Hey, you look good today.

“Thank you.” Jess preened. “I’m glowing. Look at me. Post-orgasmic radiance.” She tilted her face toward the neon Bud Light sign like it was a mirror. Then her expression softened into something more pointed. “Speaking of which… you still having your little problem with men?”

You froze mid-wipe. “Jess—”

“What problem?”

Eddie’s voice cut across the bar, casual as anything. He didn’t even turn around at first, just kept lining up the Jack and the Jim like he hadn’t been listening the entire time. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow was already arched high under the messy fall of his hair. He always looked unfairly good—black band tee stretched across his shoulders, silver rings flashing every time he moved, that perpetual half-smirk that made it hard to tell if he was about to roast you or flirt with you. Probably both.

Jess didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you know. Her problem.” She jerked a thumb in your direction. “She’s never came from a dude before.”

The bottle of whiskey in Eddie’s hand paused halfway to the shelf.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Jesus Christ, Jess—”

“What?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’s not like it’s a secret. You’ve told me like six times. And he’s right there. He’s basically part of the furniture at this point.”

Eddie set the bottle down with deliberate care and turned fully, resting his forearms on the bar. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Never?” he repeated, voice low and amused and way too interested. “Like… ever? Not even the accidental ones? The ‘oops I moved wrong and something happened’ variety?”

Heat crawled up your neck. “Can we not—”

“Nope,” Jess said cheerfully. “We’re airing it out. Self-awareness is in bitch.”

Eddie tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly fascinating puzzle. The long hair, the rings, the faint scar through his eyebrow—everything about him was unfairly magnetic, and he knew it. He’d always known it. The way his eyes lingered a half-second too long when you reached for the top-shelf bottles. The way yours did the same when he stretched to change the lights over the pool table.

“Huh,” he said eventually. “That’s… tragic. Actually tragic. Like Greek tragedy levels of tragic.”

You glared at him. “It’s not tragic.”

“It is,” he insisted, deadpan. “You’re twenty-one. Peak prime. And you’re walking around out here unsatisfied like it’s some kind of personality trait. That’s criminal. Someone should fix that.”

Jess grinned. “See? He gets it.”

“I get nothing,” you muttered, scrubbing harder at a non-existent spot on the wood. “And for the record, it’s not like guys haven’t tried. They’re just… bad at it. Or distracted. Or weirdly determined to go for the Olympic gold in thrusting while forgetting the rest of the body exists.”

Eddie made a soft, wounded sound. “Ouch. Collectively roasting half the male population. Bold.”

“Deserved,” you shot back.

He leaned in a little, elbows sliding closer across the bar. The metal of his rings clicked against the wood. “So what you’re saying is… every single guy who’s ever had the privilege has been mid at best.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“And none of them managed to, y’know—” he made a vague, elegant gesture with one hand, rings flashing, “—get the job done.”

Jess was delighted. “God, this is better than daytime TV.”

You pointed the rag at her. “You started this.”

“And I’m thriving.”

Eddie ignored her completely, eyes still locked on yours. There was something sharp and curious under the teasing now. Something that made your stomach pull tight.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re taking notes for later.”

His grin spread slow and wicked. “Baby, I’ve been taking notes for months. This is just the first time the subject’s come up in conversation.”

Jess actually clapped. “Oh my god.”

You felt your face go hot. “Eddie—”

He straightened up, palms raised in mock surrender, but the smirk never left. “Hey. Just saying. If the bar’s this dead every afternoon, maybe we should start a support group. I can lead the hands on portion of the presentation.”

You threw the wet rag at his chest. He caught it one-handed without even flinching, laughing under his breath as the damp fabric slapped against his shirt.

“You’re the worst,” you told him.

“And yet,” he said, tossing the rag back onto the bar between you, “you keep looking.”

Jess made a delighted little noise and stage-whispered, “I live for this shift.”

Eddie just winked at you—slow, deliberate—and turned back to the bottles like he hadn’t just set the entire afternoon on fire.

The next two hours crawled by in that special brand of dead-bar purgatory where every glass you washed felt like a personal insult. A couple of regulars drifted in, ordered cheap beer, and left again. Jess kept shooting you meaningful looks every time Eddie got within ten feet, which was constantly, because the universe had decided you two were stuck on the same side of the bar for the rest of the shift.

He waited until Jess disappeared into the back to change a keg before he started.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and conversational as he dried a pint glass with unnecessary care. “Pop quiz time. You ever come from oral? Like, someone actually knowing what they’re doing down there.”

You nearly dropped the bottle of vodka you were restocking. “Eddie.”

“What? Scientific inquiry. I like to learn.” He tapped his temple with one ringed finger. “Answer the question.”

You glanced toward the empty booths, then back at him. “No. Not really. It’s usually… fine. Then they get bored or their jaw starts hurting and they switch to something else.”

He made a soft, wounded sound like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “Christ. The bar is in hell. Next question—missionary. Ever gotten there that way?”

“No.”

“Doggy?”

“Eddie—”

“Answer.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Once I thought I was close. Then he asked if I was okay because I went quiet and the whole thing died.”

Eddie actually stopped drying the glass. He stared at you for a second, then set it down very carefully. “I’m going to need a list of names. Ban them from the bar. They're never allowed in your presence again.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m invested,” he corrected, leaning a hip against the counter. The afternoon light caught on the silver at his knuckles. “Okay, reverse cowgirl. Ever tried that one?”

You gave him a flat look. “You’re just listing positions now.”

“It’s a thorough survey. I’m a thorough guy.” His mouth curved. “What about when you’re on top and you actually get to control the angle?”

Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “Still no.”

“Against a wall?”

“No.”

“Bent over something?”

“Eddie, oh my god.”

He held up both hands, rings flashing, but he was grinning like a man who’d just found a new favorite hobby. “Okay, okay. Solo work. You can get yourself there, right?”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. That’s… the only reliable method, honestly.”

Something shifted in his expression—still playful, still teasing, but there was a new sharpness underneath it. Like he’d just filed that particular answer into a mental drawer labeled Important.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “So the equipment works. The operators just suck.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

He reached past you for a clean stack of coasters, close enough that you caught the faint scent of leather and stale tobacco. His voice dropped even lower. “How do you do it, then? Fingers? Toys? Pillow humping like a teenager?”

You shoved a coaster into his chest. “I’m not answering that.”

“Coward.”

“Voyeur.”

“Guilty.” He caught the coaster before it fell and spun it between his fingers. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll just have to hypothesize.” He tilted his head, studying you with that same intense focus he’d given the whiskey bottles earlier. “I’m guessing fingers. Two, maybe three. Slow at first, then faster when you get close. You go quiet. Bite your lip. That soft little sound you make when you’re frustrated with the register? Probably the same one.”

Your face went hot enough to fry an egg. “You are unbelievable.”

“I’m observant.” He flicked the coaster onto the bar with a soft clack. “And currently constructing a very detailed theory about what it would take to fix this tragic situation.”

You turned away to grab a new bottle of well tequila, mostly so he wouldn’t see the way your mouth wanted to smile. “You’re plotting.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re thirty-six. Shouldn’t you be plotting, I don’t know, retirement or something?”

Eddie barked a laugh. “Baby, I’m in my prime. And right now my prime is extremely focused on the fact that you’ve never been properly ruined by another person and that is a personal offense to me as a man who takes pride in his work.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Your work.”

“I’m a multi-talented individual.” He winked, slow and filthy. “Bartending is just the day job.”

Jess chose that exact moment to reappear from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at the two of you—Eddie’s smug expression, your flushed face—and grinned like Christmas had come early.

“Oh, this is gonna be a great closing shift,” she announced.

Eddie just hummed, turning back to the glasses with the air of a man who had all the time in the world and a very specific plan forming behind those dark eyes.

The night stretched on like it had a personal grudge.

By eight the place finally woke up—college kids with fake IDs, regulars who lived three stools down from alcoholism, a table of guys who kept trying to get Jess’s number and failing spectacularly. You and Eddie moved around each other like you’d been doing it for years, hips brushing when the space got tight, fingers grazing when you both reached for the same bottle. Every time it happened he shot you a look that said noted, and every time you pretended not to notice.

He waited until you were both stuck behind the bar during a rush to lean in close, voice low under the music.

“So when you’re alone,” he said, pouring three shots of Jameson without looking, “how long does it usually take?”

You nearly over-poured the vodka in your hand. “I’m not answering that while I’m making someone a vodka soda.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Eddie.”

He slid the shots down the bar with a practiced flick of his wrist and turned just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “I’m building a timeline. Important data. Is it a ten-minute situation or a ‘I’ve got the apartment to myself for an hour’ situation?”

You shouldered him back an inch. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you’re still answering.”

“I’m not.”

“You will.”

By eleven the crowd thinned enough that Jess could handle the floor alone. That left the two of you restocking the back bar, bodies close in the narrow space between the ice well and the speed rack. Eddie handed you bottles one by one, rings clicking against glass, and every time your fingers touched he held on a second longer than necessary.

“Okay, new category,” he said, passing you the triple sec. “Toys. Yes or no.”

You set the bottle down harder than you meant to. “I’m going to kill you.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s a none of your business.”

He grinned, slow and sharp. “So yes. What kind? The little bullet ones that die after six months or the fancy ones with remote controls that costs like two weeks pay?”

You stared at him. “How do you even know about those?”

“I have lived a full and varied life, sweetheart.” He leaned past you to grab a fresh stack of napkins, chest brushing your shoulder. “Also I have internet access. Shocking, I know.”

“You’re still this much of a menace. That’s actually impressive.”

“Thank you. I try.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You go quiet when you’re close, don’t you? Even by yourself. I’ve seen the way you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re concentrating on the register. Same energy.”

Your face went hot again. “Stop studying me like I’m a lab rat.”

“Can’t. You’re the most interesting thing in this entire shitty bar.”

Midnight came and went. The last wave of drunks stumbled out around one-thirty. Jess clocked out early with a pointed “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” and a look that promised interrogation tomorrow. That left just the two of you closing—chairs up, floors mopped, registers counted in the weirdly intimate quiet of a bar after hours.

Eddie wiped down the last section of the counter while you counted the till. He waited until you were halfway through the twenties before he spoke again.

“Last question of the night. Promise.”

You didn’t look up. “You’re a liar.”

“Probably. But still.” He tossed the rag into the bin and came to lean against the register, arms crossed, watching you. “If someone actually knew what they were doing—knew exactly how to get you there and refused to stop until it happened—do you think you could?”

You paused with a stack of bills in your hand. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the back the ice machine kicked on with a loud clatter.

“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Maybe.”

Eddie’s mouth curved, soft and dangerous all at once. “Good answer.”

You finished the count in silence after that, the weight of his attention sitting warm against the side of your face. When the drawer finally balanced you locked it and straightened, rolling your shoulders. Your feet ached. Your lower back ached. It had been a long-ass day in every possible way.

Eddie was already shrugging into his leather jacket, hair a mess from running his hands through it all night. He held the door open for you as you both stepped out into the cool 2 a.m. air.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like he hadn’t spent the last nine hours conducting a very public interrogation about your sex life.

You locked the door behind you and turned to face him under the streetlight. “You’re not done with the questions, are you?”

He smiled—slow, crooked, full of intent. “Not even close.”

The next day Eddie walked in looking like he’d made an actual effort, and it threw you off so hard you nearly dropped the stack of clean glasses you were carrying.

He’d clearly showered. The usual faint haze of cigarette smoke and bar soap that clung to him was gone, replaced by something warmer, cleaner—like cedar and maybe sage? underneath. His hair was still long and messy, but it looked deliberate this time, pushed back from his face like he’d actually run a comb through it. Black jeans, a soft worn black shirt that fit a little too well across the shoulders, and those same silver rings. He looked… intentional.

Jess noticed first. She mouthed what the fuck at you from across the bar the second his back was turned.

You just shook your head and tried not to stare.

He didn’t launch into the interrogation the second the shift started. That was the weirdest part. No pop quiz. No filthy little comments under his breath every time you bent down for a bottle. He just… worked. Smooth, quiet, efficient. When the bar got busy he moved around you like he’d memorized the shape of your body in the space, hand settling briefly at the small of your back when he needed to slip past, voice low and easy when he called out drink orders.

It should have been a relief.

It felt like standing too close to an open flame.

You floated through the night in a strange, charged quiet. Every time your eyes met across the bar something tight pulled low in your stomach. He caught you looking more than once and just smiled—small, private, like the two of you were sharing a secret no one else was in on.

Closing came faster than it should have.

Jess clocked out with a pointed look and a whispered “text me if you die” that made you want to throw a lime at her head. Then it was just the two of you again, stacking chairs in the low light, the jukebox finally silent.

Eddie wiped his hands on a towel and glanced over.

“You wanna come smoke?”

The question was casual. The way he said it wasn’t.

You usually said yes. Half the time after closing the two of you ended up on the back steps sharing a joint and talking shit about customers until the sky started getting light. Tonight the air between you felt thicker. Like the question meant something else entirely.

You still said, “Yeah. Okay.”

He nodded once, like he’d expected that answer, and grabbed his jacket.

You followed him out to the employee lot after locking up. His van was the same beat-up black thing it had always been, but even that felt different under the streetlights. He unlocked the passenger side for you without a word, then climbed in himself. The engine rumbled to life. Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was loaded.

Eddie’s place was a small rented home ten minutes from the bar, the kind of place that looked like it had seen better decades. He parked in the cracked driveway and killed the engine. For a second he just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the dark porch like he was deciding something.

Then he looked over at you.

“You good?”

You nodded. Your pulse was doing something stupid in your throat. “Yeah.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, almost to himself. “Cool. C’mon.”

You followed him up the steps. The porch light was out. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside so you could walk in first. The living room smelled like him—leather, weed, stale cigarettes. A couple of amps in the corner. Records stacked in uneven piles. A couch that had definitely seen better days.

Eddie tossed his keys on the side table and shrugged out of his jacket. The clean scent of whatever he’d put on earlier drifted toward you again.

He glanced over his shoulder, that same small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You wanna sit outside or in here?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavier than it should have been.

You met his eyes.

You nodded toward the dark backyard. “Outside.”

Eddie grinned like you’d given him the exact answer he wanted and jerked his head for you to follow. The backyard was small and overgrown, a couple of mismatched plastic chairs near the fence and a milk crate that clearly doubled as a table. He dropped into one of the chairs with a satisfied groan and pulled a little tin from his pocket.

“Got some really good shit tonight,” he said, already breaking up a dense little nug between his fingers. “Friend of a friend. Sticky. Smells like a forest fucked a skunk and they both loved it.”

You snorted and took the other chair. “Poetic.”

“I try.” He packed the bowl with practiced ease, silver rings flashing under the porch light that barely reached this far. When he lit it the first hit made him cough once, sharp, then he laughed and held it out to you. “Careful. This one sneaks up.”

You took it. The smoke was thick and sweet and immediately made your head feel softer around the edges. You passed it back and watched him take another hit, the way his throat moved when he held it in.

A few quiet exhales later you tipped your head, studying him.

“What’s up with the get-up today, by the way?”

Eddie blinked, all faux innocence. “What get-up?”

“Don’t play dumb. You smelled different. Looked different. Like you actually owned a bottle of real cologne instead of just rolling in whatever was on the floor of the van.”

He waved a hand, smoke curling around his fingers. “I showered. Revolutionary concept, I know. Sometimes the hair gets washed. Sometimes the shirt isn’t the same one I wore three days in a row. It’s called being a functional adult.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious. Zero effort. Pure coincidence.”

You took another hit and exhaled slowly, watching him over the rim of the bowl. “Well… I liked it.”

The change was instant. His whole posture shifted—shoulders loosening, that slow, pleased grin spreading across his face like you’d just handed him a trophy. He sat up a little straighter, eyes bright even in the dark.

“Yeah?” he said, voice warmer. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to. You walked in smelling like you had somewhere better to be.”

Eddie laughed under his breath, low and a little giddy, and ran a hand through his hair like he couldn’t help himself. “Shit. Okay. Noted. I’ll keep that in the rotation then.”

You passed the bowl back, lips curving. “I like normal you too, though. The regular version. The one who smells like your van and talks too much and leaves guitar picks in the tip jar.”

He went quiet for a second, turning the bowl between his fingers. When he looked at you again the playfulness was still there, but something heavier sat underneath it.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rougher now. “I just wanted you to notice the effort. Because if I ever get my hands on you…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours. “I want you to know there’s gonna be full effort there too. No half-assing it. No getting bored halfway through. I’m talking dedicated. Thorough. The kind of focus that makes you forget your own name for a little while.”

The air between you went tight.

You raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, and let a small, challenging smile pull at your mouth.

“That a promise or just talk?”

Eddie stared at you for a long second. Then he laughed—quiet, almost disbelieving—and shook his head like you’d just dared him to jump off a roof.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice full of dark delight. “You’re gonna regret asking me that.”

Eddie set the bowl down on the milk crate with a soft clink, still grinning like you’d just handed him the best idea he’d ever heard. Before you could even process the shift in his expression he was out of the chair and in front of you, hands already sliding under your thighs.

“Wait—Eddie—”

Too late. He hauled you up in one smooth, practiced motion and tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The world tilted. Your hands flew to his back for balance as he started walking toward the house, one arm locked firm around the backs of your legs.

“Eddie, put me down—” you laughed, smacking the solid muscle of his shoulder. “You’re such an asshole, oh my god—”

“Mm. Keep talking. It’s cute.” His free hand settled on the back of your thigh, fingers spreading possessively as he carried you up the porch steps and through the open door. “Been thinking about doing this since you told me no one’s ever gotten you there properly. Figured I’d start with the logistics.”

You twisted, trying to push yourself up enough to see where you were going, still laughing. “Logistics? You’re manhandling me—”

The sharp, open-handed smack landed right across your ass.

The sound cracked through the quiet house.

You went completely still.

The laughter died in your throat. Heat flooded low and fast, a sudden, traitorous pulse between your legs that made your breath catch. Your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. You didn’t make a sound.

Eddie stopped walking.

You felt the way his whole body went alert underneath you—the slight pause, the way his hand stayed right where it had landed, palm warm against the sting he’d just left.

“…Oh,” he said, voice dropping into something darker and deeply pleased. “There it is.”

He adjusted his grip and kept walking, slower now, like he was savoring every step. You could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.

“You went quiet real fast, sweetheart. That little problem of yours just get a whole lot more interesting?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your face was burning and the ache between your legs had gone from nothing to urgent in the span of one single slap.

Eddie carried you down the short hallway and into a bedroom that smelled like the real him. He bent and deposited you onto the mattress with surprising care, letting you slide down his body until you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking up at him.

He stayed close. Close enough that you had to tip your head back. One of his hands was still resting on your waist like he hadn’t fully decided to let go yet.

His eyes were darker than they’d been outside. The playful edge was still there, but it was sharper now. Focused.

“Yeah,” he murmured, thumb stroking once over your hip. “I saw that. Felt it too. You clenched up the second my hand landed.” He tilted his head, studying your face with open, hungry curiosity. “Interesting reaction for someone who’s never come with another person. Almost like your body already knows something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.”

He leaned in just enough that his next words brushed warm against your mouth.

“We’re gonna fix that.”

Eddie stayed right there between your knees, looking down at you like he’d already decided how the rest of the night was going to go. His hand was still warm on your waist, thumb tracing idle little arcs against the fabric of your shirt.

“Alright,” he said, voice light but serious underneath. “Before I do anything irreversible—you got a safeword?”

You blinked up at him, then huffed a soft laugh. “Jesus. You’re old. I’ve never needed one.”

His mouth twitched. “Charming. Really making me feel great about the age gap right now.”

“I’m just saying. Never came up.”

“Well it’s coming up now.” He reached past you, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it further up the bed like he was already planning ahead. “Pineapple. That’s the word. You say pineapple, everything stops. No questions, no attitude, I back off immediately. Clear?”

You stared at him for a second, then broke into a genuine laugh. “Pineapple? That’s the best you could do?”

“It’s memorable. And you’re not gonna forget it when you’re—”

You didn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he closed them in a firm, controlled fist. The pull wasn’t rough—just deliberate enough to tip your head back so you had no choice but to look straight at him. The sudden shift in control sent another low pulse of heat straight between your legs.

Eddie’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. His voice came out quieter. Rougher.

“How do you like it?”

The question sat heavy between you. You swallowed. Your scalp tingled where he held you.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. Honest. A little breathless. “No one’s ever… asked. Or stuck around long enough to figure it out.”

Something dark and satisfied moved through his expression. He leaned in closer, the grip in your hair keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“Then you’re getting the whole experience,” he murmured. “Every version. Hard. Slow. Filthy. Whatever makes that pretty little problem of yours finally give up.”

He closed the last inch and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was deep and immediate, mouth open, the kind of kiss that felt like a claim. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting you further into it while the one in your hair stayed locked, holding you in place as he licked into your mouth like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. You made a small sound against his lips and he answered it with a low hum, pressing closer until your knees had to part wider around his hips.

When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his voice was wrecked already.

“Yeah,” he said against your mouth. “We’re gonna take our time with this.”

Eddie kissed you down into the mattress like he’d been holding himself back and finally ran out of reasons to. The weight of him settled over you. His mouth never left yours for long, only breaking long enough for both of you to drag in air before he was back, deeper, hungrier.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt at the same time his found yours.

Fabric got shoved up between frantic kisses. You both laughed once against each other’s mouths when your arms got tangled, then the shirts were gone—his tossed somewhere toward the floor, yours pulled carefully over your head so he didn’t catch it on your hair. The second your bare skin met the cooler air of the room, Eddie went still.

His eyes dropped.

The tattoos you’d kept hidden under work shirts and bar aprons sat dark against your skin—delicate lines and soft shading that only showed when the fabric came off. He stared like he’d just been handed something private and important.

“Fuck,” he breathed. One hand hovered, then settled lightly over the ink on your ribs, thumb tracing the edge of a design. “You’ve been walking around with these under those little black tanks this whole time and never said a word?”

You felt heat climb your throat. “Didn’t come up.”

“It’s coming up now.” His voice had gone lower, almost reverent. He leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, right between your breasts, then another a little higher. The metal of his rings was cool against your side as his hand slid up.

He paused there, mouth still brushing your skin, and looked up at you through his lashes.

“Can I take this off?” His fingers rested at the back clasp of your bra, waiting. Not moving until you answered.

You nodded.

Eddie kissed the same spot on your chest once more—soft, almost grateful—before he reached behind you. The clasp gave easily under his fingers, like he’d done it a hundred times and still treated it like it mattered. He drew the straps down your arms slowly, letting the fabric fall away, and sat back just enough to look.

The way his expression changed was quiet and thorough. No teasing. No smirk. Just open, focused appreciation as his gaze moved over you.

“Look at you,” he murmured. One hand came up to cup the side of your breast, thumb stroking once beneath it like he was learning the shape. “Hiding all this under work clothes every night. Perfect fucking girl. Trying so hard not to let anyone see.”

He leaned back down and pressed a slower kiss to the soft curve of one breast, then the other, voice still gentle against your skin.

“Gonna take my time looking at every single thing you’ve been keeping to yourself.”

He stayed right there, mouth and hands devoted to your breasts like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Soft, open kisses trailed across the full curves, lingering under the weight of them where the skin was most sensitive. His tongue flicked once over a nipple before he closed his lips around it and sucked—gentle at first, then deeper when your back arched. The whole time he talked, voice low and warm against your skin.

“So responsive,” he murmured, switching to the other side. “Look at the way you push up into my mouth. You’ve been starving for someone to just… stay here and worship these for a while.” Another slow suck, a quiet hum of approval when you made a soft sound. “Perfect tits. So fucking perfect.”

You were soaked.

You could feel it—heat and slickness gathering between your legs until your underwear clung uncomfortably. You didn’t think you’d ever gotten this wet before. Not from kissing. Not from anything. Every drag of his tongue, every quiet, filthy-sweet word made the ache worse.

Eddie kissed lower, across the soft skin just beneath your breasts, then lifted his head. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed careful.

“Can I take these off?” His fingers rested at the button of your jeans, waiting.

You nodded.

He popped the button and drew the zipper down slowly. You lifted your hips so he could work the denim down your legs and toss it aside. The second the cool air hit you, his gaze dropped—and locked onto the dark, obvious wet patch soaking through the center of your underwear.

His whole body went still.

You watched the thick outline of his cock twitch hard against the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric like it was trying to get to you on its own.

Eddie exhaled a rough, almost pained sound. “Jesus Christ.”

You swallowed, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “Fair is fair. Take yours off too.”

He didn’t argue. He stood just long enough to shove his jeans down and kick them away, leaving him in dark boxer briefs that did almost nothing to hide him. The outline was obscene—long, thick, heavy against his thigh, the head clearly defined where it pressed against the cotton. Even confined like that he looked massive.

Your mouth went a little dry.

“Holy shit,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.

Eddie glanced down at himself, then back at you, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth even as his voice stayed soft.

“Yeah,” he said, climbing back over you. “We’re gonna take this real slow, sweetheart. I’m gonna need you nice and open for me.” His hand settled on your hip, thumb stroking the edge of your soaked underwear. “But first I’m gonna make sure this pretty little problem of yours never stands a chance.”

Eddie kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he was trying to pour every filthy intention he had into your mouth. You couldn’t help the way your hips rolled up against him, seeking friction, grinding the soaked center of your underwear against the hard line of his cock. The second you did it he groaned into the kiss, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and hold you there for a second longer.

Then he pulled back.

“Greedy,” he murmured against your lips, almost fond. “Alright. I hear you.”

He started kissing down.

Your chest first—lingering again on the soft undersides of your breasts, tongue tracing the curves he’d already learned—then lower, across the plane of your stomach. Every open-mouthed press of his lips made your muscles jump. He nuzzled the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear and exhaled like the scent of how wet you were was doing something to him.

You lifted your hips without being asked. Together you worked the soaked fabric down your legs until it was gone. The second you were bare, Eddie went quiet.

He sat back on his heels between your thighs and just looked.

His hands settled on the insides of your knees and slowly pushed them wider, eyes locked on the slick, flushed mess of your cunt. You were so wet it was almost embarrassing—glistening along your folds, dripping down toward the sheets. He stared like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“Fucking perfect,” he said, voice low and rough with sincerity. “Look at you. All pretty and shiny and soaked just from me playing with your tits. You’re beautiful like this.” His thumbs stroked higher along your inner thighs. “I’m gonna take such good care of you. Promise.”

Then he dove in.

No teasing. He flattened his tongue and dragged it through your center in one long, filthy stripe, collecting everything you’d made for him. The sound he made was almost pained—hungry and relieved all at once—before he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked.

Your whole body arched.

Eddie hummed against you like the taste of you was exactly what he’d been after all night, and settled in like he planned to stay there for a very long time.

He started slow—long, flat strokes of his tongue from the bottom of your cunt all the way up to your clit, gathering every bit of slick that had already collected there. The sound was wet and filthy every time he dragged through you. He hummed low in his chest like the taste of you was something he wanted to memorize.

“Fuck, you taste sweet,” he murmured against your folds, voice already rough. “So wet for me already. Been dripping since I smacked that pretty ass, haven’t you?”

His hands stayed firm on your inner thighs, holding you open exactly how he wanted. When he focused on your clit he did it with devastating patience—soft, circling licks that barely gave you pressure, then firmer ones that made your hips twitch. Every time your thighs tried to close he just pressed them wider and kept going.

You were already shaking.

Eddie noticed. Of course he did. He lifted his mouth just enough to speak, lips shiny, eyes dark and focused.

“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re allowed to get loud, sweetheart. Nobody’s here but me.” He dipped back down and sucked your clit between his lips, gentle at first, then harder when your back arched. “Good girl. So sensitive. I can feel you throbbing on my tongue.”

He worked you in waves. Soft and teasing until you were rolling your hips up against his mouth, then deeper—tongue pushing inside you in slow, filthy thrusts while his nose pressed against your clit. The wet sounds filled the room. Your hands found his hair and twisted, not sure if you were trying to pull him closer or survive it.

Eddie groaned like he loved the sting.

“There you go,” he praised, voice muffled against you. “Use me. Grind on my face if you need to. I’ve got you.” He sealed his mouth back over your clit and sucked in a steady, relentless rhythm while two fingers finally slid inside you—curving, searching, pressing up into that spot that made your vision blur. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me already. So tight. So needy. Gonna make this little cunt come so hard for me.”

He didn’t rush the build.

Every time you got close he eased off just enough to keep you hovering—switching to broad, messy licks, kissing the insides of your thighs, murmuring soft filthy things against your skin about how pretty you looked spread open and dripping for him. Then he’d return to your clit with single-minded focus, fingers working you open, tongue relentless.

Your stomach started tightening. The pleasure turned sharp and overwhelming. You could hear how wet you were—slick sounds every time his fingers moved, every time his mouth sealed over you again.

“Eddie—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he said immediately, voice low and certain. He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers curling in steady, perfect strokes. “You’re right there. I can feel it. Let it happen. Give it to me.”

The orgasm hit like a wave you couldn’t stop.

Your whole body locked. A broken, high sound tore out of you as the pleasure crashed through—your cunt pulsing hard around his fingers, slick gushing out of you in warm, uncontrollable pulses that coated his mouth and chin and dripped down onto the sheets. Eddie moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept going through it, licking you through every spurt, every tremor, drinking you down like he was starving for it.

He only slowed when your thighs started shaking too hard to stay open.

Even then he didn’t pull away completely. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive clit, your folds, the dripping mess he’d made of you, voice wrecked and reverent.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured against your cunt. “Look at that. Fucking beautiful. You came so hard you made a mess of me.” He licked a slow stripe through the wetness still dripping from you and groaned.

Eddie sat up just long enough to shove his boxer briefs down and kick them off the bed. His cock sprang free—a heavy thump against his stomach. After everything he’d just done to you, he looked almost painfully hard.

He crawled back over you and kissed you deep.

You tasted yourself on his mouth immediately—sharp and sweet and filthy. The knowledge that he’d just had his face buried between your legs made your stomach flip all over again. He licked into your mouth like he wanted you to taste how hard you’d come for him, one hand braced beside your head, the other stroking slowly along your side.

When he pulled back, his voice was quieter. Careful.

“Still sure you want this?” His eyes searched yours. “I already made you come. We can stop here if you need to. No pressure.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You reached up, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down into another kiss—harder this time, open-mouthed and certain. Your other hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around the thick length of him. He was so hot against your palm, so heavy, the skin soft over the rigid hardness underneath. Eddie groaned into your mouth like the simple touch of your hand almost undid him.

“Okay,” he rasped against your lips. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He reached down and wrapped his own hand around his cock, guiding the broad head through the soaked mess of your cunt. The first drag of him against your oversensitive clit made your hips jerk. He did it again—slower—slicking himself up with everything you’d already given him, the fat head catching against your entrance every time he passed over it.

You were so wet the sound was obscene.

Eddie braced himself on one forearm and looked down between your bodies, watching the way the blunt head of his cock pressed against you. His breathing had gone uneven.

“Gonna go slow,” he promised, voice strained. “You’re tight as hell and I’m not exactly small. Tell me if it’s too much.”

He pushed.

The stretch was immediate and intense—thick pressure that forced you open around him inch by careful inch. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way your body had to give to take him. Your mouth fell open on a broken sound. Eddie’s forehead dropped against yours, a low, punched-out groan spilling out of him as the head finally slipped inside.

“Fuck—look at that,” he breathed, hips trembling with the effort of holding still. “Taking me so well already. You’re soaking my cock baby girl.”

He gave you another inch. Then another. The burn of the stretch mixed with the leftover sensitivity from your orgasm until your thighs were shaking around his hips. You could feel how deep he was already getting, the heavy weight of him filling you in a way nothing else ever had.

Eddie kissed the corner of your mouth, sweet even as his voice went filthy.

“That’s it. Just like that. Let me in, sweetheart. Gonna fill this pretty cunt up until you forget anyone else ever tried.”

“Move,” you whispered.

Eddie exhaled like he’d been waiting for permission. He drew his hips back slowly—just an inch or two—then pushed back in just as carefully. The thick slide of him forced another soft sound out of your throat. You felt everything. Every ridge. Every subtle pulse of his cock as he sank deeper. The way your walls had to stretch and flutter around the heavy girth of him just to take it.

He kept the pace almost gentle.

Long, controlled strokes that let you feel the full drag of him pulling out and the slow, relentless push back in until he bottomed out against you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours. His voice never stopped.

“That’s it,” he murmured, breath warm against your mouth. “Feel how full you are. Taking all of me like you were made for it. S' tight. S' perfect around my cock.” Another slow thrust. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Letting me open you up.”

The sweetness of it almost undid you more than the stretch.

Every praise landed low in your stomach. Every careful roll of his hips sent sparks up your spine. You could feel how wet you still were—slick sounds filling the quiet room every time he sank back in. But the longer he stayed that measured and deep, the more something restless started building under your skin.

You needed more.

Deeper. Harder. Something that matched the ache he’d already put in you.

Eddie must have felt the way your hips started chasing him, because he pulled back just enough to look at your face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed soft.

“I know,” he said. “I can feel you getting greedy again sweetheart.”

He sat back on his knees, still buried inside you, and hooked his hands behind your knees. In one smooth motion he pushed your legs up and open, folding you nearly in half until your thighs pressed against your own chest. The new angle made him sink impossibly deeper on the next slow thrust. You gasped—sharp and high—as the thick head of him pressed against something that made your vision spark.

Eddie groaned low in his throat and held the position, hips rolling in the same unhurried rhythm, only now every stroke dragged against that deeper, more intense place inside you.

“There we go,” he praised, voice rough with restraint. “That’s what you needed, huh? Deeper?” He thrust in again—slow, deliberate, grinding against the end of you. “All folded up and still sucking me in. Perfect girl. Just keep breathing for me. I’ve got you.”

He never sped up.

He just kept fucking you deep and steady, sweet words spilling out of him the entire time, like he had no intention of stopping until he’d ruined you completely.

Your voice broke on a high, frustrated sound.

“Eddie—please—harder. I need it harder, I can’t—”

He didn’t make you beg twice.

The second the plea left your mouth his whole demeanor shifted. The careful restraint he’d been holding onto snapped. His grip on the backs of your thighs tightened and he started fucking you properly—long, powerful strokes that drove him deep enough to punch the air out of your lungs every time his hips met yours. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the room. Your body jolted up the mattress with every thrust until he dragged you back down by the hips and kept going.

“Anything,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Anything you want. You need it harder? It’s yours. Need me deeper? Take it.” He snapped his hips in harder, the thick length of him dragging against that spot inside you on every stroke until your eyes rolled. “Fuck—listen to you. Whining for my cock like you were made for it. I’ve got you. Gonna give you everything.”

The intensity crashed over you too fast to stop.

Your second orgasm hit with almost no warning—sharp and overwhelming, your cunt clamping down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses as pleasure ripped through you. You cried out, nails digging into his arms, thighs shaking violently in his grip while you came on his cock alone. The wet rush of it made every thrust louder, messier. Eddie groaned like he could feel every flutter and kept fucking you through it, never slowing, praising you the whole time in a broken stream of words.

“That’s it—come on my cock, just like that. Fucking beautiful. You’re soaking me. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move. Good girl. Perfect fucking girl.”

He only eased up when the aftershocks left you trembling and oversensitive.

You could still feel how hard he was inside you—thick and throbbing, nowhere near finished. The realization made something determined spark low in your stomach. You reached up and pushed weakly at his chest.

“Want to ride you,” you managed, voice hoarse. “Please. Let me.”

Eddie went still. His eyes searched your face, dark and concerned even as his cock twitched deep inside you.

“You sure?” he asked, already breathing hard. “You just came twice. You’re shaking. We can slow down—”

“I’m sure.” You held his gaze, stubborn and flushed and still pulsing around him. “I want to. Let me.”

Something hungry and soft moved through his expression all at once. He carefully pulled out of you—both of you hissing at the sudden emptiness—then rolled onto his back in one smooth motion. His cock lay heavy and glistening against his stomach— pulsing.

He looked up at you, hands already settling on your waist as you straddled him.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and rough with restraint. “It’s yours. Take whatever you need.”

You braced one hand on his chest and reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around the thick base of him. He was still soaked from you—slick and hot against your palm. You lined him up and sank down slowly.

The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat. Even after everything, taking him from this angle felt deeper, heavier. You had to work yourself down inch by inch, thighs trembling, until you were finally seated flush against him with his cock buried to the hilt. Your head dropped forward. Eddie’s hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking soft circles like he was grounding you.

You swallowed, voice already shaky.

“What do you like?”

His eyes were almost black looking up at you. A breathless little laugh left him.

“Anything that makes this pretty cunt of yours cream all over me,” he said, rough and honest. “You want to grind slow and deep until you’re shaking? I’ll lie here and take every second of it. You want to bounce on my cock like a desperate little slut until your legs give out? I’ll hold you up and thank you for the privilege. Use me. Ruin yourself on me. I’m yours.”

So you did.

You started rolling your hips—slow at first, grinding him deep so every movement dragged against that spot inside you that made your stomach tighten. The wet sound of it was filthy. Eddie groaned under you, head tipping back against the pillow, hands sliding up to cup your breasts as you moved. You found a rhythm and stuck to it, lifting up until only the thick head remained inside you before sinking back down and taking every inch again.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled, voice strained and filthy. “Stretching that tight little hole around my cock. I can feel you fluttering every time you bottom out. So wet you’re dripping down my balls. That’s it. Fuck yourself on me. Show me how badly you needed to get filled.”

Your thighs started burning sooner than you wanted. The deeper angle made every bounce more intense, the stretch relentless, pleasure building sharp and overwhelming all over again. You kept going anyway—determined—until your legs began to shake so hard you could barely lift yourself. A frustrated little sound slipped out of you.

Eddie felt it immediately.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped.

His hands locked hard around your waist. In the next breath he planted his feet on the mattress and started fucking up into you—powerful, upward thrusts that drove his cock deep enough to punch broken moans out of your mouth every time. The new rhythm was relentless. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room as he slammed up into your soaked cunt, using his grip on your hips to pull you down to meet every stroke.

“That’s it—take every fucking inch,” he snarled, eyes locked on where he disappeared inside you. “Sit on my cock and let me ruin you. This greedy little cunt is sucking me in so deep I can feel it in my spine. Dripping down my stomach like a slut who finally got what she needed.” He thrust up harder, the force of it making your tits bounce. “You feel that? That’s me splitting you open. This is what was missing every time some useless asshole couldn’t make you come. A real cock. A man who knows how to use it.”

Your arms gave out. You collapsed forward onto his chest, face buried against his neck, while he kept pounding up into you without mercy—praise and filthy encouragement spilling out of him in a continuous, wrecked stream.

“Come on. Squeeze me. Cream all over this cock while I fuck you stupid. You’re taking me so well I can barely think. Perfect fucking girl. My perfect fucking girl. Gonna keep this up until you forget how to walk straight.”

Eddie kept fucking up into you in hard, relentless strokes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your body jolted with every thrust. He was so deep it felt like he was rearranging you from the inside.

His voice came out rough against your ear.

“Touch yourself. Play with that pretty clit while I fuck you. I want to feel you gush on my cock again.”

Your hand slid down between your bodies without hesitation. The second your fingers found your clit—swollen and oversensitive—you cried out. The dual sensation was almost too much: the thick, brutal drag of his cock splitting you open on every upward thrust and the tight circles you rubbed over your clit. Slick coated your fingers immediately. You were so wet it was obscene.

Eddie groaned like he could feel the way your cunt fluttered harder around him the second you started touching yourself.

“That’s it. Good girl. Rub that clit for me. Make a mess. I want to feel you soak my cock.” He snapped his hips up harder, the force of it punching broken, high sounds out of your throat. “Fuck—you’re gripping me so tight. This greedy little cunt doesn’t want to let me go. Come on. Give it to me. Third time’s the charm, sweetheart. Ruin yourself.”

The orgasm tore through you violently.

Your whole body locked up. A broken sob left your mouth as you came hard—cunt clamping down in strong, rhythmic pulses while a fresh gush of wetness flooded out of you around his cock. It was messy, uncontrollable, soaking his stomach, his hips, the sheets beneath you in a warm rush that just kept coming with every thrust he forced through it. The wet sounds turned filthy and loud. You shook apart on top of him, fingers still moving weakly over your clit as the pleasure dragged on and on.

Eddie cursed low and filthy, fucking you through every spurt until your thighs were trembling too hard to stay upright.

He didn’t stop moving, but his rhythm turned slightly more erratic—hips stuttering as he chased his own edge. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise.

“Where do you want it?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Tell me. Mouth, tits, stomach—where?”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes, still pulsing around him, still dripping.

“Inside me.”

Something raw and hungry flashed across his face.

“Fuck—okay. Anything you want.”

He pulled you down flush against him and buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as he finally let go. A long, guttural groan tore out of his chest as he came—hot, thick pulses flooding your cunt in heavy spurts. You could feel every throb, every rope of it painting you deep inside. He kept you locked there, hips pressed tight, cock twitching as he emptied everything he had into you with broken, filthy praise spilling from his mouth.

“Take it—take every drop. Filling this perfect cunt up. Made for this. Made to take my cum.” His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Fucking perfect. You’re perfect.”

He stayed buried deep as the last aftershocks faded, still pulsing weakly inside you, holding you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

You collapsed onto his chest like every bone in your body had given up at once.

Eddie stayed inside you for a few more long seconds, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back while the other cradled the back of your head. His heartbeat hammered under your ear. When he finally moved, he did it carefully—rolling you both onto your sides, then easing out of you with a soft, wet sound that made you flinch. You felt the immediate rush of his cum starting to leak out of you and made a small, incoherent noise against the pillow.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and slipped out of bed. You heard the soft sounds of him moving around the dark room—drawer opening, water running in the bathroom—before he came back with a warm washcloth. The mattress dipped as he climbed back in.

Eddie was gentle about it. He wiped between your legs with slow, careful strokes, cleaning up the mess the two of you had made without any teasing. When he finished he tossed the cloth toward the hamper and stretched out beside you, pulling you in until your head was on his chest and one of his arms was locked securely around your waist.

You were barely able to form words. Your body felt heavy and loose and thoroughly used. Every muscle hummed with leftover sparks. You managed a soft, exhausted sound against his skin and that was about it.

Eddie let the quiet sit for a while, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. Then, eventually, the familiar edge of amusement crept back into his voice.

“…So.”

You made a questioning noise that didn’t quite become a word.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, clearly trying and failing to sound casual, “for someone who claimed she’d never come from a dude before, you just came two times on my cock and gushed all over my face like it was your job. I’m feeling pretty fucking proud of myself right now.”

You managed a weak, breathless little laugh against his chest.

“There she is,” he said, sounding deeply satisfied. “Thought I broke you for a second.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, thumb stroking behind your ear. “You good? Need water? A trophy? I’m open to suggestions.”

You pinched his side weakly. Your voice came out rough and quiet.

“Shut up.”

“Can’t. I’m having a moment. Do you understand the historical significance of what just happened in this bed? I should call Jess. Let her know the little problem has been thoroughly, scientifically solved.”

You groaned into his chest. “If you call Jess I will actually kill you.”

Eddie laughed—low and warm and completely unrepentant—and pulled you closer, tucking the blankets up around both of you.

“Fine. No phone calls. But I reserve the right to be unbearably smug about this for at least a week.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, voice dropping softer even as the teasing stayed. “You did so good for me. Seriously.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue.

You just let him hold you, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, while the last of the aftershocks faded and the witty, insufferable version of him settled back in like he’d never left.

Two days later the bar was dead again—same sticky counters, same half-hearted jukebox, same mid-afternoon quiet that made the whole place feel like it was holding its breath.

Eddie had been insufferable since the second he walked in.

He didn’t say anything outright. He didn’t have to. It was in the way he moved around you—closer than usual, hand lingering at the small of your back every time he slipped past, that permanent little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was replaying the entire night on a loop. Every time you caught his eye across the bar he just raised an eyebrow, slow and filthy, and went back to polishing a glass like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire understanding of sex in his shitty little bungalow.

Jess lasted maybe forty minutes before she cracked.

She leaned across the bar while Eddie was restocking the back, voice low and delighted. “Okay. What the fuck happened.”

You kept wiping the same clean section of counter. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. He’s been floating around like he invented the orgasm and you keep turning the color of a stop sign every time he looks at you. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill.”

Eddie chose that exact moment to reappear, carrying a case of beer like it weighed nothing. He set it down, glanced between the two of you, and the smirk widened.

“Talking about me?” he asked, all faux innocence.

Jess pointed at him. “You. Explain why you’re walking around like— like that."

Eddie leaned his elbows on the bar right next to you, close enough that his arm brushed yours. He smelled like the same cologne from the other night. “No idea what you’re talking about. I’m just in a good mood. Weather’s nice. Tips were decent yesterday. Life is beautiful.”

You shot him a warning look. He ignored it completely.

Jess’s eyes narrowed, bouncing between the two of you. Then something clicked. Her mouth fell open.

“Oh my god.”

“Jess—” you started.

“You didn’t.”

Eddie examined his rings like they were suddenly fascinating. “Didn’t what?”

“You fixed the little problem,” she said, voice climbing with glee. “You actually fixed it. Look at her face. Look at your face. Holy shit.”

You dropped the rag and pointed at both of them. “We are not talking about this.”

Jess clasped her hands under her chin. “I need every detail. Immediately. Was it good? Was it life-changing? How many times did you—”

“I will quit,” you said flatly.

Eddie made a thoughtful sound, tilting his head. “Y’know, I’m happy to provide a full report if she’s too shy. In the interest of science. And friendship. And the betterment of women everywhere who’ve been suffering under subpar—”

You shoved his shoulder hard enough that he laughed and had to catch himself on the bar.

“Do not.”

He held up both hands, still grinning like the cat that got everything it ever wanted. “Offer stands. Jess, you just say the word and I’ll give you the entire play by play. ”

Jess looked like Christmas had come early. “I’m listening.”

You grabbed the rag again and turned away, face burning, but you couldn’t quite hide the smile pulling at your mouth.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, loud enough for only you to catch the undertone, “I’m available for follow-up research whenever you want.”

The bar stayed dead for the rest of the shift.

Somehow that felt exactly right.

You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.

You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.

Then something had swung overhead.

A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.

You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.

He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.

Spider-Man pushed off the wall.

Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.

You had run.

Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk. 

By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.

He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human. 

Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.

You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.

He turned his head.

For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.

You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.

Still, your stomach dropped.

Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.

You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.

After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.

You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.

Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.

Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.

Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.

Lucky meant hearing him talk.

That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.

“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”

The guy swung at him.

Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His head snapped toward you.

You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.

Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.

Then he pointed at you.

“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears. 

Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”

“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”

A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.

“You noticed?”

His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”

You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”

“You are practically dating the damn tape.”

“I respect boundary lines!”

His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”

The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”

“That is relatively worse.”

It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.

Before he left, he looked down at you again.

“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder. 

You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”

There was a pause.

Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.

“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”

Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.

Peter remembered you after that.

He didn't mean to.

He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.

But you, you became hard not to notice.

You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.

He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.

That made his stomach twist.

The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from. 

Peter hated them in the abstract way he could. 

He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.

He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.

Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.

It was relief.

Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.

“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.

You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.

Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”

Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”

“So am I.”

He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”

Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”

“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”

You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”

His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”

That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.

“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood. 

He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”

You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”

You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”

“No.”

A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”

Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”

You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots. 

You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly. 

“Do you ever get tired of doing that?” 

“Bleeding?”

“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time. 

Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.

Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.

“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.

Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”

Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”

A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”

“Eventually is not good enough.”

You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”

“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.

The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.

Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.

Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”

“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more. 

He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”

You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”

Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”

He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.

You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.

That was the lie at the center of it.

You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises. 

He wasn't invincible.

But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.

You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.

It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.

It was the pauses he had. 

The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.

That was what kept pulling you closer to him. 

The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.

Your phone lit up.

Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.

SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??

STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.

Your friend stopped talking.

“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.

She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”

“It’s close.”

A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”

“I’ll stay back!”

She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”

The echo of his words should have slowed you.

It didn't.

Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.

Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.

The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.

You froze.

For once, your body understood before your obsession did.

Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.

Peter saw you from the ground.

Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.

His blood went cold.

“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.

You did not.

Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.

Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.

The strand hit your waist and yanked.

Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.

The street exploded white-blue.

Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.

For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.

Spider-Man lifted his head first.

“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you. 

You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express. 

“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”

The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”

Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”

You emphasized better. “I’m not.”

His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.

He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.

Then, he looked back at you.

You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.

The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.

“Stay here,” he all but demanded

You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so. 

He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”

“I heard you.”

“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”

“I’ll stay.”

Peter really didn't believe you.

But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

You stayed.

For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.

“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”

A crash came next.

“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”

Another loud noise of impact.

You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.

The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.

Badly so.

He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.

You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”

Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”

His answer came too quick. “So am I.”

The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his. 

He stepped closer.

“What is wrong with you?”

The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.

You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”

Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”

“I didn’t know it was going to—”

“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”

You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.

“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.

Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his. 

“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”

Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”

You looked up again quickly with widening eyes. 

There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself. 

Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.

“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.

Peter forgot how to breathe.

Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.

But that was not how you said it.

You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.

You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity. 

You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.

Peter hated how easily that worked on him.

He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.

“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time. 

Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”

“Want to know me.”

You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”

“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”

You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”

Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”

You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know you don’t want the rest.”

You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.

“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression. 

He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge.  “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”

The confession landed badly.

You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.  

Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”

“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more. 

Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”

Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”

“You followed me home?”

He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”

You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”

“I was making sure you were safe.”

Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.

“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession. 

Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”

You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”

“I notice threats.”

“You think I’m a threat?”

His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”

“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.

Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.

You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.

“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him. 

The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

You let out an exasperated groan,  one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”

“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”

Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

“It should be.”

“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.

Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.

He should have left.

He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.

Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”

You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m not joking.”

You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”

He stepped closer this time.

You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.

Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.

“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.

It mattered.

The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.

“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.

His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”

Your voice hadn't lost its lightness,  but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”

Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”

Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.

It was a warning with a pulse.

“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.

You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”

His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”

“When you’re hurt?”

Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”

You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”

He went quiet.

That was answer enough for you.

You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.

But he was still holding your wrist.

And, he hadn't let go.

“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him. 

“I did.”

“Tell me again.”

Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist. 

Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.

“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away. 

Neither did you.

The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.

You reached up with your free hand.

This time, you touched his jaw.

Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.

“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.

Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”

Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”

“No.”

That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.

You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.

Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.

The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.

“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders. 

Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”

“To this.”

You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.

“I’m not saying no.”

Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words. 

He stopped an inch from you.

The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.

Peter caught your fingers again.

“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning. 

Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.

Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.

Only that.

The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.

You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice. 

His mouth found yours before you could say anything.

The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.

You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”

You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”

“You sure?”

You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”

“You keep saving me.”

Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”

Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”

He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.

“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily. 

You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”

His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”

You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”

He answered by kissing you again.

This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.

The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.

When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.

“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe. 

The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I get it.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.

“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.

There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.

“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw. 

For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.

Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in. 

You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”

His silence moved over you slowly.

He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.

But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.

“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting. 

Your reply came back softer. “At what?”

“Letting people stand this close.”

Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”

You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”

“Great.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not.”

You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”

That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding. 

A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”

He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”

“What tone?”

“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”

You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”

Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding.”

“I think you’re concussed.”

“You asked if I was hit.”

His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”

You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.

He looked at your mouth again.

You noticed.

This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.

The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.

You gave back as much as he took.

That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.

“Careful,” he said again.

This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”

His hand stilled on impact of your words. 

“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again.  “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”

Peter listened without interrupting.

That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.

Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”

“I won’t.”

His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”

You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”

He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”

You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”

Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”

“That seems really excessive.”

“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”

You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”

“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”

You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.

Peter did take you home.

Not immediately, though.

The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.

Peter moved differently while carrying you.

Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.

By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline. 

Mostly.

He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him. 

A laugh escaped you before you could control it.  “You really do know where I live.”

Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”

Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”

“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”

The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”

“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils.   “Not in a way I’m discussing.”

You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.

The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet. 

Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.

You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.

“You’re not coming in?”

Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”

You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”

“You were most of them.”

“Still.”

His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.

You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.

“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong. 

Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.

He really should have said no.

But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.

Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.

The room felt too small with him in it.

Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.

“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue. 

“I’m injured.”

You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”

Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”

You stepped closer.

He watched you do it.

The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.

Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.

“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly,  more hesitant than you'd have imagined. 

Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.

“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”

The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.

A low sound left him.

“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer. 

Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”

The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”

Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.

His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.

“That hurt?” you whispered against him.

“No.”

A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”

“Maybe.”

Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.

Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.

He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.

“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.

“You keep kissing me.”

His mouth hovered above yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved after that.

The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home. 

Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.

“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could. 

Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”

Peter pushed. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

“And if you see me on that app—”

You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”

He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”

“Now.”

You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”

Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”

You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.

He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.

It felt strange to let it go.

Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.

You deleted it.

Then the second one.

Then the third.

Peter said nothing while you did so. 

When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.

“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite.  “Happy?”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”

“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”

Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”

“I’m known for that.”

You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.

The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear. 

He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had. 

Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.

His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.

"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."

“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."

“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough. 

You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.

Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.

"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"

"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."

Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.

"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"

You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.

"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."

He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.

“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.

"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."

You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.

"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."

"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.

"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"

You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.

"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.

The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.

Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.

"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.

“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.

The mask came off.

You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.

One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.

"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."

“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.

Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.

“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.

You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth. 

Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands. 

The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.

"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.

"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"

“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass. 

The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.

"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"

Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.

Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.

Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.

He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.

"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"

You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.

"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."

His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.

"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."

You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"

His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."

The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.

"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"

His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."

“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”

His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.

"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"

You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.

"Fuck—I'm—"

"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."

You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.

"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"

"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"

His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"

The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.

"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."

Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.

"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"

His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."

Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.

"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"

His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.

A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.

"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."

You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"

His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.

"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.

You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.

Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.

"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."

You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."

Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."

The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.

The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.

You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.

Consciousness returned in pieces.

Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.

Your eyes cracked open.

The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.

You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.

Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.

Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:

P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.

A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.

"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."

Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.

The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.

You'd heard the stories before you ever had a real reason to look at him.

King Steve, somebody had called him once in the dining hall of freshman orientation, laughing through a mouthful of fries.

You remembered glancing over because the nickname sounded too stupid to be real. He had been standing near the jukebox by the student lounge, one shoulder propped against the wall, and his sleeves pushed up his forearms despite the November chill leaking in through the old windows. 

His hair looked unfairly deliberate. His jeans fit in that careless, expensive way that made it seem accidental. A couple of guys from his fraternity were crowded around him, loud and red-faced, and one girl in a denim skirt was pretending not to watch him from two tables away.

Steve had laughed at something. Not loudly, that was an irritating part. He did not need to be loud. The room moved around him anyway.

You looked away before anyone could notice you noticing.

People like that had always made you tired.

They seemed to pass through the world assuming the door would open; the chair would be saved, the joke would land, the girl would smile, the professor would give them one more day on an assignment because they looked sheepish enough when asking. They didn't always do it maliciously. Sometimes that made it worse. Privilege was more exhausting when it came with good manners.

So you had filed Steve Harrington away under rich boy, frat boy, former high school royalty, and didn't expect to need more categories.

Then he stepped into your path outside the student center on a wet Thursday afternoon and said your roommate’s name.

Not your name.

Hers.

You had been trying to balance a stack of used books against your hip, your canvas bag cutting into your shoulder, your fingers cold from refusing to wear gloves because you always forgot how bitter Hawkins got once October gave up pretending to be pretty. Your roommate Lena walked beside you, chewing gum and complaining about her women’s literature professor, who apparently believed every student had both unlimited free time and a personal relationship with Virginia Woolf.

Steve Harrington appeared in front of you with the unearned confidence of someone who had never had to wonder whether he was welcome.

“Hey,” he greeted vibrantly, his breath faintly visible in the gray air.

Your roommate slowed.

You didn't.

He shifted to block less of the sidewalk, which was the only reason you didn’t run directly into him.

“Is Robin around?” he asked and you stopped then.

Lena blinked beside you wearily at the name.  “Robin Buckley?”

Steve’s mouth twitched upwards and that only made your distrust worsen. “Unless there’s another Robin with a Walkman permanently attached to her body.”

You stared at him blankly in waiting.

Robin Buckley wasn't your friend in any way, but she was your roommate’s current problem. A very specific kind of problem. The kind that made your roommate pretend she had no interest in the campus radio station, then find three excuses a week to pass through the building. 

The kind that made her ask questions that were not questions, such as, “Do you think Robin likes girls?” while staring aggressively into a bowl of cereal at midnight.

Steve Harrington asking about Robin would have been odd enough.

Steve Harrington asking your roommate about Robin, while looking politely casual and not casual at all, was even worse.

“Why?” you asked before she could answer and his eyes cut to you.

They were brown, but not completely dark. You hadn't expected to notice that.

“No reason,” Steve frowned at your immediate hostility. 

“That’s usually what people say when there’s a reason.”

Your roommate made a quiet noise beside you. And Lena had the audacity to sound entertained.

Steve’s smile faltered for half a second, then returned with a small amount of effort. “I just haven’t seen her today.”

“Then maybe she doesn’t want to be seen.”

Steve’s smiled turned slightly confused then. “I’m her friend.”

“And yet, here you are, asking us.”

He glanced at Lena again, then back to you, measuring the situation too late. “Okay. Fair.”

You adjusted the books against your chest. One of them slid down an inch, the corner digging into your ribs. “If Robin wants to talk to you, I’m sure she’ll find you. You’re not exactly hard to locate.”

Beside you, Lena tried to call your name to pull you back but it did little to stop you. Steve’s eyebrows rose, not offended enough. “What does that mean?”

You seriously doubted he needed you to answer that. “It means half the campus knows where your fraternity house is against their will.”

“That’s not my fault—”

“No, I’m sure the giant banner and weekly parties happen without your knowledge.”

His mouth opened to respond and you walked around him before he could answer.

Your roommate followed, though she turned back once. You saw the movement from the corner of your eye and elbowed her.

“Ow,” Lena frowned and rubbed at her side.

You didn't turn to face her as you continued your pace. “Stop encouraging him.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah? Well, you looked amused.”

“I was.”

And before you could scoff at her, behind you got your attention again, you heard Steve called, “It was nice meeting you too!”

You didn't turn around, you just went on with your day.

That really should have been the end of it.

It was not.

——

Steve wasn't trying to make things worse.

That was what he kept telling himself, usually right after making things worse.

Robin had been pacing his room three nights earlier, wearing a hole through the old rug he had stolen from his parents’ basement when he moved into the fraternity house. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent, stale beer from the hallway, and the vanilla candle Robin had bought him because she said his room had “the tragic odor of boy.” He had never lit candles before. Now he lit that one whenever she came over, mostly because she looked smug about it.

“She has a roommate,” Robin seemed to reason with her hand kneading into her hair.

Steve was lying on his bed, tossing a basketball toward the ceiling and catching it before it hit him in the face. Sometimes, he wasn't lucky enough to catch it. Those times hurt his pride more than his face. “Most people do.”

“I mean a close roommate. You know the scary one.”

He laughed at the adjective. “She’s scary?”

Robin gave him a look, “you know, the one who sits with her in the dining hall. Dark sweater, permanently unimpressed, looks like she’d poison a man for using the word sweetheart.”

Steve caught the ball and held it against his chest. He kept his gaze trained upwards for the moment. “That’s specific.”

Robin shrugged. “I observe.”

“You panic-observe, you mean.”

“I’m very good at it.”

Robin liked your roommate. That was obvious to anyone who knew Robin well enough to understand her reverse language of affection. If she mocked someone’s shoes, she hated them. If she mocked someone’s handwriting, she wanted to talk to them again. If she mocked someone’s taste in music while remembering every band they mentioned, she was doomed.

Steve had watched it happen slowly. Robin lighting up whenever your roommate entered the room, then immediately acting annoyed by her own face. Robin talking too fast around her and then later calling herself a social disaster while lying across Steve’s floor with one arm over her eyes. Robin asking, in a voice that tried very hard to be nothing, whether he thought your roommate might be into girls.

He had said he’d find out.

Robin had sat up so fast her knee hit his dresser. “No. Absolutely not.”

Steve looked upset at the clear-cut rejection. “Why not?”

“Because you have no subtlety.”

“I have plenty of subtlety!”

“You once asked Nancy if she was mad at you in front of three people and a salad bar.”

He didn't appreciate reminder, he scowled on memory. “That was high school.”

“That was entirely you.”

He had thrown the basketball at her. She had caught it badly and nearly knocked over his lamp.

Steve knew Robin’s fear was not dramatic. Hawkins had a way of hearing things it was not supposed to hear. This college was technically a different world from Hawkins High, but the same parents funded bake sales, the same church ladies read the local paper, and the same boys who drank too much on Friday nights could turn cruel if given the right secret.

Robin joked because she had to.

Steve tried to help because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

The problem was you.

You saw through him too quickly. Not through the whole thing, thank God, but enough to make every question sound worse coming out of his mouth. You looked at him with that flat, disbelieving stare, and every sentence he prepared fell apart before it reached the air.

He told himself he only noticed you because you were an obstacle.

Then, he noticed you when you were not in the way at all.

You always sat with your back near a wall. In the library, in the dining hall, in the student lounge with the old arcade machine nobody used unless they were drunk. You checked the room before settling anywhere, quick and practiced, and then pretended you hadn’t. You listened more than you spoke, but when you did speak, people either laughed or went quiet because you had said the thing everyone else had been walking around.

You dressed for comfort more than attention, sweaters slipping over your wrists, scuffed shoes, and a coat that had probably survived several winters before this one. You carried yourself with a guardedness that looked effortless until he caught the tiny adjustments: bag pulled closer in crowded hallways, shoulders tightening when loud boys passed too near, and eyes narrowing whenever someone said your roommate’s name with too much interest.

Steve understood protectiveness.

He was just not used to being on the wrong side of it.

By the second week, he had managed to ask your roommate exactly one useful question and you had interrupted three others.

“Do you do this professionally?” Steve asked one afternoon outside the campus bookstore.

You were crouched near the discount bin, flipping through battered paperbacks with yellowed pages. The windows behind you were fogged at the edges from the cold, and the whole place smelled of dust, wet wool, and burnt coffee from the shop next door.

You didn't look up. “Do what?”

“Appear whenever I’m about to have a normal conversation.”

You seriously doubted that assumption. “You’ve never had a normal conversation in your life.”

“That’s harsh.” Steve's brows furrowed together.

“That’s just pattern recognition.”

He crouched on the other side of the bin, partly because standing over you felt rude and partly because he wanted to see what book you were holding. “You know, most people warm up to me eventually.”

You glanced at him then, finally meeting his eyes. “What an awful thing to say out loud.”

Steve laughed before he could stop himself.

You looked back at the books, but he saw your mouth move. Not quite a smile. Something smaller, and more unwilling.

It got him through the rest of the day, which annoyed him.

After that, his plan became less organized. He still asked about Robin. He still tried to gauge whether your roommate looked at her the way Robin looked at your roommate. But more often, he found himself asking you other things instead.

What class had you just come from?

Why did you always buy the coffee if you hated it?

Was that your car with the bumper sticker peeling off?

You answered half of his questions with hostility and the other half with reluctant accuracy.

“Because it’s cheap.”

“Because my professor thinks attendance is a moral virtue.”

“Because my car has character, Harrington.”

You called him Harrington with a dry little bite, never Steve. He pretended not to like it. He pretended badly.

You pretended not to notice that he did.

The mistake happened on a Monday evening when the sky turned dark too early and the sidewalks glistened under weak campus lights.

You had been leaving the library alone, arms full of notes, and scarf loose around your neck. Steve had been waiting near the steps, though he told himself he had only happened to pause there after walking Robin to the radio station. It was a weak lie. He knew it before you saw him.

Your face changed immediately. “No, Harrington.”

Steve lifted both hands and felt an unneededamount of defensivenessrise in him. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You don’t know that!”

“You get a look.”

“I have a look?”

Your look was knowing. “You have several. This is your I’m-about-to-pretend-I’m-not-being-invasive look.”

Steve winced at the description, “that’s a mouthful.”

“It fits.” you could only shrug.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice because people were passing behind you. “I just need to know if your roommate is seeing anybody.”

Your expression flattened, “so there it is.”

Steve didn't know why the defense came quickly off his tongue. “Not for me—”

You stopped with immediate recognition. He knew it the second the words left his mouth.

A small silence opened between you. One student came down the library steps behind him, keys jingling, boots loud on wet concrete. Somewhere, a car door slammed.

Your eyes sharpened amd Steve felt the blood leave his face.

“Not for you,” you repeated the words, though the left your tongue numbly.

He immediately sputtered in a rescue attempt. “Forget I said that.”

“I don’t think I will.”

He rubbed both hands over his face, then dropped them. The tension in his shoulders appeared once more. “Damn it.”

You stared at him, and for once, your suspicion didn't look bored. It looked active, like it was piecing him together while he stood there with nothing useful to say.

Then your eyes changed, he could see the movemeng happen in real time.

Not disgust. Not exactly. Surprise first. Understanding next.

“Oh,” you blinked to yourself and repeated quietly.

The sound hit him wrong. His stomach clenched. Steve immediately felt something stab at his side. 

“Hey, don’t—” 

Your brow creased with immediacy. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked—”

“I looked surprised.”

He swallowed. The air felt too cold going down. Steve could actively feel the situation getting out of his hand. “Yeah, well.”

You shifted the notes in your arms, slower now. Your words came unsure but not enntirely unaware now. “Robin?”

Steve looked past you toward the library doors. His hand randomly through his hair with intensity. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

That stung because it was true. He nodded once, jaw tight. Then Steve’s worry got the best of him. “Are you going to—”

You didn't need to know what he'd ask. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You were going to ask if I’d tell anyone.”

Steve looked at you and your face had closed into something hard again, but it was not the same hardness. This one had a bruise under it.

“I wouldn’t,” you glared openly at him now, the implication of his words hit you in a negative way.

Steve said nothing. It was clear he didn't think you wouldn't. Your mouth pressed into a thin line at his clear suspicion of your motives. “My roommate’s gay.”

He blinked and opened his mouth, but you cut him off before Steve could say anything else.

“She’s not out to everyone,” you added with your voice low and scarf warming your neck. “So don’t shout it out at your house parties, Harrington.”

You looked away before you could see Steve’s frown, then back at him. “Robin has a chance. A good one, probably. My roommate asked me last week if combat boots could be considered flirting.”

Despite himself, Steve almost smiled.

Almost.

You saw it and pointed one finger at him. Already at odds with the whole interaction. “Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not—”

“You are internally.”

“A little.”

Your mouth flattened and your glare returned. “Keep it there then.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Then the larger reality returned, heavy and immediate. Robin’s secret. Your roommate’s secret. His own carelessness.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, you could see where he bit at the inside of his cheek. You studied him long enough that he wanted to shift his weight and didn’t.

“You should be,” you scoffed, not specifying at what. And then you walked away.

For three days, Steve left you alone.

You noticed the absence. 

That was the unsual thing. You noticed before you meant to. You noticed the absence of him in all the places he had made himself inconveniently familiar. No Steve near the coffee cart pretending to decide between black coffee and the same overly sweet thing he always bought. No Steve leaning outside the radio building with Robin, sharing a cigarette neither of them finished. No Steve calling your name across the quad in that tone halfway between apology and annoyance.

You told yourself it was peaceful.

It was.

It should have stayed peaceful.

Then he came back with a new strategy, and somehow the new strategy was worse.

He became nice.

Not charmingly nice. Not flirtatious in the obvious, practiced way you imagined had worked for him since sophomore year of high school. Nice. Quietly, specifically, persistently nice.

When some drunk guy from his fraternity spilled beer near your shoes at a campus movie night, Steve appeared with napkins before you had fully processed the wet splash on the floor.

When your roommate got sick during midterms, he left a paper bag outside your apartment door with cough drops, soup cans, and a note in blocky handwriting that said, ROBIN SAID THIS BRAND DOESN’T TASTE LIKE WET CARDBOARD. FEEL BETTER.

When you forgot your scarf in the student lounge, he brought it to you outside your evening lecture and held it out without comment.

You took it slowly qith clear distrust resting in your expression. “Why do you have this?”

Steve attempted to shrug casually. He failed. “You left it.”

“And you recognized it?”

“You wear it a lot.”

Your face scrunched up before you could help it. “That’s unsettling.”

Steve looked down the hallway, and then back at you. “It’s red.”

“A lot of scarves are red.”

“Yours has a burn mark near the end.” You glanced down despite yourself.

It did. From a diner ashtray last winter.

You looked back at him, with your judgement still clear as day.. “Still unsettling.”

“Noted.”

You waited for him to make a joke, to ask something about Robin, to ruin the tiny exchange enough that you could return to hating him cleanly.

He only nodded and stepped back. “See you around.”

The scarf was warm from his hand when you put it on.

That night, you told your roommate Steve Harrington was acting weird.

Lena, who was pale and miserable under three blankets, opened one eye. “Maybe he’s being nice.”

Your voice was dry in its sarcasm.  “Yeah, right.”

Her voice came strained under the covers. “That’s a possibility.”

“It’s damage control.”

“Or guilt.”

“That’s damage control with better manners.” She coughed, then gave you a tired, knowing look that made you immediately regret the conversation.

“What?” you asked with a sharpness in your tone.

Lena only shrugged, you could see the action through the covers. “You’re thinking about him a lot.”

“I’m thinking about the pattern of harassment.”

“You called it a pattern.”

“It is a pattern.”

You didn't appreciate the self proclaimed knowing length her voice took. “You also know his class schedule now.”

“Against my will.”

Your roommate smiled faintly. “Sure.”

You threw a sock at her and Lena ducked to dodge it. But she was not wrong, and that was the part you hated.

Steve had become difficult not to think about. 

He sat too close to the center of too many rooms. He laughed with people you disliked and somehow looked embarrassed when they said something cruel. He carried Robin’s bag when she was too busy gesturing to remember she owned hands. He still attended parties, still knew every pretty girl in every hallway, and Steve still wore his reputation with enough ease that you wanted to resent him for it.

Only now, the resentment didn't land right.

You would see him talking to a girl outside the dining hall, her hand resting on his forearm, his head bent to hear her over the wind. Something small and ugly would twist in your stomach before you could reason it away. 

Not jealousy, you told yourself. Not exactly. Awareness. A miserable, humiliating awareness that he could belong anywhere and to anyone, while you were barely willing to admit you looked for him across a room.

That was worse than what liking him entailed.

Liking someone could be sweet in other people. In you, it felt inconvenient and undignified, a defect in judgment. It made you sharper when he came near, because softness had never felt safe unless you could hide it under something else.

So when he invited you to the party, you laughed right in his face.

Steve had expected that, and yet he still asked.

The party was technically a fundraiser, which meant there would be a shoebox near the door for donations and nobody would check whether any money made it to the campus literacy program until Monday. The fraternity house had been decorated with cheap orange lights because someone found them in the basement even though Halloween had passed two weeks ago. By Friday afternoon, half the campus had heard about it. By Friday evening, Steve had already broken up one argument about the keg, told Tommy H. he was not welcome if he planned on starting anything, and watched Robin change her outfit in his room with the panic of someone preparing for trial.

“Too much?” she asked nervously, yanking at the hem of her shirt.

Steve looked up from tying his shoe. He would have teased her if she didn't seem so wrecked in anxiety.  “It’s a shirt.”

“That’s your input?”

“It’s a good shirt!”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know it’s clean.”

Robin groaned and threw herself backward onto his bed. “She’s going to come, right?”

“Your girl?”

“She is not my girl.”

“Your future girl then.”

“I hate you.”

“She might. Her roommate said no.”

Robin sat up. “The scary one?”

Steve laughed at the memory that surfaced,  and then promptly frowned. “She laughed at me.”

“That means she was listening.”

“It means she thinks I’m an idiot.”

“Both can be true.”

Steve leaned back in his chair and tossed a balled pair of his socks at her. She slapped them away without looking at them. 

He had invited you because your roommate wanted to come and because Robin wanted your roommate to come and because, somewhere under all that, Steve wanted to see if you would show up even after saying you wouldn’t.

That was the part he didn't tell Robin.

He also didn't ell her that he had started watching doors at every party. Not in the old way, scanning for who might want him, who might boost his ego, who might make the night easier. He watched for you now. For the reluctant set of your mouth. For your eyes adjusting to the room before you stepped fully inside. For the moment you decided whether to stay.

It was utterly embarrassing.

It was, also, far too late to stop.

When you arrived, you looked unhappy enough to turn around before reaching the porch.

Your roommate had one hand hooked around your wrist, dragging you forward with the bright, determined energy of someone pretending not to be terrified. You wore a fitted top that you kept tugging at near the hem and bottoms that made your movements stiffer than usual. Your hair was done differently. Not dramatically. But enough that Steve noticed the effort and then hated himself for staring.

You looked good.

You also looked miserable.

He pushed off the porch railing and came down the steps.

“You came,” Steve forced his voice not to seem as surprised as his heart felt. 

You looked at him with open distrust. “Don’t sound victorious now.”

He gave a quick, weary chuckle. His hands went to rub at the back of his neck where a splatter of freckles laid.  “I was going for pleasantly surprised.”

“Work harder than.”

Lena gave Steve a quick smile that looked more like a plea. “Is Robin here?”

“Inside,” he quickly gave the information up, nodding his head toward the door. “Near the kitchen earlier. Probably arguing with the tape deck.”

Your roommate inhaled in a way she clearly hoped nobody noticed.

You noticed. Steve noticed. Neither of you said anything.

“I hate both of you,” you muttered.

Lena squeezed your arm once,  “you love me.”

“I’m revising that then.” Then she was gone, pulled inside by music and hope. You stayed at the bottom of the porch steps with Steve above you, the house spilling noise behind him. For a second, he saw you considering escape.

“I can walk you back,” he offered and was surprised at how genuinely he meant it. 

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “I just got here.”

“You look like you want to leave.”

You broke eye contact first. “I always look like that.”

“Not always.”

That caught you off guard and Steve wished he could take it back, not because it was untrue, but because it revealed too much attention he had placed on you.

Your gaze narrowed. “You watching me now, Harrington?”

There it was. Harrington. He should really not have liked it. He did anyway. 

“Hard not to,” Steve chuckled, then immediately wished for head trauma to happen to him.

Your expression changed by one careful degree.

He cleared his throat and stepped aside. “I mean—uh, you’re standing in front of me.”

“Smooth.” It wasn't. 

“Never claimed to be.”

You weren't convinced. “Several girls inside would disagree.”

He followed your glance toward the open door, where a group of girls from the nursing program were laughing near the entryway. One of them waved at him. He lifted a hand back automatically.

When he looked at you again, your face had gone flat.

“You want water?” he asked and his hands flexed restlessly at his side.

The response came sharp. “I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

You keot you eyes dancing over everything except his face for too long. “It’s a party. Water is suspicious.”

His smile came earnest in its amusement. “Water is water.”

“How compelling.” He held the door open anyway. And you went inside without thanking him.

The house was too hot.

That was your first clear thought after the music hit your chest and the smell hit your throat. 

Beer, sweat, cigarette smoke clinging to jackets, drugstore perfume, cheap cologne, and the faint smell of popcorn burning somewhere in the kitchen. The living room furniture had been shoved against the walls, leaving a shifting crowd in the center, bodies packed too close under orange lights that made everyone look flushed and unreal.

You hated it immediately.

Your roommate disappeared before you could remind her she had dragged you there under moral contract. You caught one glimpse of Robin near the kitchen doorway, hair pushed behind one ear, speaking too quickly while Lena smiled down at her cup. Then the crowd closed.

You lasted by giving yourself small tasks.

Stand near the wall.

Hold a cup.

Refuse to dance.

Pretend you did not notice Steve.

That last one failed repeatedly.

He was everywhere because it was his house, his friends, amd ultimately  his scene. He moved through it with a familiarity that made your skin prickle. People touched him when he passed. A slap to the shoulder. A hand around his wrist. A girl leaning close to speak into his ear, mouth brushing too near the side of his face because the music demanded it or because she wanted it to.

Steve smiled. Steve listened. And Steve laughed.

Every time, your stomach tightened with the miserable awareness that nothing about it was yours to resent.

You drank because your hands needed something to do.

The first cup tasted mostly of fruit punch. The second tasted sharper. You did not even remember agreeing to a third, only that some guy with a backward cap had handed it to you after asking what your major was and then interrupting your answer to talk about his band. You drank to avoid speaking. That seemed logical at the time.

The room grew warmer and your clothes grew tighter.

Your hair bothered the back of your neck, then your cheek, and then your mouth. You shoved it away too roughly and nearly spilled your drink on your shoes. Someone bumped your hip. Someone else apologized too late. The orange lights smeared at the edges when you turned your head.

At some point, Lena had found you.

Her cheeks were bright, eyes wide and clearly delighted. “Robin said she liked my earrings!”

Your smile came small but real. “You’ve told me.”

“I did?”

“Twice.”

“What did I say?”

“That she said they were ‘aggressively cool’.”

Your roommate pressed both hands to her face. The warmth she probably felt internally was mirrored on her expression. “What does that mean?”

“It means she panicked.”

“Good panic?”

You could only shrug. “Gay panic.”

She made a sound that might have been a laugh or a prayer. You couldn't tell.

You tried to smile at her and managed something close. She looked happy. Nervous, but happy in that fragile way people were when something they wanted had moved one inch closer.

“You okay?” she asked, her focus sharpening in her hazy state. “You look—”

“Hot,” you supplied her with a nod of your head.

Lena's grin came wide and unapologetic. “You are hot.”

You snorted at her response. “No, I meant temperature.”

“Oh.” She touched your arm. “Do you want to go?”

You looked over her shoulder before a response made its way to your mind.

Steve was by the hall, talking to a girl in a red sweater. She had her hand on his chest, not flat, just two fingers pressing lightly while she said something that made him tilt his head and smile.

Your throat felt strange.

“No,” your voice came out quieter than you'd have liked it to be.

Your roommate followed your gaze and you were sure you looked away too late.

“Oh,” Lena's exhale only made you frown.

“Don’t, seriously.”

“I didn’t.”

You looked at her through your peripheral. “You breathed judgmentally.”

“I breathed normally.”

“Go talk to Robin.”

She hesitated and you only scoffed. And then, you gave her a push, gentler than your tone. “Go. I’m fine.”

You were not fine, but she went because Robin was watching from the kitchen, pretending not to. And becausr, you knew she needed this.

A few minutes later, or maybe twenty, the band guy came back. He said something about fresh air, but he stood too close while saying it. His shoulder boxed you in near the wall, the cup in his hand brushing your wrist. You said no once. He either didn’t hear or decided not to.

Before you could repeat it, Steve was there.

Not dramaticly loud, just annoyingly there. 

He stepped into the gap beside you and put a hand on the guy’s shoulder with enough friendliness to look casual from across the room.

“She’s good,” Steve said with a tone that felt too light for his stance.

The guy frowned at his interjection. “We were talking.”

“And now, you’re not.”

Something passed between them that you were too drunk and tired to read fully. Steve’s smile stayed on his face, but his fingers pressed into the guy’s shoulder until the guy shifted back with an annoyed laugh.

“Whatever, Harrington.” The guy left after.

Steve turned to you and his cove softened. “You okay?”

You hated the question on principle.  Not because it was wrong. But because he sounded sincere.

“Stop doing that,” you frowned up at him, and Steve's smile instantly dropped.

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

“Appearing.” It wasn't a good explanation. 

“I live here.”

“Not an excuse.”

“You want me to get your roommate?”

The response came quick. “No.”

“You want to leave?”

This time it was slower. “No.”

Steve’s mouth pulled to the side, and he tried again. “You want water?”

“No.”

“You’re doing the thing where every answer is no.”

You looked up at him. His face was too close and not close enough. The party moved around his shoulders, loud and blurred, but his attention stayed fixed on you with irritating steadiness.

You wanted to hurt him a little.

Not badly. Just enough to make him step back. Just enough to make yourself safer.

“Don’t you have someone else to rescue?” you asked, glancing toward the girl in red.

Steve’s expression shifted and you immediately felt childish. “What?”

“Never mind.”

His voice came firmer in its confusion. “No, what does that mean?”

“It means your fan club is waiting.”

Steve stared at you with an expression you really hated. You regretted it immediately. Not enough to apologize, but enough to feel the words curdle in your mouth.

Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’re drunk.”

You bit back because the mood brought it out of you. “That’s not an argument.”

“It’s a reason not to have this argument right now.”

Your frowned at the assumption he made, your expression turning displeased in the dim light. “I’m not arguing.”

“You are absolutely arguing.”

Your voice sharpened alongside your glare. “Then you’re losing.”

He looked at you for a second longer, then nodded once, more to himself than to you. “I’m getting you water.”

“I said no.”

“I heard you.” Steve just gave a small exhale and nodded. He left anyway.

That should have made you even angrier; instead, the moment he disappeared into the crowd, the room tipped hard enough that you reached for the wall.

You needed out.

Not outside. Too many people on the porch. Not the bathroom. There was a line and somebody crying behind the door. You moved toward the stairs because they looked darker, quieter, less full of hands and voices. Halfway up, you found a narrow bend where the railing met the wall and the noise softened into a heavy pulse beneath your feet.

You sat down before you could fall down.

The wood stair was cool through your clothes. Somebody’s abandoned coat lay against your ankle. You nudged it away and leaned your shoulder against the wall, breathing through your mouth. Your tongue tasted like sugar and vodka. Your head felt packed with cotton. Below you, the party carried on without noticing your absence, shoes flashing past the bottom of the stairs, laughter climbing and breaking apart before it reached you.

You stared at the banister when your eyes found it a point of focus.

Your hands looked strange under the dim light. Familiar, but distant. One nail chipped on the edge. A faint ink mark near your thumb from an ink pen used earlier. You focused on those details because they stayed still. And you let your mind drift off to static alongside the noise.

Steve came back carrying a bottle of water and found the place by the wall empty.

For one second, irritation flared before fear swallowed it.

He checked the kitchen, the entryway, the downstairs bathroom line. He found Robin by the back door with your roommate, both of them standing close enough to make the air around them feel private. Robin was mid-sentence, hands moving, while your roommate watched her with an expression so open Steve almost backed away without interrupting.

Then your roommate saw his face.

“Where is she?” she asked with alarming alertness for someone so dazed earlier. 

“I was hoping you knew.”

Her expression changed and he knew that must've been the wrong thing ti say because Robin stepped forward. “Steve—”

“I’m looking,” he said quickly, his hand extending. “Stay here. Both of you. I’ll find her.”

Your roommate looked ready to argue, but Robin touched her sleeve and said something quiet.

Steve moved back through the house, scanning corners, couches, doorways. He found you on the stairs after another minute that felt longer than it was. The exhale that left his lips could have readjusted his entire spine with how relieved it was.

You were slumped near the bend, one hand loose on the banister, and head tipped slightly to one side. Your eyes were open but not focused on anything useful. The light above you buzzed faintly, catching the shine in your hair and the tension around your mouth.

Steve slowed.

“Hey,” he greeted being far softer than the music deserved.

Your eyes shifted toward him. It took you a second to register him, your eyes dragged over his face lazily.

“Oh,” you tilted your head further back. “You again.”

Steve crouched one step below you so he would not tower. “Yeah. Me.”

“That keeps happening.”

“I know.” He held up the water, his smile came quieter now on his face. “I brought this.”

Your voice probably was gentler than you must've meant. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Big night for me really.”

Your mouth twitched, but your gaze dropped away before it became anything.

Steve watched you carefully. He had seen drunk people before. Too many, probably. He knew the difference between loud drunk, sick drunk, fine-until-standing drunk, and the kind of quiet drunk that meant someone had gone too far inside their own head. You looked like the last one.

“Do you feel sick?” he asked, leaning besides your form, but careful not to overwhelm you. The responses that returned to him would have frustrated him if they didn't ease the tension in his shoulders.

“Nope.”

“Dizzy?”

“The stairs are annoying.”

“That’s probably yes then, huh.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Also yes.”

He sat down beside you after that, leaving a careful stretch of space between your legs and his. The stairs were narrow, so the distance was not much, but he made it deliberate. You noticed. He knew because your eyes flicked down, then away.

He cracked open the bottle. “Small sip.”

You didn't reach to take it; nonetheless, Steve rested it on the step between you. “No rush.”

The party thudded below. Someone shouted his name from the living room. He ignored it.

Your gaze moved to his hands in their journey.

Steve looked down then too, suddenly aware of them. His fingers were tense around his knees. There was a faint scrape along his knuckle from earlier when he had caught the basement door wrong carrying a keg. He flexed his hand once and stopped when your eyes followed the movement.

“You don’t have to do this anymore,” you broke the silence.  The words were so quiet he almost missed them.

He turned his head toward you. “Do what?”

You gestured to the space between you. “This.”

“Sit on stairs?”

Your laugh came out empty. “Be nice.”

Steve went still.

You kept looking at his hands. Not his face. Never his face.

“It’s fine,” your shoulders shrugged. “You can stop.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” Steve hated that he did.

You swallowed, your throat moving with effort. Your eyes looked bright, but you kept them lowered, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. You seemed embarrassed by your own voice and yet, unable to stop it.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about Robin,” you said quieter now, far quieter than your mind felt. “I told you that.”

Steve’s mouth went dry on reminder.

“I’m not an asshole,” you continued. “Not that kind, anyway.”

His voice came low and strained. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your hand tightened around the banister ridge, your fingers pressing into old varnished wood. “You’ve been following me around for weeks because you think if you’re nice enough, I won’t ruin her life.”

His chest tightened because of the truth of your words, and the incorrectness of it.

Downstairs, the music changed to something faster. People cheered forming a drinking game. The sound rolled up the stairwell and died before reaching the space between you.

Steve rested his elbows on his knees. “At first,” he said, then stopped.

Your face shifted, small and wounded, though you tried to bury it under a crooked smile.

“Yeah, there it is,” you murmured because you couldn't do anything else. 

“I was scared.” the words came out wrong. He heard it as soon as they left his mouth. 

“Good for you.” He took that because he deserved it.

“You messed up,” you repeated,  blankly now,  the noise in your mind turning back to static. “And somehow I got turned into the threat.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” you scoffed out, finally looking at him. “It wasn’t.”

Steve had nothing to say to that.

Your eyes held his for one charged second before you looked away again, back to his hands, the water bottle, and the scuffed edge of his sneaker against the stairs.

“You made it so weird,” you frowned, but you didn't know what it was for. “You were everywhere. Holding doors and bringing scarves and doing that stupid concerned forehead thing.”

He almost touched his forehead. He stopped himself.

“And you’re—” You inhaled unevenly, and then pressed your lips together. “You’re not supposed to be good at it.”

Steve’s voice came quieter now. “At what?”

“Being decent.”

The words should have offended him. They didn’t fully.

He looked down at his knees.

You were drunk and mean and hurting, but you were not wrong in the way he wanted you to be.

“You were supposed to be shallow,” you frowned with your face scrunching up familiarly. “It would’ve been easier.”

Steve’s fingers curled once against his jeans. You watched the movement and averted your gaze when you realized it. 

“That’s what I don’t get,” you continued. “Because everyone looks at you. Everyone already likes you. You don’t even have to try that hard. And then you started trying with me, except it wasn’t real, except sometimes it felt real, and then I felt stupid because I—”

You stopped because you didn't understand why your tongue seemed so intentional on betraying you.

The silence after was worse than the sentence.

Steve barely breathed and you cursed at the reaction. You laughed under your breath, harsh and embarrassed, and rubbed at one eye before anything could fall. “Forget it.”

His voice came quick in its arrival. “No.”

Your head turned slightly.

He lowered his voice as if he was scared of turning the thought away, “don’t forget it.”

“You don’t get to do that.”

“I know.”

You didn't think he did. “You don’t get to make me say things and then look at me like that.”

“What do I look at you like?”

“Like you’re sorry.”

He was.

He was so sorry he could feel it in his teeth.

You leaned back against the wall, exhausted by your own mouth. “This is pointless. You can go back to not knowing I exist. I won’t tell anyone. Robin’s secret is safe. My roommate’s secret is safe. Everybody can stop orbiting everybody.”

Steve looked at you carefully. “Is that what you want?”

Your jaw tightened and you looked away. There was his answer.

Then you settled on, “Robin has a really good chance, by the way.”

He blinked at the turn, but you kept going. 

You stared at the banister with a wry, miserable focus. “Lena kept asking if her earrings were too obvious. Nobody asks that unless they want somebody specific to notice.”

Steve let out a breath that almost became a laugh if he didn't feel his chest become unbearably tight. “Robin’s going to lose her mind.”

“She means a lot to you, huh?”

He softened his voice, and that's how you knew he meant it. “She’s my best friend.”

Your nod came faint. “One could infer.”

“I panicked because it wasn’t my secret to lose.”

You understood that better than you'd let him know. “I know that too.”

“But I treated you like a problem.”

You said nothing after that.

Steve picked up the bottle and held it out, not touching you with it. His voice turned pleading. “Drink some water and I’ll keep apologizing.”

“That’s manipulative.”

“I think that's just hydration.”

You stared at the bottle and after an unnecessarily long debate against yourself, you took it.

Your fingers brushed his, cold and unsteady. You drank one sip, made a face, then drank another.

“Good?” Steve’s question came murmured. 

You shook your head. “No.”

“Better?”

“Shut up, Harrington.”

You held the bottle in your lap with both hands, the plastic crackling softly under your grip. For a while, neither of you said anything. Below, the party kept happening. Somebody dropped something glass in the kitchen, and a chorus of groans followed. A pair of girls walked halfway up the stairs, saw Steve sitting with you, whispered to each other, and went back down.

You noticed and your shoulders tightened on instinct. 

Steve saw it and looked over the railing. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He followed your gaze too late. The girls were already gone.

Your mouth twisted and you kept your eyes to your lap.  “They’ll talk.”

“About what?” You looked at him then with such plain disbelief that he felt stupid.

“Right,” Steve nodded once.

You laughed once, quietly and without humor. “See? That. You don’t even think about it.”

He frowned. “I do.”

“Not the same way.”

“No,” Steve admitted. “Probably not.”

You looked tired suddenly. Not just drunk. Tired in a deeper, older way that had nothing to do with the party.

“I don’t want to be another girl people whisper about because Steve Harrington sat too close to her on a staircase.”

He flinched like you'd slapped him. But you saw it, and something like regret crossed your face. Still, you did not take it back.

“I deserve that,” Steve bit the inside of his cheek and the action had you speaking up.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You were.”

You looked away at the directness of his words, but even blunt he didn't seem harsh.

He let the honesty settle without punishing you for it. That was new for him. In high school, he surely would have gotten defensive. He would have tried to charm his way sideways, make a joke, and find a way to come out looking less guilty. College had not made him wise, but it had given him enough lonely nights to recognize when his pride was the least useful thing in the room.

“I’m not being nice because I think you’ll tell anymore,” your fingers tightened around the bottle when he continued. 

“I was at first,” he admitted and some part of you felt vindicated, and another felt sick at the direct confirmation. “Partly. Not all of it, but enough that I need to say it. I thought if I stayed close, I could tell whether everything was okay. Which was controlling and stupid.”

Steve rubbed his palms over his knees. He felt like a little kid with his sweaty palms and nervous voice. “Then I kept wanting to talk to you.”

You went very still at the confession. 

He should have stopped. You were drunk. He knew better. But the words were not a move, not a confession arranged for the best possible lighting. They came out because he had been holding them in for weeks and the stairwell had become too small for more lies.

“I liked that you didn’t care,” Steve found an absurd part of him smiling as he spoke, which only served to confuse your mind. “About the house, or the parties, or whatever people still say about me from Hawkins High. You just decided I was an idiot from your own evidence.”

You frowned because his smile felt like uncharted territory. “I had plenty.”

“Yeah,” Steve exhaled quietly. “You did.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face with a guardedness that hurt more now because he understood he had helped put it there.

“And then,” he said, softer than before, “I liked that you cared anyway.”

Your face changed.

“Not about me,” he added quickly. The distinction seemed needed for the both of you. “I mean—about your roommate. Robin. Uh–Just people. You act like you don’t, but you do.”

“That’s worse,” you sighed before you could control the escape and Steve looked up at you, waiting for you to continue.

“What is?”

“You noticing.” Steve didn't know what to do with that either.

You turned the water bottle in your hands, gaze dropping again because you couldn't handle it for much longer. “I don’t like being noticed by people who can leave.”

The sentence landed with no drama, so somehow, that only made it worse.

Steve sat beside you, stunned into stillness, while you seemed to realize what you had said. Your face tightened. You pushed the bottle back toward him abruptly.

“I want to go home.”

“Okay.”

He took the bottle and stood carefully. “I’ll get your roommate.”

“No.” You caught his wrist. And when his pulse jumped under your fingers, you let go almost immediately, staring at your hand as though it had betrayed you.

“She’s with Robin,” you murmured quieter than. “Don’t.”

Steve nodded then said, “I can tell her you’re leaving—”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“I won’t ruin it.”

Your words came out strangely light. “You ruin things accidentally.”

He looked at you.

You looked back, and for one second the almost-smile returned, faint and exhausted.

“That’s fair,” he exhaled, and the movement sounded a lot like a strained laugh.

Steve helped you stand without making a show of it. He offered his hand, and when you stared at it for too long, he added quickly, “you can ignore it if you want.”

“I know.” You took it anyway.

The stairs shifted under you. Your balance went sideways before you could pretend otherwise, and Steve’s other hand came up near your elbow without grabbing. You steadied yourself against the wall first, then, reluctantly, against his forearm.

His skin was warm.

You hated that warmth could feel accusing.,

“Okay?” Steve asked you.

You scoffed at the tone. “Don’t be gentle.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“It makes it worse.”

You didn't have to clarify what you meant. And he didn't as you too. He looked at you for a moment, then nodded once. “Okay.”

He didn't stop being gentle, you noticed that. Instead, he only stopped making it obvious.

Getting through the party took extreme concentration. Steve walked ahead, clearing space with small movements: a hand lifted here, a shoulder angled there, and a quiet “move” when politeness failed. People called to him. Someone tried to hand him a drink. A girl touched his sleeve and asked where he was going.

He didn't stop. You acted like you didn't notice.

You followed in the wake he made and tried not to care.

Outside, the cold struck clean through the damp heat on your skin. The porch boards creaked beneath your shoes. The yard was scattered with cups, cigarette butts, and bodies in letterman jackets huddled against the wind. Somewhere down the street, a car radio played too loudly through open windows, all tinny drums and electric guitar.

You sucked in a breath and wrapped your arms around yourself.

Steve noticed and it had you immediately reeling when he took off his jacket.

“I don't want it,” you rejected him with a sharp glare. 

“You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m a complex person then.”

“You’re freezing.” And before you could argue, he placed the jacket around your shoulders without forcing your arms into it. The worn denim lining held his body heat. It smelled faintly of smoke from the party, detergent, and something clean you refused to identify.

You should have shrugged it off, but you didn't have it in you.

Steve, for all his part, did not comment.

That helped more than you'd thought it would.

He walked you back across campus in the cold dark, the two of you quiet beneath the streetlights. The town pressed close beyond the college, all old brick storefronts, empty roads, and houses where porch lights burned yellow behind thin curtains. 

You felt every step in your head.

Steve stayed beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched without his jacket. He didn't try to fill the silence. For someone you had accused of being everywhere, he was surprisingly good at leaving space when he finally understood he should.

That made you angry all over again.

You reached your apartment building too soon.

It was an old converted house divided into student rentals, white paint peeling near the porch, one upstairs window glowing blue from a television left on too late. Your roommate had stuck a crooked paper bat beside the door before Halloween and never taken it down. It trembled in the wind when you climbed the steps.

Steve stopped at the bottom.

You turned back, his jacket still around you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The porch light hummed overhead. Your fingers curled into the jacket collar. He looked cold, hands shoved deeper into his pockets, hair mussed from the wind and the party and the night going wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Steve repeated once more and you looked at the loose board near your shoe.

“You said that.”

“I still am.”

You nodded once. Your head hurt.

“I don’t know what you want me to do tomorrow,” he seemed more vulnerable now. 

That almost made you laugh.

Of course he wanted instructions. A route. Something to fix or follow.

“I don’t know either.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t act like this is something now.”

His face flickered and when you'd replay the scene in a better state, you were certain you'd smack yourself upside the head. “Something?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely between you, then regretted it. “Tonight. Me being drunk and stupid. You saying things.”

Steve frowned before he could reign it in. “I didn’t think you were stupid.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“Okay,” he swallowed, and there was a faint roughness in his voice now. “Then I don’t.”

The concession should have satisfied you. It really didn’t.

You hugged the jacket tighter around yourself, then realized what you were doing and shrugged it off quickly. The cold bit through your sleeves. You held it out to him.

Steve came up one step to take it.

His fingers brushed yours.

Again.

This time you both looked down.

The contact lasted less than a second, but your body reacted with humiliating precision, a small pull in your chest, a flutter you wanted to bury under the porch boards.

You let go first and Steve held the jacket against his side. “I’ll leave you alone.”

You looked up.

His expression was careful, but not empty. He meant it. That was the problem. He would do it if you asked, even if it hurt him, and some reckless part of you had wanted him to fight you just so you could hate him with less effort.

“Good,” you relayed and the word came out entirely too fast. Steve only nodded slowly. The silence after it felt colder than the air.

You put your hand on the doorknob. It stuck, because it always stuck when the weather turned damp. You twisted harder than necessary. It felt fitting. 

Behind you, Steve shifted.

You closed your eyes for half a second. Then you said, without turning around, “Robin really does have a chance.”

His voice was quiet, and evidently strained. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Thank you,” you didn't know why he seemed to have sounded so earnest. 

You opened the door and warm apartment air brushed your face, stale with radiator heat and the lavender candle your roommate always forgot to blow out. The hallway was dark except for the kitchen light left on above the stove.

You should have gone inside. You should have shut the door. And you should have slept this horrible night away. 

Instead, you looked back at him. 

Steve stood on the porch step with his jacket in his hands, the wind lifting his hair off his forehead. He looked younger than his reputation. Less certain. Less untouchable.

“I meant it,” your eyes wanted desperately to break contact, but the moment was delicate enough as is. So, his eyes stayed on yours.

“About not telling,” you added to clarify. 

“I believe you.” The answer came too quickly to be a strategy. Too late to undo the hurt.

You only nodded.

Then you went inside and shut the door between you before either of you could make the night softer than it deserved to be.

For a while, you stood in the hallway with your back against the wood, listening to his footsteps retreat down the porch steps.

You hated that you counted them.

You hated more that when they faded, the apartment felt too quiet.

Lena came home an hour later with Robin’s number written on a gum wrapper and a face full of terrified happiness. She found you sitting on the kitchen floor in your party clothes, drinking tap water from a Garfield mug, shoes kicked off in opposite directions.

“Oh my God,” she whispered when she found you. “Are you alive?”

“Unfortunately.”

She crouched in front of you, smiling until she noticed your eyes. “What happened?”

You stared into the mug.

The water tasted metallic. Your head pulsed. Your throat hurt from all the things you had said and the ones still trapped behind your teeth.

“Steve Harrington is a problem,” you only murmured into the air. Lena’s smile faded into something gentler.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I kind of figured.”

You looked up at her, “don’t start.”

“I didn’t!”

“You’re doing pity eyebrows.”

“These are concern eyebrows.”

You pursued your lips and glared up at her. “Yeah, well—I hate them.”

She sat down on the floor beside you, shoulder bumping yours.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Outside, a car passed slowly, tires hissing over damp pavement. Somewhere in the building, a pipe knocked. The old refrigerator clicked on and hummed beneath the silence.

Your roommate held up the gum wrapper after a while. “Robin gave me her number.”

Despite everything, your mouth softened. “Good.”

“She wrote it badly.”

“She was nervous then.”

You smiled at how her voice seemed excited. “Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

Your roommate smiled down at the wrapper, then tucked it carefully into her pocket. “Do you want to talk about Steve?”

“Not particularly.”

“Okay.”

You leaned your head back against the cabinet and closed your eyes.

After a pause, she turned to you with such quiet and earnest concern that it made the air still, “Do you want me to hate him?”

That almost broke something lightly in you.

You opened your eyes and stared at the ceiling, at the faint water stain above the stove shaped by years of leaks nobody fixed properly.

“No,” you sighed with a smile because you knew she meant well. 

Across campus, Steve returned to the fraternity house and found the party still going, though the energy had shifted into its uglier late-night stage. The music was louder because fewer people were listening. Somebody had broken a lamp. A guy from the baseball team was asleep on the couch with one shoe missing.

Robin was sitting on the front steps, coat wrapped around her knees, smoking a cigarette she barely touched.

Steve stopped beside her and she looked up. “She get home alright?”

He only bobbled his head in an answer. “Yeah.”

Robin studied his face and winced. “That bad?”

He sat down heavily on the step below her. “Bad enough.”

She exhaled smoke away from him. “Did you Steve it?”

He laughed once, but it came out entirely tired and humorless. “Probably.”

Robin’s expression softened. She bumped his shoulder with her knee.

For a while, they sat without speaking. Inside, someone shouted for Steve. He ignored it.

Robin flicked ash onto the porch. “My secret?”

“Safe,” Steve affirmed. 

“She said that?”

“Yeah.”

Robin nodded, but her hand trembled slightly when she lifted the cigarette again. Steve saw it and looked away so she could pretend he hadn’t.

“She told me her roommate likes girls,” he repeated your words quietly. “And that you have a chance.”

Robin went completely still. Then she whispered too calm for how she felt, “Oh.”

Steve looked over his shoulder at her.

Robin’s face had gone pale in the porch light, eyes wide and unfocused. She looked terrified, hopeful, and furious with herself for being both.

“We exchanged numbers,” Robin tried to keep the nervous smile off her face, and it failed. 

Steve’s mouth pulled into the first real smile he had managed in hours. “Yeah?”

“On gum wrappers.”

“That’s romantic in a concerning way.”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Don’t. We’re low on clean bathrooms.”

Robin laughed, then pressed both hands over her face. After a second, her voice came muffled through her fingers.

“What about you?”

Steve looked out at the yard.

The grass was littered with cups. The orange lights blinked crookedly around the porch rail. Beyond the college street, Hawkins sat dark and familiar, keeping all its old stories and making room for new ones nobody knew how to tell yet.

“I told her I’d leave her alone,” he repeated almost dumbly.

Robin lowered her hands, the cigarette flickering slightly. “Did she ask you to?”

Steve rubbed a thumb over the scrape on his knuckle. “Not exactly.”

Robin said nothing, which meant she said everything and he gave her a tired look. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say you’re an idiot.”

“I'm aware.”

“No, I mean specifically here.”

Steve dropped his head back against the porch post and closed his eyes. Robin sighed and the steps creaked when she moved down to sit beside him.

“You can care about someone and still handle it badly,” she paused against her cigarette to turn to him. 

Steve opened one eye to stare at her from his side. “Since when are you emotionally wise?”

“Since I became the only person on this porch not making doomed eyes at someone who scares them.”

He closed his eyes again. “She doesn’t scare me.”

Robin snorted while Steve stayed quiet. After a moment, he exhaled a cloud into the cold air, “She said she doesn’t like being noticed by people who can leave.”

Robin’s humor faded and the cold moved around them.

Steve looked down at his jacket folded in his lap. He could still feel the shape of you in it, the brief warmth left behind, already disappearing into the night air.

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

Robin’s shoulder touched his. “Maybe don’t do anything.”

He looked at her.

“For once,” she added. And that made him laugh, low and reluctant.

Steve sat there until the cigarette burned down between Robin’s fingers and the porch light flickered twice overhead.

——

The next morning, you woke with a headache, a dry mouth, and one miserable shard of memory after another clicking into place.

The stairs.

The water.

Steve’s hands.

I don’t like being noticed by people who can leave.

You shoved your face into your pillow and groaned so loudly your roommate banged on the wall.

Your phone sat on the crate beside your bed.

For twenty minutes, you did not even attempt to touch it.

Then, it rang.

You stared at it until the second ring.

Then, the third.

Lena yelled from the kitchen, “If that’s him, answer it or throw it out the window, but pick a dramatic lane!”

You grabbed the receiver after severe hesitation. “Hello?”

There was a brief crackle of static, then Steve’s voice, rough with sleep or nerves.

“Hey.”

Your stomach dropped so hard you hated him for it.

You sat up slowly, blanket pooling around your waist. Morning light slipped through the blinds in thin stripes, touching the laundry pile near your closet, the glass of water you didn’t remember bringing to bed, the shoes still abandoned by the door.

“Hi,” you repeated, just as flat and weary as everything felt. 

A pause took place against your ear.  Then Steve cleared his throat. “Hey, uh—this is your water reminder.”

You closed your eyes.

Of course.

Of course that was what he chose.

“Toast too?” you asked and your voice was low and blank.

“I was getting there.”

Despite the headache, despite the shame, despite every sharp edge you had prepared, your mouth moved before you could stop it.

You leaned back against the wall, phone cord twisted around your fingers.

On the other end, Steve went quiet, waiting.

You could have told him to leave you alone.

You could have hung up.

You could have made the choice clean and cruel and simple.

Instead, you stared at the morning light on your floor. “I don't like toast that much.”

Steve breathed out, almost laughing.

“Okay,” his static pause could be heard against your ear. “Crackers then?”

You shut your eyes again. The answer sat in your throat for a long moment, refusing to escape. 

“Maybe.”

ᯓ𑣲 taglist... @snoopylover1, @eli0eli0, @kurtsw7rld96, @scoopsahoydjo, @lovelyuser1908, @libelunae, @skkeletonns

You'd heard the stories before you ever had a real reason to look at him.

King Steve, somebody had called him once in the dining hall of freshman orientation, laughing through a mouthful of fries.

You remembered glancing over because the nickname sounded too stupid to be real. He had been standing near the jukebox by the student lounge, one shoulder propped against the wall, and his sleeves pushed up his forearms despite the November chill leaking in through the old windows. 

His hair looked unfairly deliberate. His jeans fit in that careless, expensive way that made it seem accidental. A couple of guys from his fraternity were crowded around him, loud and red-faced, and one girl in a denim skirt was pretending not to watch him from two tables away.

Steve had laughed at something. Not loudly, that was an irritating part. He did not need to be loud. The room moved around him anyway.

You looked away before anyone could notice you noticing.

People like that had always made you tired.

They seemed to pass through the world assuming the door would open; the chair would be saved, the joke would land, the girl would smile, the professor would give them one more day on an assignment because they looked sheepish enough when asking. They didn't always do it maliciously. Sometimes that made it worse. Privilege was more exhausting when it came with good manners.

So you had filed Steve Harrington away under rich boy, frat boy, former high school royalty, and didn't expect to need more categories.

Then he stepped into your path outside the student center on a wet Thursday afternoon and said your roommate’s name.

Not your name.

Hers.

You had been trying to balance a stack of used books against your hip, your canvas bag cutting into your shoulder, your fingers cold from refusing to wear gloves because you always forgot how bitter Hawkins got once October gave up pretending to be pretty. Your roommate Lena walked beside you, chewing gum and complaining about her women’s literature professor, who apparently believed every student had both unlimited free time and a personal relationship with Virginia Woolf.

Steve Harrington appeared in front of you with the unearned confidence of someone who had never had to wonder whether he was welcome.

“Hey,” he greeted vibrantly, his breath faintly visible in the gray air.

Your roommate slowed.

You didn't.

He shifted to block less of the sidewalk, which was the only reason you didn’t run directly into him.

“Is Robin around?” he asked and you stopped then.

Lena blinked beside you wearily at the name.  “Robin Buckley?”

Steve’s mouth twitched upwards and that only made your distrust worsen. “Unless there’s another Robin with a Walkman permanently attached to her body.”

You stared at him blankly in waiting.

Robin Buckley wasn't your friend in any way, but she was your roommate’s current problem. A very specific kind of problem. The kind that made your roommate pretend she had no interest in the campus radio station, then find three excuses a week to pass through the building. 

The kind that made her ask questions that were not questions, such as, “Do you think Robin likes girls?” while staring aggressively into a bowl of cereal at midnight.

Steve Harrington asking about Robin would have been odd enough.

Steve Harrington asking your roommate about Robin, while looking politely casual and not casual at all, was even worse.

“Why?” you asked before she could answer and his eyes cut to you.

They were brown, but not completely dark. You hadn't expected to notice that.

“No reason,” Steve frowned at your immediate hostility. 

“That’s usually what people say when there’s a reason.”

Your roommate made a quiet noise beside you. And Lena had the audacity to sound entertained.

Steve’s smile faltered for half a second, then returned with a small amount of effort. “I just haven’t seen her today.”

“Then maybe she doesn’t want to be seen.”

Steve’s smiled turned slightly confused then. “I’m her friend.”

“And yet, here you are, asking us.”

He glanced at Lena again, then back to you, measuring the situation too late. “Okay. Fair.”

You adjusted the books against your chest. One of them slid down an inch, the corner digging into your ribs. “If Robin wants to talk to you, I’m sure she’ll find you. You’re not exactly hard to locate.”

Beside you, Lena tried to call your name to pull you back but it did little to stop you. Steve’s eyebrows rose, not offended enough. “What does that mean?”

You seriously doubted he needed you to answer that. “It means half the campus knows where your fraternity house is against their will.”

“That’s not my fault—”

“No, I’m sure the giant banner and weekly parties happen without your knowledge.”

His mouth opened to respond and you walked around him before he could answer.

Your roommate followed, though she turned back once. You saw the movement from the corner of your eye and elbowed her.

“Ow,” Lena frowned and rubbed at her side.

You didn't turn to face her as you continued your pace. “Stop encouraging him.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah? Well, you looked amused.”

“I was.”

And before you could scoff at her, behind you got your attention again, you heard Steve called, “It was nice meeting you too!”

You didn't turn around, you just went on with your day.

That really should have been the end of it.

It was not.

——

Steve wasn't trying to make things worse.

That was what he kept telling himself, usually right after making things worse.

Robin had been pacing his room three nights earlier, wearing a hole through the old rug he had stolen from his parents’ basement when he moved into the fraternity house. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent, stale beer from the hallway, and the vanilla candle Robin had bought him because she said his room had “the tragic odor of boy.” He had never lit candles before. Now he lit that one whenever she came over, mostly because she looked smug about it.

“She has a roommate,” Robin seemed to reason with her hand kneading into her hair.

Steve was lying on his bed, tossing a basketball toward the ceiling and catching it before it hit him in the face. Sometimes, he wasn't lucky enough to catch it. Those times hurt his pride more than his face. “Most people do.”

“I mean a close roommate. You know the scary one.”

He laughed at the adjective. “She’s scary?”

Robin gave him a look, “you know, the one who sits with her in the dining hall. Dark sweater, permanently unimpressed, looks like she’d poison a man for using the word sweetheart.”

Steve caught the ball and held it against his chest. He kept his gaze trained upwards for the moment. “That’s specific.”

Robin shrugged. “I observe.”

“You panic-observe, you mean.”

“I’m very good at it.”

Robin liked your roommate. That was obvious to anyone who knew Robin well enough to understand her reverse language of affection. If she mocked someone’s shoes, she hated them. If she mocked someone’s handwriting, she wanted to talk to them again. If she mocked someone’s taste in music while remembering every band they mentioned, she was doomed.

Steve had watched it happen slowly. Robin lighting up whenever your roommate entered the room, then immediately acting annoyed by her own face. Robin talking too fast around her and then later calling herself a social disaster while lying across Steve’s floor with one arm over her eyes. Robin asking, in a voice that tried very hard to be nothing, whether he thought your roommate might be into girls.

He had said he’d find out.

Robin had sat up so fast her knee hit his dresser. “No. Absolutely not.”

Steve looked upset at the clear-cut rejection. “Why not?”

“Because you have no subtlety.”

“I have plenty of subtlety!”

“You once asked Nancy if she was mad at you in front of three people and a salad bar.”

He didn't appreciate reminder, he scowled on memory. “That was high school.”

“That was entirely you.”

He had thrown the basketball at her. She had caught it badly and nearly knocked over his lamp.

Steve knew Robin’s fear was not dramatic. Hawkins had a way of hearing things it was not supposed to hear. This college was technically a different world from Hawkins High, but the same parents funded bake sales, the same church ladies read the local paper, and the same boys who drank too much on Friday nights could turn cruel if given the right secret.

Robin joked because she had to.

Steve tried to help because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

The problem was you.

You saw through him too quickly. Not through the whole thing, thank God, but enough to make every question sound worse coming out of his mouth. You looked at him with that flat, disbelieving stare, and every sentence he prepared fell apart before it reached the air.

He told himself he only noticed you because you were an obstacle.

Then, he noticed you when you were not in the way at all.

You always sat with your back near a wall. In the library, in the dining hall, in the student lounge with the old arcade machine nobody used unless they were drunk. You checked the room before settling anywhere, quick and practiced, and then pretended you hadn’t. You listened more than you spoke, but when you did speak, people either laughed or went quiet because you had said the thing everyone else had been walking around.

You dressed for comfort more than attention, sweaters slipping over your wrists, scuffed shoes, and a coat that had probably survived several winters before this one. You carried yourself with a guardedness that looked effortless until he caught the tiny adjustments: bag pulled closer in crowded hallways, shoulders tightening when loud boys passed too near, and eyes narrowing whenever someone said your roommate’s name with too much interest.

Steve understood protectiveness.

He was just not used to being on the wrong side of it.

By the second week, he had managed to ask your roommate exactly one useful question and you had interrupted three others.

“Do you do this professionally?” Steve asked one afternoon outside the campus bookstore.

You were crouched near the discount bin, flipping through battered paperbacks with yellowed pages. The windows behind you were fogged at the edges from the cold, and the whole place smelled of dust, wet wool, and burnt coffee from the shop next door.

You didn't look up. “Do what?”

“Appear whenever I’m about to have a normal conversation.”

You seriously doubted that assumption. “You’ve never had a normal conversation in your life.”

“That’s harsh.” Steve's brows furrowed together.

“That’s just pattern recognition.”

He crouched on the other side of the bin, partly because standing over you felt rude and partly because he wanted to see what book you were holding. “You know, most people warm up to me eventually.”

You glanced at him then, finally meeting his eyes. “What an awful thing to say out loud.”

Steve laughed before he could stop himself.

You looked back at the books, but he saw your mouth move. Not quite a smile. Something smaller, and more unwilling.

It got him through the rest of the day, which annoyed him.

After that, his plan became less organized. He still asked about Robin. He still tried to gauge whether your roommate looked at her the way Robin looked at your roommate. But more often, he found himself asking you other things instead.

What class had you just come from?

Why did you always buy the coffee if you hated it?

Was that your car with the bumper sticker peeling off?

You answered half of his questions with hostility and the other half with reluctant accuracy.

“Because it’s cheap.”

“Because my professor thinks attendance is a moral virtue.”

“Because my car has character, Harrington.”

You called him Harrington with a dry little bite, never Steve. He pretended not to like it. He pretended badly.

You pretended not to notice that he did.

The mistake happened on a Monday evening when the sky turned dark too early and the sidewalks glistened under weak campus lights.

You had been leaving the library alone, arms full of notes, and scarf loose around your neck. Steve had been waiting near the steps, though he told himself he had only happened to pause there after walking Robin to the radio station. It was a weak lie. He knew it before you saw him.

Your face changed immediately. “No, Harrington.”

Steve lifted both hands and felt an unneededamount of defensivenessrise in him. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You don’t know that!”

“You get a look.”

“I have a look?”

Your look was knowing. “You have several. This is your I’m-about-to-pretend-I’m-not-being-invasive look.”

Steve winced at the description, “that’s a mouthful.”

“It fits.” you could only shrug.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice because people were passing behind you. “I just need to know if your roommate is seeing anybody.”

Your expression flattened, “so there it is.”

Steve didn't know why the defense came quickly off his tongue. “Not for me—”

You stopped with immediate recognition. He knew it the second the words left his mouth.

A small silence opened between you. One student came down the library steps behind him, keys jingling, boots loud on wet concrete. Somewhere, a car door slammed.

Your eyes sharpened amd Steve felt the blood leave his face.

“Not for you,” you repeated the words, though the left your tongue numbly.

He immediately sputtered in a rescue attempt. “Forget I said that.”

“I don’t think I will.”

He rubbed both hands over his face, then dropped them. The tension in his shoulders appeared once more. “Damn it.”

You stared at him, and for once, your suspicion didn't look bored. It looked active, like it was piecing him together while he stood there with nothing useful to say.

Then your eyes changed, he could see the movemeng happen in real time.

Not disgust. Not exactly. Surprise first. Understanding next.

“Oh,” you blinked to yourself and repeated quietly.

The sound hit him wrong. His stomach clenched. Steve immediately felt something stab at his side. 

“Hey, don’t—” 

Your brow creased with immediacy. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked—”

“I looked surprised.”

He swallowed. The air felt too cold going down. Steve could actively feel the situation getting out of his hand. “Yeah, well.”

You shifted the notes in your arms, slower now. Your words came unsure but not enntirely unaware now. “Robin?”

Steve looked past you toward the library doors. His hand randomly through his hair with intensity. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

That stung because it was true. He nodded once, jaw tight. Then Steve’s worry got the best of him. “Are you going to—”

You didn't need to know what he'd ask. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You were going to ask if I’d tell anyone.”

Steve looked at you and your face had closed into something hard again, but it was not the same hardness. This one had a bruise under it.

“I wouldn’t,” you glared openly at him now, the implication of his words hit you in a negative way.

Steve said nothing. It was clear he didn't think you wouldn't. Your mouth pressed into a thin line at his clear suspicion of your motives. “My roommate’s gay.”

He blinked and opened his mouth, but you cut him off before Steve could say anything else.

“She’s not out to everyone,” you added with your voice low and scarf warming your neck. “So don’t shout it out at your house parties, Harrington.”

You looked away before you could see Steve’s frown, then back at him. “Robin has a chance. A good one, probably. My roommate asked me last week if combat boots could be considered flirting.”

Despite himself, Steve almost smiled.

Almost.

You saw it and pointed one finger at him. Already at odds with the whole interaction. “Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not—”

“You are internally.”

“A little.”

Your mouth flattened and your glare returned. “Keep it there then.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Then the larger reality returned, heavy and immediate. Robin’s secret. Your roommate’s secret. His own carelessness.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, you could see where he bit at the inside of his cheek. You studied him long enough that he wanted to shift his weight and didn’t.

“You should be,” you scoffed, not specifying at what. And then you walked away.

For three days, Steve left you alone.

You noticed the absence. 

That was the unsual thing. You noticed before you meant to. You noticed the absence of him in all the places he had made himself inconveniently familiar. No Steve near the coffee cart pretending to decide between black coffee and the same overly sweet thing he always bought. No Steve leaning outside the radio building with Robin, sharing a cigarette neither of them finished. No Steve calling your name across the quad in that tone halfway between apology and annoyance.

You told yourself it was peaceful.

It was.

It should have stayed peaceful.

Then he came back with a new strategy, and somehow the new strategy was worse.

He became nice.

Not charmingly nice. Not flirtatious in the obvious, practiced way you imagined had worked for him since sophomore year of high school. Nice. Quietly, specifically, persistently nice.

When some drunk guy from his fraternity spilled beer near your shoes at a campus movie night, Steve appeared with napkins before you had fully processed the wet splash on the floor.

When your roommate got sick during midterms, he left a paper bag outside your apartment door with cough drops, soup cans, and a note in blocky handwriting that said, ROBIN SAID THIS BRAND DOESN’T TASTE LIKE WET CARDBOARD. FEEL BETTER.

When you forgot your scarf in the student lounge, he brought it to you outside your evening lecture and held it out without comment.

You took it slowly qith clear distrust resting in your expression. “Why do you have this?”

Steve attempted to shrug casually. He failed. “You left it.”

“And you recognized it?”

“You wear it a lot.”

Your face scrunched up before you could help it. “That’s unsettling.”

Steve looked down the hallway, and then back at you. “It’s red.”

“A lot of scarves are red.”

“Yours has a burn mark near the end.” You glanced down despite yourself.

It did. From a diner ashtray last winter.

You looked back at him, with your judgement still clear as day.. “Still unsettling.”

“Noted.”

You waited for him to make a joke, to ask something about Robin, to ruin the tiny exchange enough that you could return to hating him cleanly.

He only nodded and stepped back. “See you around.”

The scarf was warm from his hand when you put it on.

That night, you told your roommate Steve Harrington was acting weird.

Lena, who was pale and miserable under three blankets, opened one eye. “Maybe he’s being nice.”

Your voice was dry in its sarcasm.  “Yeah, right.”

Her voice came strained under the covers. “That’s a possibility.”

“It’s damage control.”

“Or guilt.”

“That’s damage control with better manners.” She coughed, then gave you a tired, knowing look that made you immediately regret the conversation.

“What?” you asked with a sharpness in your tone.

Lena only shrugged, you could see the action through the covers. “You’re thinking about him a lot.”

“I’m thinking about the pattern of harassment.”

“You called it a pattern.”

“It is a pattern.”

You didn't appreciate the self proclaimed knowing length her voice took. “You also know his class schedule now.”

“Against my will.”

Your roommate smiled faintly. “Sure.”

You threw a sock at her and Lena ducked to dodge it. But she was not wrong, and that was the part you hated.

Steve had become difficult not to think about. 

He sat too close to the center of too many rooms. He laughed with people you disliked and somehow looked embarrassed when they said something cruel. He carried Robin’s bag when she was too busy gesturing to remember she owned hands. He still attended parties, still knew every pretty girl in every hallway, and Steve still wore his reputation with enough ease that you wanted to resent him for it.

Only now, the resentment didn't land right.

You would see him talking to a girl outside the dining hall, her hand resting on his forearm, his head bent to hear her over the wind. Something small and ugly would twist in your stomach before you could reason it away. 

Not jealousy, you told yourself. Not exactly. Awareness. A miserable, humiliating awareness that he could belong anywhere and to anyone, while you were barely willing to admit you looked for him across a room.

That was worse than what liking him entailed.

Liking someone could be sweet in other people. In you, it felt inconvenient and undignified, a defect in judgment. It made you sharper when he came near, because softness had never felt safe unless you could hide it under something else.

So when he invited you to the party, you laughed right in his face.

Steve had expected that, and yet he still asked.

The party was technically a fundraiser, which meant there would be a shoebox near the door for donations and nobody would check whether any money made it to the campus literacy program until Monday. The fraternity house had been decorated with cheap orange lights because someone found them in the basement even though Halloween had passed two weeks ago. By Friday afternoon, half the campus had heard about it. By Friday evening, Steve had already broken up one argument about the keg, told Tommy H. he was not welcome if he planned on starting anything, and watched Robin change her outfit in his room with the panic of someone preparing for trial.

“Too much?” she asked nervously, yanking at the hem of her shirt.

Steve looked up from tying his shoe. He would have teased her if she didn't seem so wrecked in anxiety.  “It’s a shirt.”

“That’s your input?”

“It’s a good shirt!”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know it’s clean.”

Robin groaned and threw herself backward onto his bed. “She’s going to come, right?”

“Your girl?”

“She is not my girl.”

“Your future girl then.”

“I hate you.”

“She might. Her roommate said no.”

Robin sat up. “The scary one?”

Steve laughed at the memory that surfaced,  and then promptly frowned. “She laughed at me.”

“That means she was listening.”

“It means she thinks I’m an idiot.”

“Both can be true.”

Steve leaned back in his chair and tossed a balled pair of his socks at her. She slapped them away without looking at them. 

He had invited you because your roommate wanted to come and because Robin wanted your roommate to come and because, somewhere under all that, Steve wanted to see if you would show up even after saying you wouldn’t.

That was the part he didn't tell Robin.

He also didn't ell her that he had started watching doors at every party. Not in the old way, scanning for who might want him, who might boost his ego, who might make the night easier. He watched for you now. For the reluctant set of your mouth. For your eyes adjusting to the room before you stepped fully inside. For the moment you decided whether to stay.

It was utterly embarrassing.

It was, also, far too late to stop.

When you arrived, you looked unhappy enough to turn around before reaching the porch.

Your roommate had one hand hooked around your wrist, dragging you forward with the bright, determined energy of someone pretending not to be terrified. You wore a fitted top that you kept tugging at near the hem and bottoms that made your movements stiffer than usual. Your hair was done differently. Not dramatically. But enough that Steve noticed the effort and then hated himself for staring.

You looked good.

You also looked miserable.

He pushed off the porch railing and came down the steps.

“You came,” Steve forced his voice not to seem as surprised as his heart felt. 

You looked at him with open distrust. “Don’t sound victorious now.”

He gave a quick, weary chuckle. His hands went to rub at the back of his neck where a splatter of freckles laid.  “I was going for pleasantly surprised.”

“Work harder than.”

Lena gave Steve a quick smile that looked more like a plea. “Is Robin here?”

“Inside,” he quickly gave the information up, nodding his head toward the door. “Near the kitchen earlier. Probably arguing with the tape deck.”

Your roommate inhaled in a way she clearly hoped nobody noticed.

You noticed. Steve noticed. Neither of you said anything.

“I hate both of you,” you muttered.

Lena squeezed your arm once,  “you love me.”

“I’m revising that then.” Then she was gone, pulled inside by music and hope. You stayed at the bottom of the porch steps with Steve above you, the house spilling noise behind him. For a second, he saw you considering escape.

“I can walk you back,” he offered and was surprised at how genuinely he meant it. 

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “I just got here.”

“You look like you want to leave.”

You broke eye contact first. “I always look like that.”

“Not always.”

That caught you off guard and Steve wished he could take it back, not because it was untrue, but because it revealed too much attention he had placed on you.

Your gaze narrowed. “You watching me now, Harrington?”

There it was. Harrington. He should really not have liked it. He did anyway. 

“Hard not to,” Steve chuckled, then immediately wished for head trauma to happen to him.

Your expression changed by one careful degree.

He cleared his throat and stepped aside. “I mean—uh, you’re standing in front of me.”

“Smooth.” It wasn't. 

“Never claimed to be.”

You weren't convinced. “Several girls inside would disagree.”

He followed your glance toward the open door, where a group of girls from the nursing program were laughing near the entryway. One of them waved at him. He lifted a hand back automatically.

When he looked at you again, your face had gone flat.

“You want water?” he asked and his hands flexed restlessly at his side.

The response came sharp. “I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

You keot you eyes dancing over everything except his face for too long. “It’s a party. Water is suspicious.”

His smile came earnest in its amusement. “Water is water.”

“How compelling.” He held the door open anyway. And you went inside without thanking him.

The house was too hot.

That was your first clear thought after the music hit your chest and the smell hit your throat. 

Beer, sweat, cigarette smoke clinging to jackets, drugstore perfume, cheap cologne, and the faint smell of popcorn burning somewhere in the kitchen. The living room furniture had been shoved against the walls, leaving a shifting crowd in the center, bodies packed too close under orange lights that made everyone look flushed and unreal.

You hated it immediately.

Your roommate disappeared before you could remind her she had dragged you there under moral contract. You caught one glimpse of Robin near the kitchen doorway, hair pushed behind one ear, speaking too quickly while Lena smiled down at her cup. Then the crowd closed.

You lasted by giving yourself small tasks.

Stand near the wall.

Hold a cup.

Refuse to dance.

Pretend you did not notice Steve.

That last one failed repeatedly.

He was everywhere because it was his house, his friends, amd ultimately  his scene. He moved through it with a familiarity that made your skin prickle. People touched him when he passed. A slap to the shoulder. A hand around his wrist. A girl leaning close to speak into his ear, mouth brushing too near the side of his face because the music demanded it or because she wanted it to.

Steve smiled. Steve listened. And Steve laughed.

Every time, your stomach tightened with the miserable awareness that nothing about it was yours to resent.

You drank because your hands needed something to do.

The first cup tasted mostly of fruit punch. The second tasted sharper. You did not even remember agreeing to a third, only that some guy with a backward cap had handed it to you after asking what your major was and then interrupting your answer to talk about his band. You drank to avoid speaking. That seemed logical at the time.

The room grew warmer and your clothes grew tighter.

Your hair bothered the back of your neck, then your cheek, and then your mouth. You shoved it away too roughly and nearly spilled your drink on your shoes. Someone bumped your hip. Someone else apologized too late. The orange lights smeared at the edges when you turned your head.

At some point, Lena had found you.

Her cheeks were bright, eyes wide and clearly delighted. “Robin said she liked my earrings!”

Your smile came small but real. “You’ve told me.”

“I did?”

“Twice.”

“What did I say?”

“That she said they were ‘aggressively cool’.”

Your roommate pressed both hands to her face. The warmth she probably felt internally was mirrored on her expression. “What does that mean?”

“It means she panicked.”

“Good panic?”

You could only shrug. “Gay panic.”

She made a sound that might have been a laugh or a prayer. You couldn't tell.

You tried to smile at her and managed something close. She looked happy. Nervous, but happy in that fragile way people were when something they wanted had moved one inch closer.

“You okay?” she asked, her focus sharpening in her hazy state. “You look—”

“Hot,” you supplied her with a nod of your head.

Lena's grin came wide and unapologetic. “You are hot.”

You snorted at her response. “No, I meant temperature.”

“Oh.” She touched your arm. “Do you want to go?”

You looked over her shoulder before a response made its way to your mind.

Steve was by the hall, talking to a girl in a red sweater. She had her hand on his chest, not flat, just two fingers pressing lightly while she said something that made him tilt his head and smile.

Your throat felt strange.

“No,” your voice came out quieter than you'd have liked it to be.

Your roommate followed your gaze and you were sure you looked away too late.

“Oh,” Lena's exhale only made you frown.

“Don’t, seriously.”

“I didn’t.”

You looked at her through your peripheral. “You breathed judgmentally.”

“I breathed normally.”

“Go talk to Robin.”

She hesitated and you only scoffed. And then, you gave her a push, gentler than your tone. “Go. I’m fine.”

You were not fine, but she went because Robin was watching from the kitchen, pretending not to. And becausr, you knew she needed this.

A few minutes later, or maybe twenty, the band guy came back. He said something about fresh air, but he stood too close while saying it. His shoulder boxed you in near the wall, the cup in his hand brushing your wrist. You said no once. He either didn’t hear or decided not to.

Before you could repeat it, Steve was there.

Not dramaticly loud, just annoyingly there. 

He stepped into the gap beside you and put a hand on the guy’s shoulder with enough friendliness to look casual from across the room.

“She’s good,” Steve said with a tone that felt too light for his stance.

The guy frowned at his interjection. “We were talking.”

“And now, you’re not.”

Something passed between them that you were too drunk and tired to read fully. Steve’s smile stayed on his face, but his fingers pressed into the guy’s shoulder until the guy shifted back with an annoyed laugh.

“Whatever, Harrington.” The guy left after.

Steve turned to you and his cove softened. “You okay?”

You hated the question on principle.  Not because it was wrong. But because he sounded sincere.

“Stop doing that,” you frowned up at him, and Steve's smile instantly dropped.

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

“Appearing.” It wasn't a good explanation. 

“I live here.”

“Not an excuse.”

“You want me to get your roommate?”

The response came quick. “No.”

“You want to leave?”

This time it was slower. “No.”

Steve’s mouth pulled to the side, and he tried again. “You want water?”

“No.”

“You’re doing the thing where every answer is no.”

You looked up at him. His face was too close and not close enough. The party moved around his shoulders, loud and blurred, but his attention stayed fixed on you with irritating steadiness.

You wanted to hurt him a little.

Not badly. Just enough to make him step back. Just enough to make yourself safer.

“Don’t you have someone else to rescue?” you asked, glancing toward the girl in red.

Steve’s expression shifted and you immediately felt childish. “What?”

“Never mind.”

His voice came firmer in its confusion. “No, what does that mean?”

“It means your fan club is waiting.”

Steve stared at you with an expression you really hated. You regretted it immediately. Not enough to apologize, but enough to feel the words curdle in your mouth.

Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’re drunk.”

You bit back because the mood brought it out of you. “That’s not an argument.”

“It’s a reason not to have this argument right now.”

Your frowned at the assumption he made, your expression turning displeased in the dim light. “I’m not arguing.”

“You are absolutely arguing.”

Your voice sharpened alongside your glare. “Then you’re losing.”

He looked at you for a second longer, then nodded once, more to himself than to you. “I’m getting you water.”

“I said no.”

“I heard you.” Steve just gave a small exhale and nodded. He left anyway.

That should have made you even angrier; instead, the moment he disappeared into the crowd, the room tipped hard enough that you reached for the wall.

You needed out.

Not outside. Too many people on the porch. Not the bathroom. There was a line and somebody crying behind the door. You moved toward the stairs because they looked darker, quieter, less full of hands and voices. Halfway up, you found a narrow bend where the railing met the wall and the noise softened into a heavy pulse beneath your feet.

You sat down before you could fall down.

The wood stair was cool through your clothes. Somebody’s abandoned coat lay against your ankle. You nudged it away and leaned your shoulder against the wall, breathing through your mouth. Your tongue tasted like sugar and vodka. Your head felt packed with cotton. Below you, the party carried on without noticing your absence, shoes flashing past the bottom of the stairs, laughter climbing and breaking apart before it reached you.

You stared at the banister when your eyes found it a point of focus.

Your hands looked strange under the dim light. Familiar, but distant. One nail chipped on the edge. A faint ink mark near your thumb from an ink pen used earlier. You focused on those details because they stayed still. And you let your mind drift off to static alongside the noise.

Steve came back carrying a bottle of water and found the place by the wall empty.

For one second, irritation flared before fear swallowed it.

He checked the kitchen, the entryway, the downstairs bathroom line. He found Robin by the back door with your roommate, both of them standing close enough to make the air around them feel private. Robin was mid-sentence, hands moving, while your roommate watched her with an expression so open Steve almost backed away without interrupting.

Then your roommate saw his face.

“Where is she?” she asked with alarming alertness for someone so dazed earlier. 

“I was hoping you knew.”

Her expression changed and he knew that must've been the wrong thing ti say because Robin stepped forward. “Steve—”

“I’m looking,” he said quickly, his hand extending. “Stay here. Both of you. I’ll find her.”

Your roommate looked ready to argue, but Robin touched her sleeve and said something quiet.

Steve moved back through the house, scanning corners, couches, doorways. He found you on the stairs after another minute that felt longer than it was. The exhale that left his lips could have readjusted his entire spine with how relieved it was.

You were slumped near the bend, one hand loose on the banister, and head tipped slightly to one side. Your eyes were open but not focused on anything useful. The light above you buzzed faintly, catching the shine in your hair and the tension around your mouth.

Steve slowed.

“Hey,” he greeted being far softer than the music deserved.

Your eyes shifted toward him. It took you a second to register him, your eyes dragged over his face lazily.

“Oh,” you tilted your head further back. “You again.”

Steve crouched one step below you so he would not tower. “Yeah. Me.”

“That keeps happening.”

“I know.” He held up the water, his smile came quieter now on his face. “I brought this.”

Your voice probably was gentler than you must've meant. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Big night for me really.”

Your mouth twitched, but your gaze dropped away before it became anything.

Steve watched you carefully. He had seen drunk people before. Too many, probably. He knew the difference between loud drunk, sick drunk, fine-until-standing drunk, and the kind of quiet drunk that meant someone had gone too far inside their own head. You looked like the last one.

“Do you feel sick?” he asked, leaning besides your form, but careful not to overwhelm you. The responses that returned to him would have frustrated him if they didn't ease the tension in his shoulders.

“Nope.”

“Dizzy?”

“The stairs are annoying.”

“That’s probably yes then, huh.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Also yes.”

He sat down beside you after that, leaving a careful stretch of space between your legs and his. The stairs were narrow, so the distance was not much, but he made it deliberate. You noticed. He knew because your eyes flicked down, then away.

He cracked open the bottle. “Small sip.”

You didn't reach to take it; nonetheless, Steve rested it on the step between you. “No rush.”

The party thudded below. Someone shouted his name from the living room. He ignored it.

Your gaze moved to his hands in their journey.

Steve looked down then too, suddenly aware of them. His fingers were tense around his knees. There was a faint scrape along his knuckle from earlier when he had caught the basement door wrong carrying a keg. He flexed his hand once and stopped when your eyes followed the movement.

“You don’t have to do this anymore,” you broke the silence.  The words were so quiet he almost missed them.

He turned his head toward you. “Do what?”

You gestured to the space between you. “This.”

“Sit on stairs?”

Your laugh came out empty. “Be nice.”

Steve went still.

You kept looking at his hands. Not his face. Never his face.

“It’s fine,” your shoulders shrugged. “You can stop.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” Steve hated that he did.

You swallowed, your throat moving with effort. Your eyes looked bright, but you kept them lowered, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. You seemed embarrassed by your own voice and yet, unable to stop it.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about Robin,” you said quieter now, far quieter than your mind felt. “I told you that.”

Steve’s mouth went dry on reminder.

“I’m not an asshole,” you continued. “Not that kind, anyway.”

His voice came low and strained. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your hand tightened around the banister ridge, your fingers pressing into old varnished wood. “You’ve been following me around for weeks because you think if you’re nice enough, I won’t ruin her life.”

His chest tightened because of the truth of your words, and the incorrectness of it.

Downstairs, the music changed to something faster. People cheered forming a drinking game. The sound rolled up the stairwell and died before reaching the space between you.

Steve rested his elbows on his knees. “At first,” he said, then stopped.

Your face shifted, small and wounded, though you tried to bury it under a crooked smile.

“Yeah, there it is,” you murmured because you couldn't do anything else. 

“I was scared.” the words came out wrong. He heard it as soon as they left his mouth. 

“Good for you.” He took that because he deserved it.

“You messed up,” you repeated,  blankly now,  the noise in your mind turning back to static. “And somehow I got turned into the threat.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” you scoffed out, finally looking at him. “It wasn’t.”

Steve had nothing to say to that.

Your eyes held his for one charged second before you looked away again, back to his hands, the water bottle, and the scuffed edge of his sneaker against the stairs.

“You made it so weird,” you frowned, but you didn't know what it was for. “You were everywhere. Holding doors and bringing scarves and doing that stupid concerned forehead thing.”

He almost touched his forehead. He stopped himself.

“And you’re—” You inhaled unevenly, and then pressed your lips together. “You’re not supposed to be good at it.”

Steve’s voice came quieter now. “At what?”

“Being decent.”

The words should have offended him. They didn’t fully.

He looked down at his knees.

You were drunk and mean and hurting, but you were not wrong in the way he wanted you to be.

“You were supposed to be shallow,” you frowned with your face scrunching up familiarly. “It would’ve been easier.”

Steve’s fingers curled once against his jeans. You watched the movement and averted your gaze when you realized it. 

“That’s what I don’t get,” you continued. “Because everyone looks at you. Everyone already likes you. You don’t even have to try that hard. And then you started trying with me, except it wasn’t real, except sometimes it felt real, and then I felt stupid because I—”

You stopped because you didn't understand why your tongue seemed so intentional on betraying you.

The silence after was worse than the sentence.

Steve barely breathed and you cursed at the reaction. You laughed under your breath, harsh and embarrassed, and rubbed at one eye before anything could fall. “Forget it.”

His voice came quick in its arrival. “No.”

Your head turned slightly.

He lowered his voice as if he was scared of turning the thought away, “don’t forget it.”

“You don’t get to do that.”

“I know.”

You didn't think he did. “You don’t get to make me say things and then look at me like that.”

“What do I look at you like?”

“Like you’re sorry.”

He was.

He was so sorry he could feel it in his teeth.

You leaned back against the wall, exhausted by your own mouth. “This is pointless. You can go back to not knowing I exist. I won’t tell anyone. Robin’s secret is safe. My roommate’s secret is safe. Everybody can stop orbiting everybody.”

Steve looked at you carefully. “Is that what you want?”

Your jaw tightened and you looked away. There was his answer.

Then you settled on, “Robin has a really good chance, by the way.”

He blinked at the turn, but you kept going. 

You stared at the banister with a wry, miserable focus. “Lena kept asking if her earrings were too obvious. Nobody asks that unless they want somebody specific to notice.”

Steve let out a breath that almost became a laugh if he didn't feel his chest become unbearably tight. “Robin’s going to lose her mind.”

“She means a lot to you, huh?”

He softened his voice, and that's how you knew he meant it. “She’s my best friend.”

Your nod came faint. “One could infer.”

“I panicked because it wasn’t my secret to lose.”

You understood that better than you'd let him know. “I know that too.”

“But I treated you like a problem.”

You said nothing after that.

Steve picked up the bottle and held it out, not touching you with it. His voice turned pleading. “Drink some water and I’ll keep apologizing.”

“That’s manipulative.”

“I think that's just hydration.”

You stared at the bottle and after an unnecessarily long debate against yourself, you took it.

Your fingers brushed his, cold and unsteady. You drank one sip, made a face, then drank another.

“Good?” Steve’s question came murmured. 

You shook your head. “No.”

“Better?”

“Shut up, Harrington.”

You held the bottle in your lap with both hands, the plastic crackling softly under your grip. For a while, neither of you said anything. Below, the party kept happening. Somebody dropped something glass in the kitchen, and a chorus of groans followed. A pair of girls walked halfway up the stairs, saw Steve sitting with you, whispered to each other, and went back down.

You noticed and your shoulders tightened on instinct. 

Steve saw it and looked over the railing. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He followed your gaze too late. The girls were already gone.

Your mouth twisted and you kept your eyes to your lap.  “They’ll talk.”

“About what?” You looked at him then with such plain disbelief that he felt stupid.

“Right,” Steve nodded once.

You laughed once, quietly and without humor. “See? That. You don’t even think about it.”

He frowned. “I do.”

“Not the same way.”

“No,” Steve admitted. “Probably not.”

You looked tired suddenly. Not just drunk. Tired in a deeper, older way that had nothing to do with the party.

“I don’t want to be another girl people whisper about because Steve Harrington sat too close to her on a staircase.”

He flinched like you'd slapped him. But you saw it, and something like regret crossed your face. Still, you did not take it back.

“I deserve that,” Steve bit the inside of his cheek and the action had you speaking up.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You were.”

You looked away at the directness of his words, but even blunt he didn't seem harsh.

He let the honesty settle without punishing you for it. That was new for him. In high school, he surely would have gotten defensive. He would have tried to charm his way sideways, make a joke, and find a way to come out looking less guilty. College had not made him wise, but it had given him enough lonely nights to recognize when his pride was the least useful thing in the room.

“I’m not being nice because I think you’ll tell anymore,” your fingers tightened around the bottle when he continued. 

“I was at first,” he admitted and some part of you felt vindicated, and another felt sick at the direct confirmation. “Partly. Not all of it, but enough that I need to say it. I thought if I stayed close, I could tell whether everything was okay. Which was controlling and stupid.”

Steve rubbed his palms over his knees. He felt like a little kid with his sweaty palms and nervous voice. “Then I kept wanting to talk to you.”

You went very still at the confession. 

He should have stopped. You were drunk. He knew better. But the words were not a move, not a confession arranged for the best possible lighting. They came out because he had been holding them in for weeks and the stairwell had become too small for more lies.

“I liked that you didn’t care,” Steve found an absurd part of him smiling as he spoke, which only served to confuse your mind. “About the house, or the parties, or whatever people still say about me from Hawkins High. You just decided I was an idiot from your own evidence.”

You frowned because his smile felt like uncharted territory. “I had plenty.”

“Yeah,” Steve exhaled quietly. “You did.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face with a guardedness that hurt more now because he understood he had helped put it there.

“And then,” he said, softer than before, “I liked that you cared anyway.”

Your face changed.

“Not about me,” he added quickly. The distinction seemed needed for the both of you. “I mean—about your roommate. Robin. Uh–Just people. You act like you don’t, but you do.”

“That’s worse,” you sighed before you could control the escape and Steve looked up at you, waiting for you to continue.

“What is?”

“You noticing.” Steve didn't know what to do with that either.

You turned the water bottle in your hands, gaze dropping again because you couldn't handle it for much longer. “I don’t like being noticed by people who can leave.”

The sentence landed with no drama, so somehow, that only made it worse.

Steve sat beside you, stunned into stillness, while you seemed to realize what you had said. Your face tightened. You pushed the bottle back toward him abruptly.

“I want to go home.”

“Okay.”

He took the bottle and stood carefully. “I’ll get your roommate.”

“No.” You caught his wrist. And when his pulse jumped under your fingers, you let go almost immediately, staring at your hand as though it had betrayed you.

“She’s with Robin,” you murmured quieter than. “Don’t.”

Steve nodded then said, “I can tell her you’re leaving—”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“I won’t ruin it.”

Your words came out strangely light. “You ruin things accidentally.”

He looked at you.

You looked back, and for one second the almost-smile returned, faint and exhausted.

“That’s fair,” he exhaled, and the movement sounded a lot like a strained laugh.

Steve helped you stand without making a show of it. He offered his hand, and when you stared at it for too long, he added quickly, “you can ignore it if you want.”

“I know.” You took it anyway.

The stairs shifted under you. Your balance went sideways before you could pretend otherwise, and Steve’s other hand came up near your elbow without grabbing. You steadied yourself against the wall first, then, reluctantly, against his forearm.

His skin was warm.

You hated that warmth could feel accusing.,

“Okay?” Steve asked you.

You scoffed at the tone. “Don’t be gentle.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“It makes it worse.”

You didn't have to clarify what you meant. And he didn't as you too. He looked at you for a moment, then nodded once. “Okay.”

He didn't stop being gentle, you noticed that. Instead, he only stopped making it obvious.

Getting through the party took extreme concentration. Steve walked ahead, clearing space with small movements: a hand lifted here, a shoulder angled there, and a quiet “move” when politeness failed. People called to him. Someone tried to hand him a drink. A girl touched his sleeve and asked where he was going.

He didn't stop. You acted like you didn't notice.

You followed in the wake he made and tried not to care.

Outside, the cold struck clean through the damp heat on your skin. The porch boards creaked beneath your shoes. The yard was scattered with cups, cigarette butts, and bodies in letterman jackets huddled against the wind. Somewhere down the street, a car radio played too loudly through open windows, all tinny drums and electric guitar.

You sucked in a breath and wrapped your arms around yourself.

Steve noticed and it had you immediately reeling when he took off his jacket.

“I don't want it,” you rejected him with a sharp glare. 

“You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m a complex person then.”

“You’re freezing.” And before you could argue, he placed the jacket around your shoulders without forcing your arms into it. The worn denim lining held his body heat. It smelled faintly of smoke from the party, detergent, and something clean you refused to identify.

You should have shrugged it off, but you didn't have it in you.

Steve, for all his part, did not comment.

That helped more than you'd thought it would.

He walked you back across campus in the cold dark, the two of you quiet beneath the streetlights. The town pressed close beyond the college, all old brick storefronts, empty roads, and houses where porch lights burned yellow behind thin curtains. 

You felt every step in your head.

Steve stayed beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched without his jacket. He didn't try to fill the silence. For someone you had accused of being everywhere, he was surprisingly good at leaving space when he finally understood he should.

That made you angry all over again.

You reached your apartment building too soon.

It was an old converted house divided into student rentals, white paint peeling near the porch, one upstairs window glowing blue from a television left on too late. Your roommate had stuck a crooked paper bat beside the door before Halloween and never taken it down. It trembled in the wind when you climbed the steps.

Steve stopped at the bottom.

You turned back, his jacket still around you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The porch light hummed overhead. Your fingers curled into the jacket collar. He looked cold, hands shoved deeper into his pockets, hair mussed from the wind and the party and the night going wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Steve repeated once more and you looked at the loose board near your shoe.

“You said that.”

“I still am.”

You nodded once. Your head hurt.

“I don’t know what you want me to do tomorrow,” he seemed more vulnerable now. 

That almost made you laugh.

Of course he wanted instructions. A route. Something to fix or follow.

“I don’t know either.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t act like this is something now.”

His face flickered and when you'd replay the scene in a better state, you were certain you'd smack yourself upside the head. “Something?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely between you, then regretted it. “Tonight. Me being drunk and stupid. You saying things.”

Steve frowned before he could reign it in. “I didn’t think you were stupid.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“Okay,” he swallowed, and there was a faint roughness in his voice now. “Then I don’t.”

The concession should have satisfied you. It really didn’t.

You hugged the jacket tighter around yourself, then realized what you were doing and shrugged it off quickly. The cold bit through your sleeves. You held it out to him.

Steve came up one step to take it.

His fingers brushed yours.

Again.

This time you both looked down.

The contact lasted less than a second, but your body reacted with humiliating precision, a small pull in your chest, a flutter you wanted to bury under the porch boards.

You let go first and Steve held the jacket against his side. “I’ll leave you alone.”

You looked up.

His expression was careful, but not empty. He meant it. That was the problem. He would do it if you asked, even if it hurt him, and some reckless part of you had wanted him to fight you just so you could hate him with less effort.

“Good,” you relayed and the word came out entirely too fast. Steve only nodded slowly. The silence after it felt colder than the air.

You put your hand on the doorknob. It stuck, because it always stuck when the weather turned damp. You twisted harder than necessary. It felt fitting. 

Behind you, Steve shifted.

You closed your eyes for half a second. Then you said, without turning around, “Robin really does have a chance.”

His voice was quiet, and evidently strained. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Thank you,” you didn't know why he seemed to have sounded so earnest. 

You opened the door and warm apartment air brushed your face, stale with radiator heat and the lavender candle your roommate always forgot to blow out. The hallway was dark except for the kitchen light left on above the stove.

You should have gone inside. You should have shut the door. And you should have slept this horrible night away. 

Instead, you looked back at him. 

Steve stood on the porch step with his jacket in his hands, the wind lifting his hair off his forehead. He looked younger than his reputation. Less certain. Less untouchable.

“I meant it,” your eyes wanted desperately to break contact, but the moment was delicate enough as is. So, his eyes stayed on yours.

“About not telling,” you added to clarify. 

“I believe you.” The answer came too quickly to be a strategy. Too late to undo the hurt.

You only nodded.

Then you went inside and shut the door between you before either of you could make the night softer than it deserved to be.

For a while, you stood in the hallway with your back against the wood, listening to his footsteps retreat down the porch steps.

You hated that you counted them.

You hated more that when they faded, the apartment felt too quiet.

Lena came home an hour later with Robin’s number written on a gum wrapper and a face full of terrified happiness. She found you sitting on the kitchen floor in your party clothes, drinking tap water from a Garfield mug, shoes kicked off in opposite directions.

“Oh my God,” she whispered when she found you. “Are you alive?”

“Unfortunately.”

She crouched in front of you, smiling until she noticed your eyes. “What happened?”

You stared into the mug.

The water tasted metallic. Your head pulsed. Your throat hurt from all the things you had said and the ones still trapped behind your teeth.

“Steve Harrington is a problem,” you only murmured into the air. Lena’s smile faded into something gentler.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I kind of figured.”

You looked up at her, “don’t start.”

“I didn’t!”

“You’re doing pity eyebrows.”

“These are concern eyebrows.”

You pursued your lips and glared up at her. “Yeah, well—I hate them.”

She sat down on the floor beside you, shoulder bumping yours.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Outside, a car passed slowly, tires hissing over damp pavement. Somewhere in the building, a pipe knocked. The old refrigerator clicked on and hummed beneath the silence.

Your roommate held up the gum wrapper after a while. “Robin gave me her number.”

Despite everything, your mouth softened. “Good.”

“She wrote it badly.”

“She was nervous then.”

You smiled at how her voice seemed excited. “Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

Your roommate smiled down at the wrapper, then tucked it carefully into her pocket. “Do you want to talk about Steve?”

“Not particularly.”

“Okay.”

You leaned your head back against the cabinet and closed your eyes.

After a pause, she turned to you with such quiet and earnest concern that it made the air still, “Do you want me to hate him?”

That almost broke something lightly in you.

You opened your eyes and stared at the ceiling, at the faint water stain above the stove shaped by years of leaks nobody fixed properly.

“No,” you sighed with a smile because you knew she meant well. 

Across campus, Steve returned to the fraternity house and found the party still going, though the energy had shifted into its uglier late-night stage. The music was louder because fewer people were listening. Somebody had broken a lamp. A guy from the baseball team was asleep on the couch with one shoe missing.

Robin was sitting on the front steps, coat wrapped around her knees, smoking a cigarette she barely touched.

Steve stopped beside her and she looked up. “She get home alright?”

He only bobbled his head in an answer. “Yeah.”

Robin studied his face and winced. “That bad?”

He sat down heavily on the step below her. “Bad enough.”

She exhaled smoke away from him. “Did you Steve it?”

He laughed once, but it came out entirely tired and humorless. “Probably.”

Robin’s expression softened. She bumped his shoulder with her knee.

For a while, they sat without speaking. Inside, someone shouted for Steve. He ignored it.

Robin flicked ash onto the porch. “My secret?”

“Safe,” Steve affirmed. 

“She said that?”

“Yeah.”

Robin nodded, but her hand trembled slightly when she lifted the cigarette again. Steve saw it and looked away so she could pretend he hadn’t.

“She told me her roommate likes girls,” he repeated your words quietly. “And that you have a chance.”

Robin went completely still. Then she whispered too calm for how she felt, “Oh.”

Steve looked over his shoulder at her.

Robin’s face had gone pale in the porch light, eyes wide and unfocused. She looked terrified, hopeful, and furious with herself for being both.

“We exchanged numbers,” Robin tried to keep the nervous smile off her face, and it failed. 

Steve’s mouth pulled into the first real smile he had managed in hours. “Yeah?”

“On gum wrappers.”

“That’s romantic in a concerning way.”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Don’t. We’re low on clean bathrooms.”

Robin laughed, then pressed both hands over her face. After a second, her voice came muffled through her fingers.

“What about you?”

Steve looked out at the yard.

The grass was littered with cups. The orange lights blinked crookedly around the porch rail. Beyond the college street, Hawkins sat dark and familiar, keeping all its old stories and making room for new ones nobody knew how to tell yet.

“I told her I’d leave her alone,” he repeated almost dumbly.

Robin lowered her hands, the cigarette flickering slightly. “Did she ask you to?”

Steve rubbed a thumb over the scrape on his knuckle. “Not exactly.”

Robin said nothing, which meant she said everything and he gave her a tired look. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say you’re an idiot.”

“I'm aware.”

“No, I mean specifically here.”

Steve dropped his head back against the porch post and closed his eyes. Robin sighed and the steps creaked when she moved down to sit beside him.

“You can care about someone and still handle it badly,” she paused against her cigarette to turn to him. 

Steve opened one eye to stare at her from his side. “Since when are you emotionally wise?”

“Since I became the only person on this porch not making doomed eyes at someone who scares them.”

He closed his eyes again. “She doesn’t scare me.”

Robin snorted while Steve stayed quiet. After a moment, he exhaled a cloud into the cold air, “She said she doesn’t like being noticed by people who can leave.”

Robin’s humor faded and the cold moved around them.

Steve looked down at his jacket folded in his lap. He could still feel the shape of you in it, the brief warmth left behind, already disappearing into the night air.

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

Robin’s shoulder touched his. “Maybe don’t do anything.”

He looked at her.

“For once,” she added. And that made him laugh, low and reluctant.

Steve sat there until the cigarette burned down between Robin’s fingers and the porch light flickered twice overhead.

——

The next morning, you woke with a headache, a dry mouth, and one miserable shard of memory after another clicking into place.

The stairs.

The water.

Steve’s hands.

I don’t like being noticed by people who can leave.

You shoved your face into your pillow and groaned so loudly your roommate banged on the wall.

Your phone sat on the crate beside your bed.

For twenty minutes, you did not even attempt to touch it.

Then, it rang.

You stared at it until the second ring.

Then, the third.

Lena yelled from the kitchen, “If that’s him, answer it or throw it out the window, but pick a dramatic lane!”

You grabbed the receiver after severe hesitation. “Hello?”

There was a brief crackle of static, then Steve’s voice, rough with sleep or nerves.

“Hey.”

Your stomach dropped so hard you hated him for it.

You sat up slowly, blanket pooling around your waist. Morning light slipped through the blinds in thin stripes, touching the laundry pile near your closet, the glass of water you didn’t remember bringing to bed, the shoes still abandoned by the door.

“Hi,” you repeated, just as flat and weary as everything felt. 

A pause took place against your ear.  Then Steve cleared his throat. “Hey, uh—this is your water reminder.”

You closed your eyes.

Of course.

Of course that was what he chose.

“Toast too?” you asked and your voice was low and blank.

“I was getting there.”

Despite the headache, despite the shame, despite every sharp edge you had prepared, your mouth moved before you could stop it.

You leaned back against the wall, phone cord twisted around your fingers.

On the other end, Steve went quiet, waiting.

You could have told him to leave you alone.

You could have hung up.

You could have made the choice clean and cruel and simple.

Instead, you stared at the morning light on your floor. “I don't like toast that much.”

Steve breathed out, almost laughing.

“Okay,” his static pause could be heard against your ear. “Crackers then?”

You shut your eyes again. The answer sat in your throat for a long moment, refusing to escape. 

“Maybe.”

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