Shortbread_Reads

You get home from work, open the door and trip on Gator’s boots. Because he took them off. Right when he got in the door. And left them.

It feels like it’s on purpose, like Gator’s doing everything in his ability to piss you off. You can’t remember if he did these things when you were madly in love and you just ignored it or if he’s actively trying to irritate you. You kick his boots to the side and call out, “Gator! Move your fucking boots!”

He doesn’t respond, and you walk into the kitchen where he’s made an absolute mess. And you know he wasn’t like this before, Gator never left messes after cooking. You heave a sigh and start to call out again, “For fucks sake, Gator! What the fuck is your—“ you turn and see him standing in front of you, wearing nothing but his underwear, holding a plate, “problem.”

You used to actually really enjoy Gator’s disdain for wearing clothes around the house. Now it’s extra annoying. Because he looks good, he always looks good. All your friends think you’ll get back together unless you move out but you’re determined. Just to prove to everyone you can do it. There’s no way Gator’s irresistible. You can resist him.

He looks at you and smirks, “My problem is standing right in front of me.”

Oh, yeah, you can resist him.

“Do the fucking dishes, clean the kitchen, you made a huge fucking mess,” you complain with a roll of your eyes.

Gator snorts, moves past you and drops his plate in the sink, “Alright, mom.”

“Don’t do that,” you huff, moving to the refrigerator and opening the door. You’ve been thinking about the last of the lemonade all day. There was enough for one glass. However, upon inspection, Gator’s drank it all and left a tiny bit at the bottom. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“What?” he turns to see what you’re upset about as you hold the plastic jug up. Then he shrugs, “I left you some.”

You slam the jug on the counter by the sink and huff out, “You’re so annoying. I’m going to change and then I’m going to the gym. So you can go ahead and do whatever it is you do.”

“Wait!” he whines, “I wanna go.”

You freeze, because you and Gator used to go to the gym together every time. But he hasn’t gone with you since the break up. It was a pretty big way you two spent time together. In fact, you’d hated going to the gym until you went with Gator. Him going with you blurs the lines a bit and you’ve been really good at keeping them crystal clear.

“Gator, we’re broken up,” you say.

He scoffs, “Yeah, I know. It’s just the gym, ain’t like I’m asking for sex. Jesus Christ.”

Your heart beats a little faster at the mention of sex because if you’re totally honest with yourself, that is something you did miss. Quite a lot. Hell, you haven’t had an orgasm since the last one he gave you. A whole month ago. Your routines were still the same, waking up and going to bed at the same time so there weren't a lot of opportunities to get one by yourself in.

“Fine. But you’re cleaning the kitchen as soon as we get back,” you huff before stomping to the bedroom to get changed.

At the gym, it’s even worse. You’re on the stair master and you can see Gator across the way, and you’re just watching in awe. He’s sweaty, his muscles are flexing and you’re thinking about how it felt to be wrapped in his arms.

He lifts his weights and the muscles are truly bulging. You should look away. You have a very good reason for breaking up with him in the first place, but watching him work out has you practically forgetting that reason.

Gator was definitely toxic. He’d gotten a bit better the longer you two were dating but it just wasn’t enough. Perhaps you guys were just too different. It was a snowball effect, basically. Enough little things that piled up to the point you couldn’t handle it anymore. You had to break up with him.

But there he is, looking so fucking good so effortlessly. And you forget every awful thing he did in the three years you’ve been together.

You think about your friends and how upset they’d be, how they’d tell you they told you so. Hell, they probably have a bet going. This isn’t exactly the first time you and Gator have broken up, but it’s lasted the longest. And that’s a good sign. So you peel your eyes away, lock your eyes back on your phone.

Gator keeps tossing and turning in bed. Every time he does, he pushes the little pillow barrier into you. And you push it back every time. The struggle goes on five or six times before Gator’s yanking the pillows up and tossing them off the bed.

“Would you go to sleep?” you seethe, turning to look at him.

“I’m fuckin’ tryin’,” he groans, kicking his legs in irritation. Sometimes Gator gets restless legs at night. When you were together, you’d help by rubbing lotion on them and giving him a bit of a massage. But you’re not together, so you’re not doing that.

Looking at him a little closer, you realize that’s not his problem. His face is flushed and he looks over at you with all too familiar eyes. He chews on his bottom lip and has the nerve to look needy. Oh, hell no. Absolutely not. You two are not doing that. You broke up for a reason.

You open your mouth, about to scold him but he speaks first.

“Could we cuddle?”

And you almost break. Almost. The longing tone in his voice ignites embers deep in the pit of your stomach and nearly takes your breath away. You clear your throat before asking, “Hypothetically, if I say yes, is something hard gonna poke me?”

Gator laughs, that raspy voice is tempting you to say yes to cuddling. Regardless if he’s got a boner.

And he does admit, “Yeah, probably.”

“Alright. That’s definitely a no, then.”

He whines then, “Come on! Please? I just wanna cuddle, I can’t sleep. It’ll help me sleep. I won’t do anything.”

“Gator, I know you,” you argue. “You’ll start humping me.”

He scoffs, “It’s not my fault, it’s your asses fault. For being humpable.”

Which makes you giggle and shove at him. He grabs your wrist and keeps your hand against his bare chest. Pouts his lips and says, “Come on. Just a cuddle.”

“No, Gator,” you pull your hand back and roll over.

“Geez, alright, you’re a real fuckin ice queen,” he mumbles, rolling over onto his other side.

Another bout of him tossing and turning before he grabs his phone, rolls out of bed and goes stomping toward the door.

“Are you actually gonna go jerk off in the bathroom?” you guffaw.

“What the fuck else am I supposed to do?” he groans, slamming the door on his way out.

And you lay there, staring at the ceiling. Thinking about what he’s doing. You can picture it clearly. You’ve watched Gator jerk off a handful of times, you know how he does it. Well, at least how he does it when he knows you’re watching.

He likes it to be really wet, either with spit or lube or lotion. And you have a big bottle of lotion in the bathroom, so you imagine him pumping some into his palm and spreading it over his impressive cock. That was part of why letting go in the past was hard, impossible even— Gator had a really, really nice dick. Long and thick, round head, curved slightly to the right. You used to be obsessed with it. Fuck, maybe you still are because you’re imagining him stroking it with a ton of lotion. His phone is probably playing some porn, set on the bathroom counter while he tugs at his cock. And it’s making you uncomfortably wet. You can feel it on your thighs, you consider touching yourself but you’re certain you don’t have time. Gator will be back soon.

So what you actually do is put the pillow barrier back up and lay back down.

Gator comes back a couple minutes later, heaves a really dramatic but happy sigh and dives into the bed.

“You’re disgusting,” you say for good measure.

“Jerked off to your nudes,” he snorts, rolling on his side and pulling the blankets to his side.

The thing is, Gator hasn’t told his dad that you two are broken up. So every Sunday, you go with him to church and then brunch at the ranch. And you hate it, you’re not really the religious type but in the past, you compromised because it’s a big part of Gator’s life. Or, well, his dad makes it a big part of his life.

Gator’s behavior isn’t exactly god honoring. You’ve never seen him pray aside from church and meals with his family. You know he’s got some secrets, he won’t ever really talk to you about work. Always says he can’t and you never really pushed, because you didn’t want to know what Gator got up to. You knew the way his dad ran stuff was pretty corrupt so you figured the less you knew the better.

“Why haven’t you told him?” you grumble, in the passenger side of Gator’s pickup.

He doesn’t look at you, keeps his eyes on the road and takes a long pull from his vape. The smoke billows out, acidic and artificial strawberry scent filling the cab. You roll down your window, watching as the smoke is sucked out down the highway.

In a stern and strained voice, Gator says, “I can’t.”

You know better than to push right now. You don’t need Gator in a bad mood at the ranch. That never ends well. So you sigh, look out the window and prepare yourself for the lying. Roy always pressures you and Gator to get married and start making babies. It’s a whole thing.

The sermon goes fine, all things considered. Gator holds your hand during it and you let him because otherwise his dad would know something was up. He picks up on body language. Like he has some sixth sense for it.

At one point though, Roy mentions how couples living together premaritally are living in sin. And he stares right at you and Gator as he says it. Gator goes rigid at that, so you squeeze his hand. You get it a little bit, but seriously, Gator is a grown man. He should stand up to his dad at some point.

During the meal after, Roy says to you and Gator, “Glad you two could make it.”

You guys come every single Sunday.

Then he says, “What did you think of the sermon?”

You nod, “It was lovely.”

Gator puts his hand on yours and nods in agreement. Then Roy asks, “And the premarital part? Mentioned that especially for you two. You can repent and repent but there are some things the Lord just won’t forgive ya for.”

God, the strength it takes for you to not roll your eyes. You just look at Gator, he’s the one that put you in this mess in the first place. He nods again, “Heard loud and clear. I’ve been thinking about it, praying on it.”

“It’s in your hands, son,” Roy says, “God and I have given you all the guidance we can, you just gotta get your shit together and listen.”

“I know, dad, I will,” he says, looking like a scolded puppy.

And you just look at him because this is just making it all worse. His dads just gonna be more pissed the longer they drag this on because Gator is not planning on marrying you, you’re fucking broken up!

You help clean up, like the women do at the ranch while all the men sit around the table and talk. Gator looks so stiff, on edge and you feel guilty. You’re the one who broke up with him, but there was only so many times you could tell him you were unhappy. He wasn’t doing anything to fix it. But you feel bad, so you rub his shoulder comfortingly between picking up things from the table. You play nice with Roy’s wife and daughters, along with her parents.

But you’re so relieved when Gator walks into the kitchen and says to you, “It’s time to go, darlin’.”

You have Gator some time to stew on the way home. You wanted him to feel bad. But as soon as you get in the door, you tell him, “You have to fucking tell him, Gator. I can’t do that shit anymore. I feel like they’re all staring at me and judging me and think I’m this big fucking whore just because you and I live together.”

“I know,” he whispers, sits on the couch and starts taking his boots off.

It’s quiet, you don’t like that. You want him to fight back, you realize. So you put your hand on your hips and say to him, “Well, fucking do it. Stop being a fucking coward.”

That seems to work, he stands and raises his voice, “I can’t fucking do it, you don’t get it. You’re just a fucking selfish lil brat. You ain’t ever thinking about anyone but yourself.”

“I spent way too fucking long not being selfish, Gator! I did— fuck, I’m still doing it for you, I can’t do it anymore,” you exclaim, your heart racing as you feel tears prickling your eyes. You always cry when you’re angry, you wish you didn’t. Especially because Gator usually bitches about it. Like he does now.

“Oh, my god, don’t start fuckin’ crying! I already feel bad, stop trying to make it worse,” Gator spits out, stepping closer to you.

“I ain’t doing it on purpose, Gator! I can’t help it, I just fucking cry when I’m mad,” you explain, wiping the tears away.

“Why are you so mad? Was I that fuckin’ awful?” he asks, stepping even closer and raising his brows.

You look up at him, hating that he can be so intimidating. Gator never gets physical, but he will yell at you. He’ll scream in your face until he gets what he wants. But you can do it too, can’t you?

“You were! You were really fucking awful! You never ask about my day, you never wanna talk about things, you never ask what I wanna do. It’s all about you and I’m supposed to just go along with it,” you argue back, poking his chest for emphasis.

His eyes drop down to where your finger is, and he smiles. It feels eerie, but also, Gator has a lovely smile and you can’t help but warm up to him a bit. Especially when he grabs your wrist and moves it behind your back, using his experience to his advantage. His other hand grabs your other wrist and he’s got you detained easily. You hate that it turns you on, but it does.

He leans down, you can feel his breath fan against your face as he asks, “Yeah? You want me to fucking worship you, is that it?”

Heat bubbles in your core, you inhale sharply and lean into him. You do want that. Your voice is shaky, quiet when you say, “Yes.”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he laughs, “See, that makes things a bit complicated, darlin’. I wanna be worshipped, you wanna be worshipped… how we supposed to manage that?”

“We can’t,” you exhale, “That’s why we’re broken up.”

“But you want me to worship you, and I want you to worship me. So we ain’t gonna be all that happy apart, are we?” Gator points out, and he isn’t wrong.

“Uh…”

“You want me, I want you. Why should we deprive ourselves of that?” Gator purrs, nose nudging against yours. His eyes are dark, needy again.

You swallow then, “‘Cause one of us is gonna be unhappy.”

“Compromise, baby,” Gator leans down an inch more, captures your lips in a kiss. It’s not urgent, it’s hesitant, like he’s giving you an opportunity to reject him. And it’s a bit of a compromise from him already. Giving you more agency in the situation. He compromises further by letting go of your wrists, but your hands immediately go into his hair while you deepen the kiss, messing up the gel cast. You like when his hair gets all floppy.

His hands cup your jaw, catching up with the pace, he licks against your lower lip and you open for him. Gator kisses you filthy, walks you backwards to the dinner table and pushes you back onto it. He stands, pushing your dress up and tugs down your underwear. You kick your heels off and aid in the movement, lifting your hips so he can expose your core. This is definitely a compromise. Gator never goes down on you. But here he is, pulling your ass to the edge of the table before getting on his knees. You spread your legs, gazing down at him in awe.

Those big eyes look up at you, large hands wrapping around your thighs as he inches closer. Gator kisses your pussy, tenderly. Then you feel his tongue, rigid as it moves up and down your folds. You gasp and cry out, watching him as he licks at you. His tongue circles your clit, teasing you. He won’t quite put his tongue on it, so you narrow your eyes at him.

“Don’t tease, Gator, that’s not nice.”

“Who the hell said I’m nice?” he snorts as he pulls back, squeezing your thighs.

“No one,” you admit on an exhale, “but I want you to be nice to me.”

“Hmm,” he thinks on it, “Yeah, I guess you deserve it, huh?”

You nod at him, “I do. I’m so nice to you all the time. Just want you to be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you,” he rolls his eyes, and then he finally gets his tongue back on you. Broad on your clit, moves his head up and down and then side to side.

Your back arches, feeling waves of euphoria run through you. Gator keeps his eyes on you, like he’s gauging your reaction. He needs the guide, because he really doesn’t ever do this to you. And it’s unfortunate because really, Gator is actually so good at it.

Curling his tongue around your clit, he pulls a hand from your thigh and you feel two fingers prod at your entrance. He gives a short laugh, because he feels how goddamn soaked you are. He pulls them away though, like he was just checking but then his tongue sinks down and slides into your center. You moan out, hand slipping into his floppy hair and you pull him closer. His strong nose bumps against your clit and the sensation makes your eyes cross.

Gator laughs again, but you like that he’s watching you so intently. He stays at it for a bit, tongue lapping at your hole. Slides in and out, while his nose continues brushing against your clit in the most delicious way. And you think, Gator looks really good like this, his mouth out of view but his nose rubbing against you while his eyes gaze up at your face. His brows lift with it, causing small wrinkles in his forehead. You tug his hair, writhing against his face.

Now, you’ve not had an orgasm in a month and Gator doesn’t usually eat you out, so it’s not a huge shock that you’re approaching a climax this quickly. But you are a little bummed, because you wanted this to last longer. So you pull his hair back, pulling him off.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you explain, chest heaving.

Gator squints at you, “Isn’t that a good thing? Why you pulling me away?”

“Don’t wanna cum that quick,” you complain.

“Takin’ that as a compliment,” he says before diving back in, licking enthusiastically. This time his eyes close and he starts basically making out with your pussy. Sloppy, yet firm. It pushes you over the edge, legs snapping closed and trapping him there. You shake with the orgasm, crying out as you tug at his hair.

“Fuuuck! Gator, yes! Oh, my god!”

You collapse, letting him go as you lay back on the table and attempt to catch your breath.

But Gator’s pulling back, standing up and undressing himself. Practically rips the buttons of his shirt off and then goes for his pants, “Okay, it’s my turn.”

You sigh and sit up, but his excitement is unfortunately cute. So you can’t be too annoyed. And really, you used to give Gator a blow job pretty much every day. He hasn’t had one in a month.

You stand then, pulling the hair tie from your rider and tying your hair up. Gator pulls his briefs down and his cock springs out, fully erect and god, is it gorgeous. You really did miss it. He leans against the table and you get on your knees, looking up at him.

“Thought about you doing this every fucking day,” he groans out.

With a roll of your eyes, you wrap your fingers around his cock, “See how I spoil you? All I’m asking is you return the favor sometimes.”

“I make you cum all the time,” he points out, his voice a little shaky as you squeeze the base of his cock.

“Uh huh, you do, but I want to feel like it’s all about me sometimes,” you tell him before rubbing the tip of his cock against your lips. You give him a lick before asking, “Think you can manage that?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyebrows furrowed with those needy eyes looking down at you, “Promise.”

You wrap your lips around him, licking against the ridge where the tip meets the shaft and Gator whines out. You have to admit you missed this. Turning him into a whiny mess was so fun to do. He grabs the edge of the table for support as you continue to tease at his sensitive spot. And Gator has a real pretty voice. Especially when he’s whimpering and whining. It’s so cathartic to get through that tough guy exterior and bring him to a desperate puddle. And honestly, it’s probably good for Gator too. He wasn’t an awful boyfriend all the time, sometimes he’d rub your feet while you made him watch trash reality television.

His hand wraps around your ponytail and he pushes you down further on his cock, the stretch makes the corners of your lips sting but that’s because you’re a little bit out of practice. You inhale through your nose and follow his guidance, sinking down on him until your nose meets the curly hair at his base. The musky aroma fills your nostrils, makes your eyes roll back because you absolutely love the way Gator smells. Whether it’s because it’s genuinely good or just pheromones, you may never know, but you bask in it as you swallow around him.

Gator groans, low and drawn out. Then he pulls your hair, dragging your lips back towards his tip. Repeating that a few times before he lets you decide the pace. Compromise. Look at him learning.

“Fuckin’ perfect, love the way you take it,” he mumbles out, head tilted as he watches you. “Like being a good girl for me, don’t you?”

You answer by swallowing around him again, blinking up at him with wide eyes because you do. You like when he praises you. Your hand moves from his thigh up to cup his balls, cradling them in your palm and he whimpers out. Looks down at you all pathetic and needy and fuck, you can’t let this man go. You’re a fool to think you could in the first place.

Pulling off his cock, you use your hand to stroke him while you move your mouth down to his balls. You lick, broadly at the seam before sucking one into your mouth. Gator cries out, head falling back a bit while his hips jerk forward. His stomach muscles flex and twitch as you roll his ball around against your tongue.

You move to the other, not wanting to neglect it as you continue stroking Gator’s pulsing length in your hand. He’s vocal, so vocal. A mess with it, really.

“Oh, fuck, yeah, that’s it, oh, shit, fuck, you’re such a good girl, holy shit…”

Now, you wrap your lips around his tip again and sink all the way down until your nose meets that mess of curls again. Gator thrusts into you and you let him, he fucks your face for a beat before he’s pulling you off, hand grabbing your ponytail.

“Fuck! Almost came, holy shit,” he pants out, lips turned up in a smile that makes you melt.

“Isn’t that the point?” you tease.

“Nah,” he pulls the hair tie from your hair and pulls you up, “That’s just the warm up, babe, you know that.”

He kisses you, which is also something he doesn’t usually do. Not after you’ve had his cock and balls in your mouth. More of that glorious compromise. He lifts you up, you wrap your legs around him and Gator carries you to the bedroom. He puts you down gently on the bed, crawling on top of you and continuing the kiss. Deepens it, licks into your mouth as he grabs the hem of your dress and starts to pull it up. The kiss breaks so he can pull it over your head, leaving you just as naked as he is. Your hands skate across his hairy chest, as his lips connect with your jaw and down your neck. Then, across your clavicle and move down to your breasts, he cups them in his hands, pushes them up as he plants sloppy kisses against your cleavage. Then he licks against your pert nipple, pulls back and blows on it.

You whine, back arching at the sensation. Fuck, he’s listening. He’s giving you what you asked for.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, before wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking. He licks again, eyes looking up to see how you react.

Biting your lip, you smile, nodding softly. Gator mirrors the smile, then moves to the other nipple. Licks and sucks, the pad of his thumb toying with the other one. Your body shivers from the stimulation.

“Feels so good, Gator,” you tell him.

He pulls back, pushes your hair back and smiles, “I know how to do that, ya know.”

“I do know,” you admit, reaching up to caress his face. He leans into it. Because he needs it. You know he needs softness, it’s the only way he can heal from his upbringing. You feel a little guilty.

Then he leans down and kisses you, writhes against you and you feel his cock against your pussy. Hot, rigid and pulsing. You meet the movement, grinding up against him. Gator moans into the kiss, rolls his hips a little harder this time. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and it’s your turn to moan. He stills, keeps the trajectory right and then rolls his hips again. Your clit rubs against the head of his cock and it’s delicious and heady. Makes your legs spread on their own volition, inviting the pleasure.

His hand moves between your bodies, gripping his cock as he guides the tip through your folds down to your entrance. He pushes, just slightly. Teasingling, he circles your hole. You gasp, Gator licks into your mouth as he simultaneously slips his cock inside you. Then, you moan in sync and you can feel the vibration of his voice in your mouth. Gator sinks in deeper, inch by inch, excruciatingly slow until he’s as deep as he can get. Your body tingles, warm with euphoria as you cling to his biceps.

Gator stills for a beat, licking and moaning into your mouth like the desperate and needy boy he is. Your hips roll up, though Gator’s own hips have you pinned down but you’re eager for friction. He doesn’t let you have it. He presses down a little firmer into you, grabbing your hands like he thinks you might do something with them. He pins them above your head, licks again, real filthy into your mouth. Your tongues meet, it’s sloppy, messy.

You feel anticipation building, needing Gator to move so fucking bad you might explode. But he doesn’t. He licks once more before he pulls back, “You my girl?”

“Huh?” you blink, confused by him.

“Are you my girl?” he repeats, looking down at you expectantly.

“Gator—“

“Tell me, tell me you’re my fuckin’ girl and I’ll give you exactly what you want,” he says, voice gruff, “But I gotta hear it.”

You swallow hard, you need him to move but you’re a bit stubborn. However, you’re realistic. This whole thing means you’re getting back together. So you lock your eyes on his, lick your lips and say, “I’m your girl, Gator. All yours.”

Gator grins, “Always were, huh?”

“Yes,” you confess with a nod.

He finally, finally, rears his hips back, dragging his cock back against your spongy walls before slamming back into you. The force of it punches a moan out of you, loud and piercing.

He lets go of your hands, moves his hand to your throat. Not applying pressure, but keeping a grip on you as he thrusts back and forth. The friction is exactly what you’d been dying for, Gator’s fat cock stretching you out in such a satisfying way. You can’t believe you gave this up for a whole month. Your hands move to his shoulders, then scratch down his back and he pumps in and out of you.

“Fuck,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as his cock drills deep into you and then he pulls out completely. You whine at the loss, but he slips back in.

Gator presses his face against the side of yours, moaning as he drives his hips in and out. Your lips lazily find each other’s, kissing sloppily. His hand reaches down, thumb finding your clit and he rubs quick, firm circles against it.

It’s not long before that powerful bliss finds you, crashing into your body in eye rolling waves. Your vision goes white as you writhe against Gator. When you come down from the high, he’s pulling out and painting your navel in thick white ropes. He collapses next to you and catches his breath, his spunk going cold as you lay there. But, he does something he doesn’t usually do. Again. Compromise.

He rolls over and kisses your cheek, cups your jaw and tilts you over for another soft kiss on the lips. Then he’s up and retrieving a towel to clean you up with.

As he’s doing so, you ask him, “So, now that we’re back together, why couldn’t you tell your dad we broke up?”

Gator sighs, tossing the towel to the floor. He puts his hands on your waist as he looks at you, “It’d be just another thing I failed at. Just another fuckin example of me being a fuck up.”

“Gator…” you sit up and caress his jaw, “You’re not a fuck up… life throws shit at you. Failure’s happen. It doesn’t mean you’re a fuck up. You’ve always managed to find a way, huh? You don’t give up. You adapt. You’re good, Gator.”

He can’t look at you, eyes aimed down towards the bed. He shrugs, “That ain’t how he sees it.”

You lay down, pull him with you. Hooking your leg over his waist, curling up into him and kissing his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you.

Then he says, “Plus, I knew you didn’t really mean it. Why tell him when we was gonna get back together?”

“He just got here due to a head injury. He’s doing okay right now, but the doctor thinks he might have a concussion. If you could get here as soon as you can, that would be great.”

How could you tell this nurse in a succinct number of words that it didn’t make sense that you were still Steve’s emergency contact— that you shouldn’t have been— because you two hadn’t seen or talked to one another since you broke up ten months ago? How could you also say that the last ten months had felt like years, so hearing Steve’s name for the first time since then was completely jarring, but also there were some moments where the breakup felt like only yesterday, so the immediate worry you started feeling upon hearing that Steve was in the hospital was unfamiliar but understandable? How could you tell her that your mind had suddenly become a weird, contradictory mess? 

The answer was that you couldn’t say any of that because she definitely wouldn’t care to hear it. She was simply just doing her job, which meant calling the emergency contact number that was listed on file and informing them of blah, blah, blah. You weren’t going to burden her with the logistics and technicalities of your and Steve’s relationship (well, lack thereof) and history. 

“Um, yes, yeah, sure,” You responded instead. “I’ll be there soon.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of selfish?” He asked, his voice soft and unmistakably confused. 

“Honestly, I think what’s selfish is us staying together when we both know that we want completely different things.”

It was hard not to replay the last conversation you and Steve had on what felt like a constant loop as you drove to the hospital. 

You really didn’t want to see him, you realized. 

When you walked out of his house for the last time, you planned to never see him again; mainly because it made the most sense. Some exes could be friends with each other, but that never felt like it could be the case for you and Steve. 

You didn’t break up because you stopped loving each other; you broke up because love wasn’t enough. 

How deeply you loved each other couldn’t change the fact that you and he wanted two entirely different things out of life. And it got to the point where you two could no longer pretend and avoid that obvious truth.  

You had no idea what it would be like to see Steve for the first time in almost a year. You’d gotten so good at not thinking about him, at pushing away any and all thoughts that involved him or what your relationship was. 

Honestly, there was a good chance that he’d hate seeing you again, but knowing Steve, he’d never say that to your face, which in some ways was kind of worse. If he was genuinely upset about seeing you again, you’d rather he just be honest about it. 

Finding parking ended up being a lot easier than you expected it to be, and you thought that maybe that was a sign from the universe telling you that everything would be fine. You let that bit of potential false confidence lead you inside the hospital. 

The older woman at the front desk was quick to tell you what room Steve was in, and you followed the proper signs until you were at his door. 

You peeked through the small window on the door and saw Steve sitting upright on the side of the hospital bed with an ice pack to the left side of his forehead, and his eyes were shut. 

You took a breath and gave the door a quick knock before walking in and grabbing his attention. “Hi.”

Steve gave you the most confused look you’d probably ever seen from him. “Are you actually here right now, or is the concussion worse than what the doctor initially thought?”

“I would joke and say, yes, you are hallucinating right now, but given the current circumstances, that would probably be a really shitty thing to do,” You responded as you closed the door behind you. “So, yeah, to answer your question, I am actually here right now. No, you’re not going insane.”

The confused look didn’t falter. “Why— How are you here right now?”

“Apparently, I’m still down as your emergency contact.”

“Oh,” He said; it all seemed to click into place for him. “Shit, I’m sorry. I completely forgot about that.”

“It’s fine. Honestly, I think you’re probably still mine too. Who actually remembers to change it?” You responded, trying to keep things light and as normal as they could be in this moment. 

Steve gave you a quick nod in understanding in response, and before things could descend into an inevitable awkward silence, you gestured to the ice pack pressed to his head. “Um, so what happened?”

“I got hit with a baseball at practice,” He answered, and you probably should’ve figured that was the case considering what he was currently wearing; the typical white polo, khaki pants, and blue bomber jacket. “One of the kids said he wanted to try out pitching. And I now know that he has a great arm, but really bad aim. With a little more practice, I think he will be our best pitcher, though.”

You were suddenly reminded of why you’d fallen for Steve two years ago. Even though he was in the hospital because of this kid who accidentally hurled a ball at his head, his injury seemed like the least of his worries. You had always admired how much he loved his job and how proud he always was of the kids he worked with. 

“How are you feeling?” You asked because someone needed to worry, and as the emergency contact, that felt like it was technically your job.

“My head still kinda hurts, but I feel okay right now,” He said as he readjusted his ice pack. “I got really dizzy after the initial hit and a little nauseous too, which is what made one of the parents call an ambulance, and the doctor thinks I just have a mild concussion, but he still wants to keep me here for an hour or two for observation to make sure it’s nothing worse.” 

“Oh, okay, that’s good,” You said, nodding. “Not the concussion, obviously, but the fact that it’s probably just a mild one.” 

Steve nodded too, and you didn’t know what else to say, so you didn’t say anything. You let your eyes roam around the small hospital room and noticed the tiny TV on the wall; you wished that it was on to fill the unmistakable awkward silence.  

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Steve said after a long beat of silence. “I hope you don’t feel obligated to be here right now.”

“It’s okay,” You told him. “I wanna be here.”

Weirdly enough, your words actually felt truthful, and you did not want to think about why that was the case. 

Steve gave you a small smile. “Thanks.”

You sat down in the chair that was tucked in the corner of the room, and Steve shifted around so that he was facing you. “So, aside from what happened today, how have you been?”

“Um, yeah, good. Everything’s been pretty much the same for me since we…” Steve trailed off, trying to figure out how to finish his statement. “Since the last time we saw each other.” You figured it was less awkward to say that than to say ‘since we broke up.’ “Oh, well, except Thompson finally retired, so I’m teaching general Health now in addition to Sex Ed.”

Hearing that surprised you. “Whoa, I can’t believe he retired. I seriously thought he would be at the school forever.”

“Yeah, me too, honestly,” Steve responded. “But he’s moving to Florida because he wants to be closer to his son and grandkids.”

“That’s actually really sweet.”

The older man, formerly known as Mr. Thompson, had always been tough and kinda mean (which made sense to you because it just seemed so stereotypical), but it warmed your heart to learn that there was a bit of a softer side to him.  

“How have you been?” Steve asked. “How have the new town and new school been treating you?” 

“It’s all been really good, honestly,” You answered, and it was the wholehearted truth. You didn’t think about what the implications of your answer could be. If Steve would read deeply into the simple sentence and feel offended or upset by your words because they implied that you were doing good without him. 

But, you refused to allow yourself to walk on eggshells about what he was maybe thinking or feeling. If you thought too hard about every little thing, you wouldn’t be able to have a conversation with him. 

He followed up with another question. “Better than Hawkins?”

You nodded, not thinking too hard about your answer and just simply going with your gut. “Better than Hawkins.”

“Ouch,” Steve responded, placing his free hand over his heart in an overdramatic fashion. “That feels like treason or something.”

You laughed a little. “I don’t think that’s how treason works, but I get what you mean.”

“The kids miss you a lot,” Steve said, slightly shifting the subject. “The new art teacher is much more… traditional than what you used to do with them.”

A small frown tugged at your lips. “No more outdoor classes?”

“Nope, and I hear complaints probably once a week about how deeply those are missed,” Steve answered. “Oh, and that music thing you’d do on Fridays where you’d play a song and tell the kids to paint how they’re feeling as they listen to it, they really miss that too.”

Inwardly, you smiled; that was always one of your favorite things to do in your classroom, and kids always seemed to love it too. 

“What does the new teacher do?”

“According to the kids, nothing fun. But I haven’t popped in on one of her classes yet, so I don’t know exactly how overdramatic they’re being.” 

“Tell them I miss them too,” You said, and then considered your words. “Or, wait, would that make things worse?” 

“Yeah, they’d probably revolt and start striking until you came back,” Steve responded playfully, giving you a smile. 

You couldn’t help it, you smiled back. “Well, we definitely can’t have that, so don’t mention to them that you saw me.”

“Once I’m back to school on Monday, I’ll pretend that this interaction never happened.”

You nodded at that, still failing to hold back your smile. “Good.”

This was fine; this was easy. But also maybe it was too fine and too easy. In the grand scheme of what this current situation was, things effortlessly falling back into a comfortable territory between you and Steve was good, but in some ways it was also dangerous. 

The kind of dangerous that made you realize that you needed to get out of here sooner rather than later, before you fell into an all too familiar deep end. 

You opened your mouth to say not exactly that but a version of it— “Hey, so I gotta head home and work on a bunch of school stuff; new lesson plans and whatnot. I hope your head feels better soon. It was good seeing you.” 

However, before even the “hey” could form on your lips, the door opened, and in walked who you could only assume was the doctor. 

“Hey, Mr. Harrington, how’s your head feeling?”

Steve shifted around so that he was facing him and pulled the ice pack off of his forehead. “Still a little throbby, but a lot better than an hour ago.”

The doctor nodded at that, and then his eyes settled on the clipboard in his hand. “You still feeling nauseous?”

“No.”

“Any more dizziness?”

“No.”

“Okay, that’s good.” He set the clipboard to the side and pulled out one of those doctor-type flashlights from his chest pocket, flashing a light into Steve’s left eye for a quick second and then doing the same to his right. He then inspected the bruise on Steve’s forehead. “You’re looking a lot better than how you were an hour ago, which is great. Do you have ibuprofen at home?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Steve answered.

“Okay, take that to help with your headache. Your girlfriend can take you home now.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“I’m not his girlfriend.”

The slightly different sentences practically stumbled over each other as you and Steve both rushed to make the correction. 

“Sorry, my mistake,” The doctor said as he picked up his clipboard again. “Your friend here can take you home.”

Steve shook his head. “She can’t do that either.”

You jumped in before you could potentially think better of it. “Yes, I can. It’s fine.”

Steve turned to look at you. “You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” You told him with a quick nod. “Promise.”

You didn’t know why you were doing this. You had been moments away from telling Steve that you had to leave, and now you had impulsively roped yourself into taking him home? 

It was probably a bad idea, but what would the other option have been? Let Steve take a cab home from the hospital? Even you could recognize how severely messed up that would be. 

“Okay, that’s settled then. If any symptoms start coming back, or your headache gets worse even with the medicine, or anything like that, come right back to the emergency room,” The doctor said, to which Steve nodded understandingly, and then he left the room, leaving you and Steve alone again. 

“I’m not parked too far from here,” You said, breaking the quiet as you stood up from your chair. 

Steve followed suit, standing up from the hospital bed. “Okay, lead the way.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Ten Months Ago

“Oh my god, what are you doing?” It was the first thing that came to your mind, and you couldn’t help but blurt the words out. 

They definitely were not the average response that someone would have to their long-time boyfriend proposing to them, but your gut instinct was telling you to run away from this entire moment, so you did exactly that, or at least something that felt equivalent to that but slightly less insane.

You quickly turned away from Steve, leaving him alone in his bedroom, and rushed to the bathroom down the hall, closing and locking the door behind you. 

You looked at yourself in the mirror for the briefest second before turning away and leaning back against the sink. 

The last minute started flashing in your head on what felt like an endless loop. Steve down on one knee. Steve holding the velvet box in his hand. Steve smiling up at you. Repeat, repeat, repeat. 

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push the look on his face out of your head, the hopeful and genuinely happy look in his eyes. 

God, you felt like you could throw up. 

Why was he doing this? Why was he ruining something that was so damn good? 

The sound you expected to hear came moments later; three quick knocks against the bathroom door. 

“What just happened?” Steve’s voice was only slightly muffled through the door. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” You said, making your voice loud enough so he could hear you, because in this moment you refused to open the door. 

“I was about to ask you to marry me, and you ran away.” He sounded genuinely hurt, and you squeezed your eyes shut. 

Your heart was pounding in your ears. “Why were you about to ask that, Steve?”

“It felt right.”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“We talked about it one time almost a year ago. I thought maybe things changed,” He responded, his voice so soft that it almost felt too hard to hear him. “We’ve been so good. It felt like the right time to do this, the right next step for us.”

Finally, you unlocked the door and pulled it open. Your eyes met Steve’s as you quietly shook your head. 

Before he could question what your head shake meant, you started speaking. “Nothing has changed for me.”

A sad look crossed his eyes for the briefest of moments. “Nothing?”

You shook your head again instead of verbally saying anything because you didn’t trust your voice in this moment. You watched as Steve seemed to process your nonverbal response as he walked into the bathroom and sat down on the shut toilet seat. 

You watched him for a second longer before moving toward him and settling yourself in his lap. Steve accepted the action immediately, hands finding your hips like it was second nature to do so. 

“I like things as they are,” You told him, letting your own hands settle on his shoulders. “I love things as they are with us. Why does it have to change?”

“Because we love each other,” He answered, as if that was the secret to the universe. “Because I want us to have more.”

In hindsight, you should’ve seen this coming. Fundamentally, you and Steve were different. He wanted the traditional things that some people wanted in life; marriage, kids, being happily settled down in one place. 

And you didn’t want any of that. Quite honestly, the thought of having any of those things had never made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Instead, it made you feel stuck. 

You and Steve knew this about each other from the beginning. After you met him when you started teaching at Hawkins Middle and you two became friends, and before he kissed you for the first time at the annual Sno Ball dance because you two could no longer seem to deny the obvious. 

You both knew that in the grand scheme of things, what you wanted out of life was completely different. However, everything else about you two together was perfect, so you two decided to push this one minor (read: huge) difference to the side because what was the point of thinking about things that would be years down the road during the early stages of your relationship?

Except now it was no longer the “early stages” of the relationship, and it seemed like you two were finally hitting that crossroads. 

Because Steve wanted more. 

And you honestly couldn’t even fault him for that. You and he had been together for almost two years at this point; it made sense that he wanted more.  

And you loved Steve, but that didn’t change who you were.

“I don’t want that,” You told him softly. “I don’t want anything more.”

His eyes searched yours for something that you weren’t sure if you were able to give him. “But maybe you will eventually?”

You really wished that you could’ve said yes to him. Yes, your feelings toward marriage and kids and that sort of life-changing commitment would eventually change, and instead you’d want exactly what he wanted. 

However, you had never lied to Steve, and you didn’t want to start now. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” You admitted honestly. 

His eyes dropped from yours, and you could tell by the look on his face that he was thinking, really thinking, and you had no idea what he was about to say. 

“Okay,” He ultimately said and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, which surprised you. “That’s— that’s okay. Let’s just pretend this whole thing never happened. We’ll keep things as they are with us, and yeah. Let’s forget this happened.”

Steve’s hands moved from your hips so that he could wrap his arms around you completely, pulling you into him. You almost let yourself fully lean into his touch and let yourself forget what had happened barely ten minutes ago, just like he said, but you couldn’t. 

“No, I don’t wanna forget about it,” You said as you pulled back a little. 

If you two forgot about this, wouldn’t this all just repeat itself eventually? You felt the need to face it head-on now. 

Steve’s eyes met yours. “I don’t mean forget about it forever. I just mean let’s push it to the side for now and revisit it later. Maybe then you’ll have changed your mind, or maybe I’ll want what you want. We can talk about all of this again some other time. A few months from now, maybe?”

A part of you wished that you could be as hopeful as him. Instead, you sighed. “I don’t wanna revisit this conversation ever again.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of selfish?” He asked, his voice soft and unmistakably confused. 

“Honestly, I think what’s selfish is us staying together when we both know that we want completely different things,” You said as you detangled yourself from him and stood up. “Pretending like everything is fine and hoping that one of us will eventually change is not fair to either of us.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed. “So, what are you saying?”

Please don’t make me say it. 

You quietly stared at him, and he stared right back, until you took the cowardly way out and turned around because it felt physically impossible to look at him as you said the words. 

“We should break up.”

You heard his quiet scoff first, and then you heard his footsteps receding down the hallway. 

I’m sorry. 

You wanted to say that out loud too, but the sudden lump in your throat made it feel entirely too hard to speak. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Being back at Steve’s place for the first time in ten months felt weird. But specifically being back in the bathroom where everything happened felt like the worst kind of déjà vu. 

You quickly grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen from Steve’s medicine cabinet and then promptly left the small space so that you could push away all of the harsh memories that were starting to hit you. 

You handed the bottle over to Steve, who was at his kitchen sink, filling a glass with water. 

“Thanks,” He said as he grabbed the bottle from your outstretched hand and then opened it up to take two pills. “You still want the leftover spaghetti, right?”

“Yes, I’d never pass up your spaghetti,” You answered him. “And I’m also starving right now because I haven’t eaten since my lunch hour at school, so I'd honestly probably take any food from you right now.”

During the drive from the hospital, you asked Steve if he wanted to stop somewhere to pick up something for dinner, but he said that he had leftover food from last night that he was going to eat, and he told you that you could join him too if you wanted. When you two left the hospital, your initial plan had been to just drop him off once you got to his house, but you really did love his spaghetti. 

You two ended up on Steve’s couch in his living room, bowls in hand and half watching the sitcom that was playing on the TV. 

“I’m just now realizing that I asked you about school and teaching, but I didn’t ask about how your own art is going,” Steve said, turning to look at you. “How is it?”

That question didn’t necessarily surprise you; Steve had always been one of your biggest supporters when it came to your art. Constantly lingering at the door of your “art studio,” which was set up in the empty bedroom in your apartment, because he was always just so curious to see what you were working on. And you’d constantly shoo him away because you didn’t like anyone seeing your works in progress. 

“But I love seeing the process. It’s really cool,” He’d say with a pout on his face that he hoped would convince you to let him continue his observing, and you’d kiss him on the cheek before still shooing him away. The pout only sometimes worked. 

“I just finished this new collection two weeks ago, and I’m hoping it gets picked to be a part of this showcase that a friend of a friend is having at her art gallery at the end of the month,” You answered as you mindlessly twirled some spaghetti around on your fork and focused your eyes on that instead of Steve. “And I also got selected for an art residency in Maine. It starts at the end of June and goes until late August.”

“Wow, that’s awesome. Congrats,” Steve responded, and he sounded so genuinely happy for you that you finally met his eyes. 

“Thanks,” You said, suddenly feeling insanely shy for some reason, even though you hadn’t felt that way around Steve in ages. 

“Hey, if your work does get picked for the art show, let me know when it is. I definitely wanna come and check it out.”

You nodded before you could think better of it. “Yeah, of course.”

It would be pretty safe to say that all logical thinking had officially been thrown out the window for you, which was probably a bad thing, but it was too hard to pretend that this wasn’t nice. And for the time being, you allowed yourself to lean into it. 

You set your empty bowl on the coffee table and then looked at Steve again. “Do you have cookies?”

“Of course. I always keep chocolate chip stocked,” Steve answered, and you smiled, glad that that was something that hadn’t changed in the past ten months. 

He grabbed your bowl off the table, stacking it on top of his, and then headed into the kitchen. You followed him, watching as he placed the bowls in the sink and then headed to his pantry. The light above the stove was the only thing that brought some soft light to the kitchen, but it was hard not to immediately take notice of the all too familiar blue Chips Ahoy! packaging that Steve pulled out from the pantry. He set it on the counter near the stove and opened it, offering it to you first.

A silence that was entirely different from what it had felt like at the hospital started to linger as you two leaned against the counter and shared chocolate chip cookies. This quiet was comfortable, and a perfectly welcoming contrast from how things had felt earlier. It made you forget that this “comfortable territory” was the exact thing that you had wanted to avoid back at the hospital because it would probably only make things harder. 

It would make leaving harder, it would make forgetting about Steve again harder, it would make everything harder.

“Okay, please feel free to tell me to fuck off with this question, but I’m just… I guess I’m just kinda curious,” Steve said, breaking through your thoughts. He paused for a second, and you looked at him, unsure what he was about to say. “Are you dating right now?”

That was not at all what you were expecting him to ask you. It actually managed to surprise you so much, in comparison to what you had just been thinking about, that your immediate thought was to simply be honest. 

“Oh, um, yeah, I’ve been on a few dates here and there, but nothing serious.” You shrugged like none of those prior dates had mattered, which they hadn’t. You considered not asking him the question back, but you suddenly became too curious not to. “What about you?”

“Nothing serious either,” Steve answered, and you nodded instead of saying anything. 

You thought about asking him why he wanted to know about your current dating life, but a part of you didn’t want to hear the answer, whatever it would be. It would probably only add to the growing list of reasons why you shouldn’t be at Steve’s place in this moment. The growing list that you still refused to listen to.

You grabbed another cookie and leaned back against the counter, looking away from Steve. You silently wondered if his dating life resembled yours in any way. If the dates he’d been on since the breakup were also a series of duds that were defined by awkwardness, having little to nothing in common, and shitty kisses. 

Would that be too weird to talk about?

Or was this entire moment slightly weird and unprecedented, so actually there was nothing that could be deemed as “off limits”?

You finished the rest of your cookie and decided to go with the latter. “Can I be embarrassingly honest right now?”

Steve didn’t hesitate to nod. “Shoot.”

“All the dates I’ve been on have sucked, pretty much. They’re either terribly boring or disgustingly awkward, and somehow I end up with the worst kissers ever, too,” You told him. Admitting that definitely felt just as embarrassing as you thought it would feel, but it also felt kind of nice to put that out in the open for absolutely no reason at all. “And granted, I’ve only kissed three people since we broke up, but still, absolutely no comparison to you.”

“That is probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten,” Steve said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you.”

“And now you’re supposed to return the compliment and say that I’m the best kisser you’ve ever had too.” You were mostly joking with your words, but you were still kind of curious to hear Steve’s response. 

His smile only seemed to grow. “No one else has ever come close to you.”

You smiled back at him. “Thank you.”

Steve was the one to break eye contact after a moment, grabbing another cookie and focusing on that for a moment. 

“Honestly, I think that’s one of the things I miss the most. Out of the physical stuff, at least,” He abruptly said, meeting your eyes again. “Kissing.” 

You nodded your head immediately. “God, yes, I swear it’s one of the most underrated things ever when it’s actually the most important.”

“And it’s very fun.”

“Very fun,” You agreed. 

Perhaps it would’ve been better to use past tense when it came to basically talking about kissing each other, but neither of you decided to correct yourselves. You also didn’t look away from each other, even as a long quiet began to stretch and build a home in the air of the kitchen. It felt as if you both were silently daring the other to be the one to look away first. But you refused to lose this sudden staring contest, and apparently, Steve didn’t want to lose either. 

The amount of current space between you two had already been minimal, but in this moment, it was continuing to shrink. It was almost as if there was some imaginary force pushing you two together, when in actuality, it was simply just your bodies moving faster than your minds. One second you were blinking, and in the next you both were closing the final bit of distance between you two, meeting halfway. 

Your arms came up to loosely wrap around Steve’s shoulders and his immediately circled your waist, drawing you as close as you could be to him. The look on his face in this moment— a look so full of pure want and adoration— should’ve scared you, but you instead let it put your heart at ease for the time being.   

You decided to do something that you’d probably deem stupid in a week’s time once logical thinking finally sank in. However, even though you would probably consider it stupid, you weren’t sure if you’d end up completely regretting it. 

And that final thought was what made you press your lips against his, letting your heart lead you entirely in this moment. Steve tasted like the cookies you two had just been eating, so sweet and perfect, and you immediately realized just how goddamn right you’d been. Kissing Steve was one of the best things ever, and it wasn’t even over yet, but you were already missing the feeling of his mouth on yours. 

Steve’s hands tightened on your waist as he maneuvered you two around so that you were pressed back against the counter, and yours dropped from his hair and found the edge of the counter so that you could push yourself up. Your lips detached from Steve’s for the briefest second before both of your hands were cupping his face and you were leaning in again.  

You turned your mind off completely and only decided to focus on the feeling of Steve. His mouth on yours, his slightly grown-out hair brushing against your forehead, and his warm hands that you could feel through the thin fabric of your shirt. He gave your hips a squeeze, and you let out a soft sound that drove Steve absolutely insane and made him groan into the kiss too. 

His left hand was moments away from slipping under your shirt, but then he was abruptly pulling away from you completely and taking a few steps back.

He covered his face with his hands for a moment and then looked at you. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked at him, unable to say anything for a moment. Your heart was hammering in your chest due to what you two had just been doing, and your mind felt effectively fuzzy. You shook your head in confusion. “What? Sorry for what?” 

“I’m sorry for proposing to you back then,” Steve answered, which only furthered your bewilderment. “It was a shit thing to do when we really hadn’t talked about it enough, and the only time we had talked about it was when you told me that you were against it.”

The timing of all of this didn’t really make sense to you. Your body still felt like it was on fire because of the kiss, and going from that to an entirely serious conversation felt like an insane kind of whiplash. 

“Why are you thinking about that right now?”

“Because…” He trailed off with a sigh and pushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I never said it in the moment, and then I don’t know why I was thinking about it in this moment, but I just realized that I never apologized at all, and I suddenly felt so shitty about that.” 

“I don’t— You don’t… There’s—” You took a breath and tried to get your thoughts together. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I don’t think I was ever really upset with you for proposing. I think I was… more sad, if anything? And not because you proposed, but because that whole thing just forced us to look at our relationship and how different we are, and yeah.” 

You shrugged after saying your final words because you didn’t know what else to do or say, and your eyes dropped from his. 

“I’m sorry too, though,” You abruptly told him before he could say anything about what you had just said. “For kissing you like two seconds ago. That was… It was— It probably wasn’t the right thing to do.”

He shook his head, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “Don’t be sorry about that. If you hadn’t done it, I definitely would’ve.”

You let out a laugh at his words because you couldn’t help it, they were a nice contrast from the seriousness of the conversation, and you reached out so that you could grab his hand and pull him in for a hug. His arms instinctively circled around your waist, and yours came up to wrap around his neck. Kissing Steve was great, but this was really good too, and you knew that you’d miss it just as much. 

“I can be different,” Steve mumbled into your neck. “I can just decide to want something different, if it means getting to be with you.”

You took a moment to try and imagine it. Steve not settled down in one place. Steve not surrounded by a gaggle of kids that he called his own. Steve not in a cozy house with a wife who he loved and adored and probably wouldn’t hesitate to die for. 

It was a truly sucky thing to picture. 

You pulled back so that you could look at him, and your hand found his cheek. “I’d never let you do that.”

He turned his head so that he could kiss the inside of your palm. “Yeah, I’d never let you change either.”

“There were a lot of times right after we ended things that I really wished I wanted what you want,” You said, deciding to dive headfirst into honesty. 

Steve gave you a small, sad smile and then pressed his forehead into your shoulder. “Me, too.”

You two stayed like that for the time being. His face in your neck, your chin on his shoulder, and your arms wrapped around one another. Neither of you said the words right then, but both of you knew that this was it. And it wasn’t because either of you wanted that to be the case, but because it had to be. Nothing had changed in the past ten months, and worse than that, nothing would ever change. 

It was kind of hard to fully accept that, though, because of how unfair it was. 

“So…” Steve pulled back a bit and met your eyes. “Now what?”

You wanted to shake your head and shrug, tell him that you weren’t sure, but you didn’t do that.

“I go home, and we both remember to change our emergency contacts, and…” You trailed off, unsure of how to finish your statement. “And that’s that, I guess.”

“And that’s that…” Steve said, and it was as if he wasn’t entirely sure about the words and wanted to test them out first. “Okay.” 

The final word was spoken quietly, and you nodded because what else was there to do, really? Steve pulled away from you completely so that you could hop off the counter, and you missed his warmth immediately, but you, of course, didn’t say that. He followed you to his door, and you slipped on your shoes before turning around to face him.

It wasn’t like you two were breaking up again, but it felt so weirdly close to it. There was a part of you that felt exactly how you had when it happened ten months ago— you didn’t want to leave, but you knew that you had to, and you wanted to cry, but you really didn’t want to break down in front of him. 

You forced out a goodbye, and Steve did the same, but before you could turn around again, he reached out and pulled you in. You accepted the embrace immediately, even though you knew it only prolonged the inevitable.  

“Thank you for coming to the hospital today,” He whispered. “You didn’t have to, but you did, and I’m really glad you did, so thank you. Seriously.” 

You wanted to tell him that there was no need to thank you and that you didn’t mind helping him out today, but instead you said, “You would’ve done the same for me.”

Steve only squeezed you tighter in response and pressed a kiss to the side of your head. It was such a simple and minimal action, but it did a lot to you. You squeezed your eyes shut and willed away the fresh onset of tears that were threatening to spill. 

You didn’t want to let go, but you did. And you didn’t want to pull open the front door, but you did that too. 

The walk to your car was quicker than you expected it to be. Once you were settled in the driver’s seat, you looked at Steve still standing in his doorway. He waved at you, and you waved back, and then you forced yourself to look away and finally head home.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

today was undoubtedly one of the hottest indiana has ever seen. and of course, with the luck that your and your friends had, the AC at the squawk went down last night. you and robin had stood outside with flashlights in hand as steve fumbled with the fuses and plugs and such for an hour. no luck.

which meant for the station had an entire night to incubate with the blazing heat. walking in this morning felt like you had literally stepped into hell.

irritated was a massive understatement. you were hot, annoyed, bloated and puffy from your incoming period, extremely irritable, and exhausted all at once. it made for the worst combination in a situation like this.

and steve… oh bless him. he was just trying to be the supportive, sweet boyfriend in a time like this. and he was certainly in an affectionate mood— one where he was all soft and just wanted to cling to you at all times. the two of you had been practically cooking in the heat of the sound booth as you played each tape robin had requested and his idea of passing time meant touching any prt of you possible. and fortunately enough for her, she was out at the gas station grabbing some more ice for your water bottles to help cool you all down.

once you felt the uncomfortable beading of sweat form at your hairline, you stepped out and into the small living area, reaching into the fridge for some sort of snack. you could hear footsteps approaching.

steve slid up right behind you, his chest pressing against your back and his strong arms winding around your hips to hold you close. he buried his face in the crook of your neck and peppered sweet kisses to the skin there. “you smell so good, honey,” his voice a low, deep rumble that typically would make you melt.

but today, you just felt like a ball of raw, explosive nerves. you were so overwhelmed and hot and every single touch— even from steve— brought you closer to your break of overstimulation. the heat of his body against yours didn’t feel romantic like usual, it felt suffocating.

you stiffed and wiggled away from him, shoving his arms off of you in the process with a sharp, frustrated huff. “steve, seriously? get off,” you snapped, not even looking back at him as you closed the fridge and moved to the pile of unorganized records.

he blinked, frozen in the same position as he watched you aggressively shove the sleeves back into their intended place. he looked at you with these big, soulful eyes that made him look exactly like a kicked puppy. “i just wanted to be close to you,” he spoke softly, sounding genuinely hurt.

ten minutes later, he’s sauntered back in to find you on your knees, still organizing records. he leaned down over your shoulder, lips brushing the shell of your ear and his hands squeezing at your hips affectionately.

“stop touching me!” you snapped, practically jumping out of your skin to create distance between the two of you. “can you just leave me alone for a second? it’s a hundred degrees in here and i feel like i’m fucking melting. just… stop!”

steve visibly deflated as he stepped back. he didn’t get mad— he never really did the whole ‘angry’ thing with you— but he looked utterly defeated. he stood there for a moment too long, hands twitching at his sides uselessly, staring at you as if he couldn’t understand why his love was being completely rejected.

“i’m just trying to be sweet,” he whispered, his tone sounding small, guilty, and hurt.

you didn’t even look up from the records. “yeah, well your ‘sweetness’ is making me want to scream right now. just give me some space, steve.”

that was his breaking point. the kicked puppy look shifted into something much deeper. a flicker of tiredness behind steve’s eyes. he had spent the last four hours trying to be the most affectionate, attentive, and understanding boyfriend in a situation like this to lighten your sour mood. even ignoring the uncomfortable drip of sweat from his skin just to put your comfort first and all he got in return was snarky remarks and sharp shoves.

he sighed, a long, heavy sound that signaled a change in his mood. he didn’t move towards you this time. instead, he stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall to watch you for a moment. the warmth in his gaze never vanished, but it was now tempered with a new simmering frustration.

“right. space. got it,” he said, his voice losing that sweet, playful edge and instead becoming dull and flat.

he didn’t try touching you anymore, just stood and watched you with that quiet, disappointed intensity. he wasn’t mad or upset with you, he was just tired of being the punching bag for your changing hormones. the silence that filled the room was suffocating and heavy. for the first time all day, the lack of his touch had felt suspiciously loud.

after another hour of organizing, the two of you were back in the stuffy control room, the space feeling even smaller with the stifling heat. the air was stagnant and the only sound heard was the low hum if equipment and the muffled tune of the song through the headphones.

steve was slouched back in the chair beside yours, entirely too comfortable and his legs spread too wide. his jean clad knee was pressed up against yours, attracting even more heat to your skin. he was playing with a rubik’s cube and failing miserably. after another minute or so of turning it endlessly, he dropped it down onto the desk and let his hand idly wander over to your bare thigh before he could even realize he was doing it.

you picked it up by his finger and tugged him off, letting his hand fall back into his own lap.

he looked at you then. the tight line of your clenched jaw, the way your brows pinched towards each other out of irritation, how your arms crossed over your chest like a physical wall you’ve just put up. he felt that familiar sting of rejection immediately. but he wasn’t ready to give up, not yet. he truly believed that if he could just make you smile a little, if he could crack the shell of your bad mood, everything would revert back to normal.

he shifted a little closer, practically trying to conjoin by your sides, completely ignoring the fact that you’re both almost sweating through your clothes. he leaned in, his voice dropping down to a playful, teasing whisper that always managed to make you giggle.

“you know,” he murmured, a small, hopeful grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “i’ve heard the best cure for a bad mood is a very handsome boyfriend. and lucky for you, i’m right here. free of charge.”

he punctuated the end of his joke with a soft nudge to your shoulder. that alone would’ve been enough to make you crack a smile.

except you didn’t. instead, you sighed and rolled your eyes. “shut up, steve,” you retorted, your voice cold and sharp. “you’re not being funny, you’re being annoying. please, for the love of god, just stop talking and stop trying to touch me.”

the grin vanished instantly. his face fell as he recoiled back slightly as if the words hit him like a physical blow. he looked at you, his expression shifting from hopeful to genuinely bewildered. he wasn’t just feeling like a punching bag anymore, he felt like there was a real resentment towards him. he was trying everything— the sweetness, the humor, the patience— and you were treating him like he was a complete inconvenience.

the door to the booth swung open to reveal robin with two iced coffee’s in hand. “hey, so i got the ice and figured i’d get us something cold to—“ her gaze darting between the two of you, noticing the hard line of steve’s clenched jaw and the way your body was radiating anger. she took note of the immediate tension simmering in the heat of the room. “yikes. did someone die in here orrrr…”

steve didn’t answer, he just looked at her desperately for some kind if support, and then back to you. he tried one last time, a tentative, barely there brush of your hands.

that was the final straw. you pulled away like you’d been burned. “i can’t do this. i can’t deal with you right now!” you snapped, so incredibly overwhelmed and overstimulated that you could seriously just break down and cry right here.

steve’s hand stayed suspended in the air for a heartbeat before he slowly pulled it back. the soft, pleading eyes were gone. the tiredness was too. it shifted into something much colder and harder now. something much more assertive. he didn’t say a word to either of you, just stood and grabbed his keys from the small rack by the door with a sharp clink. “we’re leaving.” there was no room for argument.

the ride home was suffocatingly silent. his hands were practically white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire ride home. he didn’t touch you once. the lack of his hands on you, which felt like an annoyance an hour again, now had the air in the car feeling ominous and heavy.

the moment you guys were in the apartment, the cool air hit the two of you like a truck, yet the tension was still boiling. steve didn’t let you get settled, instead, his hands were on your waist with a firm grip as he guided you into your shared bedroom and shut the door behind him with his foot. it made you gulp.

he was on the verge of breaking. he turned you towards him and stepped back to create distance between the two of you. “alright, you done with your little tantrum now?” he asked, his hands on his hips like an angry father. “you gonna tell me what your problem is now? i have spent the last eight hours trying to be the best boyfriend i could possibly be. i’ve been sweet, i’ve been patient, i’ve tried to make you laugh— and you’ve just been treating me like shit all day. like i’m something you have to tolerate.”

“i told you, i’m just hot! you’re acting like i’m some big villain for not wanting you all over me when it was a thousand degrees in there,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly under the intensity of his gaze. “all i asked for was some space!”

steve let out a sharp, mocking laugh, his eyes darkening. “space? you didn’t want space. you wanted a punching back.” he stepped forward into your space, his presence suddenly overwhelming. “it was never about you being hot or wanting space. it’s about the things you said to me and the way you spoke to me.” before you could react, he pushed at your shoulders, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you fall back. your bottom hit the bed, your palms flying by your hips to keep you upright.

he didn’t give you even a second to breathe. he stepped between your thighs, cornering you against the bed with his large frame hovering over you and blocking out the rest of the room. he reached down, his fingers gripping your chin firmly as he tipped it up so you were forced to look at him.

the sweetness was completely gone, now replaced by a smoldering, dominant heat that made your stomach feel all tingly. he looked so devastatingly hot right now— his hair slightly messy from the day, his eyes narrowed and piercing. he looked like he was done playing nice.

“you’ve been acting like a little brat all day,” he said, his voice dropping to that low dangerous purr that vibrated in your chest. he gave your chin a little shake, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip in a way that was demanding and possessive.

a small, mocking smirk played on his lips, his gaze scanning your face as if he was analyzing every bit of your stubbornness. “you think you can just be mean to me all day and then… what? go to bed like everything is fine?” he clicked his tongue and shook his head. “i don’t think so.”

he leaned in closer, his breath slow and controlled as it hit your skin in warm bursts. his scent was intoxicating from this distance. the grip on your chin tightened just enough to remind you who was in control. “say it,” he commanded, his voice dropping to that familiar octave that was nothing but raw and assertive. “apologize for being so mean to me today.”

even with steve looming over you, clearly in full control, you couldn’t help it. irritability was still humming through your body. you rolled your eyes and tried to pull your face away from him. it was no use. “i’m not apologizing,” you muttered, your voice still laced with that stubborn, snooty tone. “you’re just being dramatic.”

steve’s eyes flared, a dark, dangerous glint flickering behind them as he stared at you. he didn’t argue, didn’t plead. instead, he let out a deep guttural chuckle that sent chills down your body. “dramatic? of honey, you have no idea how dramatic i can be when i’ve been pushed.”

before you could snap back, he was lifting you in one fluid motion and flipping your position so he was sat at the edge of the bed with you straddling his thighs. one hand wrapped around the column of your throat— not squeezing, just resting— while the other tangled in your hair and pulled you into a searing kiss.

you gasped against him in surprise as he tugged on your roots to tilt your head back and gain more leverage over you. the force that he kissed you with was borderline predatory.

it was hungry and messy and completely uninhibited. your mouths moved together with a wet, slapping sound as your tongues tangled in a frantic battle for dominance. steve tasted like strawberries and the gatorate he’d been drinking at the station, a mix that made your head spin. he groaned deep in his throat, a vibration you could feel in your own chest he sucked your lower lip into his mouth, tugging on it hard before letting it snap back.

you fought back, hands roaming across his chest and neck, pulling him in closer as if you were trying to merge your bodies into one. you bit at his lower, a sharp, playful nip that drew a long hiss from him. he responded by deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping across the wet cavern of your mouth, claiming every corner and tasting every inch. his hands moved down to your hips, rolling them into his own.

the sounds each of you made were primal— wet, sloppy noises of tongues sliding against tongues, punctuated by deep ragged breaths for air that you both forgot you even needed. every time you broke away for a second of oxygen, it was only to snap back together with even more intensity, your lips bruising each others in their haste.

steve’s hands left your lips to fumble with the buckle of his belt, quickly shoving his jeans and boxers down to his knees and freeing himself while sucking on the pink muscle of your tongue. he was painfully hard already. he gave himself a few slow strokes while his free hand pulled your shorts and panties to the side, running his tip through your leaking slit.

he pushed into you with a devastatingly slow thrust, hands coming back to rest on your hips to keep you flush against him. you pulled away to let your head fall back in overwhelming fullness. he was fucking loving it.

he smiled up at you with that stupid cocky grin, knowing he was pressed right up against your cervix, making you go completely soft on him. “yeah? this was all you needed? just had to get you all dumb on my cock?” he teased before leaning forward to suck deep purple marks into your skin. “ready to apologize yet?”

you bit down on your puffy lip to suppress a moan, your stomach tensing every time he’d readjust the slightest bit. the stretch wasn’t uncomfortable, but you could surely feel the building pressure from the lack of warming up.

he took your silence as your answer, nodding slowly with that sly grin pulling at his lips. “got it. you still wanna be difficult then?” he asked, pushing up even further into you. your nails dug into his shoulders as you whimpered, feeling impossibly full. “that’s fine, honey. have it your way.”

“fuck you, steve,” you tried to snap out, instead, it just sounded like a pleading beg.

he smiled at you like he’d just received the best invitation of his life. “oh baby,” his hands moved to grab handfuls of your ass, holding you up just slightly as his voice rumbled. “i will.” his fingers dug into your skin with a bruising force as he thrust up into your sopping cunt with a violence that knocked the wind out of you. he buried his cock so deep inside that it felt like he was trying to reach your soul.

“you just can’t help yourself, can you?” he mocked, his voice dark and triumphant as he watched you absolutely eat this up. “you want to be all mouthy and bratty, but you fuckin’ love it when i take over, isn’t that right? love when i put you in your place?”

the moan that spilled from your lips was borderline pornographic as he fucked you with a slow, punishing rhythm that made you feel every vein and ridge of his cock against your gummy walls. he moved his hands to your hips, forcing you to take every single inch as he steered your body to meet his thrusts.

it was embarrassing how fast you could feel the coil in your stomach twisting tighter. he just looked so sexy like this— all dominant and messy and dark. you’d rarely seen this side of him.

every single punch of his mushroom tip against your cervix was a declaration of his ownership. he was driving into you with everything he had, his breath somehow still so slow and controlled while you were falling apart above him.

he began to pick up his pace rapidly, relentlessly pounding up into you. your eyes stung with tears as he stretched you out so perfectly, pulling you down to meet each thrust just to push himself deeper inside of you.

“that’s it, baby. fuckin’ take it,” he gritted through his teeth, his voice strained and raw. “feel every inch of me. want you to remember exactly how it feels when i’m the one in charge.” smack. his hand landed heavy against your bottom, making the unshed tears gush down your cheeks as the pleasure became overwhelming.

he moaned loud and unapologetic at the feel of your cunt squeezing him. “you’re so tight,” he groaned, his cockiness returning full force. “you love this, don’t you pretty girl? you love it when i stop being all sweet and kind and just take what i need.”

you couldn’t even scream. the only sounds coming out were little broken whimpers and cries as he hit that certain spot over and over again while you clung helplessly to his shoulders. “oh! mmph! i’m sorry, stevie! fuck, i’m— i’m sorry! please! oh god, please!”

steve let out a low, triumphant sound, but he didn’t stop. instead, he slowed down just enough to let the friction build, his eyes hooded and shimmering with something you couldn’t make out. he leaned in, his lips grazing your jawline, but he didn’t kiss you. instead, he let out a quiet hum.

“what was that?” he mocked, his voice a teasing and arrogant purr. he leaned in further, letting his lips ghost over the shell of your ear. “i didn’t hear you, sweetheart. are you sorry for being a mean little brat to me? are you sorry for treating me like trash all day?”

he didn’t wait for an answer from you. he began to pull out, slowly, agonizingly, until he was almost completely gone, only to drive right back in with a devastating, slow-motion punch. he wasn’t just fucking you anymore, he was claiming you. pushing deep into your guts, forcing you to feel every single inch of his cock as he stretched you open.

“god, this pussy’s so tight, honey,” he groaned, his voice now a thick, sultry drawl. “so fuckin’ pretty. just look at how she’s gripping me… she’s practically begging for it.”

he gave you a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, making you gasp and arch into him as he stretched you wide. he sounded and looked completely enamored by your body, but his teasing edge still hadn’t left. it was a reminder that he knew exactly how much power he had over you in this moment.

“it’s such a shame, really,” he whispered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy and he stared at the way your lips stretched around him. “it’s too bad you’ve been such a brat today. truly a tragedy.”

his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt to hold you waist, pulling you even closer to him as his cock pulses inside your warmth. “i would’ve loved to get my mouth on her,” he purred, his voice suggestive and dangerous. “i would’ve spent hours between these pretty legs, eating you out, tasting every single inch of you until you were shaking and cryin’ for me. i would’ve made you lose your fuckin’ mind on my tongue.”

he felt your core clench around him desperately, a needy spasm at the mere thought, and he chuckled a dark, cocky sound.

Steve had never imagined himself having to live with a roommate, especially a woman that wasn’t his significant other, but coaching and teaching sex-ed to a bunch of middle schoolers didn’t pay shit, and he couldn’t stand living with his parents anymore. So when one of the few people besides him out of the rag-tag group of people he called friends that had stayed in Hawkins mentions something about getting a place together he figures– why not? 

He’d known you for years, had experienced too many near death experiences with you, and he also knew you were looking for any excuse to get out of the damn near slum of an apartment you were living in then. So, on a bright sunny Saturday morning in April the two of you sign the lease for what has now been your home for a little over a year. 

Living with each other was a lot easier than either of you thought it was going to be. Shared chore lists, weekly movie nights, eating dinner together, learning each other’s little quirks– it was all very domestic.

So domestic that sometimes your lines of reality and fantasy blurred and sometimes you’d have to remind yourself that Steve was not your boyfriend and just your best friend. Which usually happened a couple times a month when he’d casually mention that he had a date and so you’d be the good roommate you are and let him have his alone time and then the following week you’d just so happen to have a date also. 

Which is how you’ve ended up with Eric breathing heavily into your ear as he pounds into you with such a hurry that you think maybe he wants this to be over with faster than you do. Your bedframe repeatedly hits the wall as you count the ceiling tiles above you and it’s not until you hear him groan something along the lines of i’m cumming that you let out a fake gasp and then he’s rolling off of you without as much as a second glance. 

He says he’ll call you tomorrow. 

You know he more than likely won’t and that’s more than fine with you. 

Steve strolls through the door near midnight, figuring thats plenty enough time for you two to do whatever, and for the guy to leave without there being any awkward introductions. Thankfully he’s right and he’s greeted with you sitting on the couch, freshly showered and in your pajamas, with what he can only assume is your leftovers from dinner in your lap. 

He plops down onto the couch beside you with a sigh and you immediately shove the styrofoam container of lasagna towards him. “Want some? It’s from Enzo’s.” 

“Enzo’s?” Steve questions, eyebrows raised in surprise. “He must have really wanted to impress you,” he states, grabbing the fork and shoving a piece in his mouth without a second thought. “Did it work?” 

“No,” you reply, taking the fork back from him and splitting what’s left down the middle for the two of you to share. “Should have ended the date after dinner was over.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything, but he knows what you’re alluding to, and he just nods understandingly at you as he takes his turn with the fork. The two of you didn’t necessarily talk about your sex lives, it was implied when either of you had mentioned going on a date and that you needed the apartment to yourself, but neither of you sat here and talked in detail about the latest orgasm you’d had, but if Steve had any inkling, he was pretty sure the guys you brought home weren’t giving you any. 

The thing about your unspoken agreement with Steve about dates and bringing people home was that it wasn’t fool proof. Sometimes the two of you would go out without any expectations of bringing someone home. Then one thing leads to another and suddenly there’s someone trailing in behind either of you and the sound of a bedroom door slamming. It didn’t happen often enough to where it would be an issue, but it happened enough that Steve, while he wasn’t trying to be a creep, was being observant and had seemed to notice the lack of noise from you. 

He’d quickly put on music when he’d hear the sound of your drunken giggles echoing down the hall and then a much deeper voice accompanying yours, but the times when you come home long after he’d gone to bed and you end up waking him up with your loud footsteps and hushes to the mystery man– those times he shamelessly listens.

It seems to be the same variation of sounds and actions every time– the guy trying to be all suave with you, your headboard hitting the wall in rapid succession for a short amount of time, some curses from the guy, and then the sound of the front door slamming shut. Not a single peep out of you the whole time and at first Steve thinks you’re just being considerate, that you’d made the decision to bring someone home while he was here so you’re just being extra quiet, but he also knows that sometimes no matter how hard you try, staying quiet during sex is sometimes impossible.

He figures you’re bound to slip up after a while and he’ll hear a moan or a little dirty talk bleed through the walls, but it never does, except for that one guy you brought home that would not stop with the dirty talk and kept asking you who’s pussy this was. Needless to say Steve ended up putting on music that night. 

And not to toot his own horn, but he knew what it sounded like when a woman was experiencing pleasure, and from what he could tell those guys weren’t getting you off. While he can’t account for the times he isn’t in the apartment, he can tell from your demeanor when he comes home that those times aren’t particularly stellar either. 

Your less than blissed out state as you sit next to him on the couch, sharing your leftover lasagna with him, it proves his point. 

But Steve doesn’t say anything about your lack of post sex glow and how these guys should make it their priority to make you feel good. He doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to cross any lines and potentially make things weird between the two of you, even if he’s a little more concerned with how other guys are treating you in bed than he should be. 

Instead he takes the last bite of his portion of the lasagna and extends an olive branch, an out if you ever needed it, because again he cares about you more than he should. 

“You know if you’re on a date and he’s weird or making you uncomfortable or even if you just want to come home– you can call me. No questions asked, I'll come get you. I’m almost always at Eddie’s or at Slinky’s having a beer.” 

You give him a soft smile, trying to ignore the way his words make your heart do a traitorous thing, like the idea of him being willing to drive across town to come and take you home doesn’t make whatever you feel towards him that much more complicated. 

“Thanks Steve,” you reply, eyes focused on the little bit of lasagna left instead of him. 

“Of course,” he responds, slowly standing up from the couch. “Think I’m gonna go to bed,” his eyes traipse over you, waiting for you to look up at him, and when you finally do he smiles in that endearing way that makes your chest ache. “Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

You hear his bedroom door close and you’re left sitting on the couch with the now empty takeout container in your lap wondering how much longer you can go on with this act. How much longer can you continue to bring home these guys that don’t know your clit from your nipple and act like the man you actually want isn’t thirty feet away. 

You always get in your head like this afterwards, especially when Steve comes home and you’re absolutely buzzing on the inside with want, but the one thing you want– you can’t have. 

The couch creaks under you as you get up and make the decision to leave the takeout container on the coffee table, claiming you’ll take care of it in the morning. As you pad down the hall and past Steve’s room you hear his muffled voice behind his door and you’re not meaning to eavesdrop, but the sickeningly sweet tone that bleeds out under the door has you frozen in place. 

“Yeah, yeah– I know it’s late and I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t get you out of my mind.” 

“Your number was burning a hole in my pocket from the moment you gave it to me tonight. I couldn't wait to hear your voice again.” 

“I had a really good time tonight and I’d like to see you again if you’re up for it?” 

“Yeah? Great. How about dinner next Friday?” 

“Can’t wait. I’ll call you later with the details.” 

That all too familiar sinking sensation settles deep in your gut and before Steve can figure out you were listening you dart across the hall and into your room. The door slams shut behind you with no regard for the pictures on your wall and before you know it you’re burying your face into your pillow. He’d met someone while he was out tonight and you know you have absolutely no room to talk, no leg to stand on when it came to however you were feeling, you’d been on a date tonight, brought a guy home and had sex, if you could call it that. 

Steve was allowed to do whatever he wanted to, and you knew that, it’s just that you don’t think you can handle another failed date on your end to fill that ache in your heart. 

The next morning you take the initiative to call Eric before he doesn’t and the second date is set for Saturday. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A couple weeks later you manage to score a day off during the week, which meant you had the apartment to yourself.

Steve had thought it was weird how eager you were to send him off to work this morning, in fact majority of the time when you manage to get a day off during the week you’re begging him to play hooky and spend the day with you, but this morning you were nearly pushing him out the door.

He tried not to think too much of it, maybe you just wanted some alone time, or maybe you were inviting Eric over. He had spent the night the last time you went out, which Steve thought was strange, considering you never let guys sleep over, but the mid breakfast meeting between the two men had been interesting to say the least. 

As you walked into the kitchen that morning you found Steve sitting at the little table eating his food with your plate across from him– eggs made just how you like, orange juice in your favorite cup, and toast still hot to the touch. It wasn’t an unusual sight by any means, but what was unusual was you having company in the morning. So he doesn’t even think to make sure you’re alone when he hears you enter the kitchen, eyes not even looking up from his plate, before he blurts out – was he any better this time?

Eric awkwardly clears his throat from behind you and Steve looks up wide-eyed and slightly embarrassed. Before Steve can even begin to spit out an apology Eric mumbles I should get going and it’s an awkward thirty seconds as he gathers his jacket from your room and walks out the front door, because you don’t even try to get him to stay and Steve continues eating his eggs, now content with the departure of the man from your shared apartment. 

Steve figured after that debacle there was no way Eric would be back around, but if he knew Steve wasn’t going to be there today, well there was a chance, and it bothers Steve more than he’d like to admit. Either way though, Steve was going to find out what was going on back at home, because by the time second period rolled around he realized he’d forgotten his change of clothes for baseball practice tonight. There was no way he was going to be out there on that field in slacks and tie, especially when in true Indiana fashion, summer had arrived early and it was sweltering already in May. He’d just run home on his lunch break and grab some clothes and be right back– no big deal. 

He’d even called you before he left to give you a heads up that he was coming home soon, but there was no answer, and so he thinks that maybe his little spiral over Eric potentially being there was for nothing and you probably were out shopping. 

When his pickup truck pulls into his unofficially assigned parking spot at home and your black sedan is in its usual spot next to his– his mind conjures up a million different reasons as to why you hadn’t answered the phone earlier. None of them are good and frankly majority of them involve Eric and he chooses to ignore the alarms going off in his head about how he shouldn’t care this much about you fucking another guy. 

His eyes do a quick sweep of the parking lot, he doesn’t know what Eric drives, so he really doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, but Steve feels like he has crazy intuition and he’s expecting the vehicle to glow like a fucking beacon the second his eyes land on it. 

The search is of course futile. 

His wristwatch lets him know he only has twenty minutes left until he needs to be back at the school and with the hope of not walking through the front door to find Eric balls deep in you– Steve reluctantly gets out of the truck and walks towards apartment 4B. 

For the first time ever in his life– Steve knocks on his own front door. Not because he’s forgotten his key, but because he’s afraid of what might be going down on the other side of this couple inches of wood.. He gives it a minute and when there’s no response or the sound of two people scrambling to get dressed, he shoves his key in the lock and slowly opens the door. 

The living room comes into view as the door fully swings open and to Steve’s surprise it’s exactly as he remembers it when he left this morning– your favorite blanket draped over the back of the couch, his glasses that he claims he doesn’t need on the coffee table, and some of the various VHS tapes that Steve had nabbed back from his Family Video days in a pile on the side table. 

The apartment is eerily quiet save for the hum of the refrigerator and Steve comes to the conclusion that one of your friends has come and picked you up, because when you’re home it’s obvious. There’s always music playing or the TV is loudly playing some show you aren’t even watching– your presence is always known and right now all that lingers is reminders of you. 

He doesn’t think much more of it as he wanders down the hall and towards his room, but the sound that bounces off your four walls and through your door has Steve stunned and his feet cemented to the floor. 

“Oh my god!” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

From the moment you woke up this morning you’d been buzzing with anticipation, finally having the apartment to yourself in god knows how long, the new toy you’d picked up the other day burning a hole in your bedside drawer, and the fact that you haven’t had a good orgasm in ages– it had you wound tighter than a drum. 

It didn’t help that you’d slightly been edging yourself all morning, refusing to touch yourself, but constantly thinking about how good it was going to feel once you did. You could have jumped right into your bed and shoved your hand down your pants as soon as Steve left this morning, but this was more fun, and you knew the payoff for waiting would be worth it. 

It’s not until you find yourself squeezing your thighs together as you fold laundry that you finally cave. 

You grab your new vibrator from the drawer and get comfy on your bed as your heart nearly beats out of your chest from how worked up you are without even touching yourself yet. You’re still in your pajamas, a big t-shirt and shorts, but you keep them on to tease yourself just a little longer. The feeling of your fingertips tracing antagonizingly slow circles around your nipples through your thin t-shirt has a steady warmth spreading through your body and the ache between your plush thighs that much stronger. 

While your left hand still gives your nipples the attention they so desperately crave, your right travels down past your navel and in between your thighs. Your sleep shorts are thin and perhaps you hadn’t put any underwear on last night when you went to bed and maybe the ragged seam had been rubbing up against your clit all morning and maybe you did it on purpose so that when you finally caved just the slightest touch to yourself would have you gasping. 

Which is exactly what happens when your index and middle finger press down against your clothed core and the seam of your shorts rubs against that sensitive bundle of nerves. It feels so good and god you want nothing more than to just go crazy and bring yourself over the edge, but you’ve been so patient, and you’ve got all day to play with yourself. 

So why ruin the fun so prematurely? 

You start slow, the pads of your fingers rubbing small circles over the fabric while your other hand, that is now slipped under your shirt, pinches and gently tugs at your nipples, the both of them working in tandem. The warmth that radiates through you is intoxicating and it doesn’t shock you to feel the cotton of your shorts dampening in record time. You’d been working yourself up all morning and when your hand finally trails under the waistband of your shorts it’s a little obscene just how wet you are. 

Your shorts quickly get discarded, haphazardly thrown onto your floor, and then your shirt gets bunched up just enough to expose your tits to the cool air. The anticipation is burning through you like a wildfire and the only way to smother it is to make yourself come. 

Which is something you planned on doing– multiple times. 

Soft moans slip past your lips as your fingers rub tight little circles on your clit and as your eyes flutter closed your mind wanders to the one thing that you know will only amplify your pleasure.

Steve. 

You’d imagined one too many times, what it would be like to be the girl moaning underneath him, how it would feel to have his big warm hands caressing your body, to have him showering you in compliments and praises. 

Your fingers trail through your folds and down to your sopping wet cunt, circling the sensitive skin around your entrance with such a slow tortuous pace that it tears a whimper from you, hips bucking forward for something more. You know your fingers aren’t going to give you what you need, but you sink your index and middle finger in anyways, searching for that pleasure that you’ve never been able to give yourself. 

If only you had Steve’s long and thick fingers inside you right now, he’d surely have you grabbing at the sheets as he curled them just right, reaching that spot inside you that had you seeing stars. It wasn’t like you had much experience when it came to getting pleasure from your g-spot, considering the only person to ever find it was the girl you hooked up with last October, but you had confidence that Steve would have no issue. 

Just the idea of Steve pumping his fingers inside your tight cunt, stretching you out as he adds a third, it has you mewling. The squelching sounds of your own fingers pistoning into you fills the room and you could only imagine the dirty comment Steve would make about it. You knew he had a way with his words in the bedroom, you’d shamelessly listen through the walls on those nights when he’d bring home a girl on a whim, and you’d stored away those words for times like these. 

God, you’re so wet for me, aren’t you pretty girl?

You’re soaking my cock baby. 

Gonna make a mess all over my sheets aren’t you? 

But even with Steve’s dirty talk echoing around in your head, your fingers of course aren’t enough to bring you over the edge, and you’re hurriedly reaching for your vibrator, slick fingers fumbling with the button before it comes to life in your palm. 

The second you press it to your swollen clit it seems as if electricity shoots through you, pleasure coursing through every vein in your body, and you’ve never been more thankful to be home alone as you lose all composure. 

“Oh my god!” 

Your eyes are screwed shut, head thrown back against your pillow, and the prettiest sounds continue to slip past your lips as you increase the intensity level on the toy. 

It doesn’t take long at all for that all too familiar feeling to creep up on you, for the warmth that’s started low in your belly to spread throughout your body. When you take your vibrator off your clit and slowly trail it up your body all the way to your nipples and circle each of them with it you swear you lose all ability to breath for a second. 

Your chest heaves as you trail it back down your body and back to the sensitive pearl between your spread legs, increasing the intensity once again, which makes your chest heave even more. You’re teetering on the edge, the coil in your tummy on the verge of snapping, and all you can think about is Steve. 

How it sounded when he’d brought home Amanda a couple weeks ago– which is what had caused Eric to happen– how she’d moaned out his name laced with such pleasure that it made you squeeze your thighs together while you laid in bed. How she’d told him don’t stop and how she unapologetically let everyone know how good she was feeling. There was clearly no need for her to fake it. 

God you wanted to know what it was like to be pleased like that, to be taken care of in such a way by someone else that it had you practically incoherent. 

The bad thing was, you wanted that someone to be Steve, who was unfortunately your roommate and best friend. So, having unholy thoughts about him while you masturbated was just going to have to suffice. 

You click the intensity button once again and that is what finally brings you over the edge and turns you into a babbling mess, legs trembling, free hand clutching so tightly onto the sheets that your fingers cramp. 

“Oh my fucking god. Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you holler, pressing the toy harder against your clit as you ride out your orgasm, wishing it was Steve giving you it instead of this vibrator. “Please don’t stop, please, please.” 

Something mixed with greed and insanity takes over you and you press the intensity button again causing your leg to twitch and your hips to buck upwards, all while the vibrator is still glued to your clit. Your second orgasm crashes in fast, riding on the coattails of your first one, and it hits hard. 

“Oh fuck. Oh my god. Please Ste-”

You bite down on your fist, eyes rolling to the back of your head, all while muffled sobs fill your room. The vibrator gets tossed somewhere, on your bed or floor you aren’t sure, but your legs collapse out from under you and you lay flat on your bed, ears ringing with aftershocks coursing through you. 

On the other side of the door Steve is beside himself, his cheeks are flushed, and the semi he’s sporting is damn near a full erection at this point. He knew he should have swiftly turned around and left the second he realized what was happening, but he couldn’t, not when he’s imagined what you sounded like for some time now. What it sounded like when you were experiencing pleasure, what it sounded like when you came, and what it sounded like when you said his name. 

Alright so maybe he was getting ahead of himself, but Steve swears it sounded like you were about ready to moan his name, and you very well may have been getting ready to stay stop again, but he shamelessly hopes it was his name, because then he wouldn’t feel as dirty knowing you think about him when you touch yourself just like he does with you. 

God, you sounded so pretty though, and Steve can’t believe that those sounds came out of you. The girl who he wouldn’t even know was having sex unless he heard your headboard and the sound of the guy or you in a nonchalant way mentioning that the sex with whoever was shit. 

His heart is nearly beating out of his chest and his dick is achingly hard as he hears you coming down from what he could tell was two back to back orgasms. The way he can still hear little whimpers coming from you as you probably lay there spent, your inner thighs slick with your arousal, nipples still so sensitive and sore from you tugging on them. 

There were a million dirty thoughts swirling around in his head and he should feel ashamed, should feel like a creep for what he’s thinking, what he listened in on, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t for a long time when it came to you and he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about that either. 

Steve’s startled out of his horny moral dilemma by the sound of your bed creaking and before he can get caught he’s swiftly darting into his room, grabbing what might be a dirty cut off t-shirt and shorts, and tip-toeing back down the hall and out the door. 

As soon as the driver’s side door of Steve’s truck slams shut (which is the only way to guarantee it’s actually shut after Dustin fucked around with it by swinging on it like he was five and now it’s never been the same since) he let’s out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in as his hands grip the steering wheel with such vigor that his knuckles are stark white. 

He quickly adjusts himself in his slacks, tucking his erection into the waistband of his boxers, and tries to think of anything other than the sound of your pretty little whimpers. His head smacks against the headrest as his cheeks puff up, blowing out yet another deep breath combined with an explicit of some sort. 

Steve takes one last look at the apartment, shoves the key in the ignition, and backs out of his parking space like his whole world hasn’t just flipped upside down. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It’s nearing seven-thirty by the time Steve trudges in through the front door in his cut off tee and shorts, sweaty and hot, and still thinking about what took place in this said apartment hours earlier. The remainder of the school day had been a slow type of torture he’d not wish upon his worst enemy and then he had to go coach baseball in the sweltering sun like his whole body wasn’t already on fire. 

You had occupied every square inch on his brain since he left the apartment earlier and at times it wasn’t even anything inherently sexual– it was just you. How he loved coming home everyday to you, how you knew what was wrong with him before he did sometimes, how you deserved to be with someone that could take care of you in a multitude of ways. 

And the sight that greets him as he enters your shared home does nothing to eradicate the overwhelming infiltration of you in his mind. You’re standing at the stove, comfy clothes already on, humming along to whatever Fleetwood Mac song is playing on the radio, and the unmistakable smell of his favorite meal wafts towards him. 

You turn around and the sight of Steve standing there startles you, causing you to jump slightly, then let out the prettiest laugh he thinks he’s ever heard, and it makes Steve’s heart do a traitorous thing.

He figured he’d make it all awkward seeing you for the first time after hearing and listening to what you were doing earlier, but it wasn’t the least bit awkward. It was like any other evening, except you were glowing more than usual, smiling at him like he’d personally given you those orgasms earlier and god as unhinged as it sounded he could only imagine what you looked like directly after sex. 

Which now has his dick doing a traitorous thing instead of his heart. 

“Hard practice?” you ask, eyeing how his biceps glisten with sweat and how he’s got his baseball cap on backwards to keep his hair out of his face. 

“Yeah, hot as hell out there today,” Steve replies, trying not to notice how you don’t have a bra on, how the window AC unit that you insist on running on full blast has your nipples poking through the thin cotton. 

“Well,” you start, before turning back to the stove to stir the boiling spaghetti noodles. “You’re in luck because dinner is almost ready and I’ve made your favorite. Should be done in a few, the chicken is broiling in the oven. I’m trying to get the cheese a little crispy just how you like.” 

“I’m gonna go take a shower real quick then.” 

You nod, not bothering to turn back to face him as you stir the sauce. “Alright, I’ll holler when it’s done.” 

Steve hurries down the hall towards the bathroom and quickly strips out of his sweaty practice clothes, making sure to put them in the hamper because he’s not a slob, and then gets in the shower before he loses his mind.

The cold water does nothing to smother the fire that’s ignited low in his gut and he can’t believe you making him god damn chicken parmesan has got his dick hard again. 

He really is a simple guy and the domesticality of it all does more for him than he’d like to admit. 

Steve knows he’s got to do something about his not so little problem and so he lets his mind focus solely on you as he wraps his hand around his aching cock. His fingers gently squeeze around his shaft and on the first upstroke his hips embarrassingly buck into his fist with no control as his head tips back against the shower wall. 

He fucks his fist with no abandon and when his thumb glides over his throbbing tip a broken moan slips out of him, bouncing off the tile and hopefully not out to the kitchen. His head is swarming with you and all he can think about is how pretty you sounded earlier, how he’d never expected you to be so loud, and it only makes him want to see how much louder you can get. 

He thinks about how he’d love nothing more than to thank you for making him his favorite dinner later by going down on you. To thank you for taking such good care of him, because you do without even realizing it, and as much as Steve is a provider, the kind of person that takes care of others because it’s who he is. Sometimes he needs to be taken care of too, and you do it so well that Steve doesn’t even realize he’s being taken care of, and to him that deserves a mind blowing orgasm or two. 

His chest heaves and he has to brace himself against the wall with his other hand as he continues to stroke himself, imagining it was your soft hands wrapped around him right now, and not his callused ones. 

You consume him entirely and he finds himself having to bite down on the bicep of his extended arm to muffle the moans and whimpers that want to come alive and live within the four walls of this tiny bathroom. 

He’s close, he can feel that sweet release sneaking up on him fast, and with one last stroke Steve comes so hard that he nearly draws blood from how hard he’s biting down on his arm, your name and profanities muffled against the tanned muscle. He paints the shower wall with his cum, stroking himself to damn near overstimulation, until he finally slumps against the wall behind him.

Exhaustion creeps in fast and he’s still trying to catch his breath when he hears a knock on the door. 

“Steve! Hurry up! Dinner is getting cold.” 

He swallows hard, heart nearly leaping out of his chest at the idea of you listening in on him like he had you, but he can’t let his mind go any further than that, can’t let you wait any longer. So, he rinses his cum off the tile wall and quickly finishes his shower. 

When he joins you a few minutes later at the tiny table in the kitchen, his hair still dripping wet onto the old Hawkins High Phys Ed shirt he threw on, and you immediately tease him about having to reheat his own food, but then grab the plate anyways and toss it into the microwave for thirty seconds. 

“Try a rough month.” You put the bills you’d been trying to count back in the register. There wasn’t enough, that much was obvious, and you weren’t in the mood to go on a coffee-slinging charm offensive.

“That so?” He grinned, the kind of grin that had probably gotten him out of three traffic stops and into someone's bed at least twice that you knew of. “Want me to guess what's eatin’ you, or you want to skip straight to tellin’ me to shut up?”

“Pick one. I've got customers.”

He glanced around. “There's hardly anyone else in here.”

“There's you. You count for double - as a problem, and as a customer.”

He laughed like that was the best thing he'd heard all week, head tipped back, easy, like nothing in the world could touch him. You hated how that laugh worked on you. You hated it so much because it worked. It always had.

“Y’know,” he started, “…most people, when I walk in smilin’, they smile back. It's like a reflex. Real involuntary.”

“I'm not most people.”

“No kiddin’.” He looked at you a second too long, the grin softening into something you didn't have a name for yet and didn't want one for. “Y’want a coffee? On me.”

“I own the place. The coffee's already on me.”

“Fine. I'll tip generously.” He pulled a chipped mug toward himself before you'd even reached for the pot. “So what's got you in such a mood? And don't say nothin’, your whole face is doin’ a thing.”

“My face isn't doing a thing.”

“Your face is doing a lotta things, actually.” He counted on his fingers, slow, like he had all day, because he probably did. “Mad eyebrows. Tight jaw. That cute little crease right here.” He pointed at his own forehead, right between the brows, completely unphased by the fact that you looked like you wanted to throw the coffee pot at him.

“Maybe I'm just tired of men who think flirting is a substitute for being useful?”

“Ow.” He pressed a hand to his chest like you'd actually wounded him, though the grin never left his face. “That's cold. I'm plenty useful.”

“Name one thing.”

“I make you laugh.”

“You make me want to scream into a pillow.”

“I mean, I bet I could...” He took the mug you finally poured, fingers brushing yours just long enough to be deliberate, and winked like he hadn't done it on purpose at all. “Same time tomorrow, princess?”

“Don't call me princess.”

"Wouldn't dream of it.” He was already at the door, already grinning over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, gorgeous.”

He was still in his gear from the Upside Down, that backwards cap that made your head spin.

Your arm was slung over his shoulder as his arm was wrapped around your waist, helping to haul you up into his bathroom.

You groaned as you walked up the steps.

“You okay?” Steve asked as you winced with every step.

You nodded. “Yep.”

A lie.

Your skin felt like it was on fire.

The bathroom door creaked open and Steve flicked on the light, a soft amber glow illuminating the confined space.

His hands rested on your hips as he lifted you up onto the counter. “Okay,” he said, reaching into the medicine cabinet and grabbing the first aid kit. “Can you uh…” he trailed off, glancing down at your shirt that was soaked in blood. He cleared his throat, looking away awkwardly. “Take your shirt off,” he finished quietly. “Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”

Of course you were comfortable with Steve. What a ridiculous comment to make.

Steve started to wash his hands as you carefully lifted your shirt up, holding it in your lap.

Steve dried his hands onto the towel and turned back to you.

He swallowed.

Hard.

You were nothing but your bra and jeans.

“You gonna keep staring at me or are you gonna help me, Harrington?” you asked, playfulness in your tone despite the burning sensation on your stomach.

Steve blinked back into reality, shaking his head as he scrambled for the first aid kit. “Right,” he chuckled awkwardly, hands shaking.

He accidentally knocked the entire kit to the floor, making your eyes widen.

He dropped to the floor in the blink of an eye, yanking the first aid kit up and laughing awkwardly. “Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, cheeks pink.

You smiled softly, watching as his shaking hands opened the kit, pulling out antiseptic.

“Steve,” you said softly.

“Huh?” he replied, his pretty, but nervous, doe eyes meeting yours.

You glanced down at the antiseptic in his hand, then to the large gash across your abdomen. “I’m still bleeding out to death, you know.”

Steve’s eyes widened, your hand that was on your stomach covered in blood as it leaked out.

“Oh shit,” he panicked. He raced out the room to grab a clean cloth and returned a second later. “I’ve got it,” he said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist to move your hand out of the way.

He applied firm pressure onto the cut, and you immediately groaned, body stiffening.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Am I hurting you too much? I’ve just gotta stop the bleeding.”

“No, it’s okay,” you replied, voice hoarse. “Just…” you breathed out, body relaxing as you shut your eyes. “I’m a baby when it comes to pain tolerance.”

Steve laughed. “Tell me about it.”

You shot him a glare, to which he just smirked.

He applied a little more pressure as time went on. You groaned again, shutting your eyes and throwing your head back against the mirror.

Steve glanced up at you, and his breath hitched when he saw how…

Hot you looked.

Stray strands of your hair clung to your skin, your eyes were shut, jaw tight, and your back was arched slightly.

You were his best friend.

You were not supposed to be looking this good.

Especially after you just came back from two different dimensions, hadn’t slept in days, evaded the government, and dropped everyone off at home safely.

Damn you.

“Are you almost done?” you said breathlessly.

Steve almost melted right there.

Fuck, you were so perfect.

“Mhm,” he hummed nervously. “Almost.”

Your eyes fluttered open, lips parting slightly as a sigh escaped you. You lifted your head a little, looking down at the towel that was covered in blood.

Steve glanced up at you, but immediately looked away.

He figured now would be a very inappropriate time to be lusting over his best friend who probably had no interest in him.

Little did he know, you thought he was looking too good in that backwards hat.

Steve removed the towel from your stomach and set it down. He put some antiseptic on a fresh towel and turned to you. “Okay. This is gonna burn.”

Your jaw clenched as you nodded. “I know.”

Steve nodded. “Alright. One…two…”

“Fuck!” you winced, the stinging cutting through your already open wound like a knife. You squeezed your eyes shut as your head fell back again.

Steve dabbed at your skin as he cleaned it.

He also glanced up every now and then, unable to look away from the beautiful sight of you quite literally in agony.

Your skin was flushed, chest slowly taking in level breaths as low groans escaped you every now and then.

Steve pulled the cloth away, moving to grab a gauze pad. He placed it gently onto your skin, his other hand fumbling for the tape as he taped it onto your skin.

“All done,” Steve said, looking up at you awkwardly.

You let out a sigh. “Thanks.”

Steve hummed, watching you reach for the soap to wash your hands and rid it of the blood.

You were drying your hands off on the towel, still sitting on the counter when he spoke again.

“Does it hurt?”

You nodded, setting the towel down. “Yeah, actually. Like, pretty bad.”

“I could kiss it better,” he joked, earning a laugh from you.

“Careful,” you giggled. “I might find a few more wounds for you to kiss better,” you teased. Steve laughed, though his cheeks were burning bright pink. “But since you seem so eager go ahead,” you joked.

Now, when you said that, you didn’t think he was actually going to do it.

In your mind, you thought he knew it was a joke too.

Regardless, he did anyway.

His fingers delicately ran down your sides, making you shutter. His fingers slowly made their way down the sides of your stomach, stopping at your waist to hold on to.

His eyes never looked away from your face.

You swallowed hard, glancing up to make eye contact with him.

Was he fucking serious?

The pupils of his hazel eyes dilated, changing in the way he looked at you.

Friends didn’t look at each other like that.

Lovers did.

He held eye contact as he slowly bent down, his face now in front of your stomach.

Your breath hitched when he looked at your abdomen, shutting his eyes as he placed a soft kiss onto the gauze.

A soft sound escaped you, one that made his heart flutter.

His lips ghosted their way over to your skin, your heart hammering in your chest in anticipation.

He placed a soft, firm kiss onto your skin.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

It was electrifying in a way you couldn’t explain. It was like something you had craved for so long was just teasing you.

You had grown awfully fond of Steve over the years, unsure of if he could ever reciprocate your affection.

So you buried it and continued on with being friends.

But this?

This just changed everything.

“Steve,” you said softly.

He stood up straight, hands still at your waist.

You looked up at him, his pupils blown wide in not just desire, but love.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Come here.”

Steve leaned in a little closer.

“Closer.”

And he obliged like your words simply forced him to. He obliged like he would do whatever your words told him to without a second thought, without any hesitation.

He leaned in a little closer, his nose just inches from yours.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes flicking down to his lips before going back up to his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly.”

“No?” he asked, eyes slowly looking down at your perfect lips.

“No,” you whispered.

Steve smirked, one of his hands trailing down your bare arm, creating a line of goosebumps. “I’m listening,” he teased.

You both knew what you wanted.

It was right there, just seconds, inches away.

He knew damn well your thank you required no words, yet he teased you anyway just to prolong the moment.

Now you felt awkward, breath hitching at the way he eyed your lips, his fingers grazing your soft skin with such delicacy.

“I…” you faltered, looking down at his lips.

Steve smirked. “I don’t think a verbal thank you is the best way to go, huh?”

Your eyes looked up into his. Your faces were inches apart, eyes so close you saw stupid little stars in them.

“I’d rather show you anyway,” you said.

Finally, you leaned in slowly, closing the space between you and Steve.

Your lips met gently, his nose brushing against yours.

It felt absolutely electric. His lips were warm, soft, and it felt like absolute heaven.

He immediately melted into the kiss, sighing against your lips.

Your arms came up to wrap around his neck, one hand on the back of his head to keep him right where you wanted him.

His hands tightened around your hips as he deepened the kiss.

Within seconds, months, years, of built up tension released itself.

You moaned into his mouth and he kissed you reverently, like he’d never be provided the opportunity again.

The bathroom instantly filled with your pants and moans, something you would’ve found disgustingly vulgar, but it only pushed you over the edge.

Steve pulled apart, instantly kissing your neck.

You whined as he placed open mouthed kisses all over your sensitive skin. Your hands wrapped around his shirt, tugging at the fabric.

He took the hint, pulling away and tugging his shirt off over his head, followed by the hat.

Your eyes wandered his toned chest and biceps. The hair on his chest made your heart flutter and the scars along his skin from the demobats a year ago were still present.

He dove back in, kissing your lips.

He groaned into your mouth as your fingers gently traced small patterns onto his skin.

His teeth bit at your bottom lip and when you moaned, he dipped his tongue in, kissing you deeper.

You wanted Steve.

All of him.

And he wanted all of you.

You whined, fingers now pulling at his belt loop.

He smiled against your lips, pulling away for a moment as the sound of both of you catching your breaths filled the room.

“So needy, huh?” he teased, already reaching to undo his belt.

“Shut up, Harrington,” you said, rolling your eyes.

Steve laughed, unbuckling his belt as he leaned back in to kiss you.

You sighed as he kissed you slowly, as if he was savoring your taste and the moment.

His hands fumbled as he undid his belt, the sound of it dropping to the ground echoing in the room.

Your eyes were shut, but you could hear his pants dropping to the floor too.

His lips were still on yours as his nervous hands shook to unbutton your pants. He couldn’t believe it. It was really happening.

His fingers trembled as they unzipped your jeans and you gasped as he lifted your hips, pulling the fabric right off and tossing it onto the floor.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pressed his front against you.

You moaned softly, pulling apart from Steve’s lips to catch your breath.

Steve pressed his front against you again and you could feel the prominent bulge in his underwear. “You feel what you do to me?” he asked, kissing your collarbone.

A gasp escaped you as he picked you up, carrying you into his bedroom and slamming the door shut, laying you down onto your back into the bed.

His nose brushed yours and you giggled, moving the stray piece of hair away from his face. “Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he said softly with that familiar smile. 

Your face flushed as his was just inches from yours. Never in a million years did you imagine you’d be this intimately close to your best friend.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, eyes adorned.

You looked away with a nervous smile and when you did so, he tucked your hair behind your ear. “Don’t turn away,” he teased.

You looked back at him, face warm, body hot. “Is this gonna make things weird between us?” you asked. “I don’t wanna lose you, Steve.”

Steve’s expression softened. “No. Never,” he affirmed. “You could never lose me, no matter how hard you tried.”

Your lips curved upward. “Even if this is super awkward?”

“Nope. Not leaving.”

You hummed, thinking of something else. “Well what if-”

“Not leaving,” he interrupted you.

“I didn’t finish!”

“You don’t need to,” Steve laughed. “You could tell me that you burned my own house to the ground and I’d still praise the ground you walk on.”

“Steve!”

“It’s true! I love you.”

Your heart immediately skipped a beat as you stared at him in shock.

Did he seriously just say that?

“What?” you asked.

“I love you,” Steve repeated. “And I have for a long time.”

And it was like the world stopped spinning for a second.

Like the monsters and all the fighting were now insignificant, because Steve Harrington just told you that he loved you.

And he meant it from the bottom of his heart.

He loved you.

You blinked. “You…You love me?”

“Of course I love you,” Steve said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love how smart you are. I love how you protect the kids. I love how considerate you are…” he trailed off. “You want me to keep going?”

You laughed. “Maybe.”

And Steve didn’t even hesitate to list the million other things about you that made him fall head over heels in love with you.

It seemed like the words were just flowing out of his mouth naturally, like he didn’t even need to think about it.

And when he was finished, you said the six words that made him melt instantly.

“I love you too, Steve Harrington.”

And that night the friendship wasn’t ruined.

Something more sacred blossomed.

Your love.

You were both so deeply in love and now neither of you ever had to second guess it anymore.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Which is how, several hours later, you find yourselves climbing into bed completely unaware that you're about to begin what will later become known as The Longest Week Of Steve Harrington's Life.

The bedroom is already unpleasant.

Not unbearably hot yet, but close enough to be annoying. The air feels heavy and stale. The open window isn't helping nearly as much as either of you had hoped it would. Somewhere outside, a car alarm briefly goes off before stopping again, and from another house comes the distant sound of somebody arguing about whether they should buy a fan.

The sheets are warm. The pillows are warm. Even the mattress seems suspiciously warm.

You spend approximately thirty seconds lying there before kicking one leg free of the duvet. Steve follows shortly afterwards. Then the other leg. Then an arm. Then the duvet itself ends up somewhere near the bottom of the bed.

For a while neither of you says anything. You're both too busy attempting to negotiate a comfortable sleeping position without actually touching anything.

Then you feel it. The look. You don't even need to turn your head. You know that look. After several years together, you could probably identify it from another postcode.

Slowly, you glance across the bed, and Steve is already watching you. The smile arrives first - that familiar crooked smile that always means he's about to become a problem.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me."

The innocence in his voice is deeply unconvincing.

"What are you talking about?"

You stare. Steve stares back, his smile getting wider.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The face."

"I don't have a face."

"You absolutely have a face."

Steve laughs quietly. The mattress shifts as he rolls onto his side, immediately moving closer like a moth approaching a flame.

Or an idiot approaching an obviously bad decision. Possibly both.

"Baby."

"No."

"I haven't even said anything."

"You don't need to."

His hand slides lazily across your waist. You try very hard not to smile, but fail immediately. Steve notices, because of course he notices.

Encouraged by this development, he leans closer and presses a kiss against your shoulder. Then another. Then one just below your ear.

Ordinarily, this would be an excellent way to spend an evening. Ordinarily, you'd be entirely supportive of whatever nonsense Steve Harrington was attempting.

Ordinarily.

"Steve."

"Hm?"

"It's too hot." The protest comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan.

Steve freezes - actually freezes - like you've just informed him Christmas has been cancelled.

"It's not that hot."

You stare at him. Then gesture broadly around the room. Towards the open window which is doing absolutely nothing, towards the discarded duvet, towards the fact that neither of you has voluntarily touched each other for more than five seconds all evening.

"It's absolutely that hot."

The betrayal on his face is immediate, profound, almost moving. Steve drops backwards onto the mattress with enough dramatic force to make the entire bed bounce beneath you.

"My own girlfriend."

"Oh, don't start."

"My own girlfriend rejects me."

"You'll survive."

"I don't know if I will."

"You will."

"This feels personal."

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

Steve, meanwhile, continues staring at the ceiling like a man contemplating the collapse of civilisation.

For the next ten minutes, he complains continuously about injustice, about cruelty, about the fundamental unfairness of the universe. At one point, he accuses the weather itself of targeting him specifically.

You point out that several million other people are currently experiencing the exact same temperature. Steve remains unconvinced.

Eventually, however, even he has to admit defeat. The heat is simply too much.

So the two of you settle into the familiar compromise you've perfected over the years.

Close enough to feel each other's presence. Far enough apart that neither of you overheats.

One of Steve's feet ends up resting lightly against your ankle. Your hand brushes his wrist.

Tiny points of contact. Just enough.

And as you drift off to sleep, Steve mutters something under his breath about the weather being his greatest enemy.

At the time, you assume he's joking.

By day four, neither of you will be entirely sure.

Day two is worse.

Not just emotionally. Meteorologically.

The temperature climbs several degrees higher overnight and, with it, whatever goodwill either of you had left towards summer. The air feels thicker somehow, heavier, as though somebody has draped an invisible blanket over the entire town and forgotten to remove it. Opening windows doesn't help. Closing them doesn't help. Standing in front of a fan helps for approximately thirty seconds before the fan simply starts blowing warm air directly into your face.

By lunchtime, every surface in the house has developed the faintly unpleasant quality of being slightly warm to the touch. The sofa is warm. The kitchen counters are warm. Even the floor feels suspiciously warm.

Steve is handling this poorly, dramatically, the way Steve handles most things.

You find him standing in front of the open refrigerator no fewer than four times throughout the day, each time pretending he's looking for something despite making absolutely no effort to actually remove anything from it.

At one point you walk into the kitchen to discover him simply staring into the fridge with his eyes closed.

"What are you doing?"

"It's cooler in here."

"Steve."

"Don't take this from me."

By early evening, however, another problem begins presenting itself.

Namely you.

Or more specifically, the fact that surviving a heatwave requires dressing accordingly.

The tiny shorts aren't for Steve. The tiny vest isn't for Steve. The fact that you've spent most of the day with your hair tied up and as much skin exposed as possible isn't for Steve either.

It's for survival. Pure, practical survival.

Unfortunately, Steve appears determined not to believe this.

You catch him looking, frequently - the sort of distracted glances that start subtle and become increasingly obvious as the day progresses.

By six o'clock, he's lost all pretence entirely.

The incident occurs while you're making a drink in the kitchen.

You're standing on tiptoe, reaching into the cupboard for a glass when you feel familiar arms wrap around your waist from behind, and you immediately grow suspicious. Because Steve only approaches this quietly when he's planning something.

His chest presses against your back, his chin settles briefly on your shoulder. And then comes the smile. You can't see it, but you can feel it.

"Steve."

"Baby."

The man already sounds wounded, and you haven't even rejected him yet. His forehead drops onto your shoulder dramatically, like a Victorian widower grieving a lost love.

"What?"

"I had an idea."

You close your eyes. "No."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I absolutely know what it is."

"You don't."

"I do."

"You don't."

You finally turn around, only to find him looking deeply offended. A performance - an excellent performance - but a performance nonetheless.

"Tell me your idea."

The smile arrives instantly, far too quickly, like he'd been waiting for permission.

"What if," he begins carefully, "I had a really good solution to this whole situation?"

Your eyes narrow. "What situation?"

"The situation where my girlfriend keeps rejecting me."

You laugh despite yourself, and Steve takes this as encouragement. Which is a mistake.

"A really practical solution."

"Oh God."

"What if I bent you over the kitchen counter?"

You nearly drop the glass.

"Steve!"

"The counter's cool."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"The fact that you've thought about the temperature of the counter is deeply concerning."

"I'm adapting."

"You're spiralling."

"I'm innovating."

The smile he gives you is so proud of itself that you nearly laugh again. Nearly.

Because the problem is that he's very attractive. Even sweaty. Especially sweaty, unfortunately.

His hands settle against your hips, his gaze flicks briefly to your mouth, and for one dangerous moment, you genuinely consider it. The cool counter, the empty house, the fact that it's been two whole days.

Steve sees the hesitation immediately, and the hope that appears on his face is almost embarrassing.

"Baby?"

You groan - actually groan - because he's making this difficult.

"I hate that look."

"What look?"

"That one."

"What one?"

"The one where you think you're winning."

Steve grins, slowly and confidently, like a man standing on the edge of victory.

Then you gently push him backwards. The grin vanishes instantly.

"It's too hot."

The devastation is immediate. Profound. Shakespearean.

"Baby."

"It's too hot."

"Baby."

"It's the hottest June day in years."

"I don't care."

"I do."

Steve drops his head backwards with a noise that should not be physically possible for a grown man to make. Somewhere between a sigh and a whine. The sound of a man watching his dreams crumble before his eyes.

You nearly cave. Honestly, you do. Because he's cute, and persistent, and looking at you like he's personally offended by the weather.

But then a bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck and reminds you exactly why this entire arrangement exists in the first place.

"No."

Steve closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods solemnly.

Then points accusingly towards the sky. "This is the weather's fault."

And for perhaps the hundredth time that day, you find yourself laughing at him.

By day three, Steve becomes proactive. Dangerously proactive.

You discover this when you walk into the bedroom after lunch and immediately stop dead in the doorway.

For a moment, you genuinely aren't sure what you're looking at.

The bedroom appears to have undergone some sort of hostile takeover.

Fans. Everywhere.

Not one or two. Not a sensible number.

Fans. An absurd number of fans.

There are fans on the bedside tables. Fans on the chest of drawers. A fan balanced on a chair that definitely wasn't designed to hold one. Another perched in the corner. One near the window. One near the wardrobe.

Possibly more. You lose count somewhere around six.

Every single one of them is pointed directly at the bed.

The combined noise is staggering. The room sounds less like a bedroom and more like the engine room of a moderately sized aircraft.

You stand there staring. The fans continue roaring.

In the middle of it all stands Steve, arms folded across his chest, looking so proud of himself it's almost offensive.

"What," you say slowly, "is this?"

Steve's smile widens immediately. "A solution."

You glance around again. The fans continue blasting air from every conceivable direction. One of them is oscillating aggressively. Another appears to be vibrating slightly. You're fairly certain the electricity bill is about to become a criminal offence.

"You did all this today?"

"Yep."

"You bought all these today?"

"Yep."

You look at the nearest fan. Then another. Then another. Then back at Steve.

"This cost money."

"It was an investment."

"Steve."

"A worthwhile investment."

"You bought six fans."

"I bought seven."

The correction arrives immediately, proudly, like he's expecting praise.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks deeply offended.

"You're laughing."

"You bought seven fans."

"Because I care."

"Our bedroom sounds like an airport runway."

"Because I care."

Unfortunately, the worst part is that it actually works.

The room is noticeably cooler. Not cold, not comfortable, but significantly less awful than the rest of the house. Enough that you find yourself lingering.

Enough that Steve notices immediately. The look on his face becomes dangerous, hopeful, the sort of hopeful that has repeatedly got him into trouble this week.

"You know," he says casually, "the bed's pretty cool now."

You narrow your eyes and Steve smiles the least trustworthy smile you've ever seen.

Ten minutes later, despite your better judgement, you're both sprawled across the bed. The fans continue roaring around you. The room is cool enough that you're actually touching for the first time in days without immediately wanting to peel your own skin off.

And honestly? You've missed this - missed him - missed the easy intimacy of being close without worrying about overheating.

Steve's hand slides into your hair, and your fingers curl into his shirt. The tension that's been building all week starts unravelling all at once - slowly, naturally, inevitably.

The kisses become longer, softer, then not so soft. The sort that makes you forget what you were talking about halfway through a sentence. The sort that leaves Steve looking increasingly pleased with himself.

Because after three days of rejection, three days of failed schemes and dramatic sighing and weather-related suffering, he can practically taste victory.

For one glorious minute, Steve genuinely believes he's won.

Then you pull back.

Not because you've changed your mind. But because you're laughing, hard, immediately. The kind of laughter that arrives out of nowhere and refuses to stop.

Steve blinks, confused and slightly offended.

"What?"

You point helplessly towards the nearest fan. Or rather, towards the collective noise of all seven.

The room sounds ridiculous. The kissing had distracted you from it momentarily, but now it's impossible to ignore.

Steve says something. You don't hear a word.

"What?"

He repeats himself. Still nothing. You laugh harder, tears beginning to form at the corners of your eyes.

Steve props himself up on one elbow. "What?"

You catch approximately half of the word, the rest disappearing into the mechanical roar surrounding you.

The absurdity of it all hits at once. The seven fans, the fact that he'd apparently spent actual money on this, the fact that he'd transformed your bedroom into a wind tunnel in pursuit of sex.

You bury your face in the pillow laughing.

Steve finally realises what's happening, and the betrayal on his face is immediate.

"Oh, come on."

"What?"

"I said-"

The fan nearest the bed chooses that exact moment to rattle loudly, and you lose it entirely.

Steve drops backwards onto the mattress with a groan, an actual groan - long, frustrated, deep enough that it cuts through even the fan noise.

You immediately point at him. "There!"

"What?"

"That!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

Steve looks baffled.

You grin. "I can't hear all the pretty noises you make."

For a second, he just stares. Then his eyes close. His head drops backwards. And another groan leaves him - even longer this time, even more dramatic - the exact sound you'd been talking about.

Which unfortunately only makes you laugh harder.

Steve, meanwhile, lies in the centre of his self-constructed cooling system wondering how, despite spending an entire afternoon planning the perfect solution, he has somehow managed to lose yet again.

By the time you eventually leave the room still giggling, he's genuinely considering whether the weather itself might be sentient.

Because at this point, it's starting to feel personal.

By day four, Steve is desperate.

Not in a dignified way. Not in a way that future generations would look back upon with admiration.

By day four, Steve Harrington has entered a deeply concerning phase of the heatwave. A phase characterised by increasingly elaborate plans, questionable decision-making, and the unwavering belief that if he just thinks hard enough, he'll eventually discover a loophole.

You discover this shortly after your shower.

The house is still warm despite the sun beginning to sink. Your hair is damp from the water, a towel draped around your shoulders as you wander down the hallway, enjoying the rare feeling of not being overheated for approximately five consecutive minutes.

Then Steve's voice drifts in through the open back door.

"Baby? Can you come here?"

Immediately suspicious. Not enough for you to be alarmed or concerned. Just suspicious. Because you've spent enough time with Steve Harrington to recognise the tone he uses when he's trying very hard to sound casual about something. The tone itself is casual. The effort behind it is not.

You follow the sound outside.

And stop.

For a moment, you're genuinely speechless.

The garden has been transformed. Not professionally or even particularly elegantly, but with an amount of earnest determination that's honestly quite endearing.

A blanket has been spread across the grass. Fairy lights hang overhead, strung between fence posts in slightly uneven lines. Candles flicker inside old jam jars arranged around the edges of the blanket. Somewhere nearby, a portable speaker is quietly playing music. The last of the evening sunlight is fading beyond the rooftops, leaving everything bathed in that soft golden-blue light that only seems to exist for a few minutes each day.

And standing in the middle of it all is Steve.

Looking so hopeful it nearly breaks your heart.

For a second, all the teasing disappears. Because it's sweet. Ridiculously sweet. The sort of sweet that only happens when somebody has spent far too much time thinking about how to make you smile.

Steve shifts awkwardly when he notices you've stopped speaking, suddenly self-conscious, which somehow makes it even worse.

"I thought..." He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "Well, it's cooler outside than inside."

You glance around.

To be fair, it is. The heatwave has finally loosened its grip slightly. A gentle breeze moves through the garden. The air feels lighter than it has all week.

Steve gestures vaguely around him.

"There's a breeze and everything."

"A breeze?"

"Yeah."

His confidence begins returning.

"A pretty good breeze, actually."

"Oh, a pretty good breeze?"

"Maybe even an excellent breeze."

You laugh, and Steve's shoulders immediately relax, encouraged and dangerous.

"I just figured maybe we'd sit out here for a bit."

"Steve."

"Maybe enjoy the evening."

"Steve."

"Maybe enjoy each other."

There it is. Finally. The real agenda.

Steve looks far too pleased with himself.

You stare at him for a moment. At the fairy lights, the blanket, the candles, the sheer commitment.

Then you cross the garden. Quickly, before he can say anything else, before he can ruin the moment by continuing to talk.

Your hands find his face. His eyes widen.

And then you're kissing him.

Hard. Immediate. Every bit of affection and frustration and longing that's been building for the past four days suddenly condensed into one moment.

Steve makes a noise that sounds suspiciously triumphant.

His hands find your waist instantly, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, the breeze shifts around you, the fairy lights glow softly overhead.

And for one glorious, beautiful moment, Steve genuinely believes he's done it.

Finally. Victory. At long last. The curse is broken. The drought is over. The kingdom is restored.

Then you pull away.

The confusion on his face is immediate. Devastating, really. Like watching somebody lose a raffle they were absolutely convinced they'd already won.

"Baby."

"No."

"Baby."

"No."

"Come on."

You laugh despite yourself.

Steve, meanwhile, looks moments away from writing a strongly worded letter to the weather.

"You kissed me."

"I did."

"Very enthusiastically."

"I did."

"And now you're saying no?"

You reach up and gently tilt his chin upwards. Towards the neighbouring houses. Towards the row of upstairs windows overlooking the gardens. Towards the very clear view that several innocent bystanders currently have of Steve's carefully constructed romantic masterpiece.

Realisation dawns.

Briefly, very briefly, then vanishes again.

Honestly, at this point Steve no longer cares. Four days is a long time. A very long time. The man is operating almost entirely on hope and determination.

He squints at the neighbour's window, then shrugs.

"Maybe they're not home."

You stare. Steve stares back.

"That's your solution?"

"It's not a bad solution."

"Steve."

"We could take the risk."

You laugh so hard you nearly double over.

The expression on his face becomes increasingly wounded.

Eventually, you lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Then another, softer this time. Apologetic and affectionate. Enough to remind him that he isn't actually losing. Just waiting.

"I'm sorry, honey."

Steve lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like genuine heartbreak. The kind of noise usually associated with tragic romances and historical disasters.

"As soon as the heatwave passes."

For a moment he simply stares at you. Then at the sky. Then back at you. As though attempting to determine exactly how much longer this weather intends to torment him personally.

Finally, he sighs. Long, suffering, dramatic enough to deserve its own award.

And as you disappear back towards the house, leaving him standing amongst the fairy lights and candles and increasingly unnecessary romantic gestures, Steve finds himself wondering whether five days can legally count as cruel and unusual punishment.

You wake on the fifth morning to the soft, steady sound of rain tapping against the bedroom window.

For a few blissfully disorienting seconds, you don't understand why you feel different. Then it hits you all at once.

You're comfortable. Actually comfortable.

Not half-awake and sweating through the sheets. Not tangled in blankets you've spent the entire night kicking away from your body. Not desperately searching for the cool side of the pillow every twenty minutes. For the first time in what feels like forever, the room feels pleasant. The air is cool. The mattress isn't radiating heat. Even the duvet, pulled loosely over your legs, feels cosy rather than oppressive.

Outside, the rain continues falling in a gentle, steady rhythm that would ordinarily make you want to stay in bed all morning.

Today, however, something else catches your attention.

Steve.

You turn your head and find him still asleep beside you, sprawled across the mattress in the careless way only Steve Harrington can manage. His hair is sticking up in approximately six different directions. One arm is trapped beneath his pillow. His mouth is slightly open. After four straight days of increasingly dramatic suffering, he looks suspiciously peaceful.

Completely unaware that the heatwave is finally over.

The sight makes something warm settle quietly in your chest.

Because the truth is, you've missed this too.

Not sex, necessarily.

Well. Not just that.

You've missed him.

Missed the easy closeness that usually exists between you. Missed curling into his side without immediately overheating. Missed waking up tangled together instead of separated by several feet of mattress and a mutual desire not to spontaneously combust.

For nearly a week, every touch has felt brief. Every kiss has ended with somebody laughing about the weather. Every moment has been interrupted by heat, sweat, neighbours, fans, or some other obstacle determined to test Steve's patience.

And somehow, through all of it, he'd never once stopped looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The thought makes you smile.

Carefully, you shift closer.

Steve doesn't wake immediately, but he does make a soft noise in the back of his throat and instinctively moves towards you, even in his sleep. Your fingertips brush lightly across his jaw, tracing the familiar stubble there before drifting along his cheek. Then his shoulder. Then the curve of his neck.

Within seconds, his eyelashes begin to flutter. Slowly, sleepily, his eyes crack open. And the moment he sees you, he smiles. Not the cocky smile. Not the teasing one. The soft one. The sleepy one. The one that always feels like being let in somewhere private.

"Hey," he murmurs.

You don't answer.

Instead, you lean forward and kiss him.

The smile disappears immediately.

Replaced by surprise.

Then delight.

Steve's hand finds your waist before he's even fully awake, pulling you closer as he kisses you back. The rain continues tapping softly against the window. The room remains cool. Comfortable. Quiet.

For the first time all week, there are no fans roaring in the background.

No neighbours overlooking the garden.

No excuses.

Just the two of you.

When you finally pull back, Steve blinks up at you for a moment as though trying to process what's happening.

Then his eyes narrow slightly.

Suspicious.

"Baby?"

"Yeah?"

A pause.

"The heatwave's over," you giggle.

Steve, meanwhile, looks genuinely emotional.

"You have no idea how happy that just made me."

You kiss him again before he can continue complaining about the previous four days.

And this time, neither of you is in any hurry to stop.

You swing your leg over his hip, pulling him closer, and immediately feel the effect it has on him. A low groan escapes him as he presses against you, the sound swallowed by your kiss. After nearly a week of stolen glances, failed attempts, and endless frustration, the tension between you feels almost unbearable. The moment he rolls his hips against yours, his eyes flutter shut.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with want. "Missed you so much."

A laugh escapes you, soft and breathless. "I think I've got some idea."

The teasing only seems to make things worse for him. His hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, encouraging you onto his lap with a desperation that borders on endearing. The second you settle over him, another helpless sound leaves his throat.

"Oh, so this is what you wanted, huh?" you murmur against his skin, trailing kisses from his jaw down to his neck.

His answer arrives as a sharp exhale and a roll of his hips. "God, yes."

For a few moments, neither of you seems capable of doing anything except enjoying the simple fact of finally being close again. You shift on his lap, pressing down enough to relieve some of the pressure that had been building all week. Your fingers disappear into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly as his hands settle firmly at your waist, guiding your movements. Every touch feels heightened after days of avoiding exactly this.

When you moan into the kiss, he presses his lips against yours harder, spurred on by the pretty noises you're making for him. He's fully hard now, and you're dripping onto him, so much so that he can already feel his dick getting wet.

When you shift to climb off his lap, intent on tasting him after so long, his grip tightens immediately.

"Not now, baby. Need you. Need to feel you. Please." His voice is almost pleading.

The sincerity of it makes your chest ache.

You nod above him, sitting up on your knees to pull your underwear down, as he does the same with his boxers, so you're pressed skin-to-skin for the first time in days, and something about it feels unexpectedly emotional. Maybe it's because the heatwave had turned every touch into a negotiation. Maybe it's because you'd forgotten how much comfort existed in simple closeness. Whatever the reason, your heart is beating just as hard as his beneath your palms.

Steve watches you with an intensity that always leaves you slightly breathless. Even now, even after all this time together, you sometimes struggle to comprehend that he looks at you the way he does. Like you're something precious. Like he still can't quite believe you're real.

You grab onto his cock, and he hisses at the contact, while you line him up with your entrance, both of you letting out the same shaky breath as his head catches at your entrance. Slowly, you start to sink down onto him.

You both moan out, foreheads against one another's. Steve can't take his eyes off your face while you sink down. The way your mouth is open in a gasp, the way your eyebrows are scrunched up in pleasure.

He gives you a minute to adjust to him, eyes half-lidded as he simply takes you in. The effort of holding himself back is written across every line of his body.

“Fuck me,” you whisper against his neck. "Please, Steve."

That proves to be the last coherent thought either of you manages for a while. And Steve doesn't need to be told twice. Not after nearly a week without feeling you squeezing around him.

The rhythm that follows is steady at first, neither of you in any hurry after waiting so long. Steve's hands never seem to settle anywhere for long, constantly moving as though he's trying to reassure himself you're actually here. Your shoulders. Your waist. The curve of your back. Every touch feels affectionate as much as desperate. You dig your fingertips into his shoulders, moaning out as he mouths at the space between your breasts, looking up at you with nothing short of adoration.

You start bouncing on his cock, meeting him as he thrusts up into you, and his head falls back against the headboard, moaning out at the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock so good.

The praise comes naturally to him, spilling out between kisses and breathless laughter. Every time he hears one of those sounds leave your mouth, his expression softens, as though he's hearing something beautiful.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours. "Just like that."

You keep up your pace as you grind your clit against his pubic bone with every downward movement. The feeling is so divine, you can't help the whines you let out. You're too lost in it to even really notice.

Steve stares up at your beautiful, blissed-out face, and in seconds he's pulling you off him, gently but firmly guiding you onto your stomach on the bed, face turned sideways on the pillow, and he's kneeling between your legs.

He gropes at your ass, spreading your cheeks to admire your dripping pussy, before pushing back into you.

He loves fucking you like this. You always go soft and boneless when he's fucking you from behind, his cock reaching so deep inside you at this angle that all you can do is grip onto the bedsheets and take the pleasure he's giving you.

Within minutes, you're right on the edge. You don't need to tell Steve, he knows your body inside and out, and he can tell you're close before you can.

"You gonna cum, huh baby? That's it. Give it to me."

The look on his face is almost your undoing.

Not the desire. The adoration. The way he seems completely incapable of separating one from the other.

Just like that, you're falling apart on his cock. Your legs quiver around his as your chest pushes into the mattress, your back arching, forcing your ass up further into the air, further onto his cock.

He can't hold himself back much longer when he feels you cum around him. Your pussy fluttering around his cock, pulsing, clenching, so warm and wet, has him right on the edge.

"Where d'you want it, baby? Huh?" he's panting above you, both hands on your lower back, pushing you further into the mattress so he can push his cock deep inside you.

"Inside baby, please," you whine, breathlessly, fucked out. "Fill me up, Steve. Need to feel you."

That's all it takes.

He comes inside you with a guttural sound that comes from deep inside him. He pushes his hips flush against yours, determined to fill you up as much as possible, and you keen at the feeling of his warm spend filling you up.

"That's it, baby. Take it. That's it, sweetheart," he mutters above you, hips slowing to a deep grind as he rides out his orgasm, eventually slowing to a stop.

For a few seconds afterwards, neither of you moves.

Then Steve practically collapses on top of you, all warmth and loose limbs, his weight settling over you in the most familiar way imaginable.

The room is quiet except for the rain against the window and the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.

Eventually, you break the silence.

"Holy shit."

A tired laugh rumbles through his chest.

"Holy shit."

Neither of you can stop smiling.

Later - much, much later - the rain is still falling steadily against the windows.

The sound drifts softly through the room, blending with the occasional creak of the house settling and the distant rumble of traffic somewhere beyond the neighbourhood. For the first time in nearly a week, the bedroom feels comfortable. Not stuffy. Not oppressive. Not one degree away from becoming unbearable. Just comfortable.

The kind of comfortable you'd spent five days wishing for.

Steve lies sprawled beside you, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, his chest warm against your back. The two of you have somehow ended up tangled together beneath the duvet again, something that would've been completely impossible forty-eight hours ago. Now, though, neither of you seems particularly interested in moving.

And for a while, neither of you says anything at all. You simply lie there enjoying the rare silence that follows a week of complaining. Because there had been a lot of complaining. Mostly from Steve.

Eventually, his fingers trace absent patterns against your side.

"Worth the wait."

The words are spoken directly into your shoulder.

You laugh immediately. A tired, content sort of laugh.

Steve presses a kiss there in response. Then another. Then one against your cheek when you turn your head towards him.

"Worth every second," he adds, sounding completely sincere.

You roll your eyes despite the smile threatening to take over your entire face.

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Even the seven fans?"

Steve groans.

"The kitchen counter?"

"The kitchen counter was a great idea."

"It was not."

"It was."

"The neighbours?"

Steve buries his face against your neck.

"The neighbours were an obstacle."

You laugh again, and the sound seems to settle naturally into the quiet room around you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Steve squeezes you a little closer.

Not dramatically. Not possessively. Just instinctively. The way he always does.

Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, the house is finally cool. And as Steve presses one last sleepy kiss against your shoulder before settling further into the mattress, you realise that for perhaps the first time in five days, neither of you has anything left to complain about.

Which, for Steve Harrington, might actually be a miracle.

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