” you say again, eagerly, cutting him off. 

As you stare at each other, chests heaving, faces flush, a laugh builds behind your ribs. 

He clears his throat. “I was kinda hoping…you’re free Thursday? I was thinking about that place on Elm and Cross—”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” you murmur, and the rest of his words die against your mouth as you lean down and kiss him. 

a/n: Oh, hi. So, the way I feel about this fictional man, is actually pretty close to the actual definition of feral. Also, I just want to say, there are many more kinds of dirty talk out there, but these categories just fit the plot lol

Also everyone blame Jules (@tellcherhesgone) for putting this idea in my head, because she posted one thing about Keys definitely knowing what GoneWildAudio is, and that shit stuck with me lol

keys taglist: @emotionallyaslut , @subtlesposts, @oliviaharrington, @drifting-daydream, @dracomalfoypilled , @mysticfluffyness

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling a cold.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."

If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.

Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.

Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.

He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"

"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."

"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.

He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.

Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.

And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.

He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.

You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.

"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."

There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.

At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.

"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.

"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.

"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."

If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.

"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."

You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.

"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"

That's a dumb fucking question.

"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."

When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.

About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.

"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."

"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.

"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."

Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.

Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"

"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.

You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."

He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.

What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."

He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?

That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.

Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.

Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.

He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.

That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.

The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?

God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?

Whatever.

It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.

The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.

Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.

That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.

Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—

"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"

Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.

Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.

Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.

He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.

"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.

He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.

"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."

Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.

"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.

"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"

He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fu- fucking cold."

"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."

You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."

"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."

You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.

Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.

Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.

Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.

"Be n- n- nice!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"

The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.

Like a fucking fool.

"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."

The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"

You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"

"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"

"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.

He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."

"You could h- have some f'ya' want."

"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."

"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."

"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.

You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."

He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."

Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.

"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.

You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.

"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."

Oh, if only you knew.

"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"

"Make wh- what weird?"

Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.

The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."

"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."

"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.

The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.

"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."

"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."

You sound mortified.

"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"

"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"

He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?

"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.

There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.

Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.

Talk about something else. Anything.

"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."

You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.

"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."

Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."

"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."

Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.

"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."

"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."

It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.

"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."

He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."

Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.

"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."

And look where that got the two of you.

Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.

You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."

"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."

"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."

"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."

The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."

We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.

"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."

An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.

Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.

"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."

It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…

Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.

And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.

"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"

"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"

"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."

Scared is an understatement.

He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.

He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.

He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.

And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—

Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.

Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.

Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.

Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.

And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.

Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.

Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.

If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.

And you.

You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.

Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.

Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"

"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"

A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."

"Oh my god, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."

"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."

Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."

"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."

Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."

A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.

The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.

Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."

"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"

Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."

Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.

"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"

Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."

He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?

"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."

"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"

"Not to death."

"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."

"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"

"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"

"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"

He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.

"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."

"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"

"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.

No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."

"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"

He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.

Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.

Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

“You know the rules.”

He huffs. Acts like he didn’t tell you in a drunken stupor two days ago that he wants you to call the shots.

“You’re fun to tease,” you say, leaning forward again, rubbing the tip of your nose against his. His eyes flutter shut, lips pursing, but you pull away before he has the pleasure.

Steve’s hands shoot up from the couch beside him, and you stop them right before he gets his hand on the nape of your neck and the small of your back. You tut at him, shaking your head, and press his eager hands back into the cushion.

“Please,” he whimpers.

You tuck his hair behind his ear, looking at him lovingly. “Please, what?”

His cheeks are pink. “Let me kiss you. Wanna kiss you so bad.”

You hum. “You don’t get to kiss me. You’re not in charge here, Harrington.”

You run your finger down the bridge of his nose. Steve’s eyes almost cross.

“Please kiss me,” he revises. He adds another please, but it’s hardly above a whisper.

“If you insist.”

His eyes shut again, his pretty face relaxing - relieved. You lean forward, cupping his warm cheeks with your hands, and press a light kiss to his lips.

You pull back a little. He’s expecting more, like that was just a warm up.

It wasn’t.

“Happy now?” you ask.

Steve groans. His head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenched.

You simply giggle.

“Baby,” he says, lifting his head to look at you. Beside him, his fingers flex. “What do I have to do, huh? Begging isn’t enough?”

You shake your head, biting your lip. You move forward to press your lips against his ear.

“Tell me every little thing you want me to do to you.”

To be a bitch, you grind down on his cock. He shivers, cock kicking in his jeans.

You know it’s hard for him to ask for what he wants like this. He usually just gets it, no begging required. It’s awkward, takes him a while to find his words. You watch with glee - it’s very hot to bitch him out.

“Want you to kiss me,” Steve starts. He keeps his eyes closed, and you don’t push it. “I want you to kiss me ‘til it’s hard for me to breathe.”

He shifts, groaning slightly as his cock ruts against you.

“And I want… I want you to give me hickeys.”

“Where?”

His hands twitch, but he stops himself. “My neck.”

You lean in once again, pressing your lips against his sensitive skin. He sighs as you kiss along his jawline.

“What else?”

“I want you to ride me,” he groans. “And when I cum… I want you to keep going.”

You grin, nibbling at him. “Where do you want to cum?”

“Inside,” he rushes out. “Please.”

“Hm. I’ll consider it.” You bite his earlobe. “Anything else?”

He whimpers. “Want you to praise me,” he says quietly.

You laugh breathily, making his skin prickle. “Then lose the attitude.”

You feel him swallow against your lips as you kiss along the skin, waiting until he whimpers at a particularly sensitive spot before sucking. He tastes fresh, a little salty. You lick up his neck and he gasps, hips bucking.

“Want me to mark you up so people know you’re mine, huh?” you whisper. “Maybe I should keep you on a leash, show everyone who owns you.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, his head falling back. You smile, sucking on his pulse point.

“Yeah? Wanna be my puppy, Steve?”

He nods, face red and radiating heat.

You kiss downwards towards the base of his neck, featherlight kisses placed against his scar. “Might as well. You’re acting like a bitch in heat.”

“Please,” he groans.

You gently bite his collarbone and pull away. He looks wrecked, face red, jaw clenched. “What is it, honey?”

“Kiss me,” he whimpers.

You trail your finger across his collarbones, staring into his eyes. He’s pleading, really selling the whole puppy thing. “If you could choose, would you rather kiss me or fuck me?”

“Kiss you.” He doesn’t even have to think about it.

Your cheeks heat now. “You’re such a romantic,” you coo. “Are you just being sweet with me to get what you want?”

Steve shakes his head viciously. “I’m - it’s the truth.”

Taking pity on him, you cup his jaw.

“No hands,” you remind, before pressing your lips to his.

You linger. You don’t quite kiss him hard, but it’s much firmer and longer than what he was previously given. Steve pants against your lips, hands clenching beside you.

You hardly pull away when you ask, “What would you do if I let you touch me?”

“I’d give you everything you want.”

It’s so tempting. There’s not a lot more that you love in this universe than having Steve’s strong arms around you, keeping you pressed to him. He’s always acting like he’s scared to lose you - everyone in his life, in fact - and you can’t quite figure out why.

“If you touch me, will you let me be in charge?”

He nods, coffee-brown pupils blown.

You hop off of his lap and he whines, reaching out for you.

“Relax,” you say, leaning forward to kiss the top of his head. “Pants and underwear off, honey.”

He moves fast with wide eyes and watches you remove your own clothes. You stay in your bra. It’s thin, and Steve’s eyes immediately hyperfixate on your tits. Your eyes trail down to his cock, painfully hard, tip pink and swollen.

You climb back onto him, straddling his thigh. Steve gasps, hands hovering, waiting for your permission.

“You’re so wet.”

“All for you, pretty boy.”

You take his hands and gently guide them to your hips. His hands immediately find purchase, fingers groping at the soft flesh.

“Don’t try to lead, Steve.”

He shakes his head as if he’d never even think about it.

He sighs as you move, eyes boring into the sight of your slick on his thigh. He sounds like you’re really fucking him, even though his cock is sitting neglected beside you. You glance down to watch it kick on its own, so heavy and lonely.

You bring your hand up to his mouth. “Spit.”

Steve’s eyes focus in. “Huh?”

“Spit, Steve.”

Confused, embarrassed, he does as he’s told.

“Again.”

He gives you much more to work with this time. Your hand snakes down to wrap around his aching cock and he gasps, hips jerking up into your fist.

“Uh-uh,” you chastise, loosening your grip.

“Christ, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please please please give it back!”

You’d never say no to him when he begs like that.

You stroke him in tandem to your hips movements, slow and drawn out. He’s sweating, making such an effort to stay still. His fingers bruise your skin, but you don’t quite mind it.

“You’re so goddamn hot when you beg,” you say, leaning forward to kiss him just a little. “Love seeing you like this. Big, strong Steve Harrington reduced to a little plaything.”

His cock pulses in your palm while his eyes roll back. His neck looks so pretty on display, your hickeys littering the skin, tendons flexing, that little silver scar around his collar like a necklace.

“You really are a good boy, Steve,” you continue, twisting your hand while he pants. “Always so eager to please. So sweet.”

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“I love you, too. Don’t get cute.”

“I need you,” he whimpers.

“Want another kiss?”

He nods, and you lean in. Just as your lips touch, you pull away again, teasing him like before.

He groans, sounding more frustrated than ever. “You’re killin’ me.”

“What’re you gonna do it about it, huh? Gonna pin me down, make me take it? Or is that my job?”

You clit throbs against his thigh, dragging slowly while you watch him short circuit. You bring your hand to your own mouth, spitting before jerking him off again.

“I think you like being out of control,” you sigh. “I think you like it when someone tells you what to do. Don’t you?”

He nods fervently, messy hair falling over his forehead. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if he can’t look at you.

“Then let me give you a task,” you say, moving off of his thigh to straddle both of his legs, the tip of his cock kissing your clit.

You take his hand from your hip and move it between your thighs. “Get me ready for you.”

There’s no hesitation. Steve has two fingers buried inside of you before you can process it, and you moan loudly. His fingers crook up right against the spot you like, making your legs shake.

“Good boy,” you moan, throwing your arms around his neck. “This - this is f-for me, not you.”

His fat cock leaks, anyway. Steve’s knuckles rub against it with every push and pull of his middle and ring fingers.

His thumb swipes across your clit, your nipples perking as he works on you. His eyes are glued to them, lips parted.

“Y’want my tits, too?”

He whines and nods. “Please, please, please give me something.”

“Your fingers in my cunt not enough?”

“I - I -“

“You’re so pussy drunk,” you pant. “Does - does your cock hurt?”

He nods up at you, pouting. His pace doubles down, pressing against your sweet spots firmly and consistently.

“Y’know I need one more,” you say, and he’s slipping his index finger into you, too.

The stretch is uncomfortable, but you’re happy to take the temporary pain.

“So good.” He’s praising you.

You laugh. “You’re my good - my good b-boy, stretching me out so sweet.”

You sink down onto his cock without much warning. So little warning, in fact, that he shouts. Let’s out a little “ah!” and swiftly bucks his hips upward, his hands grabbing your waist. You wince hard, the stretch too much, pain shooting through your pelvis.

“I’m sorry!” he says quickly. He breaks the no-hands rule to cup your cheeks, wiping stinging tears from your eyes. “I didn’t - you didn’t tell me —“

You shake your head, taking a deep breath.

Steve, his own eyes watering, grabs your hips and tries to haul you off, but you glare at him.

“Don’t pull out.”

You hear his breath catch in his throat as he stills. He looks confused, thick brows furrowing together, his chest and face red.

“Need a second,” you whimper. “No apologies, Stevie, my fault for not warning you.”

Kindly, Steve’s thumb finds your clit and he rubs gentle circles into it. You relax a bit, the pain slowly - so slowly - dulling.

“Good boy,” you whisper. “Making me feel so good after splitting me open on your cock.”

He groans. A bead of sweat trails down his temple.

Your chest heaves, trying to catch your breath, to focus on anything other than the stretch. “Tell me how my pussy feels.”

Steve swallows hard, his thumb still helping you through it.

“It’s - it’s really - uh, it’s really t-tight. So goddamn tight. And wet, and hot… You - you’re soft.” He shakes his head, widened eyes meeting yours. “I’m not gonna last.”

Steve’s words and work on your clit have your stomach tightening, the pain subsiding.

“You’re going to last, Steve,” you say, lifting up slowly. The relief is immense, but you feel so empty. “You better hold it until I cum. Got it?”

He groans but nods.

“Might as well keep touching me,” you say, giving the tip of his nose a quick kiss. “Need you to keep rubbing my clit, ‘kay? You wanna touch my tits?”

He nods again, eyes hooded. Probably feels so cold without your cunt on his shaft, just the tip inside.

You take one of his hands and move it to your breast. “Not allowed to touch anywhere else. No moving your hips, either. You’re going to take what I give you.”

“I’ll take it,” he agrees.

You sit down without warning and Steve gasps loudly. His thighs tighten under your ass and he grits his teeth, throwing his head back.

“Come on, Steve,” you strain, “touch me.”

He rambles while you ride him, his fingers pinching and pulling at your lace covered nipples and clit. You ride him slowly, looking down at him with your brows stitched together. He’s so gorgeous, so pretty when you get on top. So frazzled and needy. Your hickeys have since turned purple, the bruises on his skin blooming like violets.

You attach your lips to his neck again.

“Ohhhh phhhuuuck,” he groans, the hand on your breast squeezing.

“You feel so good, Steve.” You nip at his jaw and tickle under his ear with the tip of your nose. “Fat fucking cock fills me up so good.”

His eyes roll back. His throat vibrates under your lips.

“Shouldn’t … I shouldn’t have taken i-it so easy on you.” It’s hard to speak, your pleasure growing. “May- maybe I should just sit on you- your cock, keep it warm instead.”

“No no no no no,” he rushes out, shaking his head. “Gotta cum, please let me cum, oh my God.”

“But we just started,” you breathe, picking up your pace. You lift your head to look at him, watching him desperately try to keep his head on. “What’s the fun in that?”

You notice that his thumb has began to move faster, too. He’s clearly trying to get you to cum quickly. And it almost works. Stomach tightening, cunt throbbing around his shaft, and you know it would feel so good to clench down on him and take his cum.

But you maintain your composure.

“No cheating,” you pant.

“Not… I’m not,” he slurs. “Want you t’feel good.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Aren’t you sweet?”

“Lemme help,” he whines, rubbing his thumb over your nipple. “Wanna taste.”

Your pussy aches. “Through my bra.”

He lurches forward to suck and kiss at your tits, dampening the fabric with his spit. It feels so good, the rough lace rubbing against your nipple with each swipe of his tongue. He’s a great multitasker, too, still doing his best with your clit.

You’ve never heard him sound so slutty. He moans, groans, sucks, licks loudly. It’s such a turn on, your stomach flipping, your breaths growing heavy.

“Good boy,” you whimper, moving as fast as your legs will allow you. “So fucking pretty and hot, Steve, l-look at you, Christ. Make - make me feel so good. Y’r so big, f-fillin’ me up - y’gonna cum in me?”

“Please!”

Your legs are sore, shaking at the exertion. You press yourself against his chest, bracing yourself on him.

Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear. You feel him shiver.

“Fuck me.”

Ever obedient, he obeys. Planting his feet, he adjusts his hand to grip your hip and snaps his own up into you.

He fucks like it’s the last time he ever will. Like it’s the last time he’ll ever feel your sweet cunt around him. He groans expletives into the crook of your shoulder, biting your skin, sucking on your neck.

“Shit!” you gasp, your back arching.

Steve moves his arms to wrap around you, keeping you pressed against his chest.

He’s not allowed to do that. But you feel too good to stop him, so you decide to create some equilibrium. Your hands curl into his hair and you tug harshly, forcing his head back, the prettiest noise sneaking out past his lips.

“Gonna make me cum?” you grit, feeling your climax nearing. You don’t even need him to coax you with a finger on your clit. “Y’gonna f-fill my pussy up?”

“Fuck!”

You smash your lips against his, teeth colliding. It’s not a loving kiss - it’s ownership. You own him.

The moment Steve licks into your mouth, you’re done. Body tensing and trembling, you tighten around his cock and cum, hard and swift. He fucks you though it, though he’s whimpering loudly.

He won’t cum until you tell him to.

Using your remaining strength, you put your lips to his ear once more.

Smiling deviously, you whisper, “Fuck a baby into me.”

It’s comical how fast it takes him over the edge. His teeth bite into your shoulder and he groans, slurs out some words that you can’t understand. His warm cock pistons in and out of you until he buries himself all the way inside of you. The pressure is immense, but feeling the warmth of his cum fill you makes it worth it.

Steve’s still panting when you pull back. He’s blissed, fucked out, sweating and red. He smells like sex and sweat and sandalwood. You lean forward to kiss him, nice and soft and sweet, cupping his burning cheeks.

“So good for me, Stevie,” you murmur between kisses. “My beautiful boy, did so good.”

Steve nods, a lopsided grin spreading across his face, eyes almost closed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Your legs still shake, but you do as he requested before. You don’t stop. Your cunt is swollen and sore but you slide up and down his shaft slowly, gasping softly with each rise and fall.

“Hey,” he gasps, digging his nails into your skin. “Baby - woah.”

“You said you wanted me to keep goin’.” You play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

He throws his head back, groaning long and deep, writhing beneath you.

“Too much,” he breathes.

“Thought you wanted this, honey. Doesn’t my pussy feel so good? All full of your cum?”

He jerks violently. “Honey — oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Gonna cum again?”

He exhales loudly from his nose. Shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again. His stomach ripples and tightens, chest rising and falling rapidly while sweat pools at his hairline.

“Such a fucking slut,” you continue, smiling when he reacts with a whine. “Wanna cum again? Huh? Greedy.”

“I was good,” he chokes out.

And he’s right. It’s his first time, after all. He wasn’t bad for a novice.

“You’re right,” you coo. “Good little slut for me. So handsome when you’re fucked out… cum feels so good in me.” You sink all the way down, resting on his balls, swollen and sensitive. “Look, sweetheart, you’re fucking your cum right back into me.”

You run your nails through the hair on his chest. You lift up once, then down, and he’s cumming again, his back arching and burying himself as far inside of you as he can go.

You kiss around his face, his sweat salty on your lips. With a final peck on his hot cheek, you pinch his side and slide off of him gently, both of you hissing. You press your forehead against his and nuzzle your noses together.

“Hi,” you say softly.

Steve’s still planting. He nods. He can’t speak yet.

“You okay?”

He nods again.

“Let’s lay down, okay?”

You hurt between the legs as you stand unsteadily to let him lay down on the couch. He throws an arm over his eyes and sighs deeply, his spent cock softening on his lower stomach.

“C’mere,” he says hoarsely, reaching for you.

“I’m messy,” you whisper. “And so are you.”

His hand slides downwards, finding your cunt again. You gasp as his fingers weakly slide between your folds, and he groans when he feels his cum slipping out of you.

“Messy,” he repeats, a stupid smile on his face.

“Yeah, you are, too. You want a bath, or just a washcloth?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t go.”

You bite your tongue, trying to suppress a smile as you look at him. “If you get in the bath with me, you can do whatever you want to me tomorrow.”

Steve sighs again, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

“Might need a sec,” he pants.

eventually, robin catches on, because of course she does. when she confronts steve about it — about being weird and constantly walking by the music store across the way whenever you're working — he shoves her shoulder and brushes past her on the way to the freezer in the back.

"if you have a crush on them, i can help you out," robin says, and it's suddenly like she's dangling a carrot in front of bugs bunny. "but this can't be like, some weird sexual conquest of yours. they're... fragile. sensitive."

steve wrinkles his nose. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"do you want me to put in a good word or not?" robin asks, cocking her hip against the door, "i could be the one thing between you and potentially kissing something other than your pillow this summer—"

"alright, alright, jesus," steve rolls his eyes. "yeah, talk to them, please."

surprisingly, steve doesn't hear about the whole thing from robin again. he figured she'd at least ask if there was anything he wanted her to mention to talk him up, but it all fizzles out just as quickly as it started. so much so that steve wonders if robin forgot about it.

that is, until steve arrives at starcourt for an early shift, before the mall's even open to the public — why scoops opens at 11 a.m. is a mystery to him — and he's casually strolling past the music store, not because he's looking for you, but because that's the usual route he takes, and you're standing outside it, arms crossed.

"hey," you suddenly say, a displeased expression on your face. steve stutters to a stop before turning to look behind him, then pointing at himself. "yeah, you, harrington. who else would i be talking to?"

"um... i don't know," steve answers slowly, wishing he was wearing literally anything other than his scoops uniform right now. really, even his high school basketball uniform would've been at least a little bit better than this. "is everything okay?"

he's confused, if not taken back by your scrappy tone, especially since every time he's seen you interact with customers in the store, you've seemed quite the opposite. he knows everyone has customer service skills, but jeez, were yours really that good?

"no, everything's not okay," you sneer, a frown persistent on your face. even looking as grumpy as you do, steve still thinks you look beautiful, which he knows is a little ridiciulous. you step closer to him and he swallows nervously, your clunky boots meeting the toes of his sneakers. "why did you tell robin you like me? what kind of bullshit is that?"

steve furrows his brows. "what?"

"'what?'" you mock, and steve almost bellows out a laugh, because this whole situation is stupid and you're trying to seem intimidating, he thinks, but it's not really working. "you told robin you like me. you don't."

"why don't you think i like you?"

"first of all, you don't even know me," you say, jabbing your pointer finger at his chest, through the cheap polyester of his sailor uniform. "secondly, you're king steve. hawkins high golden boy. you don't go after people like..." you swallow, then stand up a little straighter. "you date nancy wheelers."

"i haven't been dating nancy for a while now," steve replies easily, slowly reaching out to grab your finger with his larger hand. he locks eyes with you, waiting for you to interject or maybe slap him, but you don't, not as he slowly lowers your hand. "i also... i know i had a certain persona in high school, but that's not who i am anymore. clearly. i work at fucking scoops ahoy, for christ's sake. this is what i have to wear to work. i answer to 8 year olds who scream at me for sundaes."

a dry laugh passes through your lips. you look surprised by it, and steve's equally shocked. his lips upturn in a teasing smile.

"as for getting to know you... you're right about that. maybe that's why i'd like to take you on a date," he continues, watching as you blink, once, twice, then three times. "it's not a joke. i don't know who put that in your head but i would never do that to you, or anyone else. i swear it."

you clear your throat, then glance down at your shoes. you're still toe-to-toe, but it seems less hostile now. you look back up.

"swear on your scoops uniform." you say, pointing at the americana blue shorts he wears — the ones that fall just above his knees.

"my scoops uniform?" steve repeats, "not something more... i dunno, special? like my car or something?"

you shake your head. "nope. without the uniform, you can't work at scoops."

"well we can't have that," he replies with mock sincerity, "otherwise then i couldn't walk by whenever you're working. then how'd i spend my days?"

you narrow your eyes.

steve laughs.

"tonight? 7 pm?" steve asks, a hopeful lilt to his voice. "dinner? you and me?"

you pretend to contemplate it. you pretend like you need to be convinced, as if you haven't secretly been watching him across the food court, biting your lip every time he's on shift, giggling to yourself when he gets exasperated by those kids constantly coming to visit him and beg for more free samples.

you act as if you haven't had a raging crush on steve harrington since the day you started working at starcourt.

"fine," you relent, crossing your arms over your chest. "but don't fuck it up, harrington."

You were terrified he would find out—that one day he would catch on to how fast your heart beat around him, how shy you got when he was near. You would freeze like a deer in headlights every time he looked at you for too long, reading your thoughts like he was strategizing the best mode of attack.

You wouldn't survive Steve figuring out even half of the things you thought about when it came to him.

He could never know that he was the reason for the bags under your eyes—that the sound of his voice kept you up at night, endlessly singing a lullaby you were too in love with to fall asleep to. He couldn't know that he existed in every thought you had. There was no benefit in him knowing that you would picture him at your side everywhere you went.

This wasn't healthy anymore—your obsession. It didn't take a doctor's diagnosis for you to know your time was limited—that his eyes would be the death of you. You would die as you lived: flying too close to the sun that was Steve Harrington.

But Steve didn't know he was killing you.

Sometimes, you surmised that he did—that he consciously wielded his smile against you, a calculated attack.

But Steve wasn't cruel; he was just clueless.

Steve Harrington had ruined you and everything you were on accident. He had unintentionally destroyed your chance of ever finding happiness in anyone else. He had unknowingly shaped your heart into something new—something that fed you warmth instead of blood, life instead of survival.

So giving him the chance to break it?

That would be suicide.

You weren't sure how many drinks you had emptied tonight. Somewhere between the second glass and the club lights turning into Steve's eyes, you stopped counting. You weren't even that big of a drinker. You didn't care for the paint thinner like taste or the way it would stain your tongue, a permanent aftertaste you couldn't force out. 

But the other option was having Steve Harrington plague your sober thoughts.

And you were never much of a masochist.

Every drink felt like a way to flush him out of your system, every shot a means to detox. But Steve Harrington was turning out to be the worst virus you had the horror of contracting.

Steve was in everything around you—every drop of rain that swarmed outside the club, every bitter flavor on your tongue, and every fear coursing through your veins.

You were scared that he would never want you back. You were scared of how he would look at you if he knew the truth.

But most importantly, you were scared to death that you would never stop loving him—that even his rejection wouldn't be enough to deter your foolish heart. Every star you saw, every eyelash that fell, and every dandelion you crossed knew all about Steve Harrington by now.

The reason for your misery as well as the beating of your pulse.

You heard your name being called, ripping you out of your daydream into a new problem: Steve Harrington in the distance.

You blinked at his approaching figure. God, he had the biggest smile on his face—like a child with a crooked grin, he beamed at you, chuckling to himself.

This was in your head, right? A figment of your imagination? You figured you must have knocked yourself out a while back—

"What are you doing here?" Steve's scent invaded your senses as he joined your side at the bar. Now, your dreams with him were more lifelike than you cared to admit, but even in your most vivid dreams you had never smelled him before—his signature cologne that he would take to his grave, his hairspray that lingered in his absence. This was real. Steve Harrington. Here. Live and in person for your viewing pleasure.

You guessed you should've realized by now that the universe had a sick sense of humor.

It wasn't until you saw the tilt of his head that you realized you never responded.

“Hi!" Your voice came out louder than you had anticipated startling Steve. Since when did you sound like that?

"I'm—I’m uh, drinking,” you answered somewhat quieter. Your off-putting and awkward laughter was still doing enough to embarrass you.

Steve nodded, glancing down at your drink. “I see that,” he teased. You blushed, your eyes shifting down at your drink, a sheepish curve on your lips.

Fuck, if only he knew how shy he made you. Steve Harrington had a way of making you feel like you were back to being eight years old, getting quiet around the cute boy in your class, knowing full well he never gave you a second glance.

“You been here a while?” Steve asked. You didn't need to see him to know he was tilting his head at you. 

“Maybe,” you murmured, looking back at him. Big mistake. What were you saying again?

“I lost track of time a—a while back.”

“Yeah?” Steve glanced down at the amount of glasses you had collected. “Drowning your sorrows?” He smirked at you. You saw right through it—the blurry state of your mind wasn't enough to keep you from noticing the pinch in his eyebrows, the concern in his voice. That classic Steve Harrington attentiveness he hid under layers of charisma.

“Oh, this? No! No, I'm fine!” You sounded anything but, laughing at a nonexistent joke that may have just been yourself. “Just, um, you know... got thirsty,” you supplied shyly.

Something in your tone seemed to settle with Steve. “How about we get you home, yeah?”

Your eyebrows shot up. Jesus, were you that big of a mess? “Oh, no! No, I—I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You're not asking,” Steve shook his head, touching your arm gently. The contact could've melted you into nothing if you weren't sitting down. “I'm offering. Come on, I'll give you a ride home.”

Your throat felt dry. You couldn't stop looking at his lips, his hair and the way it fell in his stupid, mesmerizing eyes. 

“O—Okay." You tried to get up from your seat, quickly stumbling over your feet as you stood. Since when did those get there?

“Hey, there,” Steve steadied you, his hand on your waist. “Careful now. Don't want you hurting yourself.” 

Everything in your head was static with him so close to you. “Think you can walk?” You peered down towards your feet, stepping one foot forward, only to trip on the next step. 

“Okay!” Steve immediately caught you. You whined out of embarrassment. Christ, you were pathetic. “It's okay, sweetheart, I got you.” Steve promised, supporting you at his side, his arm draped around your shoulders.

Sweetheart.

You wondered if that could count as attempted murder in a court of law.

Somewhere along the way to your place, everything had gotten a lot more amusing. The silly vocals on the radio, the people walking across the street, and you could swear there were suddenly faces on the backs of the cars. 

“Steve! I'm serious, look! That one's smiling!” You enthusiastically pointed in front of you, way too upbeat for this late at night.

Steve nodded along. “I know, sweetheart. You told me two minutes ago.”

“No, that was the mean car!"

"The one that was going to follow us and kill you when you least expect it?" Steve teased.

"It had teeth, Steve!"

Steve laughed at your vivacity. Despite your love for him feeling immeasurable, an argument could be made that you loved making him laugh even more.

You rolled your eyes. "Fine! Laugh all you want, but I'm onto something here."

Steve shook his head, unable to erase the smile you brought out in him. "I'm sure you are, sweetheart, The car's long gone, though, yeah?" Steve smiled, glancing over at you. "No one's killing you tonight. Not on my watch."

You watched the corners of Steve's mouth lift, the subtle change in his features making your heart feel tighter, your thoughts looser—

“You'd be a cute car,” you murmured.

Steve's eyebrow raised. If you weren't so out of it, you might've caught the way the car briefly shifted off-center, his grip on the wheel faltering.

“Would I, now?” Steve questioned, his voice somewhat strained by a stutter you didn't pick up.

“Yeah…” you sighed. You should really stop talking— “You have the most pretty smile.” 

Damn it.

Steve cleared his throat. The dark of the night covered up the tips of his ears turning pink. “Th—Thank you, sweetheart,” he stammered. “You—You have a pretty smile, too.”

You felt warmth quickly travel from your neck to your cheeks, the corners of your mouth curving into a shy and nervous smile as your hands fiddled with each other. “Really?”

Steve smiled again. “The prettiest," he glanced over at you, giving you a wink.

If you didn't wake up in the morning, you were sure Steve Harrington would be the prime suspect.

Right under the scary car.

“Okay, there we go. One more step.” Steve carefully guided you into the apartment, each of your steps getting looser and looser. “Just like that, you're almost there.”

With one wrong step, you collapsed to the ground before Steve could stop you. You burst out into a fit of laughter. Steve loomed over you, exasperated. “Having fun down there?”

Steve's question went one ear and out the other. You were full on cackling on the ground, tears springing in your eyes, hunching over, stomach hurting—the kind of laugh that felt like freedom. “I'm on the ground,” you wheezed, running out of breath.

You heard Steve crack up from above. "So I noticed." God, the sound of his laugh made you feel so giddy inside, as if you were the one thing that made him happy. You wanted to be the only thing he required to be happy. You prayed every night to be needed by him—to be craved for once in your life. You wanted to be the one thing Steve Harrington needed to feel alive. 

You rolled about to see him smirking over you. Looking up at him like this,—the ceiling light framing his head—you could've very well mistaken him for an angel descended from the heavens, lowered only for you to worship.

"Hi," you whispered.

Steve chuckled under his breath, "Hi, sweetheart."

The moment lingered between you the way memory foam sinks: a subtle, calming descent, luring you deeper and deeper—

"Come on," Steve sighed, extending his hand out for you to take, "Let's get you off the ground."

“No,” you whined, turning away from his hand like a petulant child. "It's cozy down here.”

“Yeah, and dirty,” Steve insisted, reaching for your hand anyway. “And I know you well enough to know you're gonna be pissed in the morning when I tell you you were rolling on the ground.”

You couldn't argue with his logic, but that didn't stop you from pouting as he pulled you up.

Steve shook his head. “Aht, don't give me that look,” he warned. His actions contradicted his father-like tone as he cupped your head in his hands with a featherlight gentleness—one you had never received from yours.

Steve turned your head side to side. “I don't see anything…” he mumbled to himself. You let him bow your head as he checked your roots. “All good, pretty girl." Steve tilted you back up to face him.

The rhythm of your heart faltered. Steve's mouth was curved in a soft smile, his lips soft and kind. You peeked at his eyes only to find them directed towards your mouth.

Time stilled in the space between you. The world continued as normal—cars honked, children slept, insects buzzed in the night—but the air the two of you shared froze, sacred between your bodies. Only when you redirected your gaze to his lips did the space blaze again.

Steve cleared his throat, taking a step back from you, as if the heat your heart emmited burned him backward. “Off to bed, yeah?” Steve sighed, wearing a tighter smile than before. 

“O—Okay.” Your euphoric nature had softened. Steve nodded, supporting you with his arm around you again. You whined as Steve attempted to guide you again. “No more steps, Steve. Please…” 

Steve huffed. “What, you want me to carry you on my back?” The mischievous gleam in your eyes—that spawned in record time—told him he had made a mistake.

“Yes!” Your excitement came back full force. “Please?”

You stepped closer to him before quickly fumbling on your feet again. Your misstep seemed to convince Steve that carrying you would be simpler than watching you continue to toddle around for another fifteen minutes. 

“Okay,” Steve relented. He couldn't shield his smile as you jumped upon his back, squealing with excitement. He settled you up higher, locking his arms around your knees securely. “Hang on tight.”

You let your chin rest on his shoulder as he carried you to your bedroom. Wrapped around his body, you felt safer than ever, encompassed in an illusion where Steve was yours—his body the solace you'd been chasing since you were little, the kind that—

“—Off you go,” Steve huffed as he rolled you onto your mattress, making you squeal again. 

You gasped upon feeling your bed under your skin again—as if the covers had secretly turned into clouds in your departure. 

“Oh my God!” You snuggled further in the softness of your pillows, your eyes shutting in bliss. “I'm never leaving you again.” 

“Not so fast,” Steve called from afar. Your eyes peeked open to see him returning from your closet. “You gotta change, sweet girl.” 

It was almost annoying that Steve remembered how much you detested wearing outside clothes on your bed. That fact didn't stop you from pouting with a brief whimper, unable to stand the idea of leaving your newfound paradise—or at least, the only one you could keep.

“I know, I know,” Steve cooed. “Just this one last thing, and then I'll let you stay in bed forever, alright?”

It wasn't long before you caved, outstretching your arms to him. Even intoxicated, you were unable to say no to Steve.

“Wrap your arms around my neck, sweetheart,” Steve muttered before he lifted your body in his arms, carrying you bridal style. 

“Where we going?” Your voice came out small as you rested in his arms.

“Bathroom,” he murmured softly to you. You hummed in acknowledgement.

The next thing you knew, Steve was setting you down on the toilet seat. He handled you with such care that it felt like you were fragile—like you were his.

“I'll go get your clothes." He disappeared out the door before you could protest.

His absence felt heavier than you expected. Like there was a weight he was carrying just for you, now abandoned on your bathroom floor.

Your eyes shut, head tilting back. This was ridiculous. Steve had been gone for only a minute, but already you felt like dying if you didn't see him again. Like an addict going through withdrawals.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve returned shortly, a change of clothes gathered in his arms. “What's wrong?” The tips of your ears turned pink from the sound of his voice, the devotion in it

“I missed you...” you confessed.

You were being too honest. You needed to leave it alone. Steve and you were friends. You wouldn't take that back for the world—not even the one you wanted. Not even the one you were looking at right now.

“Well, I'm back,” Steve grinned. “You think you can change on your own?” 

His smile burdened the weight again, lightening the atmosphere. You nodded, standing up with Steve's help.

“Alright, I'll be just outside, okay? Holler if you need me.” He winked at you, leaving the bathroom to give you your privacy. 

As you stepped out of your clothes, you couldn't stop yourself from picturing him next to you, his voice, his smile. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Didn't he know how unfair it was? To be plagued by his eyes every minute of your life? You didn't know if you would ever move on from the fantasy that was Steve Har—

Your shirt was stuck

You had tangled your arms on the way out, rendering them uselessly flailing about. You attempted to escape to no avail, making yourself laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Steve!” You called, giggling. 

“What's wrong?” He called from the other side of the door, immediately on alert. “Are you okay?”

“I'm stuck,” you answered, once again trying with no luck.

Steve's voice paused. “Stuck?” 

“My shirt!” You started to laugh fuller. Steve opened the door. You felt his hand struggle to find your shoulder. Once he got a grip on your shirt, he carefully helped you get it off, leaving you to find his eyes shut tight.

“Got it?” You vaguely heard the swallow in his throat. 

“Yep. Thank you, Steve.”

Steve delivered you a brief nod before tentatively spinning around, trying to find his way back to the door without opening his eyes.

Once you finally got done getting ready for the night, you had enough strength to open the bathroom door without falling over. Steve was leaned back against the wall of the hallway, his eyes focused on your old shirt in his hands—the lacy fabric in his fingers. 

He quickly caught your eyes. You would have been more embarrassed if you were sober—your makeup wiped off, hair a mess, and in your old, stained pajamas—but something about the look in Steve's eyes made you feel secure, as if he would never look at you as anything other than beautiful.

“Hi,” you rocked on the soles of your feet, hands swinging about. 

“Hi,” Steve replied breathlessly. “You look beautiful.” You giggled at his compliment, taking a few wobbly steps towards him until you were leaning against his chest. He carefully cradled you in his arms once again, bringing you to bed like a husband would a wife.

In this moment, all you could think about was how much you loved him—how it felt like it could burst out of your chest, spill from your heart—you were in so deep, you could've been labeled as drowning.

“I have something to tell you,” you whispered, grinning up at him. 

Steve mirrored your expression, glancing down at you. “Yeah, what's that?”

You shook your head. “Can't tell ya. It's a secret,” you answered. 

Steve's head tilted to one side. “A secret? Since when do you hide things from me?”

You giggled again, confusing Steve further. “You're not supposed to know!”

“Why?” Steve wondered.

“It's important,” you clarified, dizzy with delight.

“Don't you think I should know, if it's so important then?” Steve asked as he set you down on your bed.

You bit your lip in thought as Steve tucked you in for bed. “Maybe…” you mumbled to yourself. Steve sat down next to you as you pondered. “Okay! But I'll only tell you if you promise me I can take it back.” 

“Wh—What do you mean take it back?”

“You know,” you waved your hand, “in case you don't like it.” You just barely caught the pinch between Steve's brows return. 

You searched his face. “I just don't want you to get upset with me,” you slurred, trying to explain to Steve that you couldn't dare to risk losing him.

He sighed before tucking back a lock of your hair that had fallen out of place. “I could never be upset with you,” he answered softly. “Okay, I promise whatever you say, you can take it back. No being upset.” Steve vowed, hand over his heart.

Your smile warmed at the gesture. So simple, and yet so Steve. It made your heart flutter.

“Go ahead, then.” Steve encouraged you, obviously eager to hear.

“I like you,” you admitted, chuckling through the sentence.

Steve nodded along, chuckling too. “I like you too, sweetheart.”

“No,” you shook your head, drawing closer. “I like you, Steve.”

Steve froze, his anticipation from before you could catch it.

“I—I like you so much it's ridiculous,” you confessed, sighing as you fell back against your sheets. “I think about you all the time... What you're doing, what you're thinking, if you're interested in me too.” Everything was pouring out of you now, a dam that was flooding too quick to patch. “But I'm so scared you'll hate me if I tell you. That I'll lose you…” You looked back at Steve, his mouth open but still. “I would rather die without telling you than live a life without you in it, Steve.”

Steve didn't move for a solid thirty seconds. The only sign he was even still alive was the delayed blinking of his eyelids, his thoughts practically audible. The silence dragged like quicksand, sinking you deeper and deeper until it becomes easier to accept your fate rather than claw out of the bed you made.

 "Steve—?"

"You should go to sleep." He moved quick, rising from the bed like it was a trap.

"Wait, no. Steve—"

"I'll sleep on the couch," he interrupted. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Once you sleep this off?"

Your tongue felt heavy. You wanted to tell him no. That no amount of sleep would keep you from waking up to the thought of his eyes. That he didn't need to leave and abandon you like a problem. It didn't matter if he was in the other room. Mere feet away, his departure would still cut into your heart.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To die in a ditch. But there was no other option than the one he chose for you.

"Okay."

The defeated rejection in your voice gave you deja vu, so familiar you could trace it back to every nightmare that ended this way—with your cards on the table and Steve leaving the game.

"Goodnight, Steve." You felt broken, shattered like the illusion your drunken state had fooled you into trusting. There was nothing in this world that felt as sacred as your relationship with Steve, and you had ruined it within a minute. A new record.

Steve paused in the doorway, turning off your lights with hesitant caution. "Goodnight, sweeth—" He cut himself off. "—dreams," he corrected. "Sweet dreams."

Sweetheart. That beautiful name he handed to you one day, knocking your world off balance, the one thing your worst nightmares couldn't take away from you, and he denied you from hearing it again.

All because you finally told him.

For the first time since you had met Steve, in the dark of your room, seconds away from sleep, Steve's voice wasn't singing you to sleep; the shut of your door scoring your thoughts instead.

In the empty space he had just occupied, you whispered to no one.

"I take it back."

The pounding in your head when you woke up wasn't enough to drown out the ache in your heart.

You wished you had forgotten, but within seconds, everything played back like a horror movie you couldn't get out of your head. You remembered everything—the stumbling of your feet, the symphony of Steve's laughter, the eyes that had fell on your lips—

The way Steve froze, the way he stepped back like you had hurt him, the look of betrayal you saw in his face.

You had ruined everything.

And you couldn't take it back.

The walk from your bedroom to the living room was more treacherous than the one you took last night. Each fall of your feet marching to the rhythm of your broken heart. You couldn't blame the knot in your stomach on Steve. This time, it was all on you.

You hesitantly stepped forward until you could see him. Steve was wide awake, seated on the couch. You could see the stiffness in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders. He looked anything but comfortable, silently waiting for something you knew you couldn't give him.

When he finally caught sight of you, everything between the two of you stopped again. But this time the space wasn't watching the tension unfold—it was glaring.

"You're awake." Steve's voice gave nothing away. You recognized the softness in it—the gentle tone you associated with Steve—but you recognized it was a disguise.

You nodded, standing as still as a statue.

"Sleep well?"

You didn't know whether or not to lie. You had already destroyed the way he thought of you by being honest last night.

"No," you admitted, quietly enough it could be mistaken for a breath.

Steve only nodded back, looking down at his hands. "Yeah, me neither."

Everything was burning like a forest fire. Your heart, your body, your eyes—it was all torching before you could say you didn't mean to light the match.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

You watched as Steve sighed before facing you again. "Come here," he patted the cushion beside him.

You tentatively came to his side, unable to resist his call. Steve watched you as you moved closer, his eyes never once leaving you as you joined him on the couch. But you couldn't return his gaze—your eyes solely focused on the floor.

“Take these,” Steve handed you the pills that he had left on the table, along with a glass of water. “They'll help with the hangover.” Steve muttered.

As you drank, you wished that he was crueler— that he hadn't been kind enough to make you fall in love with him. That he hadn't let you. It wasn't fair—to make someone fall in love with you if it does nothing more than hurt. 

"Will you look at me?" Steve's voice broke you out of your prayer.

You cursed inside your head. If only you were strong enough to resist the flute that continuously charmed you into dancing.

You turned to face him, bruised and defeated. Steve's face crumbled into something sadder, something broken. He sighed under his breath, turning away from you now.

"Are you mad at me?" You finally asked, breaking your vow of silence. Steve immediately denied it, shaking his head.

"No, never. I told you that last night." You bowed your head, falling silent again. This was worse than anger; this was brutal disappointment—something you never wanted to see from Steve.

"Are you gonna take it back?"

Your head shot up at his question. Steve was looking at you now.

"What?"

"Are you gonna take it back?" Steve repeated. "Last night, you made me promise you could take it back."

The memory was as fresh as a wound and yet his reminder made the pain cut deeper.

"Steve—"

“Why?” he begged. “Why would you make me promise that?”

“Because I didn't want this to happen—”

"What, me to ask you if you meant it?" Steve interrupted again.

You scofffed. As if you could've not meant it with your entire being. "Obviously, I meant it, Steve."

"Then why would you want to take it back?"

You shut your eyes, hanging your head. You couldn't tell if your head hurt more from the hangover or the confrontation. This was the last thing you ever wanted. "Well, you're clearly not taking the news well," you pointed out.

Steve went silent. You opened your eyes again to see him looking at you with something that resembled betrayal too much for your comfort. No hangover could numb the shame that pooled behind your eyes.

"I'm leaving, then." Steve shot up from the couch—as if he had just heard his exit line.

"Wait, Steve. No," you took hold of his forearm before he could abandon you again. You didn't want to be a part of this play. You were tired of playing the fool—the pathetic side character who watched him from afar. "Please, don't leave."

The strain in your voice that only came from the shame of crying caught Steve's attention. You watched as he fought a silent battle with himself, warring between you and himself.

"I'm sorry, okay? Please, Steve—" Tears broke free from your eyes like prisoners escaping their cells. "I can't lose you. Please."

The blinding blur in your eyes combined with the steel poker in your head kept you from noticing Steve's arms forming around you, holding you close to his chest as you sobbed out broken apologies.

"I'm sorry. I'll take it back, I promise—"

Steve shushed you gently, kinder than anyone trying to break your heart should be. "It's okay, just breathe."

You couldn't stop crumbling in front of him. You had taken a wrecking ball to everything that made you feel alive. How else were you supposed to feel?

Steve ran his fingers through his hair, still attempting to soothe you. "Please, sweetheart. You're breaking my heart."

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," he whispered desperately. "I don't want you to be sorry."

You tried to focus on Steve's heartbeat below your ear, a rhythm that was slowly getting stuck in your head.

"I just want to know why..." he confessed.

You pulled back to face him, wiping your face with the cuff of your sleeve. Steve took over for you, gently wiping away your tears. "Please?" He whispered.

The pleading in his eyes melted every wall you had so carefully built around your heart. You knew you couldn't lose him, but you also knew you couldn't lie to him.

"Is it that you're scared of me?"

His question fired at your heart. "No," you shook your head. "Not you."

Steve tilted his head. He wiped your cheek again, breaking your silence. "But you are scared?"

You exhaled before you reached out for Steve's wrist. If you were gonna do this, you were gonna feel his pulse under your skin—just to prove he was there.

"…I think about you all the time." You finally confessed. Hungover, teary-eyed, and a mess, but you didn't care. "And I want you... So much that it scares me, 'cause I know I won't be able to handle you telling me you don't want me back—"

Steve tilted your head to look at you, halting your train of thought. "What makes you think I would say that?"

You wished you could've answered him, but you were still, lips parted and clueless. "Be—Because we're supposed to be just friends."

"When have I ever looked at you like we're just friends?"

To say you were speechless would be insulting. You weren't yourself anymore. You had changed entirely in a matter of seconds.

Steve just stared at you, as if he expected you to answer any question after flipping your world upside down—some kind of alternate universe where you weren't you and Steve wasn't Steve.

"L—Last night?" You offered hesitantly, trying your best to come up with something, anything for him.

Steve smiled at you, laughing under his breath. "Sweetheart, you were drunk," he pointed out. "I can't make a move on you when you can barely stand up on your own."

You blinked, rendered completely still. Steve smirked at your silence.

"If you wanted me so badly, you could've just said so, you know." The smugness in his voice made your heart ache.

He was teasing you now. Asshole.

"Steve, it's not funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny." His smirk was gone, replaced by long, pleading eyes that asked you for the world. "I—I don't know how else I can tell you I want you."

"Then why were you trying to leave?" You finally asked.

Steve sighed. Scanning the planes of your face with a reverent smile—soft in its curve—he tucked your hair back, handling it like it was precious. Like you were precious.

"I couldn't handle you taking it back," he confessed, "I couldn't accept a confession that you were too scared to commit to."

You were sure the heartbreak Steve had faced because of Nancy Wheeler was resurfacing.

"I don't want you to be scared when it comes to wanting me," Steve whispered, drawing an intimate moment between the two of you. "...And maybe I just wanted to hear you say that you liked me when you weren't drunk off your ass."

Your subsequent laugh brightened Steve's demeanor like sunshine after a storm, casting a beautiful rainbow that lived in his smile.

Your cheeks felt tight as you grinned, ducking your head. "I like you, Steve."

Steve mirrored your expression, beaming like a dog wagging its tail. "Yeah? You like me?" You caught his smug King Steve persona coming back into play.

You rolled your eyes as he began to smirk. You shoved his shoulder. "Don't make me take it back."

Steve chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it, baby."

You felt your heart soar in your chest, completely overshadowing your headache.

A squeal escaped you as Steve suddenly picked you up like he had last night, cradling you in his arms.

"Steve! Put me down!"

Steve shook his head, smiling as he walked. "Nope. You and I are going to spend the rest of the day in bed while you get over your hangover."

You tilted your head as he entered your room. "Oh, are we now?"

"Yep, we are" Steve declared, setting you down on your bed with a dizzying delicacy. He stood upright. "I'm gonna go find some clothes to change into."

You tilted your head, brows furrowing in confusion. "Why? Is there a dress code I didn't know about?" You teased, making Steve roll his eyes playfully.

"No," he shook his head at you, scrunching his nose, "I didn't want to get into your bed with outside clothes on."

Your heart warmed. He really was the most thoughtful man you could ever ask for. You caught his wrist before he could leave, eyes hooded as you looked up at him.

"You don't have to get changed to do that..." Steve's breath caught at the low tone of your voice, intention clear.

"Sweetheart, I—"

"Please?" You whispered, almost pouting. You may not have been able to call Steve yours before, but that didn't mean you didn't fantasize about him night and day—enough to know just how to get your way with him.

The tension in his shoulders melted away as he caved. "Fine, but just my shirt and pants, okay?" You beamed up at him, nodding eagerly.

Steve shrugged off his clothes, unable to contain his smile as you watched him excitedly. Facing you with that pretty smile you saw in everything, he joined you under the covers carefully. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as close as two people could ever get.

You had been through a lot in your life. Heartbreak, love, loss—but nothing could have ever prepared you for the feeling of Steve Harrington's skin on yours. If your heart wasn't already racing at the speed of light, you might've died on the spot. The warmth he emitted blazed into you—a fire only he could ignite.

The moment felt like a dream. You could have been easily convinced you died of rejection last night and were transitioning into a painful death, being shown the life you lost. But the pain in your skull was enough to assure you of your consciousness. This was real, just like last night at the bar, the universe had finally acted in your favor, granting you the life you begged for where Steve Harrington was yours, to want, to need, to love.

You couldn't be happier next to him—staring at him like he hung the stars you wished upon for this very moment.

"I love you," you blurted out to Steve, catching the both of you off guard.

But Steve didn't freeze like last night. Not even a second passed before his face broke out into the most lovestruck smile—one you had never seen directed in your direction.

"I love you, too," Steve confessed, without an ounce of hesitation. He leaned closer, nudging your nose with his. "Always have, always will."

Your eyes widened before you found your eyebrows furrowing on instinct.

"Really—?"

Steve wasted no time bringing his lips to yours, capturing all of the insecurity that lived on your tongue. His kiss robbed you of your breath, as if he would rather you stop breathing than live in a world where you doubted his love for you.

You attempted to chase his lips as he pulled away to meet your eyes.

"I promise."

And for once in your life, with your lips returning to their rightful home, you believed someone wanted you to love them.

And you weren't going to take it back now.

masterlist

The absence of him follows you everywhere like a ghost. And the stupidest part is that even while you’re furious at him—while your chest still burns every time you remember River repeating those humiliating words back to you—you still keep looking for Steve automatically. In the hallways. Across the cafeteria. Out the classroom windows during last period because sometimes Steve practiced basketball outside afterward.

You would give anything to see him in those tight gym shorts again…

Regardless of that—your body keeps reaching for someone your brain is trying desperately not to want anymore. It’s so pathetic. 

You hate it.

You hate him.

Mostly. 

Maybe? 

And by Wednesday, people are starting to notice something’s off about the two of you—Mostly Steve because apparently, God forbid you want a little space for once. Since obviously, the second you go a single day without talking to Steve, everyone acts like something catastrophic must’ve happened between you two. Which, okay, technically… yeah, something did happen. But still, people need to mind their own business. 

It even got to the point where Tommy asked Steve during lunch where you’ve been lately, and Steve apparently shrugged it off so hard the entire table went quiet afterward. Like an awkward quiet. The kind where everyone suddenly gets very interested in their food because they can tell there’s definitely something going on, but nobody wants to be the idiot who says the wrong thing and makes it worse. 

You’ve never really been the center of gossip before, which is probably why this feels so suffocating now. Everywhere you go, it suddenly feels like people are looking at you for a second too long or lowering their voices when you walk past. And maybe you’re being paranoid. Surely the entire grade doesn’t actually know about you and Steve. Surely, right?

But it still feels bad, bad enough to make you feel sick to your stomach at school. Every hour you spend here just gets worse and worse, somehow. Because now every weird glance and every whispered conversation feels like it’s about you. About him. About whatever this disaster between you two has turned into and you have no idea how to handle it. 

The worst part is you don’t even have Steve anymore. Normally, when things got overwhelming, he was the person you went to. The person who made everything feel smaller and less terrifying. Now he’s the reason your chest hurts in the first place.

Your friend is the one who informs you about all the new updates on Steve in your calculus class while very confidently pretending she is absolutely not gossiping. Which would maybe be more believable if she wasn’t already halfway hanging over your desk the second the teacher turns around to write on the board, whispering like this is classified information instead of the entire school’s favorite new topic.

“Steve got like… scary quiet,” she whispers dramatically. “He almost bit Tommy’s head off after he said that.”

You stare down at your worksheet, pretending to focus on a problem you haven’t actually read once. “Okay?” 

You didn’t mean to come off as rude, but the combination of a pounding headache and the uneasy feeling of your entire lunch sitting wrong in your stomach is catching up with you. And the thought of having to face Steve after all of this, after everything, feels like it’s sitting right at the edge of your patience, waiting to spill over.

“Okay?” she repeats. “That’s all you have to say?”

You shrug, even though the motion feels stiff. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Her eyes narrow a little, studying you too carefully. “Did something happen?”

Your stomach twists immediately. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” you mutter quickly, eyes still glued to the paper. The lie hangs there awkwardly between you. Thin. Unconvincing. Because something did happen. Obviously something happened. And apparently you and Steve have become so painfully attached at the hip that the second you stop orbiting each other for two days straight, the entire school starts acting like they’re tracking a celebrity breakup.

It makes everything feel ten times worse. Like there’s nowhere to breathe without someone noticing. Without someone asking questions. And maybe nobody actually knows what happened between you and Steve, but it still feels humiliating. Like the whole grade can sense the crack in things even if they can’t see inside it yet. 

And the only thing that stands between you and completely breaking into a hysterical panic attack is, well… pretending you’re still in control of your own face.

Which you are barely managing.

Your friend keeps looking at you like she doesn’t buy a single word coming out of your mouth. Fair enough. You barely buy it either. Everything you’re saying feels paper-thin, like if she pressed just a little harder, it would tear right open and spill everything you’ve been trying not to think about.

“Okay,” she says slowly, like she’s filing it away as something she doesn’t fully believe but isn’t ready to fight you on. “If you say so.” She turns back toward her desk, but not before giving you one last look over her shoulder—curious, skeptical, and way too aware for your liking.

You stare down at your worksheet again. The numbers don’t make sense. Nothing does. And you hate how normal everyone else looks. Like nobody else can feel the way your chest is too tight or the way your thoughts keep snagging on Steve in places they don’t belong.

It’s gotten to the point where lying starts feeling easier. Or at least easier than trying to explain any of this out loud. You wouldn’t even know where to start explaining this. Except lying, it's not actually easier. Nothing is. Because no matter how hard you try to avoid Steve, you still catch him looking at you constantly.

In class. Across parking lots. Through crowded hallways. At lunch when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.

And every single time your eyes meet, he looks away immediately. Fast enough that it almost feels automatic now. Like he doesn’t even let himself hold your gaze for more than a second before backing off. Like he thinks he lost the right to look at you too long. Which just twists the knife inside you. You wish he’d act angry instead. Or defensive. Or irritated that you’re ignoring him. Anything would be better than this weird miserable silence hanging between you all week.

Part of you stupidly expected him to corner you by now. To force the conversation. To show up at your locker apologizing over and over until you finally snapped at him to leave you alone. You thought he’d fight for you a little. Thought he’d at least try to explain himself instead of standing ten feet away looking like someone slowly pulling apart at the seams.

But he doesn’t do anything.

And that makes you angry in a way you weren’t expecting.

Because you have every right to be furious at him. You know that. He hurt you. He crossed lines and complicated everything and left you drowning in feelings you don’t even know what to do with anymore. So why does it feel like you’re the only one carrying the weight of it out loud?

Why is he just… letting you walk away?

Why is he acting like he already accepted losing you?

The silence starts feeling louder than any argument could’ve been. Every time he looks at you and immediately looks away again, it twists something ugly in your chest. Like maybe he’s already decided there’s nothing left worth fixing. Like maybe he thinks apologizing won’t matter, so he doesn’t even try.

And the stupidest part is that you hate how badly you want him to try anyway.

Because if he begged—if he pushed, if he chased after you, if he gave you something solid to throw your anger at—then maybe hating him would actually feel possible.

Instead he just looks devastated. Quietly. Constantly.

And that just pisses you off more. 

- -

By the time school finally ends, you feel completely drained.

It’s not a normal tired. Not long day tired. But rather the kind of exhaustion where even thinking feels like effort, like your brain has been running on overheating mode all day and now it’s just… done. It’s completely given up. All day you’ve been holding yourself together with pure spite and the bare minimum of functioning. Ignoring whispers. Pretending not to notice the way people look at you a second too long in the hallway. Acting like you don’t feel Steve’s presence before you even see him—like a shift in air pressure, like something you can’t escape.

And all you’ve wanted is your room.

Your bed.

Your door shut.

Your own space where no one gets to look at you or ask questions or exist near you.

Home is supposed to be safe. Quiet. Yours.

So when you finally push the front door open, you’re already halfway planning it: drop your bag, lock yourself away, disappear into sleep before your thoughts can catch up with you.

Except you don’t even make it past the entryway when all of a sudden you hear him.

Steve’s laugh from the kitchen. It’s soft—too easy, too natural—and it hits you in a way that makes your body go still before your brain even fully catches up.

Not unfamiliar. That’s the worst part. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t feel like this anymore. Like something that used to belong to your life without question, now sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time.

No, please no.

Okay yes—part of you spent the entire week secretly wanting him to fight for you a little harder. Wanting him to stop letting you walk away so easily. But there’s a huge difference between Steve catching you outside class and Steve showing up inside the one place that’s supposed to be untouched by all of this.

School already feels suffocating enough. You didn’t want this following you home too.

And you definitely weren’t ready for a conversation like this when your body already felt seconds away from shutting down from stress. 

“Honey!” your mom calls, cheerful in that way that means she has no idea she’s about to make everything worse. “Look who stopped by!”

You step into the kitchen anyway because where are you supposed to run away now? 

And there he is.

Steve Harrington, standing awkwardly near the counter like he’s been placed there by accident and hasn’t figured out how to leave without making it worse. One hand is wrapped around a soda your mom gave him. He looks like he’s been sitting there trying very hard to act normal. And failing miserably.  

His eyes find you immediately. Whatever faint relief or hope was on his face disappears the second he sees yours. Because your expression is not good. It’s not neutral. It’s not just tired. It’s not even just annoyed. It’s the kind of controlled anger that makes the whole room feel smaller and scary. 

“Hey,” your mom says, oblivious, smiling between the two of you. “Steve said he was in the neighborhood and I told him he could wait here until you got home. Isn’t that nice?”

Nice? 

You almost laugh.

Steve shifts like he wants to speak first, like he’s rehearsed something, then immediately stops himself. His fingers tighten slightly around the can. “I, uh…” he starts, then exhales. “I just needed to talk to you.”

Your stomach twists. Of course he did. Of course he couldn’t just leave you alone for one more day. You set your bag down slowly, like if you move too fast you might break something. “You didn’t need to come to my house for that.”

Your mom glances between you again, sensing something now. “Okay… do you guys need a minute?”

“No,” you say immediately.

Steve says, “Yes.”

You both pause. Then your mom, ever the peacekeeper, hesitates for a second before nodding like she’s choosing not to get involved. “I’ll just… be in the other room.”

She leaves. And now it’s just you and Steve alone. It’s terrifying. The second she’s out of earshot, the kitchen feels different. Smaller. Tighter. Like there’s nowhere for any of this to go except straight between you and him.

Steve takes a step toward you. “I just wanted to explain—”

“Don’t,” you cut in immediately. “I really don’t want to hear it, Steve.” 

He stops.

The silence stretches.

You can feel your anger sitting right under your skin, sharp and heavy. “You don’t get to just show up here,” you say, voice low. “You don’t get to follow me into my house like everything’s normal.”

“I wasn’t trying to follow you,” he says quickly. “I just—your mom said I could wait and I didn’t know if you’d talk to me anywhere else and I—”

“You could’ve waited until I was ready,” you snap.

That lands.

He flinches slightly, like the words physically hit him.

“I am trying,” he says, quieter now. “I’ve been trying all week to—”

“To what?” you interrupt. “Stare at me in hallways and then look away every time I notice?”

His jaw tightens, that familiar look of guilt flickers across his face again.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “No. You’re here because you finally couldn’t stand being ignored anymore.”

“Y/n, no that’s not—”

“Yes, it is.”

You take a step back without thinking, like distance is the only thing keeping you from saying something you can’t take back. “You don’t get to just show up and fix it on your timeline, Steve.” 

His eyes flick down for a second. And when he looks back up, there’s something in his face that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. “I know I messed up,” he says, slower now. “I know I did. I just—avoiding you wasn’t about not caring. It was because I didn’t know how to be around you without making it worse.”

That makes something in you snap. “Worse?” you repeat sharply. “You think this is just awkward for you? You think I'm just doing this for myself?”

His expression changes immediately. “No, I didn’t mean it like that—”

But you’re already shaking your head. Because it’s not just awkward. It’s betrayal. You trusted him. Not in some small, casual way—but in the way where you let your guard down without thinking about it. You let the man have sex with you just for him to use it against you. In a way where you assumed he wouldn’t become another person you had to brace yourself against. And now he’s standing in your kitchen like he belongs in the same space as your life again. Like nothing shattered.

“You don’t get it,” you say, quieter now, but sharper in a different way. “You can’t just… disappear from me and then decide when you’re ready to come back.”

Steve’s voice drops. “I didn’t disappear.”

“You did,” you say immediately. “You just didn’t leave the room.”

He goes quiet again. And for a second, you almost want him to argue. To get angry. To say something messy and human and real. Anything that makes this feel less like you’re the only one bleeding out here.

But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you like he’s trying not to break something.

You almost wish he’d yell at you back. Part of you expected him to fight harder. To show up louder. To force you to look at him. To apologize in a way that made it impossible to ignore him.

Instead he’s just… careful. Like he’s scared of you. Like he already decided he lost you and now he’s just trying not to make it worse while standing near the ruins.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

Simple. Quiet. Real. 

But it doesn’t fix anything. Not the whispers at school. Not the way people are looking at you. Not the way your chest feels like it’s been tied in knots for days. Not the fact that he still let it get here in the first place. Not the fact that he told River all that shit about you. 

You look away first because you know if you keep looking at him, you might start remembering all the things that used to feel easy.

And right now, easy doesn’t exist.

You don’t answer right away, part of you just can’t, the words are too difficult to form. The silence stretches too long, thick enough that even the fridge humming in the background starts to feel loud. Steve is still standing there like he’s waiting for something, like there’s a version of this where you say the right sentence and everything resets.

There isn’t.

You swallow, but it doesn’t really help. “I can’t do this right now,” you say finally.

Steve’s shoulders tense a little. “I know, I just—”

“No,” you cut in again, firmer this time. “You don’t get to ‘just’ anything in here.”

That makes him stop completely. You finally look at him, and it almost hurts more seeing how careful he’s being with you. Like you’re something fragile he’s already broken once and is terrified of touching again. “I heard you,” you say, quieter now, but steadier. “I heard your apology.”

His eyes flick up, hopeful for a second. And you hate that it even exists—because it makes this harder than it already is. “But I’m not there yet,” you add.

That flicker fades. You take a breath, forcing yourself to keep going before you lose your nerve. “You don’t get to show up and expect me to be okay now.”

Steve opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then shuts it again. Like he’s realizing there isn’t a version of this where pushing will help him.

Your hands curl at your sides, fingers flexing like you’re trying to keep yourself anchored in your own skin. “I need space,” you say, voice sharper now because it’s the only way you can keep it from shaking. “Not hallway apologies. Not showing up here. Not… whatever this is.”

You gesture vaguely between him and the kitchen like the whole situation feels wrong just existing in your house at all. “I need you to stop trying to fix this right in front of me,” you finish, swallowing hard. “Because it’s not fixing anything. It’s just making it worse.”

Your gaze holds on him for a beat longer, something tighter rising in your chest.

“And you need to stop trying to fix me,” you add, quieter but firmer in a way that lands harder. “Stop stepping into my life like you get to decide what’s wrong with it and how to handle it. It’s mine. Not yours.”

Steve goes still. For a second, it looks like he might finally argue back. But instead, he nods once—small, tight, like it physically costs him.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

The word doesn’t fix anything either. But at least this time, he listens. And when he finally steps back toward the door, he hesitates like he wants to say more—like there’s a whole apology still stuck in his throat—but you don’t give him the opening.

You just stand there.

Waiting for him to leave your house.

Waiting for it to feel like yours again.

- -

By Thursday afternoon, you finally snap.

Not outwardly.

Internally rather. 

Because you are tired. Tired of crying. Tired of thinking about Steve every five seconds. Tired of feeling humiliated every time River’s name crosses your mind. Tired of being sad over a boy who betrayed your trust and another boy who accidentally exposed it.

You just want your life back. Or at least something close to normal.

Outside art class, the hallway is already too loud for how early it is. Lockers slamming. People laughing too loudly. Someone dropping their sketchbook and pretending it didn’t matter. Everything normal. Everything moving on like your brain isn’t still stuck on yesterday, on Steve in your kitchen, on River knowing things he absolutely should not know.

You’re standing there half-dissociated, debating whether it’s socially acceptable to just skip class and disappear into the bathroom for forty-five minutes, when—

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

River.

The last time River approached you, the entire situation turned into a disaster, so you’d been avoiding him ever since.

You freeze for half a second. Not because you want to talk to him, but because you’re too exhausted to walk away.

Which might be your first mistake.

You glance at him slowly. He doesn’t look like himself today. No smirk. No lazy confidence. No “I already know something you don’t” energy. Just… plain awkward. Like he rehearsed this in his head and immediately forgot it the second he saw you.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no.

You just stay. Which apparently is enough permission for him. “I owe you an apology,” he says quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

You cross your arms automatically. “You really do.” Normally, you don’t get this bold about your feelings. You swallow things down, smooth them over, pretend they don’t exist until they stop hurting. But your whole life has felt flipped upside down lately, stretched too thin in every direction, and you’re so tired that even caring properly feels like too much effort. So instead of holding it in, you just… don’t. You let it sit on your face. In your voice. In the way you look at him without softening it first.

He winces a little at that, but doesn’t argue. “I didn’t know Steve wasn’t supposed to tell me.”

Your eyes drop to the floor for a second. Yeah. That part still stings. Not even because River did anything wrong on purpose, but because the whole thing feels like your life got passed around like gossip someone forgot to label private.

“I figured that out,” you say flatly.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

You let out a tired breath. “I know.”

And annoyingly… you do know. That’s the problem. River wasn’t malicious. Steve wasn’t malicious either, technically. Just stupid. Emotionally constipated. Terrible at handling anything that involves feelings or consequences or basic communication.

Your type, apparently. How fantastic.

River shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, shifting his weight like he doesn’t know where to put himself. “For what it’s worth… Steve sounded weirdly intense talking about you.”

Your stomach tightens immediately. You did not want to hear that name ever again. You don’t answer. You can’t tell if that’s safer or worse. River notices anyway.

“…You guys okay?” he asks, softer now.

The word hangs there. Okay. Like that’s even a real option anymore. Nothing is okay. 

“No,” you say. It slips out too fast, too honest. 

For a second, River just watches you. Something changes in his expression, less confusion, more understanding. Like pieces clicking into place without you wanting them to. 

Then he says, very carefully, “You like him.”

Your heart drops so fast it’s almost violent.

“What?” you snap immediately.

River lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “You do.”

“No I don’t.”

“That was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

You glare at him, but it doesn’t land the way you want it to because your face is hot and your thoughts are suddenly loud and annoying and very, very inconvenient. River studies you for another second like he’s debating whether to push further, then exhales.

“Well,” he says, more gently now, “for the record… I think he likes you too.”

That lands differently. Worse. Because it doesn’t feel exciting. It feels dangerous. Like something you’re not supposed to touch while everything is still broken and sharp and unresolved.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t want that thought in your head. Not now. Not when you’re still angry. Not when you’re still trying to figure out how to exist in the same building as Steve without feeling like your insides are twisting every time you see him.

You’re tired.

Tired of Steve looking at you like he’s sorry but not saying enough.

Tired of River accidentally revealing too much.

Tired of everyone standing around your life like it’s something they get to interpret.

For once, you want to make a decision that isn’t shaped by someone else’s assumptions.

Something random.

Something unpredictable.

Something that doesn’t feel like you’re just reacting to everything falling apart.

So instead of continuing this conversation or walking away like a normal person or literally doing anything logical—

You say the first thing that comes to your head.

“Do you want to hang out tomorrow?”

Silence.

River blinks.

“…What?”

You immediately regret it. Not because you didn’t mean it—but because it came out so wrong, so out of nowhere, so completely disconnected from whatever emotional disaster just happened. But now that it’s out there, you don’t take it back.

You force your shoulders to stay steady. “I mean it. Like… hang out. Tomorrow.”

River stares at you for a second like he’s trying to figure out if this is a trap.

“Is this… related to anything we just talked about?” he asks slowly. “Cause I thought you and Steve–” 

“No, there’s no Steve in this conversation,” you cut in quickly. “I don’t care if he likes me or not.”

You force yourself to keep going before you can think too hard about it.

“I liked you, River. That’s the whole point.”

A beat.

River studies you for a second, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth or trying to convince yourself.

“Okay,” he says slowly.

Then, quieter:

“If you say so.”

“Just answer,” you mutter, already irritated.

He hesitates, then lets out a short breath like he’s giving up on figuring you out. “Yeah. Okay.”

And that’s it. It’s simple, messy and unexpected. Exactly the point.

Because for once, it’s not Steve deciding the emotional weather. It’s not River accidentally revealing information you didn’t ask for. It’s because maybe if you just go out with River, this entire thing with Steve will finally stop consuming you.

Maybe you just need to prove to yourself that Steve isn’t the center of your universe.

Maybe if you force yourself forward, your feelings will follow eventually.

River smiles slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

And that becomes Mistake Number Two.

- -

You know you shouldn’t be doing this.

Going on a “date”. Not tonight. Not like this. Not when your head still feels like it’s full of static from everything with Steve—hallways, silence, looks that don’t mean anything but actually mean everything anyway.

But that’s exactly why you asked in the first place. Because Steve is not the center of your universe. He can’t be. Not anymore. Not after everything got twisted and heavy and confusing and started feeling like your whole life was orbiting someone else’s reactions.

He doesn’t get to decide if you stay home and disappear into your own thoughts.

He doesn’t get to take up that much space.

So you go anyway. Even if you don’t feel ready. Even if “ready” doesn’t really exist right now.

The first weird thing about the night is that for whatever reason—River can’t pick you up even though he was supposed to. There’s no explanation until way too late. You answer a quick call on the wall phone and listen to him talking a little too fast, voice slightly distorted through the line, something about “car trouble” and how it would be better to just “meet him there instead.”

Is it bad to think that Steve would never do that to you?

Okay—stop. That’s enough from your brain. You force the thought away before it can settle into anything real. Your parents are still working late, your mom already half-distracted and apologetic when she tells you she can’t drive you herself.

So you walk.

It’s not far, but it feels like it is. The sky is that dull in-between color—still light enough that everything looks normal, but dim enough that nothing feels right. Every step feels too loud in your head. Every passing car makes you feel more aware of yourself than you want to be.

The place River picked is Denny’s…

Look… it’s fine. You weren’t expecting anything fancy, nothing dramatic, nothing like some movie version of a first date. But still—Denny’s? Really? The same place that feels like it exists purely for exhausted families at 2 a.m. and people who gave up on the idea of atmosphere entirely?

With its bright yellow sign buzzing faintly even though it’s not late yet. The kind of place that’s always open, always too warm, always slightly sticky no matter how clean it actually is.

Comfort food pretending to be comfort. Oh well, it’s not like you deserve much anyways. 

You stand outside for a second before going in. Then you do, for some weird reason it feels like your body is bracing for impact. Maybe this was a mistake, like everything you do these days.

River is already there. Which should feel normal. But doesn’t because he stands up when he sees you, and something about the way he does it feels slightly off—like he’s performing “good guy on a date” instead of just being one but maybe you’re just being picky. 

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer. Simple. Careful.

You sit across from him in the booth. The vinyl sticks faintly to your legs when you shift. A waitress drops menus without looking at either of you and disappears. Silence settles in immediately after. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that makes you hyper-aware of everything.

River taps the edge of the menu once. “You made it.”

“Yeah.”

“You walked?”

“Yeah.” 

“So sorry about that, my car just—yeah.” He nods like he’s filing that away as information, like it matters more than it should.

You try to find something normal to say. Something easy. “So this is… Denny’s,” you say finally, a little flat.

He gives a short laugh. “Yeah. Pretty exciting, right? You’ve never been, I figured Steve would’ve taken you.”

“What? No, he—” You stop yourself before the sentence can fully form, because you almost, instinctively, end up defending Steve. Which feels wrong for multiple reasons you don’t even want to untangle right now. You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. “Steve was never my boyfriend,” you correct, sharper than intended. “I didn’t go ‘out’ with him. And definitely not to Denny’s.” The last part slips out quieter, more under your breath, like you’re trying to erase the assumption before it can stick to you.

A pause. Then he leans forward slightly.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, tone shifting. “But you still came out with me instead.”

“So clearly you’re not that hung up on whatever that was.”

He says it like a joke. It doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like he’s waiting for you to agree with a version of this night you don’t feel inside of.

You glance down at the menu even though you’re not reading it.

Across from you, River watches you for a second too long. “You’re kind of quiet,” he says.

That lands strangely because it’s not wrong. But it feels like it’s being pointed out instead of understood. “Sorry,” you say automatically.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds quickly. “Just… different from how you were before.”

Before?

That word does something unpleasant in your chest. Before Steve’s name got tied up in everything. Before you started overthinking every interaction like it might explode later. Before you ended up here, trying to be someone who goes on a normal date in a normal booth in a normal diner like your brain isn’t still somewhere else entirely.

“What did you expect?” you ask, not looking up.

He hesitates. “I don’t know. Just… more. ‘Cause usually girls—nevermind.”

You don’t care about the second part of that sentence, it’s the “more” part you’re hung up on. You sit with that for a second. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me too, apparently.”

That makes him pause. The waitress comes back too soon, takes your order, leaves again. It fills the space temporarily, but not enough. When she’s gone, the silence comes back sharper. This is terrible, you think.

River leans forward slightly. “This is good, though. We should do it again.” It sounds rehearsed. Like something he’s said before, to someone else, in a different booth under different lights. Like it doesn’t actually belong to you specifically, just the idea of you sitting across from him.

And why would he want to do it again after that? After everything he just said. After making it sound like you’re not enough in one breath and then trying to schedule a second round in the next like it cancels itself out.

You nod faintly but don’t commit.

Something about this is already draining you in a way you didn’t expect.

Not because it’s bad in a dramatic way. Because it’s just so… off. Like you’re sitting next to someone you technically know but don’t actually recognize in the same way anymore.

Steve always felt too much.

River feels like he’s trying to be just enough.

And somehow both are wrong.

- -

By the time your food arrives, you barely touch it. There’s not much of an appetite in you these days. River talks more now. About school. About random things. About things you really just don’t give a shit about. You answer when you have to. Smile when it makes sense. But it all feels like you’re watching yourself do it from a distance, like you’re sitting just outside your own body, observing someone try to act normal and mostly failing.

At some point, he laughs at something he says, then stops when he realizes you’re not laughing with him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just thought you’d find that funny.”

The awkwardness alone is enough to kill you.

“It’s fine,” you reply automatically. And it is, in the same way nothing about this is actually fine.

A beat passes.

You can feel it—how off everything is. How forced. How much effort it takes just to keep the conversation from collapsing completely. And part of you knows this is on you too. Not just him. Not just Steve still living somewhere in the back of your mind like an echo you can’t shut off. You came here. Fuck you’re the one who invited him. He showed up and tried to make something work when you already felt halfway gone.

You know that.

You just don’t care enough right now to fix it.

Because caring would mean unpacking it. Replaying it. Figuring out what went wrong and why you keep ending up here—numb, detached, sitting across from someone you’re supposed to be interested in but aren’t really feeling anything toward except exhaustion. It would mean that you would have to figure out what is wrong with you. And yeah…no thanks. 

So instead, you just sit there in the discomfort and let it exist. At this point you’re both trying to meet in the middle of something that doesn’t actually exist between you. 

When the check comes, he asks if you want to split the bill. You don’t argue. You just want to leave.

The walk to his car is quieter than the walk here. Different quiet now. He opens your door for you. You get in. Inside, it smells faintly like cheap cologne and something metallic. He gets in on the driver’s side and starts the engine.

For a while, he just drives.

Then—

“So,” he says casually, “my parents aren’t home.”

Your stomach tightens immediately. Not fear. Not panic.

Something sharper than both.

Awareness. 

You don’t answer right away, because you already know where this is going.

“I figured we could—” he starts up again. 

“No,” you cut in. Simple. Immediate.

The car doesn’t stop moving, but something in it shifts. River glances at you. “What?”

“Sorry it’s just,” you say nervously. “I want to go home. I’m kinda tired.”

There’s a beat where everything just… stops. 

River doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his expression shifts in a way you haven’t seen all night—sharp, irritated, like something in him finally gives up trying to be polite. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks.

Your stomach drops a little. “Yeah,” you say carefully. “I just— I’m tired.”

He lets out a short laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “So you just drag me out here, act like you’re actually into this, and then you’re ‘tired’?”

You blink. “That’s not what I—”

“What, you thought this was just… casual?” he cuts in, voice tightening. “You couldn’t have said that like an hour ago?” The shift is immediate and uncomfortable. The easy, rehearsed version of him is gone. Now he looks annoyed. Offended, even.

“I’m not trying to waste your time,” you say quickly, because this is already spiraling in a direction you don’t like.

“Well you already fucking did!” he shoots back. “Steve told me you lost your virginity for me—I don’t understand, you said it yourself you are into me”. 

Silence. The car feels too small now. The air feels wrong. You stare at him for a second, trying to process how fast this changed from awkward to hostile. “I didn’t promise you anything,” you say quietly.

River exhales through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Yeah, okay.”

Then, colder:

“Next time, don’t ask me out if you’re just gonna chicken out halfway through. Jeez, I knew this was a mistake, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

The words hang in the car like something heavy you can’t take back. The road keeps sliding under the headlights, steady and indifferent, like it doesn’t care what just got said or how badly it landed. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what you’re supposed to feel right now—humiliated, angry, embarrassed, all of it tangled together until it just turns into this dull pressure behind your eyes.

All you want to do is cry.

Or disappear.

Or anything that doesn’t involve sitting here trying to keep your breathing normal while your chest feels like it’s tightening in on itself.

Finally, you force it out.

“Can you just take me home, please.” Your voice cracks at the edges without you meaning it to. There’s a hint of desperation in it that you immediately hate, but you can’t pull it back now.

River doesn’t answer right away. His grip tightens slightly on the wheel. Then, after a beat too long, he exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah,” he says, but it doesn’t sound kind. Not anymore. “Yeah, fine.”

The car doesn’t speed up, but it feels like something in it shuts off anyway. And the rest of the ride is just silence—thick, uncomfortable silence that sits between you like neither of you wants to be the first to make it worse again.

He drops you off in front of your house without saying much else.No lingering apology. No attempt to fix the mood. He just unlocks the door immediately like he’s dying for you to get out. 

So you get out. The night air feels colder than it should. You stand there for a second after he drives away, watching the red tail lights disappear down the street. And for the first time all night, your chest feels clearer. Not good. Just clearer. Because something finally made sense in a way nothing else has today:

Not Steve doesn’t automatically mean safe.

Not Steve doesn’t automatically mean right.

And definitely not Steve doesn’t automatically mean you’re going to find what you’re actually looking for somewhere else.

- -

The house is dark when you step inside. Empty. No TV in the background. No voices. No footsteps. Just stillness.

Your parents are still at work. 

Of course they are.

You shut the door behind you a little too carefully, like anything louder might make you fall apart faster. For a few seconds you just stand there in the entryway, purse slipping from your shoulders to the floor, completely numb and dead inside. 

Finally you move. Upstairs. Straight to your room. The door shut. Lock turned. And it should feel safe. It should feel like relief. But it doesn’t. Because now there’s nothing left to distract you from your own head.

Again.

It’s truly pathetic as you sit on your bed trying not to think about what just happened. 

To not think about River. 

You fail. 

Then you try to not think about Steve.

You fail even harder. 

It’s all there, piling up too fast—hallway whispers, Denny’s lights, River’s voice turning sharp at the end, the way you smiled when you didn’t mean it, the way you said asked him out when you didn’t actually know what you were agreeing to, the way everything keeps slipping out of your control no matter how hard you try to hold onto it.

Your chest tightens. You press your hands over your face, hard, like you can physically hold yourself together if you just apply enough pressure. It doesn’t work. The crying starts anyway. Quiet at first. Then not.

You curl forward slightly, breathing breaking apart in pieces you can’t fix fast enough, and suddenly you’re just sitting there in your room alone, trying to get air into your lungs like it’s something you forgot how to do properly.

“I can’t do this,” you whisper into your hands.

But there’s no one there to hear it.

That’s the problem.

Nothing interrupts it.

Nothing pulls you out of it.

Just you and your thoughts and the unbearable feeling of having nowhere for any of this to go.

And then—of course—your brain does the thing it always does when it runs out of options.

Steve.

You shake your head immediately, like you can physically reject the thought.

No.

No, you just can’t. 

But your hand is already moving before you’ve fully decided anything. The landline sits on your desk. Old. Familiar. Too easy to reach for something you shouldn’t. You stare at it for a second. Your breathing is uneven. Your face is still wet. Your throat hurts.

This is a terrible idea. You know that.

But you pick it up anyway. The receiver feels too heavy in your hand. You dial without thinking too hard about it—like if you stop to consider it, you’ll lose the nerve completely.

One number at a time.

Faster than your brain can argue.

The last digit lands.

You don’t even have time to regret it properly before it starts ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Your grip tightens around the cord.

Third ring.

And then—

He picks up.

The phone clicks.

A pause. Then Steve’s voice, confused at first. “Hello? …Who is this?”

You try to answer immediately, but it comes out wrong—too small, too broken to hold its shape. “Steve, I—” 

That’s all you get out before it collapses. Because the second you hear his voice, it’s like everything you’ve been holding together just gives up at once. The sound that follows isn’t words. It’s you—crying into the receiver before you can stop it.

There’s a beat of silence on the other end.

Then—

“Hey,” Steve says immediately, but different now. Fully awake. Fully alert. “Hey—wait.” 

You try to breathe. You try to answer. It doesn’t really work.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, faster now. “Y/n—what happened?”

But you can’t get anything out. Just shaky, uneven breaths you can’t control anymore.

Steve goes quiet for half a second, like he’s switching gears in his head, like something has clicked into place.

Then he asks, carefully but firmly, “Where are you?”

You swallow hard, wiping your face even though it doesn’t help.

“Home,” you manage, barely.

A pause.

Then his voice changes again—no hesitation now, just decision.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m coming.”

You blink, trying to process that through everything else.

“Steve, you don’t—” you start, but it falls apart halfway through again.

“Just stay there,” he interrupts, steady but urgent. Not asking. Telling. “Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’m coming to you.”

- -

Steve freezes the second he steps into your bedroom. He knew you were upset from the phone call, but seeing it is something else entirely. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and an old Hawkins basketball shirt, hair still damp and messy like he got ready for bed and then immediately abandoned it the second he heard you crying. Like nothing else mattered after that. For a second neither of you says anything.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed with your arms wrapped around yourself so tightly it almost hurts. The lamp beside your bed casts everything in soft yellow light, making the whole room feel strangely small.

Safe.

And dangerous at the same time.

Then Steve really looks at you. The mascara smeared beneath your eyes. The way your breathing still catches every few seconds like you haven’t fully calmed down since he got here.

And panic flashes across his face instantly. “What happened?”

The question comes out too fast to be thought through. Pure instinct. You almost start crying harder because of it. Because he sounds terrified. Because after all your anger and all your effort to stay away from him, your body still reacts to Steve like he’s home.

You wipe at your face angrily. “I went out with River.”

Something crosses Steve’s expression immediately.

Sharp. Jealous. Hurt.

It’s ugly in how fast it appears. But it disappears just as quickly beneath concern. “…Okay,” he says carefully.

You laugh weakly through your tears. “That sounded painful for you.”

“It was,” he admits quietly.

No hesitation.

No pretending otherwise.

Your chest aches instantly.

Steve steps closer to your bed slowly now, careful like he’s approaching something fragile. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

Steve still doesn’t relax. “But?” he asks softly.

You stare down at your hands. “But I think maybe I’m stupid.”

His expression softens immediately. “No.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Because I kept trying to force myself to want him more than I want—” You stop yourself but it’s too late. The room goes completely still.

Steve’s eyes lift to yours slowly. The unfinished sentence hangs between you anyway. It’s painfully obvious.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did,” Steve says softly and that hurts worse. He doesn’t sound smug about it. Doesn’t sound victorious. 

He sounds heartbroken.

You wipe your face again harder this time. “The whole night was awful.”

Steve sits carefully beside you on the bed now, not touching you yet. Just close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you.

“What happened?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You let out a shaky breath.

“At first it was just… awkward,” you admit. “Like really awkward. We couldn’t talk normally. It felt fake the entire time.”

Steve listens without interrupting.

“He kept comparing himself to you,” you continue bitterly. “Or bringing you up. Like he was trying to figure out what was going on between us the entire time instead of actually talking to me.”

Steve’s jaw tightens slightly.

“And then after dinner…” Your throat tightens again. “He told me his parents weren’t home.”

Steve goes very still beside you.

You laugh once. Miserably. “And when I said I just wanted to go home, he got mad at me.”

The room feels colder suddenly. “What did he say?” Steve asks quietly.

You hesitate. Because saying it out loud makes it feel more humiliating. 

But Steve waits patiently.

“He said…” You swallow hard. “‘Don’t ask me out if you’re just gonna chicken out halfway through.’”

Steve’s expression darkens immediately. Not explosive anger. Worse. The kind that sinks low and sharp.

You keep going before you lose the nerve. “And then he said he knew this was a mistake.”

Steve looks away sharply for a second, jaw clenching hard enough that you can see the muscle twitch.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

You shrug weakly, even though your eyes are burning again. “Maybe he wasn’t wrong.”

Steve turns back to you instantly. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t blame yourself for some guy getting pissed because you wouldn’t sleep with him.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Your chest tightens painfully. “I just…” You shake your head. “I don’t know. The whole time I kept thinking something was wrong with me because I didn’t feel anything. I kept trying to force it.”

Steve stares at you for a second like the thought physically hurts him. “There is nothing wrong with you,” he says firmly.

You laugh weakly again. “Steve, I literally went on a date with someone else while being secretly in love with my best friend. I think we passed ‘normal’ a while ago.”

That makes something flicker across his face.

Hope.

Disbelief.

Fear.

All at once.

“You’re in love with me?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid answering too fast will ruin it.

Your face burns immediately. “Well, this is humiliating now.”

“No, no—” Steve shakes his head quickly. “I just… I didn’t think you actually—”

“What did you think?” you ask emotionally. “That I was crying over River right now?”

Steve winces immediately. “Okay. Fair point.” 

Silence settles briefly. 

Then Steve rubs a hand over his face and lets out a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry,” he says suddenly.

Not casual.

Not automatic.

Deeply. 

Devastatingly sincere.

You look at him.

Steve stares down at his hands for a second before continuing. “I need you to understand something,” he says quietly. “I never told River because I wanted to embarrass you.”

You don’t say anything.

 “I told him because I was trying to kill the feeling before it got worse.”

Your chest aches instantly.

Steve laughs once under his breath, miserable. “You used to talk about him constantly. Every time you smiled about him, every time you asked me what to wear around him, every time you asked if I thought he liked you…” He shakes his head slightly. “And I kept telling myself I could handle it because you were my best friend and that mattered more.”

He looks up at you finally.

“But then you asked me if I would sleep with you just so you could get experience for River…” His voice catches briefly. “And I felt sick.” Steve shakes his head immediately, frustrated with himself before you can misunderstand.

“Not because of you,” he says quickly. “Jesus, no. That’s not what I mean.”

He exhales hard, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just hated that you thought you had to do something like that for some guy to like you more,” he says quieter now. “Like you had to change yourself or prove something or make yourself into whatever he wanted.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“And instead of telling you that,” Steve continues, guilt heavy in every word, “instead of being honest and saying you deserved better than that… I made everything worse.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you. “I should’ve told you the first time that you didn’t need to do anything you weren’t ready for just to make somebody stay,” he says softly. “And I definitely shouldn’t have let my own feelings screw everything up the way they did.”

Your stomach twists.

“I hated hearing you want someone else,” Steve admits quietly. “And I hated myself for hating it because you were supposed to be able to tell me things like that.”

He swallows hard. “So I thought if I helped you—if I pushed things along somehow—then maybe you’d finally get him out of your system and I could get over you too.”

You stare at him. And for the first time, you can actually see how badly he regrets it, telling River your secret. Not just because you’re upset. No, because he understands now exactly what he destroyed trying to protect himself from loving you.

“I was jealous,” he says honestly. “And selfish. And scared. And I convinced myself I was helping when really I was just trying to make the situation easier for me to survive.”

His voice falters slightly before he continues.

“But none of that means I regret that night, I do not regret sleeping with you at all.” His eyes flick to yours for just a second before dropping again, like even looking at you hurts now. “I don’t. Not even a little.”

Your chest tightens.

“That was the one thing that actually felt real,” he says quietly. “Being with you like that… it wasn’t some mistake to me. It wasn’t something meaningless I could just laugh off afterward.” He swallows hard again. “It was probably the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

The confession hangs there between you, heavy and devastating.

“And if I'm being honest with myself,” he says, voice rougher now, “that’s what scared me the most.”

Your eyes sting again.

“You still hurt me,” you whisper.

Steve nods immediately. “I know.”

“You humiliated me.”

“I know.”

“You told someone something private because you thought you knew what was best for me.”

“I know,” he says again, voice rough now. “And I would take it back if I could.”

The tears come again before you can stop them. “I trusted you.”

Steve physically looks like the words hit him somewhere internal. “I know,” he says quietly, eyes shining now too. “That’s the part that kills me.”

Silence fills the room again, both of you sitting there trying to absorb the weight of everything that’s finally been said out loud. It isn’t awkward silence. It’s heavy instead, thick with all the feelings and truths neither of you had been willing to admit until now.

Then Steve says softly, “I think about your face in the hallway every day.”

You blink at him.

“The second you realized what I did,” he continues quietly. “I’ve replayed it like a thousand times this week. I’ve never hated myself more than I did right then.”

Your chest twists painfully.

“I didn’t sleep the night after,” he admits with a weak laugh. “Or really any night after that.”

Despite yourself, your expression softens slightly.

Steve notices immediately. 

He notices everything about you. 

“I know saying sorry doesn’t fix it,” he says quietly. “But if you let me, I’ll spend a really long time trying anyway.”

Your throat tightens. Because that’s Steve. Not perfect words. Just honesty. Raw and messy and terrifyingly real.

You look at him for a long second before whispering:

“I still don’t know if I should forgive you.”

Steve nods slowly. “That’s fair.”

“But…” You wipe your face again. “I don’t think I want to lose you either.”

Something in Steve’s expression breaks open at that. Soft relief. Careful hope.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he says immediately. “You couldn’t get rid of me that easily even if you tried.”

A tiny laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Steve smiles too this time. Small. Real.

And suddenly the room doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

But warmer.

Closer.

Like maybe the two of you finally stopped standing on opposite sides of something neither of you wanted in the first place.

The silence that follows feels different now, it’s softer. You’re still crying a little, mostly from exhaustion at this point, and Steve notices immediately because of course he does.

“You tired?” he asks quietly.

You nod once.

“Yeah.”

Steve hesitates for a second before speaking again. “Can I…” He glances toward you carefully. “Can I hold you or is that gonna make everything worse?”

Your chest physically aches at how careful he’s being with you. Like he’s afraid one wrong move will make you disappear again. You don’t answer with words. You just shift closer first. That’s enough permission for Steve because the second you lean into him, his entire body softens.

One arm wraps around your shoulders slowly, carefully, pulling you against his chest like he still can’t fully believe he’s allowed to touch you again.

The second he does, you almost start crying all over again. Because this is what you missed. Not even in a romantic way at first. Just Steve. Steve’s warmth. Steve’s heartbeat under your cheek. Steve smelling faintly like soap and laundry detergent and home.

His hand moves gently through your hair. “You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly into the top of your head.

You close your eyes. “Sorry.”

“No.” His arm tightens around you immediately. “Don’t apologize for calling me. Ever.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest. You pull back slightly just enough to look at him. Steve’s already looking at you. His eyes flick down to your mouth for the briefest second before he catches himself and looks away again like he doesn’t trust himself. Which, weirdly enough, makes you trust him more.

“You know,” you whisper tiredly, “this would probably be easier if I hated you.”

Steve laughs quietly under his breath. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I was kinda hoping you would for a little while.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He shrugs weakly. “Would’ve made me feel less guilty.”

“You already feel guilty.”

“Correct.”

Despite yourself, you smile a little.

Steve notices immediately, looking almost relieved by it. “There she is,” he says softly before he can stop himself.

Your stomach flips but this time in a good way. The look on his face after he says it is even worse. So much affection. So much longing he stopped trying to hide. You don’t even fully think before leaning forward slightly. 

Steve stills instantly.

Giving you every chance to change your mind.

But you don’t.

Why would you? At the end of the day this is all you’ve ever wanted. Him. 

Your hand slides lightly against the side of his face and his eyes close for half a second like the touch alone nearly kills him.

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Careful.

Nothing like the desperation you expected.

It feels almost sad at first. Like both of you are trying to make up for every awful thing that happened this week without words.

Steve kisses you like he’s terrified of hurting you again.

Like he’s trying to apologize through it. When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours and both of you are breathing unevenly.

“Still think I’m an asshole?” he whispers.

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “Unfortunately… yes.”

“That’s fair.” His mouth twitches, but there’s no real humor in it.

“But…” You hesitate, fingers slowly curling into the fabric of his shirt like you’re grounding yourself. “Maybe not enough to stop this anymore.”

That lands between you softly, like something finally settling instead of breaking.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you—really looks at you—and something in his expression shifts, like he’s afraid to move too fast in case it disappears. Then he exhales, a quiet, almost disbelieving sound.

“Yeah?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You nod. 

And the smile that breaks across his face isn’t cocky or careless or anything you’ve ever seen from him before. It’s open. Unsteady. Real in a way that makes your chest ache in the best and worst way at the same time.

Like he’s been holding his breath for a very long time… and finally doesn’t have to anymore. “Okay,” he says softly, like he’s committing it to something bigger than either of you. “I can work with that.” he gives you a soft smile. 

Later, when the conversation thins out and the exhaustion starts to win, Steve doesn’t leave.

He stays.

Sitting beside you against the headboard, shoulder pressed carefully to yours like he’s still learning what he’s allowed to do now. Your head eventually finds its way to his shoulder without you really deciding to, and he stills for a second—like that alone feels like a miracle—before relaxing into it.

His fingers trace slow, absent patterns along your arm. Not rushed. Not hesitant anymore either. Just there. Every so often, you feel him look at you again, like he’s checking to make sure you’re still real. Still here. Still choosing this.

And maybe you are still a little scared of what comes after this but in this moment, with his heartbeat steady against you and the quiet finally soft instead of sharp, it doesn’t feel like something breaking anymore.

It feels like something finally, carefully beginning.

- -

A few weeks later, loving Steve starts feeling less terrifying.

Not because the fear fully disappears but because every single day after that night in your bedroom, Steve proves—quietly, consistently—that he means it when he says he’s trying.

And to you, that will always matter more than a perfect apology could. The strange awkwardness between you two fades slowly after that. Not all at once. There are still moments where things feel fragile. Moments where your chest tightens remembering how badly things hurt for a while but then Steve does something silly like show up outside your class holding the sweater you forgot at his house like it’s a medical emergency, and suddenly you’re laughing instead of overthinking again.

It feels familiar. That’s the thing.

Forgiving Steve didn’t happen all at once.

It wasn’t one big dramatic moment where he said the perfect thing and suddenly all the hurt disappeared. Honestly, for a while, part of you wondered if things would ever fully feel normal between you again.

Because what he did hurt. He took something private—something painfully personal—and handed it to someone else without asking. And worse, he did it during a time where your feelings already felt fragile and embarrassing and far too exposed. For a little while after, every time you looked at him, you remembered that awful sinking feeling in the hallway. That humiliation. That betrayal.

And Steve knew it too.

He could see it on your face every single time your expression changed slightly around him afterward. Like he was terrified the damage was permanent. But Steve never tried to rush you through it. That’s what ended up mattering most.

He didn’t push you to “move on.”

Didn’t guilt you for still being hurt.

Didn’t act like loving each other magically erased what happened.

Instead, he just… stayed. Consistent and patient. He understood that rebuilding trust wasn’t something he could demand from you. It was something he had to earn back slowly.

And he did. In a hundred small ways at first. Steve started thinking before speaking now, which might’ve been the biggest character development of the century. He listened more carefully when you were upset instead of trying to fix everything immediately. If something bothered you, he took it seriously instead of brushing past it because he didn’t think it was a big deal.

He became gentler with your feelings. More aware of them. And maybe nobody else would’ve noticed the difference, but you did. Because you knew Steve better than anyone.

You knew the old version of him too. The impulsive version. The jealous version. The version that loved so fiercely he sometimes grabbed at things instead of handling them carefully but now it felt like Steve had finally realized loving someone also meant respecting the parts of them that were vulnerable.

Since then he made it very difficult not to forgive him after that. Especially because outside of all the emotional growth, Steve became the most offensively good boyfriend alive. It was actually irritating.

He remembered everything you said. Every tiny detail. Every passing comment. One time you mentioned liking a candy from childhood that they barely sold anywhere anymore, and Steve literally drove to three different stores looking for it because “you sounded sad when you said you missed it.”

Another time you had a horrible day at school and tried pretending you were fine, only for Steve to show up at your bedroom window an hour later holding fries and a milkshake because, apparently, “your fake smiling has a tell.”

Which was horrifying information to learn. He held your hand all the time now too. Not possessively. Not for show. Just instinctively. Like touching you grounded him somehow. And maybe the biggest reason you forgave him was because underneath all the mistakes and complicated feelings and terrible communication… Steve was still your Steve.

Your childhood best friend.

The boy who used to ride bikes with you until sunset.

The boy who spent years making your parents laugh at the dinner table like he belonged there.

The boy who knew how to calm you down during thunderstorms before either of you were old enough to understand why your chest tightened around loud noises in the first place.

The boy who once punched Tommy in the arm in seventh grade because he made you cry.

The boy who learned every version of you long before he ever kissed you.

It’s hard to stay angry forever at someone who has spent half their life loving you, even before either of you knew that’s what it was.

One night, you’re laying beside Steve in his bed while he talks absentmindedly about something completely stupid—basketball practice maybe or Tommy and Carol again—and suddenly you realize you’re not holding the hurt anymore.

Not tightly, anyway. It’s still there a little. Probably always will be. But it’s softer now. Smoothed down by time and honesty and the way Steve keeps proving over and over that hurting you is the last thing he ever wants to do again.

You look over at him quietly.

Steve notices immediately because of course he does. “What?”

You hesitate for a second before speaking.

“I think I forgave you already.”

Steve goes completely still. The sentence hits him so hard you can literally see it happen in real time.

“You do?” he asks softly. It’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. He’ll never forget his mistake so he spends everyday trying to make up for it. 

Your chest aches a little at the hope in his voice. You nod once. “Yeah.”

Steve stares at you for another second like he doesn’t fully trust it yet. Like he’s scared if he moves too fast, the moment might disappear. Then he exhales shakily, smiling in that small real way he only does when he’s emotional and trying not to make it obvious.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

And that almost makes you emotional too. Because he doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t act relieved in a selfish way. He just looks grateful.

Your fingers slide through his hair gently. “You still can’t tell people my business though.”

Steve immediately groans playfully, embarrassed at the sudden memory of his past mistakes. “Jesus Christ, I know.”

“You’re literally never escaping that.”

“Oh, I know but I'll spend every single day of my life trying to make it up to you.” he kisses your temple softly. 

You smile. Then Steve turns toward you more fully, expression softer now. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “if I could go back and undo hurting you, I would.”

You believe him instantly.

That’s the thing now. You trust him again. Maybe not in the naive, effortless way you used to when you were younger but in a version that feels stronger and more real. 

Now your trust isn’t based on the idea that Steve would never mess up. It’s based on knowing that when he does, he’ll care enough to grow from it. And maybe that’s what love actually is.