the pumpkin whore

Your father's fancy lawyers made sure that your mother received almost nothing in the divorce and your mother was too worried to push for anything, just wanting to be able to escape her marriage at the cost of having nothing. The same fancy lawyers made it clear that your parents would have to split custody of you, allowing your father to not have to pay any type of child support to your mother.

You were afforded an allowance but those were to be allocated to very specific things. In college, you weren't allowed to get a job outside of the necessary internship. So your only access to money was your father's credit card, which he made sure to track all your spending. Clothing, those befitting your "status" were handpicked and sent to you regularly, regardless if they were to your tastes or not.

Finally getting your own job out of college was a relief, now having money for yourself and not being questioned on all your purchases was nice. And sometimes you feel a little guilty when you make some splurges on yourself. But your mom always reminds you to enjoy the fruits of your labor so you feel a little bit better about treating yourself.

But growing up like that has made you wary of money and what it means to have it.

And now sitting at the luncheon, yet another occasion for unnecessary pomp and circumstance over a simple meal, you’re even more sure that you’re out of your depth. You think this is something Mia would laughingly refer to as casual opulence but there’s nothing casual about it.

But today is different.

Because Steve Harrington decided that it should be.

Somehow, you're not seated at a table with your father, much to his displeasure. Instead you're comfortably situated with Steve to your left and a young, attractive couple, Sebastian and Caroline Lambert, on your other side. From the outside, they look like the perfect all-American couple, all blonde hair, blue eyes and bright and easy smiles. You’re initially intimidated by them before you find out that they’re probably the two most likable people you’ll ever meet at a function like this.

Sebastian and Steve, you quickly learn, have been friends since they were young, schoolmates at some exclusive private school in Indianapolis during their formative years. Sebastian was a “big brother” to Steve having been a few years older. Caroline, his wife, was originally from upstate New York, and had been waiting tables at a diner near West Point where she met Sebastian.

As she puts it, Carolina cleaned up nicely enough to be acceptable, but Sebastian's parents, who aren't particularly fond of society, thankfully didn't put too much emphasis on marrying within their class. However, his parents' dislike for such social gatherings also meant that they often had to step in and make an appearance on their behalf.

"Trust me," Caroline whispers to you, winking conspiratorially, "I'd rather be in sweats and eating junk food than be doing this."

"While watching trashy reality TV shows?" you add with a giggle.

Caroline moans, uncaring of who is watching. "Girl, yes! The trashiest."

"She's made me watch all the seasons of Love is Blind," Sebastian reveals, pretending to sigh deeply. "I think I might like it now."

You smile as you pick at your food that you've barely eaten and merely rearranged it on the plate. "I'm partial to Love Island myself."

"So good I cringed just hearing the name," Caroline laughs.

Steve, who’s been silent for most of the discussion but whose eyes you’ve felt on you the entire time, raises his hand and a member of the waitstaff automatically appears. He whispers something, blocks the conversation with his hand and the waiter smiles and nods in understanding before hurrying away.

“So, tell me.” Caroline leans down and whispers to you. “What’s going on with you and “The Hair”?”

You self-consciously touch your hair. “Is there something wrong with it.”

Caroline stifles her laughter with her cloth napkin. “I’m so sorry, I guess you didn’t know. Steve was known as Steve “The Hair” Harrington. You know,” she surreptitiously points at Steve’s thick of head of hair.

“Oh it’s tame now but…” Sebastian lifts his hands about six inches away from his head. “There was a time when it was just, like, a cloud of hair.”

You laugh at the thought of a younger Steve who is more carefree and less put together than the one currently sitting next to you, likely brooding. You feel that this younger Steve is what you would expect from the New York version of Steve, however. Not this manicured and polished gentleman who can seemingly disarm someone with a simple nod of his head.

Steve finally cottons on to the fact that he’s now the subject of the conversation and groans.

“Don’t tell her stuff like that, man,” he complains, but you can see a small smile there. “I have a reputation to protect and all."

Both Caroline and Sebastian burst into laughter and you allow yourself to grin at their antics. It's certainly an odd feeling to feel so comfortable in such a formal setting and when Steve's arm casually drapes across the back of your chair, you don't automatically stiffen.

You hazard a glance at him, see him relaxed as he lounges in his seat. Technically, he does own the place but the way he just appears at ease in every single setting, like he belongs in every space that he occupies does make you a little jealous. You realize now that maybe what drew you to him is exactly that. His confidence, the way he commands attention, doesn’t beg for it.

Thinking back to your conversation earlier, you're still unsure of what role you are to assume now in Steve Harrington's life. You're not used to the play-it-by-ear style that he seems dead set on as it requires you to trust him more than you're willing, and he gets to keep all the control he wants.

But if he can give you all the things he says that he can... You're willing to do whatever it is he asks you to do.

Because you can feel your father's eyes on you as he stares at you from tables away, still measuring you, assessing your every move. And you would really love to not have to deal with the anxiety that you've associated with being in his presence.

You're startled when the same waiter from earlier appears back at your table now, carrying a singular plate of food. He murmurs a polite “excuse me, miss” as he lifts the plate from in front of you and replaces it with a new plate.

French toast with fresh berries and a generous dollop of whipped cream.

Your sweet tooth engages and you bite your lip, unsure if you should touch it even though you know you really really want to.

The waiter is gone before you can ask any questions so you turn to Steve who meets your eyes with a steadying gaze. Then he tilts his head towards your plate as if letting you know that it’s okay.

You realize, sadly, that you were waiting for permission. Because that's how you were trained to act should your father be anywhere near you. To bow and scrimp before some authority figure, to wait for someone's permission to let you know that doing what you want is okay.

And Steve recognizes this in you.

But this is the first time someone has done this to benefit you.

And you hate that you can’t trust even this.

Caroline and Sebastian are huddled together their heads touching together that you can’t tell where one’s hair ends and the other begins. They’re both preoccupied with looking at something on Sebastian's phone, and thankfully haven't registered this silent conversation between you and Steve.

Gingerly, you pick up the new fork and knife that was set together with the plate and lick your lips before you cut into the fresh toast. Your eyes flutter as your lips close around the fork and you let out a pleased little sigh after you swallow. This is soon followed in quick succession by a few more bites. You can still feel Steve's eyes on you, tracking your movements so you turn to him and give him a hesitant smile.

He tilts his head to the side, regarding your silently. Then his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the action drawing your eyes to his mouth before the edges of it curve into a slight smile.

"Did not think I'd see the day when Steve Harrington becomes whipped like the rest of us."

Sebastian's comment draws your attention immediately, heat spreading across your neck and cheeks at having been caught blatantly staring at Steve. Sebastian looks almost pleased with you and Steve and you don't want to sully such a new friendship with misinformation.

"That's not—" you start to say.

"It was only a matter of time," Steve cuts in and you turn to him to find an amused smile on his handsome face. Something devoid of malice or pretense. And it unravels something in you that you’ve kept hidden for months. "I mean, if someone like you can find a wife—”

“Wife!” Sebastian exclaims, clapping his hands loudly. “Someone’s eager.”

Caroline nudges your shoulder. “She already has a ring after all.”

Overwhelmed with the unexpected turn the conversation has taken, you push your chair away from the table abruptly. You can’t regret the sudden silence the envelops the table at your actions but you smile politely and excuse yourself to use the ladies’ room.

The silence of the restroom is welcome and you resist the urge to splash water on your face. Instead you bring your hands to your face and give your cheeks a little slap. Just something to snap you back to reality.

Something to remind you that this is all just pretend.

But it feels cruel, instead. Finally being at the receiving end of Steve’s attention that you’ve yearned for so long. And the reality is, even if you get everything you want out of this, Steve being nice to you? Steve being the Steve that he is with everyone else but now directed at you?

You’re not sure how your heart will survive this.

Because it’s pulling all the want out of you. All the things that you’ve buried deep, hidden under lock and key. And as much as you’ve tried forget the shape of his lips against yours, you can’t help but remember with every smile he sends in your direction. Every kind gesture.

And that’s dangerous. You don’t know what Steve you’ll end up with when all this is over. When he finally gets what he wants… what happens to the two of you then?

You look at your reflection in the mirror and you caress the necklace adorning your neck with the same hand that bears your grandmother’s ring.

This is not real, you remind yourself. You need to protect your heart.

Realizing that you’ve been gone long enough, you quickly reapply your lipstick and make sure that your hair still looks perfect. A few deep breaths and you feel a bit more confident. At least confident enough to go back to the table and continue playing along with whatever it is Steve Harrington is trying to convince everyone of.

Pushing the door and stepping out, you make it a few feet before your father appears out of nowhere. He’s quick as he scans the empty hallway and grabs your wrist firmly before pulling you into what appears to be a private conference room, judging from the long heavy wood table at the center of the room, bordered by a dozen chairs. It is also as conveniently empty as the hallway outside. The absence of another person is never a good sign when it comes to your father.

Once your father ensures that the door is locked, he finally releases your wrist but not without forcefully pushing you against the wall. Your right shoulder takes most of the impact but the sudden movement causes you to trip in your high heels, sending you crumpling to the floor. Ice settles in your veins, terrified of what happens next. You’re not sure what your father is capable of, not when his fury is centered on you. Despite still being a little unsteady, you scramble to your feet, ignoring the throbbing pain.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He asks harshly and you can’t help but tremble at his tone. “Who do you think you are?!”

Usually reserved and calculating, your father rarely raises his voice at you. Opting instead for psychological warfare when you are concerned, picking you apart with devastating calmness, you’re petrified by this newly awakened anger in him. The fear renders you mute, though you don’t think your father would have appreciated hearing anything from you anyway.

“You dare not answer my text message?! I go to your room before the luncheon to find housekeeping there in your empty room, telling me that you’ve been checked out since last night?!” He lashes out at you as he paces the length of the room. “And I find you today, you’re half an hour late to the luncheon and you dare to sit somewhere other than where I expect you to be, and not wearing what you’re supposed to!”

He comes to a stop before you, eyes wild with unhidden rage. The same eyes that match your own. The grip on your face is sudden. His fingers digging painfully into your cheek and jaw and you try not struggle, knowing from experience that fighting back has never been rewarded. You try to remain still, hoping to pacify him by being docile. But all you wish to do is run.

To not look back.

To find Steve.

“You do not do anything except for what I tell you to do. Do. You. Understand?”

Each word of his question punctuated by shaking your face with his hand, gripping growing tighter as his anger mounts. The look he gives isn’t anger. It’s hatred. Laced with disgust. And that terrifies you because you recognize it as the same look he would give your mother before he raised a fist against her. Your heartbeat starts to race and nausea bubbles up from your stomach as images of your mother broken and beaten flash before your eyes. But it's imperative that you stay as still as you can. If you can do that, you can survive it.

The pain from his hand on your face is unbearable now that you can’t the stop tears from forming in your eyes. You panic trying to keep them at bay since there is nothing your father hates more than crying.

Tears are hard to hide.

But it’s too late. He clocks your watery eyes and the expression of disgust grows to a frightening level.

“I-I’m sorry,” you sputter helplessly. “I-I won’t do it again.”

He doesn’t look pleased, merely mollified by your show of fear and obedience and he finally frees you. Turning on his heel, he starts to move away from you and you finally take the breath you desperately need.

“You’ll make sure to check back into that room where I can keep an eye on you.” He tells you with his back turned to you as he fixes his tie and the sleeves of his suit.

“But…” you start to say without thinking and instantly shut your mouth.

The consequence to your perceived impertinence is swift as your father’s palm hits you across the face, sending you reeling backwards into the same wall you previously fell against. You clutch your left cheek where he hit you, the heat beginning to bloom under your clammy palm. And you stare at the wall behind him in shock.

"Never talk back to me again," he warns, pointing his finger at you. "You're as useless as your fucking mother."

You close your eyes and try not to lose yourself in your fear. Your father always knows what he is doing. The mention of your mother is not something he's done in passing.

It's a reminder of how much worse things could have gone.

So you nod obediently, too scared to do anything else to incite any more of your father's wrath.

"I've changed my mind. I'll let everyone know that you aren't feeling well. My secretary will book you a ticket on the first flight to New York."

You nod again. And you don't move, don't even breathe until you hear the door click close behind your father and you are finally alone.

Finally by yourself, you allow yourself to collapse on to the floor and pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. Your breathing ragged, you will yourself not to cry. Instead you focus your eyes on the corner of the heavy wood table that sits in the center of the room.

You force yourself to count slowly from zero to ten to zero to ten to zero to ten to zero to ten to zero to ten to zero to ten to zero to ten to zero to ten to ze–

The door swings open suddenly and Steve steps into the room. You watch as his anxious eyes scan the room quickly, his grip tight on the door knob, and when they fall on you, the anxiety melts into something like relief.

"Princess," he breathes. Carefully shutting the door behind him, he turns the lock before making his way to you.

Without another word, he picks you up on the floor and into his arms then walks the few feet to the table. Kicking a chair out of the way, he sits you on the edge of the table. You're unable to meet his eyes, not wanting to see the pity that will likely be there. But you let Steve's gentle fingers tilt your face up to him.

His fingertips are warm as they trace the heat of the slap on your cheek and his breath warmer against your skin.

"Look at me, princess. Please."

The pleading in Steve's voice is what undoes you, what allows the tears to finally fall as you finally meet his gaze. No pity to be found. Just solace.

And you take it.

Whatever Steve Harrington is willing to give you, you'll take it.

Sometimes, that’s all a broken girl can do.

"I promise you that that monster will never lay another hand on you again."

...

It takes some convincing but Steve’s adamant assurance that he can make it look like someone got on a plane without actually being on it. He's also made it clear that the staff are told to say that you have been shuttled to the airport with your belongings to catch your flight back.

You appreciate the effort, but even while you agree, you’re not sure what the plan is.

Only that Steve wants to make a “little detour” before heading back to Manhattan.

And you need to pack an overnight bag.

“Just pack things that are comfortable,” he tells you as he sits with you at the dining table, back at the penthouse suite.

Ice cubes wrapped in a small towel is pressed against your cheek, held in place by your hand. “Comfortable?” You repeat.

“Casual,” he clarifies. “No cocktail dresses. And definitely no ballgowns, no matter how good you look in them.”

Your eyebrows raise at the unexpected compliment and Steve merely clears his throat before pushing forward.

“We’ll be driving for over an hour so just make sure you don’t wear something you’ll regret. Just pack clothes. Anything else, we can get where we’re going.”

He leaves the table with that.

An hour later, you’re dressed in a soft pair of tan linen trousers and a simple white tank top. You slip your feet into a pair of brown leather sandals and your large handbag that you’ve repurposed into an overnight bag is packed and ready by the door.

You examine your cheek in the mirror, the bruise already covered in a healthy amount of color corrector and concealer. There’s a slight swelling that's unavoidable but otherwise you look fine.

It's the emotional destruction that you feel on the inside that you don't know how to fix.

Normally, you would call your mom or Mia. Maybe even Eddie. But this isn't something that you can run to them for. Never would you want to burden them with the knowledge this escalation in your father's treatment of you. Really, the only one that you can turn to is Steve and that feels like a boundary that you cannot cross.

As if bidden by your thoughts, there are a couple of knocks on the door followed by Steve's voice.

"Ready?"

You carefully part your hair so that the majority of it falls against the left side of your face. "Yes," you answer, your voice coming out surprisingly calm.

Walking the few steps to the door, you open it to find him standing in the hallway, dressed in a dark pair of jeans and a loose white button up shirt, the sleeves once again folded up to just under his elbow, and a simple pair of white tennis shoes. It's the most casual that you've seen him aside from being half-dressed earlier. The first few buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned in a way that feels intentional but comfortable and offers you a view of the dark hairs on his chest.

When your eyes finally find his after your quick perusal, his knowing smile is back in place. "You know, a picture will last longer," he teases you.

You roll your eyes and pick your bag up from the floor. Before you can slide it down to your elbow, Steve takes it from you and steps aside to let you through.

Grabbing your sunglasses and phone that are sitting on the dresser next to the door, you step outside and walk straight to the elevator with Steve right next to you. The elevator doors open immediately when he presses the button and the once on the ground floor, he ushers you into a separate corridor apart from the one that leads onto the hotel lobby.

Leading into an elegant private entrance, you find at least five hotel employees waiting for your arrival. A gorgeous classic BWM is parked in the front, a two-door roadster with the top down in a beautiful deep burgundy color. The engine is already running and the hotel staff are quick on their feet as they open the doors immediately and the small trunk is popped open for Steve to deposit your bag before making his way over to the driver's side.

You're increasingly impressed that Steve calls them all by name, just a simple acknowledgement that means so much as you watch them all feel at ease in his presence. He even wishes one of the staff's kids good luck on a big baseball game tomorrow and you wonder how he's able to keep track of everything when he spends the majority of his days in New York. The logistics aren't there, at least on paper. Then you realize you really don't know anything about Steve or his life and all your assumptions have just continued to be wrong.

Not wanting to cause any delays, you make your own way to the passenger side and gratefully take the hand of the valet holding your door open as you lower yourself into the seat before swinging your legs and feet into the car as gracefully as you can manage. You make sure to thank the valet as he closes your door for you.

It's a nice drive. You've never had the opportunity to travel like this through Indiana and you can appreciate how different the cityscape is from New York. The windows are up, keeping your hair from flying around, making conversation easier, too. Although the second part proves unnecessary because the first hour of the trip is completed in silence, only music from whatever radio station it's able to transmit coming from the car's speakers accompanies you on the drive.

Steve announces that he's hungry while you're passing through Bloomington and the timing is impeccable because you're near starving, too.

It's when you're leaving a small cafe after an equally silent meal, that you notice a large black SUV that's parked a few cars down. When Steve pulls out onto the road, the SUV follows suit. It continues down each turn, each long road and you stare at it in the side mirror as it maintains its distance, always a few cars away from the one you're in.

You don't realize that you've been gripping your pant leg until you feel Steve's finger poke in between the fabric and your palm and you instantly loosen your hold, smoothing the linen back into place.

"It's security," he says without looking at you. "Don't worry."

Your brows furrow. "Why do we need security?"

"Why does anyone need security?"

That non-explanation doesn't sit right with you.

"Steve, if you want me to go along with whatever it is that you need me for, I think you're going to have to start talking to me a little more," you point out. "You need to give me some credit here, I got in the car with you not even knowing where we're going."

Steve's jaw clenches. Not angrily, but in a way that maybe words feel difficult.

"We're going to Hawkins," he finally says. "There are things that I need to show you, for you to understand everything. I can't... I can't just tell you. You need to see it."

There's a desperation in his tone that sounds so foreign to your ears coming from Steve. A silent pleading for you to be patient. To understand why he's only told you so much.

And it frightens you.

Because whatever it is you're driving towards, whatever it is that Steve wants to show you... Has everything to do with your father. And you're beginning to realize that although you aren't completely sure what kind of person Steve will prove to be in your life, maybe you don't know who your father is at all.

"Okay," you tell him, despite feeling anything but.

When you drive past the sign that announces "Welcome to Hawkins" your anxiety spikes almost immediately. But it's too late to rethink things now and you're not sure you'll feel safe anywhere but right where you are, even if you are in uncharted territory. Something you have a serious dislike for.

At first glance, Hawkins is just like any other Small Town, USA type of rural area. But even in the beauty of the setting sun basking the sleepy neighborhood you're driving through in golden hues, there's a feeling of unease that creeps into your bones and settles in permanently, unwilling to let go.

You think it's because quite a number of the buildings near the town center appear newer, making them stand out against the older architecture hailing from what you assume to be the 50s and 60s. Which is odd for such a small town with an appropriately sized population. Even the roads appear newly paved that it begins to make you feel like the town was haphazardly thrown together instead of growth happening naturally with the progression of time.

That's when you realize that something happened here. These are signs of a town that was rebuilt.

But why? What happened to this town? And what does your father have to do with it all?

You keep your questions to yourself. Promising to remain patient and wait for when Steve is ready to tell you what you need to know.

Steve turns down the road where you notice that the houses are significantly larger than the ones the lined the previous roads you’ve driven down. He drives until he reaches the largest house at the end of the street.

It looks like an older house, maybe something that would have been more in style forty or fifty years ago. The car crawls down the winding drive and comes to a stop next to another vehicle that's already parked there.

Hawkins Police Department, you read the decal pasted on the side of the truck.

The driver's door of the truck opens as soon as Steve puts the car in park. A tall, burly male who looks to be in his forties exits the vehicle. Dressed in what appears to be a standard issue khaki police uniform and a matching hat, you try not to be daunted by this stranger who reaches down and opens your door for you.

Steve has already climbed out of the car and closed his door and you remain still, unsure of what to do next.

Because does everyone get a personal greeting from the police when they first arrive in Hawkins?

"This her?" the man asks with a voice that sounds as gruff as he looks. He points his thumb at you as he talks to Steve who is rounding the back of the car to get to your side.

"Yup," Steve answers and you're surprised when Steve gives the older gentleman a tight hug. "Hey, Hop."

His hug immediately returned and you feel a warmth in your chest for this obvious close bond that they share. "Hey, son. Glad to have you back. It's been too long."

Steve finally turns his attention to you and offers his hand to you. Taking it, you allow yourself to be assisted out of the car. You smooth your palms down the sides of your trousers to make sure they're dry before offering your hand out to this stranger.

You introduce yourself with a polite smile and the older man takes your hand in a firm shake.

"Jim Hopper, Chief of Police here at Hawkins. But everyone calls me Hopper or Hop." That would explain the uniform. "I'm also this troublemaker's uncle, in case he forgot to mention that."

You glance at Steve who is gracious enough to look a little sheepish.

And that earns a laugh from Hopper.

"So you're that bastard's daughter, are you?"

You startle at the blunt question, unprepared for such frankness. But there's no animosity in the question. Just curious eyes that study you closely.

So you answer honestly. "Yes, I am."

Hopper nods, seemingly pleased with your answer, before turning to Steve. "I think this dumbass idea of yours might actually work, kid."

"I told you, Hop." You can feel Steve's eyes on you. "She's braver than she looks."

...

It was just another lonely Wednesday night when soft, tentative knocks at his front door stole his attention away from the TV. His eyes moved away from the door to the ticking clock above it – a few minutes past nine. It couldn’t be his uncle; he had clocked in at work not even two hours ago, and wasn’t expected to return until dawn. Standing up from the tattered couch, his nose and eyebrows scrunched while he tried his best to remember if he had something planned for the night.

His heavy, calloused hand curled around the knob, turning it to the side and pushing the flimsy door open just a crack. The first annual cicadas made themselves known, a soft sound that was barely there at all. “Yeah?”

“Oh, uhm, h-hi!” you choked out, cheeks warm with embarrassment. He watched the way you looked over your shoulder, eyes drifting around the pitch-black trailer park, afraid to be caught with him. A perfectly lacquered finger played nervously with a loose strand of hair. “I, uh– Nathalie said you could help with my, uhm, extra credit?”

Eddie’s hand twitched at the sound of your flustered voice, his hand tightening its grip on the doorknob. “Nathalie, huh?” he said without much thought. He licked his lips, lost in thought, and pushed the doors further open. “Well, come on in, then.”

The creamy hallways of Hawkins High were a harsh contrast to the fleeting, coloured clothes of its students. Loud chatter and echoing footsteps mixed in with the overpowering scent of sweaty teenage boys and delectable perfumed sweethearts. Just your typical Wednesday afternoon.

Your shoulder bumped into Nathalie’s ever so slightly as you walked toward your lockers. The grip you had on the strap of your backpack tightened more and more with every word that left your mouth.

“I just– I mean–” your brain scattered to find the words. “Did you see that? The way he smiled at me? Out of all the girls in our class, me.”

Nathalie rolled her eyes as she rotated the dial of her locker from side to side. Fourteen to the left, six to the right, twenty to the left. A deep sigh left her mouth.

“Yeah, I saw,” she muttered under her breath with a jabbing tone of frustration. She had spent the last few weeks listening to your rose-tinted rambles about Zack Fucking Whitaker, the newest addition to the basketball team, and her ears just couldn’t take it anymore.

Ever since the Whitakers moved back to Hawkins after a year abroad, it seemed like that was all anyone could talk about lately. It had been three, very long weeks of hearing about how his sandy blond hair fell over his thick eyebrows, how his arms flexed with every controlled move he made during PE, how he put the Jason Carver to shame in every single way possible – with his strong nose and angular chin.

Sigh. It wasn’t like Nathalie didn’t agree with it all; she did find him cute, and she did like the view of his flexing arms. Hell, she even liked how Jason Carver had been in a bad mood the past three weeks, not being Hawkins High’s golden boy anymore. Serves him well, cocky prick. She just couldn’t listen to your rambles anymore; whether it be at school or on the phone late at night, it was all you could talk about.

It was driving her absolutely insane.

Another sigh left her lips as she tried occupying herself by retrieving her AP calculus book. She’d never tell it to your face, but right now she’d rather have two consecutive hours of Mr. Flynn talking about the rules for finding derivatives than another fucking word on Zack Whitaker. She loved you, she really did, but a girl could only handle this much boy talk.

“–me out.” Your airy voice pulled her back to the real world.

“What?” Nathalie shook her head, thick eyebrows furrowed over her baby blue eyeshadow as confusion took over her. “Sorry, zoned out for a sec. What were you saying?”

“Sorry, I’m rambling again, aren’t I?” The chuckle that left your lips didn’t contain any amusement. You knew you had been doing that a lot lately, but honestly, you just couldn’t help it. He was all you could think about. You sighed. “Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing, really.”

“No, no. It’s okay, please. I wanna know.”

“I… He asked me out.” You repeated, voice small and eyes glued to your shoes. Your lips pursed at the sight of a brown stain – that hadn’t been there this morning. Nathalie didn’t notice it, and took your expression as nerves instead.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” Nathalie’s perfectly manicured hand wrapped around the heavy book. She closed her locker and turned her body to yours. “When did he ask?”

A shy chuckle left your lips, cheeks warming up. “This morning, after History. Said he want to take me to the movies.” Your eyes averted towards your restless fingers. You were picking the loose skin around your nails again. Nathalie’s disapproving stare forced you to stop. “And, I mean, yeah. I have been dreaming about this for weeks. I just–”

The words died in your throat when the memories of this morning slipped to the front of your mind. You replayed how Zack’s glimmering green eyes clung to yours, giving you all of his attention, how his fingers brushed his hair upwards when a few strands fell in front of his eyes, the sound of his quiet laughter echoing in your mind.

You glanced around the hallway as if the creamy walls and tiled floors held all the answers you needed, and pushed off the locker you were leaning on with a defeated sigh. Your feet moved without you really noticing, drifting down the hallway with Nathalie glued to your sight. Turning the corner, the loud background noise only amplified when you pushed the cafeteria’s doors open.

The unforgiving sound of clattering trays and high-pitched conversations echoed through the space. Your grip tightened around your bag strap. Your stomach has been in a knot ever since Zach had asked you out; you doubted you could stomach any kind of food right now.

A fleeting, insecure thought took over. “Hypothetically speaking,” you began.

“Go on,” Nathalie murmured without much thought. She was too preoccupied choosing between soggy pizza and the sandwich with a suspicious looking yellow sauce to give you her full attention.

“Let’s say the date goes well, right–” now that the blonde wasn’t actively looking, your fingers were at it again, the skin around your nails already too red, too irritated. “What would I even do?”

Nathalie’s eyebrows furrowed; she chose the suspicious looking sandwich. “What do you mean?”

“What if the date goes well and, I don’t know, we’re in an empty parking lot or something–” you lowered your voice. The busy lunch line wasn’t the best place to have this conversation, but still. You snatched a carton of orange juice, substituting the food your stomach couldn’t handle anyway. “I wouldn’t know what to do, not really. I have no… real experience.”

That pulled her attention back on you. Nathalie snorted, lips pursed into a barely contained toothy smile. The sight of a tiny, hot pink stain on her teeth caught your attention. “I’m not making fun of you, promise! You’re just so cute.”

“Oh, c’mon, Nathalie!” you groaned. Cute was the last thing you wanted to be. You looked away, scanning the cafeteria for two empty seats. You walked without another word.

Hiding your face from the blonde, you diverted your gaze to your lap. Suddenly, you regretted choosing to wear a baby pink skirt today; the soft colour wasn’t doing you any favours, not after Nathalie’s comment.

“What if he thinks it’s a dealbreaker?” your voice sounded small even to your own ears. Your eyes drifted across the room, searching for the boy that had been plaguing your mind all day long. You found him easily, even in the sea of green letterman jackets – his sandy blond hair shining under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Then he’s not the one.” Nathalie shrugged in indifference.

You averted your gaze as he stood up. That wasn’t necessarily what you wanted to hear; you’d expected something else, something reassuring.

You let the sound of chairs scraping across the floors and incessant chatter fill the silence between you.

You were too busy replaying her words in your mind to say something. Nathalie’s eyes softened when she noticed your lost, disappointed expression.

“Listen,” she sighed. Her eyes scanned the cafeteria as she leaned closer to you, blonde strands falling into her face as she angled her head just slightly. She lowered her voice when Caleb Antonoff walked by, just in case –  you never knew with those who are part of the school newspaper. “If you’re really insecure about it, I know something that can help.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, curiosity getting the best of you. You leaned forward, meeting her halfway across the cold tabletop, elbows supporting the weight of your upper body.

“Eddie Munson’s kissing booth,” she whispered. Her nose scrunched in disgust as she picked at the sliced pickle hidden between the lettuce, throwing it on the side of her lunch tray. “Girls go to him to practice before dates.”

“Practice?”

“No one admits to it, but half the girls in our year have. I swear to god. Hell, me included.” She took a bite of the sandwich. Her eyebrows furrowed in a deep scowl before her eyes widened. Whatever that suspicious looking sauce was, it was fucking delicious. “He’s really good at it too;  got Sean wrapped around my little finger with the things he taught me.”

“You got to be joking.” She shook her head, mouth too preoccupied to give you a proper reply. You didn’t trust the sandwich she was eating; there was no way in Hell that the weird looking sauce wasn’t messing with her brain. You pulled a weird face. “And he just… doesn’t tell anyone about it?”

“Nobody would believe him, anyway. Think, babe. It’s the Freak we’re talking about here,” Nathalie replies with a sarcastic glimmer in her eyes. She placed the sandwich down on her tray and reached for your orange juice. You swatted her hand away – you were not giving her a chance to contaminate you with the brain-eating amoebas she had just consumed. “I’m telling you, he’s great. No complaints. Besides it being him, I mean.”

Almost instinctively, your eyes darted around the loud cafeteria and only stopped when they caught sight of a certain metalhead.

“–increase the concentration, what happens to the reaction rate? Can anyone tell me?” Mrs. O’Donnell’s voice echoed through the otherwise silent classroom. The high pitched screech of her chalk moving across the blackboard, and the lingering dust in the air added another layer to the headache you’d been sporting since lunch.

You looked away, the blank page of your notebook staring back at you. There was no use writing down all the words, numbers and draw pointed arrows, none of it made any fucking sense.

Neither did Eddie’s side business that every girl made use of. Apparently.

There was no way in Hell you were going up to him and ask–

You wouldn’t even know how to finish that sentence. Your headache deepened. This was getting ridiculous.

But the idea kept circling back, and Nathalie’s voice echoed in your head like a broken vinyl.

Eddie Munson. Girls go to him to practice before dates.

You looked at Chrissy Cunningham, sitting two rows to your left. With her perfect ponytail, cheer uniform tailored to her lean body, baby blue eyeshadow applied with flawless precision. You tried to imagine her knocking on Eddie’s door, all rosy cheeks and fluttering eyelashes, asking for his help to bag the Jason Carver. The mental images made as much sense as O’Donnell’s blabbering.

The shrieking ring! of the bell pierced right through O'Donnell's voice. Classmates behind you started to rise, hastily shoving their notebooks into their backpacks, limbs moving in desperate need to leave the classroom.

“Don’t forget next week’s homework!”

You shoved your notebook and chemistry book back into your bag in one, lazy movement. Thoughts still tangled into the whole Eddie Thing, there was no forecast that the headache would leave any time soon.

But even when you followed the fluid current of classmates heading for the door and entering into the crowded hallway, you could still feel it there. The thought of what if looping in the back of your mind.

Nathalie and that stupid mouth of hers be damned.

The hallway was louder than usual, drowning out your thoughts effortlessly. Overlapping voices, slamming lockers, loud laughter somewhere behind you – you welcomed it all, desperate to stop thinking about what you had learnt during lunch today.

You adjusted the grip on your bag as you walked.

It didn’t matter anyway, you weren’t doing it. You weren’t having your first kiss with Eddie Munson. It was embarrassing enough to just be thinking about it.

Zack probably wouldn’t even mind your inexperience anyway.

Hopefully.

You turned the corner, paying no attention to the world around you, eyes scanning ahead for your locker.

Your steps faltered just slightly before you corrected them again. And then you stopped walking altogether.

He was there. Leaning against the wall, just a few feet away from your locker. Almost like he’d been summoned by your lingering thoughts.

He wasn’t doing anything, not really. Just… standing there, leaning against the wall while he talked to a junior you didn’t personally know. They were half way out of the main flow of people, almost like they had placed themselves there on purpose. People passed them without looking. One or two glanced, but quickly looked away again.

“Freaks,” one of them muttered loud enough when they walked past them.

You looked away quickly, afraid that the slightest glance would draw his attention to you. You forced your feet to start moving again. This was exactly what you were going to do: walk over to your locker, open it, grab whatever you needed, leave whatever you didn’t, and go home without another glance in his direction. Like every other student.

The grip on your bag strap tightened even more, knuckles turned white. You lowered your head and rushed to the locker. Three to the left, nine to the right, twelve to the left.

The locker clicked open, and you exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding in. The hallway noise carried on like nothing happened, but failed to drown out the loud, pulsating sound that pounded in your ears.

You reached for a book you didn’t need. Shakespear, maybe, and told yourself you weren’t going to turn around.

You did it anyway, taking in the way his curly hair framed his face, the way the leathery material of his war jacket hugged his slender frame, how his white Reeboks contrasted against the rest of his pitch-black outfit. You noticed his ringed fingers tighten around the metal lunchbox he held, and suddenly it wasn’t as hard to imagine those same fingers holding someone’s face before he leaned in and–

Nathalie and her stupid, stupid suggestions be damned. Your mind too, for conjuring up those stupid images.

There was no way in Hell–

Your fingers busied themselves with their favourite activity as you hesitated for a second or two. There would be no way back, not really – even if you left, the fact that you had sought out his help would follow you for the rest of your life. You nodded only once, a little too quickly, and slipped inside.

Eddie closed the door behind you with a hard pull, the sound making you flinch. “Sorry. We keep meaning to fix it.”

The trailer looked smaller from the inside. The kitchen lamp cast a warm, uneven glow towards the living room, over the mismatched furniture and the decorated walls. The TV still murmured quietly in the background. His home smelled like stale beer, microwaved dinner and, if you focused a little harder, citrussy cleaning supplies – something your mom would use to clean the kitchen sink.

“Relax”, he said when he noticed the way you hadn’t moved away from the door. He crossed the room to turn the TV off. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

You stayed near the door. “I didn’t say it was,” you replied, the words coming out tighter than you had meant. Your eyes kept wandering around the room, doing everything in your power to not look at him.

“So,” you trailed off. Your throat dried up, and you picked at the loose skin around your thumbnail a little too hard. You forced a cough to clear your throat. “How, uh– how does this work?”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched under his bangs. He moved around the coffee table, putting the remote back on its spot on top of the TV. “Well, depends. What’s your level?”

“Level?”

“Yeah, level of experience,” he replied. His hands moved to the back of his neck, nails scraping at the skin. He leaned against the couch, body relaxed, waiting patiently for your answer.

“I, uh–“ you stammered. Another hard pull at another loose piece of skin. You looked away, the mug collecting gathering dust on the shelves a view less intimidating.

To say you were nervous was an understatement – not only was this the first time you stood in his living room, this also was the first time you were having a conversation with him. You didn’t have any friends in common, you had never been paired for anything at school, and you don’t smoke weed. There never had been any reason to approach him before.

It was a lot of firsts to take in all at once.

Eddie softened. He had done this often enough to know when to step in, when to pull someone out of their head, away from their own thoughts. “It’s ten for half an hour. We keep it PG-13.”

“Okay, yeah,” you gulped. “That sounds, uh, reasonable. I think.”

“I usually do this in my bedroom, just in case my uncle gets home earlier than planned,” he scratched his chin, eyes locked onto your nervous frame. There was a slight warmth to your cheeks that spread down your neck. “But we can stay here, if that’s more comfortable.”

You appreciated the gesture, but you could already see his uncle getting off work early – just your luck.

“Your room is fine, I guess,” you shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. Your voice didn’t sound as casual as the words did in your head.

Eddie backed away from the couch, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He offered you his hand, slender fingers adorned with heavy, silver rings. You hesitated for just a second before placing your raw fingers in his palm. “This way, Sweetheart.”

Eddie sat on top of his bed, naturally relaxed, like this was something totally normal to him. And maybe it was – he had done it times and times before.

You looked around his room with a sudden curiosity. He apologised for the mess as he scanned his bedroom, noticing the empty cans of beer and scattered sheets of paper he hadn’t yet tidied up.

You hummed at his apology, not trusting your own voice. The walls had a faint tint of yellow to them, stained over the time by his smoking habit. It wasn’t strong, and you didn’t really mind. Your eyes wandered over to the wall behind Eddie’s lean figure, ignoring the tattoos that peeked from under his tight tank top, settling instead on the dark, uneasy poster of Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street.

Eddie’s eyes followed all the little movements you made, noticing how you took in every little detail of his personal life. He wasn’t used to people actually paying attention to what he considered to be his safe haven; they usually jumped right into it, eager to leave again. He noticed the way your eyes didn’t just scan the room – they lingered, absorbing the titles in his book collection, the scattered pictures of him and his friends, the fantasy world maps he had drawn for previous campaigns, the extensive assortment of the cheapest 1.5mm picks he could find at the local music shop. He noticed how you hesitated for half a second before you picked one up from his desk, its olive-green colour calling to you.

He tilted his head slightly. “Ye’kno, most girls don’t look around this much when they come here.”

Your fingers stilled. You felt like a baby deer caught in headlights, your heart pounding in your chest, afraid you were overstepping. “Sorry–”

“Not complaining.” His lips twitched. “You don’t have to overthink it.”

Your fingers moved the plastic triangle around, shoulders tensed. You looked away, just for a moment. Your cheeks were too warm for your liking, and you hoped Eddie didn’t notice it.

“You always do that?” Eddie tilted his head to the side, gaze dropping to your fingers. You shot him a questioning look. “Fidget.”

Eddie pushed himself off the bed, the imprint of his body visible on the sheets. A quiet exhale left his lips, his socked feet thudding softly against the old carpet as he closed the distance between you. He wasn’t hesitant, but he didn’t rush either. The faint remaining scent of his cologne hit your nostrils – something moody and slightly earthy, not what you had expected from him. Not smooth and familiar like Zack’s – something darker, something that forced your attention to him.

You gulped as his calloused hand reached out, warm fingers moving slow and giving you an out – you didn’t take it. His fingertips brushed against yours, gentle, guiding your fingers to loosen the grip on the worthless piece of plastic.

“See?” he murmured. His eyes drifted upwards, settling on your face. “You’re holding it like your life depends on it. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

It was embarrassing how easily he could read you. You blinked, once, then twice more, breath hitched when you noticed he was still holding your hand. You felt the weight of something settling between you – quiet and impossible to ignore.

Eddie didn’t comment on it, just observed you for a second, his gaze flickering, almost as if he were trying to figure something out. The warmth on your hand was instantly lost when he loosened his grip and took a step back.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “Ground rules, yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting your own voice.

“Like I said – PG-13. We can stop whenever, no questions asked.” His brown eyes flickered to meet yours, a sharp glimmer in them. “But you gotta be honest with me, Sweetheart. Can’t help you if you’re in your head like this the whole time.”

The nickname didn’t go unnoticed. It was the second time he’d used the endearing nickname on you, and you didn’t know how to feel about it. You licked your lips, momentarily smoothing the chapped skin. He was right – if you were asking for his help, you needed to be honest with him.

“I know what I’m supposed to do. I just–” your voice edged toward insecure embarrassment. “I don’t know how to do it, where to start.”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, lips forming in a soft smile and eyes sparkling with something that looked almost like adoration. He took a few steps back, returning to his original spot. The old bed frame creaked with the extra weight on top of it.

“First thing?” he said, hand resting on the empty spot next to him. “Stop standing like you’re about to bolt.”

Your grip tightened around the pick, your shoulders tensing instinctively. You looked away, just for a moment. Your cheeks grew warm, again, and you hoped he didn’t notice the way you hesitated. Your mind raced, going eighty miles an hour. And then you exhaled, stepping forward in slow, cautious steps.

He noticed – of course he did. Your chest heaved a little heavier than it did just moments ago, and you looked at everything that wasn’t him or his bed.

“Look at me,” his voice dropped. The silver material of his rings caught the low, warm light of his bedroom as he moved his hand towards you. Warm fingers curled around your fidgeting ones, while his other hand lifted your chin. The sudden heaviness returned, taking root between your bodies while your stomach nervously twisted.

Your eyes followed the lazy movements of the ceiling fan, its quiet humming filling the otherwise silent room, your mind a chaotic mess of thoughts that would have never crossed your mind if it wasn’t for everything that had happened this week. The five badly hand-painted, plastic blades did nothing against the late spring weather, nor did they do anything to cool down your mind.

You heard the soft noise of ice cubes clinking against glass before you heard footsteps approaching the room. Nathalie pushed her bedroom door open with a weird movement of her foot, repeating it to close it again. She stepped closer to the bed, stretching one of her arms in a silent offering. You pulled your body upright, taking a sitting position before you took the glass from her hand.

She raised an intrigued eyebrow when you downed the fresh lemonade in one go without much thought. A spark of mischief crossed her eyes.

“If I wasn’t curious before, I certainly am now. Spill.”

You averted your gaze, unable to look her in the eyes. Your grip on the cool glass tightened, condensation rolling down the material and disappearing down your fingers.

“I went,” you exhaled, shoulders tense. You were still avoiding her curious gaze, instead taking in the various blue shades of wall paint swatches. You decided you liked the second swatch the best.

“Duh,” Nathalie’s eyebrows moved in opposite directions, her face pulled into a sarcastic glare. “I meant what happened.”

You hesitated – this was Nathalie, your best friend since you were maybe five or six years old; it shouldn’t be this hard to open up to her. And yet, you stalled, gulping nervously.

The events of the previous night plagued your mind ever since you left his trailer. You didn’t know what to tell her – that Eddie wasn’t the freak like everyone made him out to be? That he was actually really sweet, and that you felt mortifyingly guilty for using him just so you could impress another boy?

Said boy, who would be picking you up in less than twenty-four hours.

Nathalie always prided herself in knowing you better than you knew yourself, so it wasn’t hard for her to notice how your muscles tensed under her gaze. She usually knew when not to push you for answers, but she needed to know. With a sigh, she put away her own glass, still full, and lay next to you. “You know you can tell me everything, right? I’d never judge you.”

Easier said than done. You loved her with all your being, but the nagging voice in the back of your mind told you she wouldn’t keep her promise. Not when it involved Eddie.

You gulped and offered her a breadcrumb instead: “He… isn’t weird.”

Nathalie blinked and pulled a face. She ran her hand through her hair, loose from the usual dramatically high updo.

“Not weird,” she repeated, voice dripping with scepticism.

“Not like people say.” You shrugged, maybe a little too quickly. You looked away again when her gaze started burning holes into your face. You decided to change the subject. “I like the second shade of blue – it suits your skin better than the other ones.”

She followed your finger towards the swatches of wall paint. It was more than obvious you were deflecting her questions. “Would you feel less embarrassed if I told you about my experience?” Nathalie asked softly.

You didn’t know what answer to give her. A few seconds passed, and your eyes still hadn’t moved away from the swatches. Biting your inner cheek, you nodded.

“I will absolutely kill you if this leaves this room,” she threatened, her pale, milky skin turning as pink as the lipstick she’d applied earlier that afternoon. She held your gaze, pinky finger raised in the air. Your finger curled around hers in a silent promise. “I really liked how, uh, attentive he was.”

Nathalie’s gaze dropped, her pinky slipping from yours. Her cheeks were still hot, almost bordering on red now. You hadn’t seen her this embarrassed since that one time in the fifth grade, when Ethan Russell ran up to her to ask, in front of the entire playground, if she wanted to be Mason Walker’s girlfriend, only to learn it was a joke all along.

“I wanted to dig a hole in the ground, that’s how embarrassed I was to be there, in his room,” she continued in a low voice. “He pulled some vinyl from his collection, something slow, to calm me down. I didn’t even know he listened to anything other than those screaming, satanic bands. I just – I wish it hadn’t been him.”

Your stomach dropped at the evident disgust in Nathalie’s voice. It didn’t sit right with you, especially given her soft confession about how much she liked his attentiveness – a stark contrast to the hard tone in her voice now, as if he’d personally offended her.

You could easily picture it – the way his body probably moved around, how he took the time to choose something soothing to play. You imagined him slowing everything down, like there was nowhere else he needed to be, like Nathalie wasn’t something to rush through.

Your grip tightened around your glass. You wished you hadn’t drunk it all in one gulp, your throat suddenly dry again. “Why does it matter that it was him?” was what you wanted to ask. You didn’t, taking a deep inhale instead.

Putting away your empty glass, you lay next to her. Your gaze returned to the lazy movements of the ceiling fan. It kept spinning and spinning, almost as if it were mimicking your mind.

“I, uh–” your voice sounded smaller than you’d hoped for. A deep sigh left your lips. “Let’s just say it wasn’t what I expected.”

You hesitated – the horror movie and band posters behind him were less intimidating. A soft, nervous sigh left your lips. With a hesitant shift of your eyes, your gaze met his, something flickering in his coffee-brown eyes.

“There ya go,” he murmured, his lips pulling into a soft smile. “I knew you could do it.”

The palms of your hands started to sweat, and your grip on the plastic pick faltered.

His room suddenly felt smaller – like the air between you had pulled the walls closer and closer, trapping the both of you into each other. Your breathing was uneven and loud in your ears, your heart stammering in your chest in ways it had never done before.

Eddie didn’t move, just watched you with curious eyes, almost like he was waiting for something.

“First step,” his voice sounded thicker than it did before. He licked his lips, slightly distracted, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. “You gotta stop thinking so much.”

Your lips parted slightly. The feeling of his warm thumb felt distracting, almost too intimate for a situation you’d expected to feel more… clinical.

“Just look at me,” he continued in a soft tone. “Like I said, I don’t bite.”

That pulled a choked chuckle out of you. His gaze felt too intense, but you didn’t look away. You took in the sight – his hair was slightly frizzy after a long, humid spring day, but somehow still looked good. The tiny brown constellations spread on his cheeks were something you hadn’t noticed before, a nice, gentle surprise from someone that carried themselves in such an intimidating way.

Your heart kept beating harshly against your ribs, but your breathing had steadied itself, just slightly. Not exactly calm, but… quieter.

“Second step,” he said after a moment, voice still low. His hand let go of yours, giving you the space to take a step back if you wanted to. You didn’t. “You don’t rush it – that’s where people mess it up.”

His gaze flickered briefly to your lips, taking in the faint glimmer your tongue had left behind, before his eyes trailed back to yours again. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You get used to being close first.”

You nodded softly, barely paying attention to what he was saying, too focused on how his eyes glimmered under the soft lighting of his room.

His Adam’s apple moved when he gulped, eyes still glued on yours. His thumb stilled against your knuckles before he moved his hand, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Eddie’s movements were quiet, careful – almost absentminded, like he didn’t want to startle you.

“Step three,” he murmured. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, almost like he was having an inner battle with himself. His eyes moved down to your lips and stayed there. The tip of his tongue slithered across his lips. “I lean in and I–”

He cut himself off, head leaning in and closing the distance between you, his eyes fluttered closed. His breath fanned across the lower part of your face, a soft, warm exhale that only added to the warmth that had already spread throughout your body.

Your hand trembled in his, your skin too warm and slightly damp. Too nervous to keep your gaze on him, you closed your eyes almost as if you were bracing for impact.

And then– the soft touch of Eddie’s lips on yours.

Just as quickly as he pulled in, he pulled back again – just enough. His eyes opened, studying your face, waiting for your reaction.

Eddie had done this before. Enough times that it had stopped meaning anything.

The same hesitant girls, the same careful instructions, the same steps – like one of those well-rehearsed songs he’d play at the Hide Out with his band. Nothing ever really changed, besides the occasional need to put on a vinyl to break the awkward air in his room.

It was easy. Detached. Something that didn’t take too much thought.

But this–

Eddie’s eyes lingered on your face a second longer than they should have, longer than he liked. He noticed it immediately – the way his body had tensed slightly under your touch before he forced his muscles to relax again.

But that wasn’t the only thing he’d noticed – you hadn’t pulled away, or looked at him like you needed him to hurry up with the lesson as quickly as possible.

He noticed how you just… stayed. How you didn’t try to fill the silence between you.

It made an uncomfortable feeling settle in his chest – something unfamiliar he wasn’t planning on getting used to.

Eddie cleared his throat, the quiet sound cutting through the thick air that had filled the space between you. His hands twitched, his mind carefully calculating his next move. He moved them to your sides, thumbs resting lightly against the soft material of your baby pink skirt, like he was steadying you.

Your breath caught in your throat at the change in contact, not having expected him to touch you the way he did now.

“Next step,” his voice slipped into a controlled, calm, almost matter-of-fact tone. “Same idea as before, just… a little longer.”

His gaze flickered between your eyes, brown irises checking, grounding – giving you an out if you needed one. You gulped nervously, but didn’t move a muscle.

“Relax your mouth, don’t keep it too tense, yeah?” he added, carefully choosing his words. “Just follow me, okay? We’ll take it slow.”

Eddie’s grip on your hips stayed light, thumbs still brushing faintly against the fabric beneath them as he watched you for a second, taking in your expression, just to be sure.

You didn’t move, nor did you break eye contact with him.

The ends of his curls tickled your cheeks when he leaned in again, slower this time. The way he’d closed the space felt different – less abrupt, more expected. Your lips trembled right before they met his, instantly stilling with the soft weight of his mouth on yours. It wasn’t fleeting, like the previous kiss was; he lingered, like he said he would.

A sigh left your lips when you instinctively parted them. You hadn’t meant to do it, nor had you even realised you had.

Eddie’s thumbs stilled on your hips.

Almost as if you were made of porcelain, he carefully moved his lips, deepening the kiss in such a delicate way, like he was testing the water before stepping further in it.

His hands stayed where they held you, steady, not pulling you any closer – just there, grounding you.

Grounding himself.

He tilted his head slightly, the angle shifting just enough to make everything feel different – closer, warmer, more real.

The change caught you off guard, spinning your head slightly just as he deepened the kiss a little more. His plush lips pushed against yours – soft, yet insistent – coaxing them to part ever so slightly, just enough to explore the contours of your mouth.

Your breath hitched – the feeling unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

Before you could get used to it, he parted away again, leaving small pecks on your lips before he pulled off completely. His eyes opened up, a new, undecipherable glimmer in them.

“Next step? Tongue,” he said with a soft smirk.

The three little words were enough to make your chest heave, a small change that didn’t go unnoticed by Eddie.

“It’s the same as before: I lean in and I kiss you.” His eyes looked down, taking in the new, soft hue that had taking over your lips. He cleared his throat before continuing, his gaze now lifting up back in search for yours. “I’ll just… touch your lower lip.”

His fingers dug ever so slightly into your hips, pulling you into him in a slow, careful movement. He moved his head – slowly, just like before. The tip of his nose nudged yours, and the curly ends of his hair found their place against your cheeks once more. His warm lips found yours again in one gentle motion.

The tip of his tongue slipped out, softly licking your lower lip. It was even warmer than his mouth, the feeling pulling a low gasp from of your throat. Eddie swallowed the sound with practiced precision, his tongue now gently entering your mouth – just a little further, slow and deliberate.

The slick texture of his tongue against yours felt like nothing you had ever experienced before, and it scared you how much you actually liked it, how easy it was to fall into it.

He’s really good at it. Nathalie’s voice echoed in your mind. She said it so nonchalantly, you hadn’t actually expected…

It wasn’t rushed or clumsy, like you had imagined. It didn’t feel like something to just get over with.

You had expected something quick – some awkward hands, nerves – an evening you could just… forget about as soon as it was over.

You hadn’t expected it to be slow and intentional, like he was paying attention to every little reaction he was getting out of you.

Eddie pulled away, giving your lips small, gentle pecks before he completely took his mouth away from yours. His dark brown eyes opened and took in the view in front of him – red, swollen lips glistening with his spit, blown out pupils staring back at him. “See? You’re a natural.”

Your cheeks warmed even more at the compliment.

He’s really good at it.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, your thoughts shifted. You wondered, briefly, how it would feel if you were kissing Zack. If it would feel like this.

But as soon as the thought entered your mind, you pushed it away, your chest tightening at the idea.

Your breathing changed, just slightly. And it didn’t go unnoticed by Eddie.

His thumbs resumed their light movements on your hips as he widened the distance between you just a little bit. His eyes searched your face, looking for whatever had pulled your attention away from him.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice softer than before. “You okay?”

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, your gaze dropping for just a second before lifting back to his.

His expression shifted ever so slightly, his thumbs still smoothing the fabric beneath his fingers while he waited for your answer.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He didn’t trust the nod you gave him. His thumbs stilled again as he decided to give you an out. “We can stop, if you want.”

His words echoed in your ears, heavier than they had actually sounded leaving his mouth. You parted your lips, only to close them again. Your fingers tightened around the pick you were still holding before loosening again, like you didn’t know what to decide on.

Your gaze shifted again, this time to the ground.

You reminded yourself that it was just practice – just something to get over with before your date with Zack. It wasn’t supposed to make you feel like… whatever you were feeling.

Your lips parted slightly, a trembling breath slipping past them as you tried to organise your thought, to find the words.

“I…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper. Your gaze lifted back to Eddie’s, his dark brown eyes already fixed on yours – soft and attentive, still waiting.

⋆˚꩜｡a/n: eeeeeeppp here it is<3<3 my mind is racing as i write this, can't believe i'm posting this after having this idea swimming in my head for yearssss, can't wait to write more of this hehe as always pls lemme know watcha think 💋

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“You didn’t know about… those?” Robin finally looks away from Nancy long enough to catch you staring.

“He normally keeps his shirt on when we–” 

Robin holds a hand up, “Okay. I’ve heard enough stories about Steve’s encounters to last a lifetime,” she shudders. 

You’re glad to get away with your little white lie based on your single non-platonic night with Steve. Deeper questions mean more lies and more debriefing with Steve to keep your stories straight. No one’s questioned your relationship yet, you don’t want to give them any reason to. 

“I’m surprised. You two seem serious,” Nancy chimes in.

You shrug, “He never really talks about his past. I knew about all of you, but that’s about it.”

“It’s not like we talk about it either, Nance.”

Nancy rubs circles into Robin’s back, eyes focused on her already burning skin, “I guess you’re right. I think she deserves to know.”

“Hopper’s going to kill you,” Robin warns, her tone measured. 

“I’m not scared of him.”

“I, for one, am. And I’d very much like my girlfriend to stay in one piece.” 

Nancy rolls her eyes, pressing a tender kiss to Robin’s forehead, the kind of kiss that says ‘I love you’. Before you can ask what Nancy thinks you should know. Edie sprints over, jumping onto your towel. Steve trails behind her, his soaked clothes weighing him down. 

“Looks like someone’s regretting the bright idea to wear jorts to the beach.”

Steve flips Robin off quickly, then joins you and Edie on the towel. She grabs a hot pink plastic shovel from her bucket.

Edie looks up at you, “Hops, can we bury Daddy?”

Steve grunts, practically begging you to suggest anything else. 

“Let’s go find a nice spot for him,” you smile, taking one of her sandy hands in yours.

Steve flops back on the towel. You have to force yourself to follow Edie instead of curling up beside him and pressing kisses to his soft stomach. She sinks her shovel into the sand a few feet away from where the rest of the group is set up.

“Here!”

Digging the hole takes longer than you expected, even with help from Robin, Nancy, Dustin, and Eddie, who joins later, a few beers in hand. Steve nurses his beer at the towel as his daughter and friends dig him a grave. 

When the hole is appropriately Steve sized, Edie shouts, “Daddy!”

He comes over instantly, a forced grin on his face. Steve lies down in the hole, not bothering to remove any of his clothing. Sand clings to his damp skin and hair. Edie, Dustin, Robin, and Eddie waste no time shoveling sand onto Steve’s body. You and Nancy hang back, trying to keep in your laughter as Edie yanks the beer out of Steve’s hand so she can bury both of his arms with him.

Once she’s satisfied with the layer of sand covering her father, she toddles over to her bucket, packing sand into it. Dustin and Eddie nearly fall to the ground when she plops a malformed sandcastle onto Steve’s chest.

“This is Castle Harrington,” Edie announces.

“Great job, Little E,” Eddie high fives her.

You sweep sand off Steve’s face, his eyelashes flutter as your hands brush against his skin.

“You okay down there?”

Steve nods as much as the sand will allow him, “Just peachy. Everything itches and it feels like I’m locked in a sauna.”

“Let me know when it gets too hot. I’ll convince the boss to let you go.”

He chuckles, “She’s very proud of herself.”

“She is.”

As if on cue, Edie sits down next to Steve, “Uncle Eddie and Auntie Robin found a camera.”

Steve grimaces. Robin can barely hold the camera upright with how hard she’s laughing. She hands it off to Eddie, who takes one look through the camera and loses his composure. 

“Can you do it, Hops?” Robin wheezes.

You leave your place beside Steve and take the camera out of Eddie’s hands. “Ready?”

Edie puts on a big smile, “Ready!”

…

By the time Steve is free from his sandy prison, the sun is lower on the horizon and the sky has lost the light it had when you came out to the beach. Steve’s shorts and shirt are covered in sand, like the rest of his body. He uses his fingers to shake some of the sand out of his hair onto the ground. Edie is just as coated, she copies Steve, shaking sand out of her long waves. Robin picks her up, failing to keep the sand from transferring to her own clothes.

“I can clean her off while you… figure out how to get sand out of your jorts,” Robin snorts.

“My dad said there’s an outdoor shower in their backyard, that’ll do the trick,” you suggest.

Steve immediately heads toward the Hopper-Byers house, trudging through the sand. 

You move to catch up, but Edie stops you, “You’re daddy’s Sally.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Edie grins, not catching on to your confusion.

You say your goodbyes to the group, then jog to Steve. He’s hopelessly trying to wipe sand off himself to no avail.

“Jesus Christ, it’s in every crevice. I didn’t know that was possible,” he grumbles. “Can you shower with me? Just to make sure I get all of it.”

“I’m looking forward to helping you clean sand out of your ‘crevices’.”

“It sounds gross when you say it like that.”

“Because it is gross.”

When you get to the backyard, you unlock a wooden fence that’s just tall enough to block whoever’s in the shower from view. The sun-bleached wood planks creak as you push against them. Inside, there’s a shower head mounted to the side of the house and a shelf with a half empty bottle of soap. Steve steps in eagerly, fumbling with the zipper on his shorts. 

He glances up at you, “You help me, I help you?”

You walk into the shower. The space is tighter now that you’re both inside it. Steve lifts off your cover-up, discarding it in the corner. Sand and saltwater plaster his denim shorts to his skin, making them a struggle to remove. It’s a team effort to get them down to his ankles. 

“Edie called me your Sally. What does that–”

Steve pauses, “Shit,” he tries to play it off with a chuckle. “One night, I was watching When Harry Met Sally, and Edie walked in. I didn’t notice her until it was too late, so I sat her on my lap and we finished the movie together. She always tells me that I need to ‘find my Sally’.”

You hum, avoiding Steve’s gaze as you peel his shirt off, searching for a way to make the conversation less awkward.

“What’d you tell her during the deli scene?”

“That Sally was very excited for her sandwich,” Steve laughs.

You laugh too, “Nice save.” 

“What can I say? I’m a responsible parent.”

The showerhead spits out lukewarm water when you turn the knob. Steve lets it rinse the sand off his skin, cloudy droplets run down his body into the grass. You grab the soap, massaging it onto his arms. Steve turns, allowing you to soap up his chest. Your fingers snag in his chest hair as you work your way down to his belly button. It’s impossible to avert your eyes from his hardening cock.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You know I don’t mind. It’s not like we haven’t sex before,” Steve’s body relaxes as your hands drift over the scars on his sides. “Where are these from?”

“An accident during the big quake in Hawkins.”

Steve doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push the subject. It’s quiet as you scrub his body down, attempting to wipe away as much sand as possible. He’s mostly clean when his hands snake around your waist, pulling you in close.

“Can I?”

You tangle one hand in his hair, guiding his face to yours. The kiss is wet and fervent. His grip on your waist strengthens, squeezing your skin. His nose bumps against your as he deepens the kiss. Steve tastes like beer and the cigarettes he claims he wasn’t smoking with Eddie this morning. A fire lights in your belly at the feeling of his throbbing length pressing against the taught material of your bikini bottoms, rubbing against the slick fabric. Fuck. All you want is to be close to him. 

Steve’s hands slide down your waist to your thighs, fingers fiddling with the ties on your bikini. The same clumsiness he had the first time you got together. Like his brain overrides with one mission only, not caring how he gets to what he needs. 

“These look good on you,” Steve’s voice is low, desire evident. 

You grind against his cock in response. He whines, hips already stuttering. Steve chucks your bikini bottoms away. They hit the fence with a wet slap. The sound makes you jolt closer to him. He wastes no time, his fingers circling your clit.

“Steve,” you moan. He continues to play with your clit, building up your arousal, but not giving you the release you need. The teasing is infuriating, still you can’t get enough of him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

He doesn’t let you respond, rutting two fingers into your cunt without mercy. Anything you could’ve said is far gone. Pleasure overwhelms your brain. Your eyes roll back, breathing turns shallow. The effect he has on you is like no other. You didn’t know sex could feel this good until Steve touched you. He has a level of experience, but also a level of care that sends every part of you over the edge. 

“There she is,” Steve pumps his fingers, walls clenching around them; trembling as Steve picks up the pace. “Already close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you croak.

Your knees buckle as Steve coaxes the orgasm out of you. Splitting you open with his fingers alone. Steve scoops up your arousal, then slides his coated fingers into his mouth. Tongue swirling around them to suck off every last drop. At the sight, your heart races. He makes a show of licking his fingers clean, like you’re the best meal he’s ever had. 

Steve cradles your cheek, “Is this alright?” 

The tip of his cock brushes against your mound, teasing your entrance. Still feeling the aftershocks of your release, you can barely nod. Steve moves at a slower pace this time. Pushing in inch by inch. Your body pulls him in. Steve rolls his hips. Once, twice. His head thrown back, water spraying down on his cheeks. Fully letting himself feel you. All the tightness of his experiences gone. You push yourself to the hilt, leaning in to kiss his neck. Careful not to leave noticeable marks, sucking and tugging at the skin. Steve’s cock twitches inside you, he pants with each thrust despite his speed. He drops his head onto your shoulder, trying to hold himself together for a little longer.

Steve fails, filling you with his come, everything that built up between you throughout the day washing away. Body reeling from the spark you’re both feeling. It’s not pure electricity, what you have with Steve is warmer, more intimate than what grows in a casual relationship. You card your hands through his wild hair, parting the wet clumps. Steve sighs as your fingertips make contact with his scalp.

“I love you,” escapes his lips, the thought on his mind entering the world without realizing the weight of what he said. Ruining both your plans, destroying everything you’d built with him.

The conversation about children stayed untouched. Not avoided, not denied — just… gently set aside, left somewhere between you, waiting. And while you tried to make peace with it — with your body, with what it meant — Steve stayed close and patient, without pushing or rushing you. 

It wasn’t always easy, though.

Because the thought never truly left you, feeling it in small, unexpected moments. A woman passing by with a hand resting on her stomach. A baby crying softly somewhere nearby. A stroller rolling past. Each one was like a quiet reminder of something you couldn’t quite look at directly. School wasn't any easier. You spent your days surrounded by children—laughing, arguing, running through hallway — and sometimes it hit you so suddenly you had to pause, just for a second, and take a breath before moving on.  But the worst moment was when someone you knew announced they were pregnant. Because before happiness could come, before excitement or congratulations, you felt a sharp drop in your stomach. A flash of jealousy so quick and ugly that it made you feel ashamed. For a split second, thoughts crossed your mind that you immediately wished you could take back. That they didn’t deserve it. That it should’ve been you instead. Then guilt followed just as quickly. You swallowed it all down, forcing a smile onto your lips. You congratulated them, asked questions you didn’t really want the answers to and nodded in all the right places as you listened to nursery plans, baby names and ultrasound stories.

And you got good at that.

But when you got home, where no one was watching, everything came out, quiet at first, then all at once. You cried in the shower where your tears mixed with the water, or laying on the bed with your face buried against the pillow. 

But never in front of Steve. He was still recovering from the accident and you didn’t want him to suffer even more and to make everything worse. 

Again. 

Sometimes, you caught him watching a father with his child after baseball practice or a family crossing the street together. His gaze lingered just a second too long, his expression almost nostalgic, making your chest tighten. Every time he noticed you looking at him, he smiled or squeezed your hand. Like he knew what you were thinking. Like he wanted to reassure you without saying it out loud. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t, the thought still finding its way in. 

Maybe one day he’ll realize it wasn’t enough. 

That you weren’t. 

And he’ll want more.

He’ll leave.

It crept in at the worst times. At the end of the day, when everything was finally quiet and there was nothing left to distract you. During Steve’s baseball practices. At night, when sleep wouldn’t come. Even when you were in his arms. In those moments, you stayed still, your face tucked into his chest, breathing him in like that alone could keep everything else at bay. Until the thought began to haunt you, waking you up in the morning.

Every day, before you even opened your eyes, your arm would move across the bed, reaching for his side — checking. Making sure he was still there. That the space beside you wasn’t empty. Or too cold. That he hadn’t gotten up and left. Not just the room. Not just the house.

But you. 

Most mornings, your hand found him without effort. Sometimes he was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. Other times, he was already awake, looking at you with that soft, familiar smile that made something in your chest ease and forget all your worries. Some days, instead, you didn’t even have to reach for him. You woke up already tucked against him, his arm loosely wrapped around you, like even in his sleep he hadn’t let you drift too far.

Those mornings were easier.

But not all of them were.

Sometimes, when you brushed the sheets slowly, carefully, hoping to find him without having to look, there was nothing. His side of the bed was already cold. You gave it a second. Then another. Your fingers pressed a little more firmly into the mattress, like maybe you had just missed him. Like maybe he was still there and you just hadn’t reached far enough. 

But he wasn’t. You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, your breath catching as you delayed the reality you already felt settling in. Then you slapped your eyes and saw the sheets already smoothed out, as if no one had slept there. 

That was when the panic set in.

You’d sit up too quickly, your breath already unsteady, your thoughts racing ahead of you. And then you’d get out of bed, almost without thinking, your feet carrying you straight to the closet. 

It had become a habit before you even realized it. You’d pull the doors open and scan the space, your eyes moving over his things — his jackets, his shirts — checking, counting as you made sure they were still there. That he hadn’t taken them. But sometimes even that wasn't enough to reassure you. You’d turn and head for the stairs, taking them too fast, your hand brushing the wall to steady yourself as you went down two steps at a time, your chest tight, your pulse loud in your ears. Until you found him sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread open in front of him, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his elbow. Other times, he was stretched out on the couch, half paying attention to whatever was playing on television. His eyes would lift automatically and that familiar smile would appear. Easy. Familiar. Reassuring. Like everything was fine. And you would smile back, pretend you had just come down for something else. 

You never told him anything but Steve noticed. Of course he did. He was good at noticing things about you. He just… didn’t say anything. 

Until one Sunday morning, when you were standing in front of the closet again, your fingers still wrapped around the edge of the door as you let out a slow, quiet breath. Your eyes slipped closed for a second, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension eased out of you.

“What are you doing?”

His voice was close enough to make you flinch. Your eyes flew open. You turned quickly, your heart jumping into your throat, and found him standing in the doorway, staring at you. He must have just come up the stairs. His expression wasn’t accusing or angry. Just… confused, careful. In his hands there was a tray with breakfast.

Shame rushed through you, sudden and sharp. For a second, neither of you moved. You swallowed, your hand still resting against the closet door as if you hadn’t quite decided whether to close it or not. 

“I—” you started, then stopped. Your voice caught, the excuse you were about to give dissolving before it could even take shape. You shook your head slightly, a breath leaving you that sounded thinner than you intended. “Nothing. I was just—”

Steve didn’t move. His eyes flicked past you, briefly, to the open closet. Then back to you.

“Checking if I’d left?”

The words cut in cleanly. Your breath caught. For a brief second, you thought — hoped — he might be joking. But there was nothing playful in his expression as his eyes held yours, steady, serious.

“Wha—what?” you stammered, even though the denial sounded weak the moment it left your lips.

Steve let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped forward carefully, crossing the room with slow, uneven steps before setting the tray down on your vanity fair in front of the bed. The porcelain clinked softly against the wood. The sound felt louder than it should have. Then he turned back to you. He hesitated for a fraction of a second — like he was deciding how far to push it.

“You really think I haven’t noticed?” he said, his tone flat, controlled in a way that made it sharper. “The way you reach for my side of the bed every morning before you even open your eyes. The way you practically run downstairs when I’m not there.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Or how relieved you look every time I walk back through the door after work?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind scrambled for something — anything — to say, but there was nothing you could say. Because he was right. And the truth — the real reason behind it — felt too ugly, too fragile to put into words.

“I—” you tried again, your voice faltering, but it died there, unfinished.

Steve didn’t wait this time. “You still think I’m going to leave,” he said.

It wasn’t a question but a statement. The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.

You didn't answer him but your silence did it.

He turned away from you, nodding, in disbelief, his back facing you as his hands settled on his hips. For a moment, he just stood there, looking up toward the ceiling like he was trying to steady himself, like he was holding something in.

You dropped your gaze. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Quieter. But if anything, it felt tired.

“I’ve told you — more than once,” he said slowly, “that I’m staying. That I’m not going anywhere.” A small pause. “I’ve never given you a reason to think I would. Even when I could have. Even when I was at my worst.”

You instantly knew he was talking about Kirsten. About that night. When he could have left and gone to her house. When he could have chosen something simpler. But he still didn’t. 

“I didn't even think about it,” he added, almost under his breath.

You believed him. 

And that made things even worse. 

You swallowed hard.

“And still…” He stopped, exhaling through his nose before turning back to you. His eyes found yours again, something unsettled flickering behind them now. “Still it’s like you don’t believe me. Like you don’t trust me,” he went on, quieter now, but no less direct.

You flinched slightly at that, your fingers curling in on themselves.

“When…” He hesitated, just for a second, like he was debating whether to let it out or keep it in.

You could already feel that it was no good. That it would hurt you. 

“When you’re the one who left.”

The words hung between you. Heavy. Painful. 

Steve looked away for a moment, shaking his head faintly before letting out a breath that sounded more like frustration than anything else.

“I’m the one who should be checking that closet,” he said, his voice tightening despite himself. “Making sure your things are still there. Making sure you didn’t just—” He stopped, jaw clenching, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. Then, more quietly, but still honestly. “I’m the one who should be wondering if you’re going to leave again. Not you.”

He was right. You knew that. But that didn't mean his words hurt any less. Your hands tightened together until your knuckles ached. You bit down on your lip, hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling.

His gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted back to you. “Do you really think I don’t have those thoughts too?” he went on, his voice less controlled, sharper now, stretched thin. “That I don’t wonder if I’m going to come home one day and you just… won’t be here anymore?”

The words hit you straight in the chest like a punch, knocking the air out of you. 

“Or walk in and find you halfway down the stairs with your bags again?” he added. “Just like that day.” 

You stayed silent. 

Steve took a few steps toward you, his shoulders tense. “I’m scared every damn day,” he said, louder now, the frustration breaking through. “All the time.”

Your chest tightened as the words sank in.

“Do you know what I think about when I kiss you goodbye in the morning?” he continued, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that made it worse. “When I leave for work?” A short, humorless breath escaped him. “That it might be the last time.”

Your eyes filled with tears, burning you. 

“The last time I get to hold you. The last time I get to kiss you.” He continued, swallowing hard. “And every single time, I just hope… it’s not.”

Silence followed, thick and suffocating.

He turned away again, dragging a hand over his face before lifting both arms briefly, resting them behind his head. He stayed like that for a second, staring ahead, jaw tight.

“But I still choose to trust you,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I choose it. Every single day.” His arms dropped back to his sides as he turned to face you again. “I choose to believe that when I come home, you’ll still be here.”

You couldn’t breathe properly. Your throat was dry, sore. 

He looked at you like he wanted to say more — like the words were there, right on the edge — but then something in his expression shifted. He stopped himself. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his jaw tightening.

The silence stretched.

You pressed your lips together, unable to speak. Because he was right. About all of it. 

Even after everything he had said, some stubborn part of your mind kept waiting for the moment he would finally decide he had had enough. Even when… when you had been the one to leave. The one who had packed a bag and walked out, breaking something between you that you were still trying to fix.

What was wrong with you?

The thought came sharp and merciless.Your throat tightened painfully. For a second, you almost felt angry at yourself, enough to want to shake yourself out of it.

Steve cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence. 

“I need you to trust me too,” he said, more quietly now. Exhausted.

“Steve, I do trust you, it’s not—” 

Your voice was so weak that you almost didn’t recognize it. 

“Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” he cut in, not raising his voice, but not letting you finish either. He hesitated, like he wanted to keep going — like there was more sitting behind those words — but then he exhaled slowly and shook his head.

“Forget it. I just… went out to get breakfast,” he added, his tone changing, flattening, like he was forcing the conversation somewhere safer. “I got you those pastries you like. Thought I’d bring you them in bed. I just wanted to… surprise you.” A small pause. “That’s all.”

Your eyes closed for a second, the guilt settling heavier in your chest. When you opened them again, your gaze dropped to the tray on the table. You looked at it better this time — the coffee, still steaming faintly, the pastries neatly arranged like he had taken care choosing them, orange juice, eggs and bacon. There were all the things you loved to eat. 

Steve followed your gaze. “You should drink the coffee before it gets cold,” he said. His tone cold, detached that it surprised you. 

He turned before you could say anything else, moving toward the door with quick steps, without looking back at you.

For a second, you didn’t understand what was happening. Your body froze, your mind lagging behind as the sound of his steps carried down the stairs.

Then it hit you.

He was leaving.

Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to move, your legs finally responding as you rushed out of the room and down the stairs after him, still in your nightgown, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your chest.

“Steve!” You called his name with everything you had, your voice echoing through the house.

But he didn’t answer. He didn’t slow down either. He just kept going, one hand gripping the railing, as he moved fast, like he needed to get out before he changed his mind.

Panic surged through you.

“Steve, wait—!”

By the time you reached the bottom, he was already in front of the door.

“Wait — please, wait!” Your voice broke as you closed the last bit of distance and grabbed his arm, your fingers tightening around it, forcing him to stop. “Where — where are you going?”

He stilled under your touch, turning around to face you. His eyes were shining. “I need… some air,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that felt final. “I’m going for a walk.”

You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening, your breath uneven. “No — please, stay. Let’s just — let’s talk, okay? Please.” Your voice trembled, the words stumbling over each other as the tears spilled freely now, warm against your skin. You didn’t even try to hide them.

Steve closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose like he was holding something in. “I already tried,” he said after a second, quieter now. “More than once. But you don't seem to hear me.”

You shook your head again, desperate. “I know. I know,  I’m sorry, I just—”

“I don’t know what else to say,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm. Tired. Exasperated. “I don’t know… what else to do to make you believe me.” His jaw tightened and for a moment he looked away. “I’m tired,” he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “And… angry.” He swallowed hard and you saw his throat move. “That’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want to say something I might regret later.”

Or do something he might regret, you thought. 

Your chest constricted painfully.

“Please, don’t go,” you whispered, shaking your head, your fingers curling tighter around his arm like you could keep him there if you just held on enough. “Please, don’t leave me.”

For a moment, his expression softened. He hated seeing you like that. 

“I’m coming back, okay?” he said, softer now, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. Like he needed to stop it before it spiraled. “I’m… I’m not leaving. I just —” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I just need a minute… to clear my head. Be alone for a bit.”

Your grip loosened, but only slightly.

“I’ll be back,” he repeated, more gently this time. “And we’ll… talk later. Promise.”

Talk about what? You wondered. 

Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. It lingered just long enough to hurt. Then he pulled away. Carefully, he slipped his arm from your grasp. The loss of contact felt immediate. Cold.

You stood there as he opened the door and stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Silence flooded immediately the space he left behind. Loud. Unbearable. 

You didn’t move. You stayed there, right where he had left you, your hands hanging useless at your sides, your vision blurred with tears you didn’t even try to stop anymore. Your heart pounded unevenly as your gaze fixed on the closed door, like you expected it to open again any second. While upstairs, the coffee he had made for you was already growing cold.

His voice replayed in your mind, louder with every passing second.

I’ll be back. 

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching.

Would he?

-

You were lying on the couch in the living room, curled on your side, facing the TV, even though it was off.

You hadn’t moved from there since Steve left.

The clock was ticking but you didn’t know how much time had passed. Long enough for the sobs to stop and the tears on your cheeks to dry, leaving your skin tight, your body still, your mind heavy and hollow. Your breathing had evened out. The storm had burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but a quiet that felt too big for the room.

Silence settled around you. Heavy. Uncomfortable. 

Then, suddenly you heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Your body reacted before your mind did. You pushed yourself up from the couch, your heart jumping as you turned toward the door just as it opened.

Steve stepped inside. His gaze lifted as he crossed the threshold, and it found yours immediately.

You stayed where you were. Even though every instinct in your body told you to run to him — to close the distance, to hold onto him, to make sure he was really there — you didn’t.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a few steps forward. 

“You’re here,” he said, his gaze fixed on yours. 

You knew he didn’t mean just now. That you hadn’t left. That he hadn’t come back to an empty house.

You nodded, your throat tight. “And you are back.”

Something in his expression shifted — subtle, but there. He nodded once in return, like he was acknowledging something unspoken between you. 

He knew exactly what you meant too. 

He moved around the couch, with still his jacket on and sat down, leaving only a small space between you. For a moment, he just sat there. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand over his face before pressing his palms briefly against his eyes, like he was trying to steady himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About before. I shouldn’t have… reacted like that.”

You hesitated for a second before sitting down beside him, careful and let out a slow breath.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “You — you were right.”

Steve turned his head to look at you.

You swallowed, your hands tightening together in your lap before you forced yourself to keep going. “I am… I am still scared. That you might leave one day.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look away. “And I know I shouldn’t be. That it doesn’t make sense. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you. Not once.”

A small pause.

“I’m the one who did that,” you added, quieter now. “I’m the one who left. I’m the one who… broke your trust.”

The admission sat between you, raw and unguarded. It hurt you to remind what you had done. But you needed to. 

“And I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer now. “For that. For everything.”

Steve didn’t interrupt and kept listening to you. 

“But it’s not true that I don’t trust you,” you went on, shaking your head slightly, like you needed him to understand that part most of all. “It’s… me.”

That was harder to say.

Your gaze dropped for a second before lifting again.

“I don’t trust myself,” you admitted, the words catching slightly on the way out. “Because I don’t feel like I’m enough. Like I’m… lacking something. Like I’m not…” You exhaled shakily. “Not what you deserve.”

Your fingers twisted together again before you stilled them, forcing yourself to continue.

“And I know—” you added quickly, almost defensively, “I know you don’t see it that way. I know that’s not how you think. But I do. And it’s not something I can just switch off, Steve. It doesn’t work like that.”

Your voice softened, losing some of its tension.

“I need time,” you said. “To come to terms with it. With the fact that… it’s not my fault.” You swallowed. “And that it doesn’t make me less. Or… harder to love. I just… need time,” you repeated more quietly.

Then, after a small pause, you reached out, slowly, carefully, and rested your hand on his knee. Steve's gaze immediately dropped to where your hand rested. His eyes lingered there for a second before lifting back to yours.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” you said, meeting his eyes. There was no hesitation now, only quiet certainty. “I’m here. And I’m staying.”

Your fingers pressed slightly against his knee, grounding yourself in the moment.

“I almost lost you,” you went on, your voice softening further. “Twice.” Your throat tightened. “And the second time… I almost didn’t get you back at all. I don’t want that again,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

You held his gaze as Steve reached for your hand where it rested on his knee, lacing his fingers through yours and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not going anywhere either, okay?” His gaze held yours, steady, intent. “I’ve seen what it’s like… living without you. And I didn’t like it. Not even a little.” A faint, humorless breath left him. “Worst week of my life, actually. And I’m not planning on going through that again.”

Your chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear.

“So yeah,” he went on, softer now, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles, “some mornings you might wake up and not find me in bed. Or downstairs. And some afternoons or nights, I might come home late.” A small pause. “But wherever I am, I’ll be thinking about you. And I’ll always come back.” His voice dipped slightly, more vulnerable now. “As long as you still want me to.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I will,” you said, your voice steady despite everything you were feeling. “And I’ll be here too. Waiting for you.” A small breath. “As long as you want me to be.”

Something softened in his expression. Then he smiled and lifted his free hand to your face, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in.

The kiss started soft. Careful. Like everything else between you had been these past weeks. 

But as the seconds passed, some of the distance you had both been carrying seemed to melt away. You shifted closer without even thinking about it, your body moving toward his like it had been waiting for this. Your hands came up to his face as you kissed him back, deeper this time, more certain. The hesitation that had lingered between you began to slip, piece by piece.

You moved onto his lap, straddling him, your lips never quite leaving his. His hands found your waist, holding you there, tightly, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.

The kiss grew hungrier, faster. His hands moved along your sides, firm, warm, sliding up your back, pulling you closer. Yours slipped into his hair, fingers curling, holding on as if that alone could keep him there. You felt him exhale against your lips, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest second before his mouth found yours again, more urgent this time.

He trailed slowly down your jaw, your neck, until it reached your shoulder. The strap of your nightgown had already slipped down your arm, giving him space, and he took it without hesitation. His lips pressed warm against your skin, lingering, then moving again — slower this time. Each touch sent a quiet shiver through you, your breath catching as he traced a path along your collarbone. You tipped your head back instinctively, giving him more room, your hands settling on his shoulders to steady yourself. For a moment, you just felt the warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his hands against your skin. And the solid presence of him beneath you. 

He was already hard. 

Your hips shifted almost unconsciously against him, drawn closer, and the contact made his breath hitch for a brief second. His hands tightened at your waist in response, grounding, firm, like he needed to keep you right where you were.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, gripping lightly, guiding him back to your lips. There was nothing hesitant left in the way you kissed him now. It wasn’t careful anymore — it was need, release, everything spilling over at once after being held back for too long.

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms as your hands moved over him, impatient. He let out a quiet breath against your mouth, helping you shrug it off the rest of the way without breaking the kiss for long.

Your nightgown had ridden up completely, forgotten, as you shifted in his lap, the fabric bunched at your waist. But you barely noticed it, too focused on him — on the way his touch felt after everything. After weeks without intimacy — without sex. The last time had been during that famous weekend that was supposed to be the last. Fortunately, it hadn’t been in the end. How could you have thought you could live without him? Without his touch? Thinking back now, it seemed almost impossible.

His hands slid lower along your thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of your nightgown, hesitating only for a fraction of a second — as if giving you time to pull away, to stop him. 

You didn’t.

If anything, you leaned into him more, your hands tightening his face even more, your lips parting against his in a silent answer.

You weren’t pulling away anymore.

His hand started moving over you again, sliding under the hem, caressing the bare skin of your ass, gently, slowly, as if he wanted to savor the moment. Like he was relearning you — like he needed to feel every inch just to remind himself that you were real, that you hadn’t slipped away again. 

You pressed closer instinctively, grinding down on his bulge in search of something more, something deeper. It wasn’t enough — none of it felt like enough after everything you had been through. The distance, the fear, the almost losing him.

You needed to feel him. Really feel him.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding on just as tightly, like you were afraid that if you let go, he might disappear. 

“Steve… please,” you whispered against his lips as his hand moved closer to where you needed him most. But every time, when he was almost there, he pushed it away, teasing you.

He smirked, amused. “What’s it, babe?” He murmured, voice low. “Tell me what you need.”

You let out a soft, frustrated breath, your forehead resting briefly against his.

“Please,” you begged, desperate, unable to form a complete sentence.  

Steve’s grin widened even further. He hesitated a few seconds, his hand tightening on your thigh, the other one on your hip, holding you in place as he watched you for a moment longer than necessary. Then finally, he gave in. His hand began to slide down along your core, feeling the wet spot that had already formed on your panties. 

His touch was slow, deliberate, rubbing gentle circles over your clothed clit as heat pooled low in your belly. Your hands found his shoulders again, gripping for balance as you moved against him, hips rolling, chasing his touch. Steve increased the pressure and you moaned into his mouth as you kept grinding your soaked panties.  

The other strap of your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, revealing your breasts. Steve groaned. As he kept caressing your core, he ran his other hand up your stomach and squeezed your tits, gently first, then hard. You moaned again, letting your head fall back.  But it still wasn’t enough. You wanted more. 

“Steve… I need you… Please,” you begged him, almost crying. 

“Yeah, babe? Where do you need me? I’m right here.” 

His hand pressed down on you harder, while your fingers curled into his shirt even more, resting your forehead on his shoulder, panting. For a moment, you hesitated, swallowing slowly. 

“Inside me.” Your voice lower than a whisper.  “I need you inside me, Steve. Please.”

Steve stopped moving, taking his hands off of you. You whined at the loss of contact, missing him already. But before you could say anything, he pulled your nightgown over your head in a single motion and threw it somewhere behind you, leaving you half-naked. 

His gaze dropped straight to your bare breasts, his eyes widening, hungry. He swallowed hard. 

“God…” he breathed, almost to himself.

After few seconds, you found yourself lying on the couch, on your back with Steve on top of you. He hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them quickly down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, eager to be free of them. 

Steve stood up, pushing his shirt up, revealing the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. Then he took them off and his boxers in one smooth motion, letting them drop to the floor. His length slapped against him.

Both naked, he settled between your thighs, bringing you closer as you raised yourself on your elbows to see him better. His gaze traveled over your body spread open on the couch, lingering on your centre, shiny and swollen already. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he said, looking back at you, a little smile on his lips. “And it’s all mine.” 

Even though you were married and he had already seen you like that several times, you couldn't help but blush at his words.

He lay down on top of you and kissed you passionately, supporting himself on one arm, as he dragged his other hand through your slick folds, spreading yourself open. His fingers drew slow circles around your clit before dipping inside. Your body responded instantly, arching into him, hips rolling against his fingers. The wet sounds filled the room, mixed with your shaky breaths.

“You’re so wet, babe, and I barely did anything,” he murmured under his breath, holding his glistening fingers up to your lips. 

You took them into your mouth and sucked, tasting yourself on them as Steve never took his eyes off you. 

“So needy and desperate, aren’t you? And you really think you could live without me?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, a broken moan ripped from your throat as he rubbed his hand all over your entrance, spreading the wetness. Your hips moved towards him, looking for more. Then he grabbed himself and stroked it a few times, lubing himself up with your arousal. Your eyes fixed on him the entire time, biting your lip at the sight of his thick member. Even after so many years together you still hadn't gotten used to its size, capable of leaving you breathless and sore every time.

Steve moved closer to you, guiding his length through your folds, the tip nudging against your clit, teasing you. You threw your head back, a sigh escaped your lips. 

Without warning, he drove into you with one, quick thrust, seating himself fully inside you. You gasped at the intrusion, arching your back as he stretched you open with a deep groan. He started moving immediately, without giving you time to get used to it. You were so wet that he slid perfectly inside you all the way, meeting no resistance. The wet slaps of skin and your desperate moans filled the living room as he kept pounding into you at a brutal pace. Your hands ran down his hairy chest, his arms and then over his back, scratching him, digging your nails into him as he went deeper with each stroke. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in tighter to you. His hand reached your clit, rubbing it as he kept fucking you harder. He thrusted in and out, relentlessly, quickly. His eyes stayed locked downward, fascinated by the sight of himself sliding in and out of you, dragging a creamy ring back and forth along his length.

“How — How can you think I can leave? That I can do without all this? Without you?" he asked after a while, his lips pressed to your ear. 

There was no malice or bitterness in his voice, just honesty. You didn't respond, you couldn't. Partly out of shame, partly because Steve's movements prevented you from thinking or speaking clearly. Only half-formed words, moans escaped your mouth.

"Steve, I…"

"Yes, babe? Are you coming? I can feel you squeezing my cock. Come on, cum for me."

And you came, clenching around his cock and crying out his name. Steve followed you right away, coming inside you with a low, guttural groan as his release painted your walls. He gently collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. 

-

About ten minutes later, you were lying on the couch, wearing only his shirt, curled slightly on your side with your head resting on Steve’s chest. Your fingers were still loosely intertwined with his, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He lay beside you in nothing but his boxers, one arm draped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm.

Everything felt… lighter now. Not just because of what had just happened between you, but because of everything that had come before it — your argument, the honesty, the way you had finally let yourselves say things out loud instead of carrying them alone.

It hadn’t fixed everything. You knew that. There were still cracks — fears that wouldn’t disappear overnight. Things you —especially you — would have to work through, slowly, patiently. But for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel impossible. It felt like something you could face together.

Steve shifted slightly beneath you, his fingers tightening around yours for a moment before he lifted your hand, turning it gently so your wedding band caught the light of the lamp.

“Give me your ring,” he said after a beat.

You barely noticed at first, still half lost in the quiet haze of the moment. Then you blinked, the words taking a second to fully register. You pushed yourself up slightly, one hand pressing against his chest as you looked down at him, your brows knitting together. “What?”

“Your ring,” he repeated, his voice calm but his gaze intense. “Give it to me, please.”

Confusion flickered across your face as you sat up properly, turning to face him.

“My ring? Why?” There was a trace of unease in your voice now, subtle but there. You instinctively curled your fingers slightly, as if protecting it without even realizing. You didn’t like taking it off. Not even when you had temporarily left Steve you had taken it off.

Steve pushed himself up into a seated position, resting against the couch armrest as he looked at you.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

You knew, instantly, that he wasn’t just talking about the ring. He was asking something bigger.

Did you trust me to stay?

Did you trust me not to leave?

Your throat tightened slightly, but you nodded without hesitation, swallowing. Your fingers hesitated for only a second more before you slipped the ring off and placed it in his hand.

It felt strange the moment it left your finger. Lighter. Wrong, almost.

Steve watched you for a second, then reached up and removed his own. For a brief moment, he held both rings in his palm, staring down at them — silent, thoughtful. 

You shifted closer, kneeling on the couch in front of him now, your eyes fixed on his face, trying to understand what was happening but without success. 

“What are you doing?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly and placed both rings on the couch between you. 

Side by side.

You followed the movement with your eyes, your confusion deepening, your brow furrowing as you looked back up at him.

“Give me your hand,” Steve said softly.

You looked up at him, your confusion still written all over your face.

“Steve… will you tell me what you’re doing? I don’t—”

“We’re renewing our vows.”

You blinked, your eyes widening as you stared at him, even more lost than before.

“What?”

“Didn’t we say this was a new beginning?” he went on, his voice steady, certain. “For you, for me… for us.”

You nodded slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Then we need new promises,” he said. “Ones that actually fit us. Our way.”

Before you could say anything else, he reached for your hands again, holding them gently but firmly between his.

“Trust me,” he added, quieter this time.

There it was again.

That question beneath the words.

You swallowed and nodded. “I do.”

Steve took a slow breath, his thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles as he gathered his thoughts. For a second, he looked almost nervous — but he didn’t look away.

“Do you take me to be yours again,” he began, his voice low but clear, “knowing that we don’t have everything figured out… that things might change, that life might not go the way we planned…”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“To have and to hold anyway,” he continued, “to stay instead of running, to try,  even when it’s hard… to not walk away when things get complicated…”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t blink.

“To love me for as long as we both want this… for as long as we keep choosing each other?”

Silence settled between you the moment he finished.

For a second, you couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. Then you nodded — once, twice, again — your grip tightening around his hands.

“I do,” you said, your voice trembling but certain. “I do.”

Tears blurred your vision as you held onto him. 

“Okay,” he murmured, a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips. “Your turn.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your heart still racing as you repeated his words — slowly at first, then with more certainty, your voice finding its strength as you went. When you finished, Steve didn’t hesitate.

“I do,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest thing he had ever done. There was no doubt or uncertainty in his voice. 

He reached for your ring, holding it carefully between his fingers before looking back up at you.

“Repeat after me,” he said softly.

You nodded.

“With this ring, I choose you.”

“With this ring, I choose you,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I promise to love you, to be honest with you and to let you in, always.”

You repeated each word, your gaze never leaving his.

“I promise I won’t shut you out when I’m scared… to trust you, to stay… and to build whatever life we can — together.”

Your throat tightened, but you kept going, holding onto every word like it mattered more than anything.

“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”

When you finished, his expression softened completely. Slowly—almost reverently— he slid the ring back onto your finger. The weight of it felt different now. Not heavier.

Stronger.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his ring, still resting between you on the couch. You picked it up carefully, turning it between your fingers before looking back at him.

“Your turn now,” you said softly, almost timidly. 

He nodded.

“With this ring, I choose you,” you began.

He repeated it without hesitation.

“I promise to love you, to trust you, and to stay when things get hard — not because I have to, but because I want to.”

His voice was firm, certain.

“I promise to stay even when it would be easier to walk away… and to build whatever life we can— together.”

Your chest tightened.

“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”

When he finished repeating, you took his hand and slid the ring back onto his finger, your touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your fingers intertwined. When you looked up again, he was already staring at you. Smiling. There was something lighter in his expression now. Softer. Hopeful. You smiled back, your eyes still shining.

“And now what?” you asked quietly.

A small, familiar spark returned to his gaze.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping just slightly as his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheeks, “now I get to kiss my wife.”

A flash of playfulness softened his features — something boyish and bright, as if he’d been counting down the seconds to this very moment. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, fueled by a quiet, steady confidence. Like he wasn’t asking — just finally claiming what had always been his.

And then he kissed you.

The force of it, the sudden pull of his hands, sent you tipping backward onto the couch, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he followed you down without breaking the kiss, his body settling over yours.

You barely had time to react before your hands found him again — his shoulders, his hair — pulling him closer as if there was still distance left to close.

At first, the kiss was slow, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of care that felt almost reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again. Then it deepened, growing stronger, more urgent, the quiet tenderness giving way to something warmer, fuller, alive with everything you had both held back for too long.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, his grip on you firm but steady, keeping you anchored beneath him as if letting go wasn’t even an option anymore.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

But a promise.

A new beginning.

The first step into something new.

Together.

-

A week later, you started therapy.

It wasn’t an instant fix. Nothing about it was. But slowly — almost without noticing at first —something began to shift.

The mornings were the first to change.

You still reached for him sometimes when you woke up, your hand instinctively searching for the warmth of his side of the bed. But you no longer did it with that same sharp edge of panic or fear. You didn’t brace yourself before opening your eyes. You didn’t lie there, afraid of what you might — or might not — find. 

And some mornings… you didn’t even have the chance to.

You woke up already wrapped in his arms, his body warm against yours, his hand resting at your waist like it had been there all night. Other times, you felt him pull you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he was making sure you were still there — still his, still within reach.

Those mornings were easier. Quieter. Because they didn’t leave space for doubt to creep in.

And when he wasn’t there, you didn’t rush. You didn’t run to the closet anymore to check if his clothes were still hanging where they belonged. You didn’t scan the house with your heart in your throat, waiting to confirm your worst fear. Instead, you breathed — once, twice. You reminded yourself — quietly, firmly — of everything he had told you. Of everything you had promised each other.

You chose to trust him.

And, slowly, you started trying to trust yourself too. To believe that you were enough. Not just because he said it, or because he loved you. But because you were.

-

Two months later, you came back from a weekend away with Robin and Nancy.

The moment you stepped into the house, you barely had time to set your bag down before Steve reached you, taking the suitcase from your hand and leaning in to kiss you softly.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I was gone only for two days,” you replied, smiling anyway.

“I know,” he said. “Two very long days.”

And then you noticed the expression on his face. He looked suspiciously satisfied, like he was waiting for you to figure something out.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?” you asked, suspicious now. “What did you do?”

He feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No trust at all?”

You gave him another look.

“Okay, maybe I did something,” he admitted, a grin slipping through.

“Please tell me you didn’t burn the kitchen down while I was gone.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Firstly, rude. And secondly, it’s a good thing. A surprise. Promise.”

Then he extended his hand toward you.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to see it.”

You hesitated for only a second before taking it, letting him guide you inside and up the stairs.

He left your suitcase by the bedroom door without a second thought and kept going.

And that was when you realized where you were going. 

Your steps slowed. Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.

The further down the hallway you walked, the heavier your chest felt until you stopped, right in front of the door you almost never opened anymore.

Your throat went dry.

You hadn't stepped inside in months. Most days, you barely even looked at it when you passed. Sometimes you wished it wasn’t there at all. That the door could just… disappear.

“Steve… what are we doing?”

He turned back to you immediately, and whatever excitement had been on his face softened the second he saw yours. He stepped closer, taking both your hands this time, holding them gently but firmly. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Trust me. Okay?”

The words settled between you. Familiar now. Your eyes flickered to the door for a brief second, your chest tightening — then back to him. You swallowed hard and nodded.

“Okay.”

He smiled, just a little, then squeezed your hands.

“I need you to close your eyes,” he said. “And don’t open them. No matter what.”

A small flicker of hesitation crossed your face again. But this time, you didn’t let it take over.

“I’m trusting you,” you murmured. 

“I know,” he said softly before closing your eyes. 

You felt him let go of one of your hands, the other still firmly wrapped around his as he guided you forward. Then you heard the sound of the door opening. Your heartbeat picked up.

“Okay,” he said. “Come on. Just follow my voice.”

You did. Slowly. Carefully.

“Stop,” he said gently after a moment.

You stopped instantly, abruptly. 

“Okay… you can open them.”

You inhaled deeply and opened your eyes. 

At first, all you saw was him — standing in front of you, watching you carefully, almost nervously. Then your gaze shifted and everything else came into focus. You turned slowly, taking it in piece by piece.

Everything was different. But it wasn't what you had once imagined either.

The boxes were gone. The walls had been repainted in soft, warm colors that made the room feel brighter than you remembered. 

There was no crib by the window. No changing table. No carefully planned corners for a life that hadn’t come. Instead, there were large canvases leaned against the far wall, waiting to be used. Shelves lined with paints, brushes, pencils and jars of color.

Your breath caught. Your hand rose instinctively to your mouth as your eyes began to sting.

It wasn’t a reminder of what you had lost anymore. Of what you couldn’t have. Steve had transformed it into something full of possibilities that didn’t hurt to look at. That didn’t whisper what if every time you passed by.

Behind you, Steve shifted slightly. When you didn’t speak right away, uncertainty crept in.

He cleared his throat. “Maybe I should’ve talked to you first,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I just… I thought it was a shame to leave it like that and not using it. And you always said you wished you had a space to paint, so I thought—”

He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure.

“I mean, you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” he added, softer now. “We can —”

You turned to him before he could finish the sentence and closed the distance in two quick steps, kissing him. He froze for a second, clearly caught off guard — then melted into it, his hands coming up to steady you as he kissed you back. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breath uneven.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “I love it. And I love you.”

Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

He held you just as tightly.

And over the following weeks, that room became yours.

You spent hours in there — painting, sitting, letting your thoughts settle into something quieter. Sometimes, you didn’t even realize how long you’d been there until the light changed. Steve would linger in the doorway now and then, leaning against the frame, watching you with that same soft expression—like he was witnessing something slowly come back to life. 

Eventually, you even convinced him to sit for you. He complained about it at first. A lot. But he stayed. 

And little by little, that room changed. From something that once held only absence, pain, sadness… to something filled with color.

And hope. 

-

A few weeks later, Steve showed up with a camper that looked like it had lived several lives before you ever laid eyes on it. It was old, dented in places, the paint faded and uneven — but there was a spark in Steve’s eyes when he stood in front of it, one hand resting on the hood like he’d just found treasure.

“I know what you’re thinking but it has potential,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “It probably has tetanus.”

He grinned.

With Eddie’s help — and a lot more time, effort, and swearing than either of them would ever admit— they brought it back to life. By the time summer arrived and school let out, it was no longer falling apart.

With no schedules to follow and nowhere you had to be, you left. The road stretched out in front of you, endless and open. It felt… freeing. You drove for hours with the windows down, music playing too loud, your hands resting somewhere on each other — your arm, your thigh, wherever you could reach — just to feel each other.

You made your way through the Rockies first, the air thinner, cooler, the silence deeper than anything you were used to. You hiked trails that left your legs aching and your lungs burning, but every time you stopped, every time you looked around, it felt worth it. At night, you slept outside more often than not. Sometimes in the camper, sometimes in a tent, sometimes just wrapped in blankets under a sky so full of stars it didn’t feel real. There were moments when you lay side by side, not speaking, just looking up. And your thoughts didn’t spiral anymore. 

At the Grand Canyon, you stood at the edge in silence, your shoulder pressed against his. His hand found yours without looking, fingers threading through yours like it was second nature.

“Hard to believe something like this just… exists,” you murmured.

Steve glanced at you instead of the view. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

After that, you went to Yellowstone. Beautiful and unpredictable at the same time. One moment you were admiring the scenery, the next you were lost, soaked by unexpected rain, or arguing over a map you both insisted you knew how to read properly. 

And then there was California.

Everything seemed to slow down there. The air was warmer, the days felt longer. The ocean stretched out endlessly in front of you, the sound of it constant.

Steve decided he was going to learn how to surf. In reality, he spent most of his time falling off the board while you sat on the beach laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

You played volleyball on the beach with strangers, drank overly sweet cocktails decorated with ridiculous little umbrellas, and watched the sun melt into the ocean more evenings than you could count.

During the day, Steve refused to wear sunscreen, even though you had told him he’d regret it.

And he did.

“This is your fault,” he muttered later, lying on his stomach, his skin flushed red while you tried not to laugh as you applied aloe.

“My fault?” you echoed, incredulous.

“You should’ve insisted harder.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your fingers gentler than your tone. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you love me.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to as you both knew the answer. 

Sometimes, you acted like kids — splashing each other in the water, chasing each other along the shore, collapsing into the sand, breathless and laughing.

Other times, things slowed down. Quieted.

You’d sit close together, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against him, listening to the waves without feeling the need to fill the silence.

One night, long after the beach had emptied, you slipped into the ocean together, only in your underwear. 

The cold hit you instantly, sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. You gasped, instinctively reaching for him. His hands found you beneath the surface, firm on your hips, pulling you into him until there was no space left between your bodies. The water moved around you, waves brushing against your skin. You laughed quietly when one hit you harder than expected, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, pressing your chest against his, your breath mixing. 

You started kissing — your lips touching, hesitant for half a second — and then it deepened instantly.

Hungry.

Your fingers slid into his hair, grabbing, pulling him closer as his hold on you tightened, one hand pressing firmly at your lower back, anchoring you against him while the ocean swayed around you. There was no teasing or slow build. Just want. Desire. Raw and immediate. 

“I need you,” he muttered against your mouth.

“Then stop talking,” you shot back softly, breathless, your eyes fixed on his. “And show me how much you need me.”

That was all it took.

The kiss turned rougher, deeper. His hand shifted, gripping your hip harder, pulling a quiet sound from you that you couldn’t hold back. The ocean rocked around you, but neither of you paid attention anymore.

By the time you made it back to shore, you were both breathing harder than you should have been, your skin still wet, cooling in the night air. The moment your feet hit the sand, his mouth was on yours again, stronger this time, more urgent, more demanding. Your hands moved just as quickly, sliding over him, holding, pulling, needing to feel him. 

You stumbled back together, barely coordinated, until the sand gave way beneath you and you fell, a soft breath leaving your lips as your back hit the ground. Steve followed immediately, catching himself just enough to not hurt you. 

Sand clung to your skin, your legs wrapped around him without thinking, pressing into him like you couldn’t get close enough, like your body refused the idea of space between you. 

His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, slower now — but not softer. Each touch leaving something behind, something you could feel spreading under your skin. 

“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. 

“Yes—”

Your head tipped back, breath catching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you tighter, like he wasn’t planning to let you slip away again.

“Don’t — don’t stop,” you breathed against his mouth.

A quiet exhale left him, almost like a laugh, but darker.

“Never,” he replied, almost immediately.

When you finally came together, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm before you even found it. Every movement met, answered, matched. Your breath broke into uneven patterns, your fingers tightening, needing something solid as the rest of the world blurred into nothing but the sound of the ocean and the feeling of him. His name left your lips without thought, barely more than a breath, your body reacting to every shift, every movement that pulled you further into him.

Afterward, you didn’t move. You stayed wrapped around each other, your skin still warm, your breathing slowly evening out as the night settled back around you. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer instinctively, like distance wasn’t something either of you could tolerate. Your fingers traced slow, absent lines over his chest, your cheek pressed there, listening to his heartbeat.

The waves kept coming and going, soft, constant. 

And for once, there was nothing chasing you.

No doubt.

No fear.

No voice in the back of your mind asking what if.

-

When you came back from your trip and the new school year began, things felt different between you and Steve. Not all at once. Not in a way that erased everything that had happened. But the tension, the constant weight of fear and doubt — it had softened.

You still talked about children sometimes. About the future. About what you both wanted. But the summer spent together had reminded you of something important: you were happy. With Steve. With the life you had built together, even if it was only the two of you for now. But it was enough for now. So you decided to wait and to give yourselves time.

No deadlines.

No pressure. 

No quiet panic about what should come next.

Just the two of you.

Or rather, the three of you.

Because shortly after you got a dog.

A golden retriever puppy, barely a few months old, all oversized paws and endless energy that you named King. 

King made his loyalties very clear from the start. He followed you everywhere like your shadow. If you moved, he moved. If you stopped, he sat at your feet. At night, it became a problem. Every time you and Steve went to bed, King would jump up before either of you could stop him and curl up right on Steve’s side.

“You’ve got competition,” you teased one night, already half under the covers as Steve stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the dog sprawled comfortably across his pillow.

Steve scoffed. “Yeah, I can see.”

King didn’t move. If anything, he stretched and it took a solid minute of negotiating — firm voice, light pushing, and eventually bribery — before Steve managed to reclaim his spot. Even then, King would lie at the foot of the bed, eyes on you. 

Steve pretended to be annoyed at him, almost jealous. Sometimes he even sounded like it. But you caught the way he looked at the dog when he thought you weren’t paying attention — soft, amused, completely gone. He loved him as much as you did. Every evening, he took him out for walks, no matter how tired he was. You’d watch from the window sometimes as they crossed the yard — Steve throwing the ball, King sprinting after it like his life depended on it, ears flying, tail wagging wildly.

-

Not long after classes started, a position opened in the art department. A few days later, the principal called you into his office and offered it to you. Your first instinct was to say no.

The thought of being so close to children every day made something in your chest tighten again. Old fears, quieter now, but not completely gone, stirred under the surface.

What if it would hurt?

What if it was too much?

What if you couldn’t handle it after all?

But then you thought about the studio that Steve had set up for you. About the way your hands had found their way back to color, to creation. About the way you had slowly, carefully started building something new out of what you thought you had lost.

So when the principal asked for your answer a few days later, you said yes.

Steve was… impossibly proud.

The surprise party he organized was chaotic, loud, full of people you loved — and entirely overwhelming in the best way.

Your first day in the classroom felt different than you expected.

Not heavy.

Not painful.

Just… new.

There were moments of uncertainty, of course. Small pauses where you caught yourself observing, adjusting, learning where to stand, how to speak.  At one point, while you were leaning over a desk helping a child mix colors, you felt something shift in the room — a subtle change in attention. You looked up. Steve was standing by the door. He hadn’t said anything. Just… watching. A small smile already on his face.

One of the kids noticed him first. Then another. And suddenly the entire class had turned, voices rising all at once.

“Who is that?” “Coach Harrington!” “Is that your husband?” “Are you gonna kiss him?”

Your face flushed instantly.

“Okay — alright — back to —” you tried, but it was too late.

“Ki-ss! Ki-ss! Ki-ss!”

You shot Steve a look — half warning, half embarrassed.

He only grinned and walked over, slow, deliberate, like he was enjoying this far too much. When he reached you, he leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your cheek.

The class erupted.

You covered your face for a second, laughing despite yourself.

“Sorry,” he murmured near your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Couldn’t help it.” Then, after a beat, softer. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Your cheeks warmed even more, and you nudged him lightly, trying to regain some composure.

By the time the day ended and the last child had left, the classroom fell quiet. You stood there for a moment, taking it in—the scattered drawings, the faint smell of paint, the soft echo of a day that hadn’t hurt the way you feared it would.

If anything, it had felt… right.

A light knock pulled you from your thoughts.

You followed the sound. 

Steve was leaning again against the doorframe, watching you with that same soft expression.

“So?” he asked.

You hesitated only a second.

“It was good,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow.

You smiled a little, shaking your head. “Okay… it was better than good.”

Something in his face eased. He stepped closer, his hand settling lightly at your waist.

“I knew it,” he said quietly.

You let out a small breath, glancing around the room one last time before looking back at him.

“I’m happy. Really happy,” you admitted.

It came out softer than you expected.

Steve’s thumb brushed gently against your side. “And I’m proud of you.”

You held his gaze for a second, then a small, knowing smile curved your lips. “Then maybe we should go home,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “so you can show me how proud you are.”

Something shifted in his expression immediately — subtle, but unmistakable.

“Don’t say more,” he murmured, a hint of a grin breaking through.

“Come on,” you said, reaching for your bag.

He took it from you without a word, his other hand finding yours and you walked out together, turning off the lights behind you. 

-

One evening, you were already home, waiting for Steve to be back. Dinner was ready, the table perfectly set. The kitchen still carried the warmth of what you had just cooked, and King lingered nearby, pacing in small, hopeful circles, his eyes fixed on the counter in case something might fall.

You glanced at the clock one more time. 

Steve was late.

You furrowed your brow. Practice should have ended a while ago and he was rarely off schedule without a reason.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, trying not to let your thoughts drift too far ahead of you. But just as a flicker of concern began to settle in your chest, the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence.

Relief left your lips in a quiet breath before you could stop it. King reacted instantly, tail wagging as he rushed out of the kitchen, nails clicking against the floor as he ran to greet Steve.

“Hey, what happened? The kids wouldn’t let you go?” you called out, stepping out of the kitchen after the dog, still distracted as you wiped your hands.

“Hey,” Steve said.

Something in his tone — slight, uncertain — made you lift your gaze. At first, you didn’t notice anything different. Then your eyes caught it.

A small hand, barely visible, peeking out from behind his leg, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his pants.

You slowed mid-step. Your mouth parted slightly, the words you had been about to say fading before they could form. Your gaze stayed fixed there, on that small hand, and on the hint of a face just barely visible behind him as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. But you couldn’t quite see who it was.

You looked back up at Steve. “Oh,” you said, managing a small smile despite the confusion already building, “I see we have a guest.”

Steve lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly, a nervous habit you knew too well. He smiled back—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was hesitation there. Almost… caution.

He glanced down behind him. Then, after a brief pause, he shifted slightly to the side.

And the child finally came into view.

You blinked. “Charlie?” you said, surprise softening your voice.

He stood half-hidden still, shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes flicked up briefly before dropping again like he wasn’t sure if he should be there at all.

You knew him. He was one of your students. And one of Steve’s athletes too. Quiet. Gentle. Polite. The kind of child who never demanded attention, who was always the last to leave, as if he had no hurry, or worse, nowhere to go.

“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, his voice small, careful. His eyes lowered to his worn shoes, toes turned slightly inward. 

King, meanwhile, had already approached him, tail wagging enthusiastically as he sniffed at him. Charlie flinched slightly at first but didn’t pull away. He just stood there, still, letting the dog investigate him like he didn’t quite know how to act. 

You softened immediately at the sight.

“Hey,” you said gently, your voice shifting without you even thinking about it as you took a few little steps closer. “It’s okay, you don’t need to be afraid. He’s friendly. And… curious.”

Charlie gave a small nod, barely lifting his gaze.

You knew enough about his situation. In a town like Hawkins, people talked and everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. Over the years, you had heard various things about him. No father. A mother who was rarely home. And when she was, she often seemed lost in problems of her own and Charlie ended up spending many evenings alone.

Your attention flicked back to Steve again as he stepped closer to you. A thousand questions sat just behind your lips but you didn’t ask them. Not yet.

Steve cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he began, his voice low. “I should’ve called, but—”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to brush his lips near your ear.

“His mom didn’t show up,” he murmured quietly so that only you could hear. “We couldn’t reach her. And I couldn’t leave him there.”

He pulled back, his hand finding yours, fingers wrapping around it as he searched your face. Your eyes flicked briefly to Charlie, then back to Steve. You nodded, a small smile forming as you squeezed his hand lightly, reassuring him that it was all okay. You stepped away from Steve and moved toward Charlie, lowering yourself to his height so you wouldn’t tower over him.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You actually got here at the perfect time.”

He shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, weight moving from one foot to the other.

“I hope you’re hungry because dinner’s ready,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “And I made way too much food. Honestly, it’s a problem at this point.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Think you could help us with that?”

Charlie nodded after a moment, still not quite meeting your eyes. You nodded back, as if sealing an agreement.

“Perfect,” you said gently. Then, glancing over your shoulder at Steve, “why don’t we go wash our hands while Steve… gets everything ready?”

Your eyes lingered on him just a second longer, enough for him to understand that what you were really giving him was time. He gave a small nod in return before going back to look at Charlie. You reached out carefully, giving him the chance to step back if he wanted to but he didn’t. Your fingers closed gently around his hand—small, a little cold—and you guided him toward the bathroom. Behind you, you heard Steve move, the faint sound of the phone being picked up echoing through the quiet house. As you walked, you could feel the slight tension in Charlie’s grip, the way he stayed close but cautious, like he wasn’t used to this kind of care.

When you stepped back into the kitchen, your eyes found Steve’s immediately. He shook his head, just slightly. Something in your chest dropped, but you didn’t let it show. You forced a small, easy smile for Charlie. 

“Here we are,” you said lightly. “Go ahead, Charlie, sit here.”

You gestured to the chair between you and Steve. He moved toward it slowly, almost carefully, like he was afraid of getting something wrong. Steve took the seat across from you, while King had already settled at your side, tail brushing against your leg, eyes fixed on the table with quiet anticipation. He knew you well enough to expect something, even if he’d already eaten.

You looked at Charlie, searching for the right thing to say. Make yourself at home sat on the tip of your tongue — but it didn’t feel right. Not when you didn’t know what home meant for him.

“Take whatever you like, please” you said instead, softer.

He still didn’t move. His mouth was slightly open, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. You followed it.

Dinner wasn’t anything special — just spaghetti with meatballs, fresh salad and warm garlic bread. The portions were the same you cooked every night for you and Steve, the kind that usually left leftovers for the next day. It was normal for you.

But not for him.

His eyes moved slowly from one dish to the next, taking everything in. There was something in his expression — something caught between hesitation and wonder. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real or that it was actually meant for him.

Your chest tightened and a thought slipped in before you could stop it.

When was the last time he ate like this?

Not just ate — but sat down at a table, with other people and warm food in front of him that he didn’t have to earn, or rush, or hide. Maybe he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was just waiting to understand what was allowed. Waiting for someone to tell him it was okay.

You swallowed hard but didn’t ask questions. Instead, you reached forward and began serving him yourself, adding a bit of everything onto his plate. More than you normally would. More than he probably expected.

“There you go,” you said gently once you were done. “There’s more if you want, okay?”

He nodded faintly, his hands still resting in his lap for a moment longer.

You and Steve served yourselves next, exchanging a brief look across the table before your attention returned to Charlie.

He hadn’t touched the food yet.

Only when you both took your first bites did he finally move. At first, it was tentative. Slow. Careful. He picked at the food like he was testing it, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was really his to eat. Like he expected someone to stop him. But after a few bites, hunger took over and his movements changed — faster now, less careful. He ate quickly, almost urgently, like his body couldn’t afford to wait. A bit of sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth.

You had stopped mid-motion without realizing it, your fork suspended halfway to your mouth as you watched him. Something shifted inside you. It wasn’t discomfort. Or pity. It was something else — warm, but heavier than you expected. Something that settled low in your chest and stayed there, tightening your throat just slightly. You didn’t have a name for it but it made it harder to look away.

You loved your students. All of them. But this felt different. Seeing Charlie like that, so small in that chair, so quiet and guarded one moment and then suddenly… unfiltered. Unaware. There was something vulnerable about it. But also something incredibly real. And it stirred something in you that you didn’t quite recognize. Something close to affection — but deeper, instinctive, almost unfamiliar in its intensity.

You smiled, softly. Charlie caught it out of the corner of his eye and he slowed down almost immediately. The shift was instant — shoulders tightening again, movements becoming smaller, more controlled, like he had just remembered himself or as if he thought he had done something wrong. Your smile faded just enough. You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on your own plate, giving him privacy again.

Dinner moved forward like that. Quiet, mostly. You and Steve tried to make conversation — small questions, light comments, easy conversation — but you didn’t push. When Charlie answered, it was brief. Polite. Careful.

So you let the silence settle instead. 

And strangely… it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It felt gentle.

Safe.

The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from anyone. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery, King’s tail occasionally brushing against the floor, and Charlie’s breathing slowly evening out as he ate.

And as you sat there, across from Steve, watching this small, fragile moment take shape at your table, you felt something shift inside you again.

Not sharp.

Not painful.

Just… something opening.

Something that felt, quietly, like the beginning of something you hadn’t planned — but somehow already cared about.

At some point, King started circling the table again, nails clicking softly against the floor as he moved from one chair to the next, hopeful and impatient in the way he always was. Then, without warning, he stopped beside Charlie and rested his chin on the boy’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Charlie froze instantly. His shoulders stiffened, his hand hovering mid-air, his whole body going still. 

“It’s okay,” Steve said gently, his tone easy, reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared. It just means that he likes you.”

He reached over, picking up a small piece of leftover meat from his plate and holding it out toward him.

“Here,” he added. “You can give him this if you want. He’ll be your best friend for life after that.”

Charlie hesitated. He looked at Steve first, uncertain — then at you. You gave him a small nod, soft, encouraging. He took the piece of meat slowly, carefully, like even that small gesture required permission. Then he lowered his hand toward King, a little unsure. 

King didn’t hesitate. He took it immediately, tail still wagging, clearly thrilled by the interaction and the food. Charlie watched him, something shifting in his expression. Then, almost cautiously, he lifted his other hand and rested it on the top of King’s head. He started petting him, slowly at first, light, almost testing. King leaned into it, happily, before licking his hand in response.

And just like that a small smile appeared on Charlie’s face. Barely there at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold it. Then a quiet, surprised sound slipped out of him — something between a breath and a laugh.

You realized then that it was the first genuine smile you'd seen since Steve had brought him home. 

A real smile. 

The sight of it sent a rush of warmth through you so sudden it almost caught you off guard. You looked up, meeting Steve’s gaze across the table.

His expression had softened in exactly the same way.

Neither of you said anything. There was no need. Your smiles said more than a thousand words. 

-

Darkness had settled outside the windows. The last traces of daylight had disappeared long ago, replaced by the quiet hum of crickets and the occasional headlights passing on the distant road. The clock in the kitchen kept ticking steadily forward, each passing minute making the silence feel heavier.

Steve had tried calling again. And again. But it had become clear no one was coming.

Hopper had been informed, and after a brief conversation, the three of you had come to the same conclusion. It was late, Charlie was safe where he was, and dragging him somewhere unfamiliar in the middle of the night would only make an already difficult situation worse. Hopper promised he would start looking into things first thing in the morning. He'd check hospitals, talk to people, ask questions and figure out what had happened. But until then, the best place for Charlie was here. At your house. 

You and Steve got the guest room ready together, moving quickly, instinctively falling into rhythm without needing to say anything. Clean sheets, an extra blanket, a small glass of water placed on the nightstand. You found something for him to sleep in as well. One of the spare pajamas that had been left behind over the years after countless sleepovers. Dustin, Mike, Lucas and the others always seemed to forget something whenever they stayed over. The pajama shirt hung almost to Charlie's thighs and the sleeves fell past his wrists. It was obviously far too big for him, but it was clean, warm, and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.

When it was finally time to put him to bed, something shifted again — a different kind of uncertainty. You were suddenly aware of how unfamiliar this felt — not the presence of a child, not really. You and Steve were surrounded by them every day at school and you had even years of babysitting behind you.

But this was different.

This was your home.

And right now there was a child who was almost a stranger to you. Not one of your little friends, like Dustin, or a friend's kid you found yourself looking after for a night. Sure, he was your student, but you still knew little about him. He was a responsibility that didn’t have a clear boundary. You didn’t know what his routine looked like. Or if he had one at all. You didn’t know if someone usually tucked him in. If he was used to silence, or noise, or being left alone entirely. You didn't know what you could or couldn't do. 

He wasn’t your son, after all. 

And you weren’t his mother. 

The thought made you hesitate. But not for long. Because he needed you, whether you were his mother or not.

You stepped closer to him. He had already slipped under the covers, lying stiffly on his back, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself there either. You reached down and gently pulled the blanket up a little higher, tucking it around him. Your movements were careful, slow. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time. 

“I… uh,” you started, your voice quieter now. “Me and Steve — we’re just down the hall. First door on the left.” You offered a small smile. “If you need anything… anything at all, you can come get us. Or call.”

He just nodded.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, searching his expression, hoping he understood — not just the words, but what you meant.

That he wasn’t alone. 

“Goodnight, Charlie,” you said gently. “Sweet dreams.”

Still no answer.

You smiled anyway, then turned toward the door. You had just opened it, one foot already out in the hallway, when his voice stopped you.

“Goodnight… Mrs. Harrington.”

You turned back, your eyes met his again. For a second, something caught in your chest. You smiled again at him. Part of you wanted to tell him to use your name. To make it easier, less formal. But you didn’t. It was too soon. 

“Goodnight,” you simply said.

Then you stepped out and closed the door gently behind you, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you almost immediately. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping without you even realizing how tense they had been. It felt strange. Like you had just passed some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.

-

By the time you reached your bedroom, the exhaustion of the evening had finally started catching up to you. You pushed the door open quietly.

Steve was standing beside the bed, halfway through changing out of his clothes. His shirt was already gone, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips while he tugged a clean T-shirt over his head. The moment he saw you, he stopped immediately.

“How is he?” he asked right away, concern already written all over his face. “Did he fall asleep?”

You shook your head as you closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the handle for just a moment before you let it go.

“Not yet,” you said. “But he was fine... and I think he was tired too. After all, it was a busy evening... for all of us. I'm sure he'll fall asleep soon.”

Steve nodded slowly, eyes dropping for a second as he processed that, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. Then his gaze lifted back to yours.

“And you?” he asked more carefully this time, his voice low. 

There it was.

The real question.

Are you okay after all of this?

You leaned back lightly against the dresser, crossing your arms loosely over yourself as you thought about it.

“Honestly?” you said after a moment. “Better than I expected.”

“Are you sure?” He said, carefully. 

You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t quite make it. 

“I’m not gonna lie. It was… intense,” you admitted. “And a little overwhelming at first.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “When I saw him standing behind you, I think my brain completely stopped working for a second.”

That earned the faintest smile from Steve, though it disappeared quickly again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first to warn you, but I didn’t really have the time or… a choice,” he said immediately.

You shook your head gently.

“Steve,” you said softly, “you weren’t going to leave him there all alone.”

His jaw tightened slightly at that.

You could still picture it clearly — Charlie patiently waiting at the baseball field long after everyone else had gone home, like he was already used to it. To being forgotten. The thought made something ache inside your chest all over again.

“You did the right thing. I would’ve done the same,” you told him.

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

“Of course.”

Steve looked at you for a long moment after that, something conflicted moving behind his eyes.

“When I showed up with him,” he admitted quietly, “I was scared you’d look at me and think I’d lost my mind.”

You frowned immediately. 

“Steve—”

“No, I —” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly. “I was really scared… I didn’t know if this would… bring everything back up again.” His voice lowered on the last part. 

Even now he hated talking about the pain you both had gone through. But you promised each other you'd be honest and tell each other everything, even when it wasn’t easy. You didn't want to repeat the same mistakes.

Your expression softened instantly. “You thought I was gonna fall apart again.”

He didn’t talk but his silence was answer enough. You pushed yourself away from the dresser and walked toward him slowly.

“I… I was scared, at first,” you admitted.

Steve’s face tightened slightly.

“But not because of Charlie,” you clarified quickly. “More because… I didn’t know how I was supposed to act. What he needed. Or what the right thing was.”

You stopped in front of him.

“But…” your voice softened, “I’m glad you brought him here.”

Steve’s eyes searched yours carefully, like he still wasn’t fully allowing himself to believe that.

“And he can stay as long as he needs to,” you said firmly. “Honestly, I’m more angry that nobody seems to even be looking for him.”

Something dark flickered briefly across Steve’s face at that.

“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “Me too.”

Silence settled between you for a moment. Then Steve looked at you again, softer this time.

“You were really good tonight,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“With him,” he added. His mouth lifted faintly at one corner. “The second you realized what was happening, you just… took over.” He shook his head a little, almost like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “You made him feel safe in, like, five minutes.”

Warmth spread slowly through your chest.

“So did you,” you replied quietly.

Steve huffed softly. “I mostly panicked internally.”

You laughed under your breath. “No,” you said, stepping closer. “You brought him home. You made sure he wasn’t alone tonight.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him. “You’re a really good man, Steve Harrington.”

His gaze dropped briefly, almost shy despite all these years.

“And… You’d be an amazing father,” you added, gentler now.

Steve smiled automatically at that—but it faltered almost immediately after. You noticed it instantly. Like the words had caught somewhere inside him. Your head tilted slightly, knowing exactly what had happened. 

“You can say it, you know,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted back to yours. For a second, he looked almost hesitant. Then finally, “You’d be an amazing mother too.”

A small smile pulled at your lips as you stepped even closer until your bodies nearly touched.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “I’ll try to be.”

Your hand slid gently against his chest.

“One day. When we’re ready.”

Steve’s expression softened completely.

Relief. Love. Hope.

All at once.

His hands found your waist slowly, carefully, like he still wanted to make sure this was real.

“That sounds nice,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You looked at each other for another moment before Steve finally pulled you fully against him. You melted into his arms immediately, your cheek pressing against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. His hand slid slowly up and down your back while the other rested protectively at the base of your spine. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.

After a moment, you tilted your head back just enough to look at him again. “I love you,” you whispered.

Steve smiled. “I love you too.”

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

-

The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen. You blinked slowly against the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in muted shades of blue. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers. The house sat wrapped in that quiet kind of silence that only existed in the earliest hours — before alarms, before life began moving again. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach. One arm had somehow ended up stretched across your waist sometime during the night, heavy and warm over the blanket, his face half-buried into the pillow. His hair stuck up messily in every direction, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the world.

You watched him for a few seconds, then your thoughts drifted to Charlie. You carefully slipped out from under Steve’s arm, moving slowly so you wouldn’t wake him. He stirred anyway, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before instinctively reaching toward the warm spot you had left. You smiled to yourself. Then quietly, you pulled something on and stepped into the hallway. Your feet slowed when you reached the guest room. Carefully, you opened the door just enough to peek inside. 

Charlie was still asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath the pillow, hair messy from sleep. 

Relief moved through you instantly.

At some point during the night, he must have kicked the blankets halfway off himself and King had somehow managed to sneak in too, curled at the foot of the bed like some oversized guard dog, completely passed out.

You almost laughed.

Traitor.

You had checked on him more than once during the night. Each time half expecting him to be awake, scared, crying, confused. But every time, you had found him still sleeping.

Charlie’s face looked different asleep. Softer. Younger. Relaxed in a way you didn’t think you had ever seen him at school. He was just a little boy sleeping. Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly. You wondered when he had last slept somewhere without worrying. If he ever had.

You stepped inside just long enough to pull the blanket back over him. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. King cracked one eye open, lifted his head lazily.

“You’re supposed to sleep in our room,” you whispered.

His tail thumped once against the mattress before he ignored you entirely. You shook your head, smiling faintly, and quietly slipped back out.

Downstairs, the house still smelled faintly of last night’s dinner. You started the coffee machine first. Then breakfast. You decided to make pancakes, hoping Charlie liked them. Without realizing it, you found yourself making more than usual. 

By the time you were whisking batter, you heard some familiar footsteps behind you and after a moment, strong arms wrapped around your waist, making you smile immediately.  

“Good morning to you too,” you said softly.

Steve leaned down, still half asleep, pressing his face against your shoulder, kissing it lazily. 

“It’s Saturday and it’s early,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Come back to bed.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Don’t tempt me, Steve.”

A soft hum vibrated against your skin.

“You know I can’t help myself,” he murmured near your ear. “Especially when I know I can convince you.”

His hands settled against your hips, warm and familiar.

“Steve…”

“Mhm?”

“I’d like to remind you we’re not alone in the house.”

He kissed your shoulder again. “I checked,” he murmured. “He’s still sleeping.”

The admission caught you off guard for a second. 

Of course he had checked too. 

The thought alone made your chest tighten in the softest way.

You tilted your head back for only a moment, giving him space without even meaning to as his lips brushed your skin again. Then you caught yourself. Turning in his arms, you rested your hands against his chest to stop him.

“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t wake up any second,” you said gently. “And I’d rather avoid traumatizing him any more than life already has.”

Steve let out a quiet sigh — not annoyed. Amused.

His forehead dropped lightly against yours.

“Ok, you’re right. I’ll behave,” he said. “For now,” he added before kissing you. Soft. Slow. 

When he pulled back, he exhaled quietly. 

“I’m gonna call Hopper,” he said after a moment. “See if there’s any news.”

The mood shifted a little, reality settling back in. 

You still nodded. Even though, deep down, you already feared the answer.

While Steve reached for the phone, you turned back toward the counter and started cooking. You needed something to do with your hands, something to stop your mind from spiraling.

You poured the first circle of batter into the pan, watching it spread slowly across the surface as the soft hiss filled the kitchen.

After a few seconds, Hopper answered. You could hear his voice through the receiver — agitated, fast — but none of the actual words reached you. You focused on the pancakes, the smell slowly filling the kitchen. 

A small stack of pancakes had already begun to form on the plate beside the stove by the time you glanced over again. Steve’s expression had slowly changed as he listened to Hopper. His eyes met yours, your stomach tightening. You could tell before he even hung up. 

“Still nothing?” you asked quietly, swallowing hard. 

Steve shook his head. “Hopper checked their caravan,” he said carefully. “Nobody was there. And no one has seen her apparently.”

He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “He said… Charlie can keep staying here, for now. If… we want, of course.” You looked down at the batter absentmindedly as something twisted painfully in your chest. Not because you minded. God, you didn’t. But because no child should ever be left wondering why no one came. Then there was a part of you — the quiet, selfish one — that felt strangely relieved.

Your eyes slowly lifted to Steve’s.

“Yeah,” you agreed immediately. “Of course he can stay. As long as he needs it.”

“You sure?” he asked quietly. Steve watched you for a second, like maybe he was still afraid of your answer. Like some part of him worried this would be too much.

“Steve,” you said gently. “I told you. I’m okay, really. And he needs us now. That’s all that matters.”

Something softened in his face. “You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “You brought home a child, Harrington. You are.”

“Yeah, and you just took over, making it feel normal.”

“I just made him dinner.”

“You made him feel safe. Welcome.”

You looked at him, your mouth slightly open. But before you could answer, soft footsteps interrupted you.

You both turned.

Charlie stood awkwardly near the kitchen entrance, hair sticking up everywhere. King stood proudly beside him like he had personally escorted him downstairs. Charlie hesitated when he noticed you both looking.

“Morning,” Steve said immediately, casual — gentle enough not to scare him off. “Did you sleep well, buddy?”

Charlie shifted his weight slightly. Then, he nodded, quickly. 

“Good,” he said, softer than usual. “You hungry?”

Charlie looked up at you and after a moment, he nodded again. 

Your heart nearly cracked open. “Well,” you said, turning back toward the stove, “perfect timing. You pointed toward the bowl on the counter. “Pancakes. They’re almost ready.  And before Steve eats all of them, I suggest you sit down.”

Steve looked offended. “What? I didn’t…”

“You ate six last time.”

“Seven,” he corrected proudly. “It's not my fault if your pancakes are the best,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. 

And for the second time, you saw it. Small. Quick. Gone almost immediately. But there.

Another smile.

And somehow, standing there in your kitchen, with King circling his legs and Steve already pretending to argue over pancake rights, something shifted. You couldn’t explain it yet. Didn’t have words for it. But for the first time in a long while…

The house felt fuller.

Complete. 

-

Since school was closed for the weekend, you had the day off and could do whatever you wanted. So after breakfast, Steve disappeared for a moment before returning with two baseball gloves and a ball in hand. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter, looking at Charlie.

“So,” he said, shrugging lightly, like the idea had just come to him, “since you’re here…”

Charlie looked up from where he sat beside King.

“Thought maybe we could get a little practice in.” Steve tossed one ball lightly into the air before catching it again. “Consider it private coaching.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “But don’t tell the others, alright? Can’t have the team thinking I play favorites.”

Charlie hesitated, shoulders tightening slightly.

“You really don’t have to if you don’t feel like it,” you added gently, not wanting him to feel pressured.

Steve nodded immediately. “No pressure,” he said easily. “We can just throw the ball around for a bit. King will probably join and ruin everything anyway.”

As if on cue, King lifted his head and after a second, Charlie nodded.

Steve pointed at him with mock seriousness.

“That’s my guy.”

-

Outside, you settled onto the porch with your sketchbook, intending to draw. At least, that had been the plan. Instead, your pencil barely touched the page as you found yourself watching Steve and Charlie.

Steve crouched down to Charlie’s height, explaining something while the boy listened carefully, shoulders tense. At first, he nodded and answered only when Steve asked him something directly. But little by little, the nervousness began to fade.

And soon, he was laughing quietly when Steve intentionally exaggerated a missed catch, dramatically falling backward into the grass.

“You did that on purpose,” Charlie said before quickly going quiet again, almost surprised by his own voice.

Steve placed a hand over his chest. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Another laugh escaped Charlie, his smile widened despite himself.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Charlie looked… lighter. Like for a few hours, he had forgotten to be scared. And watching him — safe, laughing, free in a way you suspected he rarely got to be — stirred something unfamiliar and quiet inside your chest. And frightening in how natural it felt. You didn’t quite know what to call it. Not yet. Affection, maybe. Or something dangerously close to love. And that scared you more than you wanted to admit. Because you knew what love could do and how quickly it could turn into grief. How suddenly happiness could become fear and loss. And letting yourself care this much felt dangerous.

But then Charlie laughed again — breathless this time, chasing after King while Steve pretended to complain dramatically about being ignored by his own player — and something inside you softened anyway.

So, just for now, you let yourself enjoy the moment. The sound of laughter drifting through the yard. The warmth of the sun on your skin. Steve’s voice somewhere in the background.

-

By evening, the kitchen smelled like flour, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.

You had decided on homemade pizza.

At first, Charlie hovered near the kitchen doorway again, uncertain, hands half-hidden inside the sleeves of Dustin’s oversized sweatshirt. King sat loyally beside him, tail sweeping lazily against the floor every few seconds like he had already decided Charlie belonged there.

“Come here,” you said gently, patting the stool beside you. “I need help decorating.”

Charlie hesitated, glancing briefly toward Steve like he needed confirmation he wouldn’t be in the way.

“You heard the boss,” Steve said, washing his hands at the sink. “No backing out now.”

Slowly, Charlie climbed onto the stool beside you. You handed him a small handful of shredded mozzarella while you spread tomato sauce over the dough.

“Okay,” you said softly. “You can put the cheese on.”

He watched your hands first, careful and observant, before pinching a small amount between his fingers and sprinkling it over the pizza with extreme concentration. At first he moved slowly, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. Then he paused. 

“Like this?” he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper. 

You opened your mouth to answer, but Steve leaned over the counter first.

“That is way too much cheese,” he said with exaggerated seriousness.

Charlie froze immediately and you shot Steve a look.

“Ignore him,” you said, nudging Charlie lightly with your shoulder. “There’s no such thing as too much cheese.”

Steve looked personally offended.

“There absolutely is.”

“There isn’t.”

“There is. You just refuse to acknowledge basic pizza science.”

You rolled your eyes.

Beside you, Charlie let out the smallest laugh.

As the evening went on, Charlie relaxed little by little. He started helping more without asking. Passing ingredients. Carefully arranging pepperoni in uneven little circles. Sneaking extra cheese onto one side of the pizza when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.

King, meanwhile, had become completely and utterly attached to Charlie. The dog barely left his side. Every time Charlie moved, King followed. Every time Charlie sat down, King somehow ended up pressed against his leg like they had known each other forever. At one point, while you were reaching for plates, you noticed Charlie glance around carefully before lowering his hand beneath the counter. The second the piece of cheese slipped onto the floor, the dog appeared like magic and eat it. Charlie looked oddly proud of himself. Across the kitchen, Steve caught your eye just in time to see Charlie carefully slipping another tiny piece of pepperoni. Steve let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms.

“Great,” he said, crossing his arms. “Now he likes you more than me too.”

Charlie startled slightly, cheeks reddening.

“I— sorry,” he mumbled immediately, hand pulling back like he’d done something wrong.

Steve’s expression softened at once. “Kid, I’m kidding,” he said gently.

Charlie glanced up uncertainly. “He switched teams years ago,” Steve continued, nodding toward the dog. “The second she started sneaking him food under the table, I lost all authority in this house.”

“Excuse me?” you said, pretending to sound offended as you slid the pizza onto a cutting board. “You spoil him just as much.”

Charlie looked between the two of you quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand dropped to scratch behind King’s ears. King immediately melted into the floor with complete devotion.

Charlie also started speaking more. Small things at first. How he liked baseball more than math. How he hated peas. How King reminded him of a dog he’d once wanted but never got. Nothing really big or life-changing but every sentence felt important to you. Like trust being handed over in pieces.

“You know,” Steve said eventually, leaning back in his chair after another bite of pizza, “I think this might actually be the best pizza we’ve ever made.”

You looked up from your plate and glanced first at Charlie, then at Steve. You smiled softly. He wasn’t talking about the food. 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think so too.” Then, after a beat, your eyes dropped back to Charlie. “I had an amazing helper.”

Steve pointed to himself immediately.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding once like it was obvious.

You looked at him flatly. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

Steve placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow,” he said, feigning heartbreak. “That’s actually cruel.”

You laughed quietly when the doorbell suddenly rang. The noise cut through the room so suddenly that all three of you looked up.

“Were we expecting someone?” Steve asked.

You slowly shook your head but but deep down, somehow, you already knew. You couldn’t explain how or why. Instinct, maybe. The feeling settled heavily in your stomach before either of you even moved.

Steve stood first. And you followed almost immediately, wiping your hands absentmindedly on a kitchen towel while Charlie remained seated at the table, one hand resting unconsciously against King’s fur.

When Steve opened the door, Hopper stood there. And beside him, there was a woman. 

Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. There was fading makeup smudged beneath tired eyes and a bruise near her temple, yellowing at the edges. Her clothes smelled faintly of cigarettes and hospital disinfectant. She looked exhausted more than anything else. Worn down by life in a way that made it difficult to tell how old she actually was. 

You didn't need an introduction to know who she was. 

Charlie’s mother.

Your chest tightened instantly.

The woman swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously past you into the house, searching. 

Hopper exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“She got into a car accident yesterday,” he explained quietly, glancing between you and Steve. “Minor injuries but she ended up at the county hospital unconscious most of the night. She didn’t have any documents with her, so they didn’t know who she was.”

“Charlie,” she breathed out.

You turned.

Charlie stood a few feet behind you but he didn’t move. Not immediately. Then, slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. The woman’s eyes were fixed entirely on him. She crouched immediately despite the obvious stiffness in her body, one hand bracing against her knee. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached up.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said quickly, voice cracking as she looked at him. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.” 

Her eyes filled immediately.

And the worst part was that she sounded genuine. Not cruel. Just… incapable. Like someone who loved her child but kept failing him anyway. The guilt hit you before you could stop it. Because part of you had already judged her and decided what kind of mother she must be. Someone selfish. Someone reckless enough not to notice their child was gone. But now, standing there, seeing the bruising near her temple, the exhaustion written all over her face, she just looked overwhelmed. And broken. 

She looked up at you and Steve then, eyes red-rimmed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking care of him.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” Steve said gently. “He’s okay.” 

“A little scared,” you admitted quietly. “But… he’s okay.”

The woman nodded like hearing that physically hurt.

Hopper stepped aside eventually, giving them space and quietly pulled Steve aside.

“I already talked to her,” he muttered low enough that Charlie couldn’t hear. “One more screw-up and I’m stepping in. I mean it. And I’ll be checking on her. Frequently.”

Steve simply nodded.

Eventually, Charlie disappeared upstairs to grab his things. When he came back down, King immediately stood, tail wagging, following him toward the door. Charlie wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, while he started licking his face without hesitation.

“You know,” you said softly, crouching beside him, “you can come visit him whenever you want.”

Charlie looked up. “For real?”

“For real,” Steve said. “Pretty sure you’re his favorite now.”

King barked once like he agreed. A tiny smile pulled at Charlie’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

You smiled despite the ache building in your throat. You reached up before thinking, smoothing his messy hair back for a second.

“You’re always welcome here, Charlie”, you said, the words slipping out naturally.

They were already halfway to Hopper's truck when Charlie suddenly turned around. You smile and lifted your hand immediately.

“Bye, Charlie. See you on Monday,” you said, your voice trembling. 

He hesitated for a second before raising his own hand in return. Small. Shy. Your arms crossed instinctively over yourself. King moved forward as if ready to follow him but Steve caught his collar gently. “Easy, buddy.”

The dog whined softly. 

After closing the door behind you, Steve’s hand found yours silently. Slowly. His fingers threaded through yours and squeezed. Tight. Like he was comforting you. Like maybe he was holding onto something too.

The house felt unbearably quiet.

That night, lying in bed, you broke. You cried silently at first. Trying not to. Trying to be reasonable. After all, you would still see him at school. And Steve would see him at baseball practice. Nothing had changed. And nothing would. Not really.

Except it had.

Because somehow, impossibly, one day had been enough to make the thought of not hearing his quiet voice in the kitchen hurt more than it should.

Behind you, Steve said nothing. He wrapped himself around you, one arm around your waist, the other pulling you closer until your back pressed firmly against his chest, holding you tightly and letting you cry. 

After a long while, something warm touched your shoulder. At first, you thought it was your own tears. But then Steve buried his face more firmly against the back of your neck.

And you realized.

He was crying too. Silently. Or at least, he was trying to. The fabric of your nightgown was damp against your shoulder. You turned slowly in his arms. His eyes were red.

“Oh, Steve…”

His laugh came out shaky. “I know,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” you said immediately. “It isn’t,” you said, cupping his face, your forehead resting against his. 

And somewhere in the quiet dark, holding each other like that, you both understood. 

Seeing Charlie again at school would never be the same.

-

The next morning, you woke up early as usual but stayed where you were, tucked beneath the blankets while the soft gray light of early morning stretched across the bedroom. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, facing your side of the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, lips slightly parted as the faintest snore escaped him every few breaths.

You smiled despite yourself. Years ago, you probably would have found it annoying. Now, somehow, it had become comforting. Familiar. You turned onto your side, resting your head more comfortably against the pillow as you watched him sleep.

The night before replayed quietly in your mind.

Charlie leaving.

The silence afterward.

And the ache.

You and Steve had barely spoken once the house had gone quiet again. There hadn't really been words for it. Only a strange sense of loss neither of you had expected. 

And it made no logical sense.

Because Charlie had only been with you for a day.

One day.

And yet it had been enough to love him as something more than just a student. His absence had settled over the house like something physical.

Eventually exhaustion had taken pity on both of you. But sleep hadn’t come easily. You had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking.

About Charlie.

About Steve.

About the future.

And somewhere between all those thoughts, something inside you had finally settled into place. Something that terrified and gave you hope at the same time. Because you had spent so long convinced that door had closed forever and that maybe some broken part of you would never recover enough to want it again.

But Charlie had changed something.

Beside you, Steve stirred. His nose scrunched slightly before he rolled onto his back, stretching with a groan and blinking against the morning light. Then he noticed you watching him, a sleepy smile pulled at his mouth immediately.

“Well,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”

You laughed softly. “Good morning.”

“Morning, early bird.” He rubbed at his face before glancing toward the clock. “How long have you been awake?”

You hesitated. “A while.”

He studied you for a second and then something in his expression shifted, his smile fading just slightly. Like memory had finally caught up with him. He pushed himself up against the headboard, running a hand through his hair.

“How are you?” he asked carefully. “After… yesterday, I mean.”

You sighed and looked down at the blanket for a moment, considering the answer.

“Sad,” you admitted quietly. “I miss him.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “And… I’m worried.” You exhaled slowly. “I just really hope he’s okay, you know?”

Steve nodded immediately. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” He looked down for a second. “I know we’ll see him tomorrow. At school. Practice and all that.” He hesitated. “But it doesn’t really feel —”

“The same,” you finished the sentence, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, it doesn’t.”

For a few seconds neither of you said anything else. You looked at him and suddenly, the words you had been carrying all night felt too important to keep inside anymore.

“You know, yesterday…” you started quietly.

Steve immediately looked up.

You cleared your throat and continued. “Yesterday felt like —” You paused, choosing your words carefully.

His brow furrowed slightly. You looked down at your hands, swallowing. 

“It felt like we were a family.”

The words settled softly between you. Steve stayed quiet, letting you continue.

“And I liked it. A lot,” you admitted, a small smile touching your lips. “And it… it made me realize something.”

Steve sat up a little straighter now, more careful. “What… what do you mean?”

You hesitated for a second, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket and then, you finally looked him in the eyes. “I think I’m ready.”

His forehead creased. “Ready for what?”

Your heartbeat quickened. But strangely, you weren’t scared anymore.

“To be a mom,” you said softly.

The room fell completely silent. Steve blinked once, then twice, like he genuinely hadn’t expected those words.

You looked down briefly before continuing. “For a long time, I thought that part of my life was over.” You swallowed. “But taking care of Charlie yesterday felt... so natural. And good.”

A faint smile touched your lips as you remembered the previous day. 

“I liked making him breakfast. Checking on him.” You let out a small breath. “Seeing him play baseball in the backyard with you.”

Your eyes found Steve's again.

“And… I want that.”

Steve still hadn’t spoken. You could practically see him trying to process your words. 

“I want a family,” you finally admitted. “With you.”

Steve swallowed hard. The shine in his eyes made your chest ache. Slowly, his hand reached across the blankets until his fingers found yours.

“You sure?” he asked gently. “Because we don’t have to rush anything. We can wait if—”

You nodded immediately, squeezing his hand. “I’ve never been more sure.”

You took a deep breath. 

“Maybe we can’t be what Charlie needs,” you said quietly. “But there are so many kids out there like him.” Your voice softened. “Kids who just… need someone. And we could be that for one of them. Give them a better life, you know.” 

Your fingers tightened around Steve’s. You hesitated for a moment, then finally said it.

“I’d… I’d like to adopt, Steve.”

For a second, he just stared at you, completely still. 

Your stomach twisted.

“Say something, please,” you whispered, suddenly nervous. “What… what do you think?”

He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against your knuckles.

“I think,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “every time I convince myself there’s no possible way I could love you more…” His thumb brushed gently over your hand. “You somehow give me another reason.”

Your eyes stung instantly, your breath caught. “Steve…”

“No, seriously.” He shook his head slightly. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”

He leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

“And you’re going to be an incredible mom,” he whispered against your hair.

A watery laugh escaped you. You lifted your head just enough to look at him, smiling. “And you’re going to be the best dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His forehead rested gently against yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek.

“Let's do it. Let’s adopt.” 

Tears threatened to spill. “Really?”

Steve let out a quiet laugh.

“Really.”

Steve kissed you, slowly, carefully. Like the moment deserved to be held onto for as long as possible.

-

Two years later

The afternoon sun spilled across the porch, warm against your bare legs as you sat in the wooden chair Steve had built for you the previous summer. A sketchbook rested on your lap, your pencil moving lazily across the page.

You weren't drawing anything in particular, just pieces of the moment unfolding in front of you.

The yard.

The dog. 

And the baseball game currently unfolding across the grass.

King barked excitedly as he tore after the ball that had no intention of being caught by a dog. He missed it entirely, skidded through the lawn, and immediately tried again as though nothing had never happened. A boy sprinted after it, nearly tripping over his own feet before recovering at the last second.

You smiled to yourself.

"That one didn't count!" he shouted.

"It absolutely did," Steve called back.

The boy groaned dramatically while Steve looked entirely too pleased with himself. You laughed softly and shook your head.

Some things never changed.

The competitive streak Steve brought to absolutely everything was apparently hereditary. Or contagious. You still hadn't decided which.

Steve tossed the ball into the air before catching it again.

"Ready?"

The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“No. You’re cheating."

“I’m winning,” he said, throwing the ball anyway. 

The boy managed to hit it this time, the crack of the bat echoing across the yard. His face lit up immediately. 

It still amazed you sometimes.

The first time he had stepped into your house, every word had seemed dragged out of him. He had spoken cautiously, as though every sentence needed permission before leaving his mouth. Now he laughed loudly and argued confidently. 

Steve grinned. “There you go! Nice job, buddy."

The kid turned toward the porch. "Mum! Did you see that?”

Mum

The word still caught you off guard sometimes. Not because it felt wrong, it was quite the opposite actually. It felt so natural now that it was hard to remember a time when it hadn't.

Your eyes met his. 

Your son. 

“I did," you called back. “That was a good hit, well done!”

The boy looked pleased with himself.

Your chest warmed.

You never would have imagined this. 

You and steve hadn’t been parents yet.

And Charlie had still been someone else's child. 

But then everything had changed.

Charlie had lost his mother only a few months after you and Steve had finally decided to adopt. The grief that followed and the months afterward hadn't been easy. There had been lawyers, court hearings, social workers and many questions. But eventually, after months of waiting, the judge had signed the papers and Charlie had finally come home. This time not as a guest. 

But as your son. 

And now you were finally a family. Not the one you had imagined years ago but the one that had been waiting for you instead.

A sudden movement pulled you from your thoughts. Your hand settled automatically over the curve of your stomach as you looked down, a smile spreading across your face.  Even now, months after finding out, part of you still couldn't quite believe it. After everything that had happened, after making peace with the possibility that it might never happen, life had found a way to surprise you again. 

You felt another kick. This one stronger as if she was demanding attention.

You laughed under your breath. "Well, hello to you too."

A moment later you heard the familiar creak of the porch boards and Steve appeared beside your chair.

"You okay?"

You nodded and reached for his hand, placing it gently against the curve of your stomach. Right on cue, your daughter kicked again.

Steve’s face softened immediately. "There you are, princess,” he murmured, as though he were greeting someone already familiar. 

You watched him for a moment. The man who had once brought home a scared little boy because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone. The man who had become a father long before either of you realized it.

Out in the yard, Charlie was already growing impatient.

“Dad!” 

The word made Steve glance up instantly. “Yeah?” 

“Are we playing again or are you tired already?”

Steve looked back at you, looking deeply offended. “Did you hear that? No respect around here."

You laughed. "Go save your reputation, coach."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back toward the grass where Charlie was impatiently waiting for him, bat resting on one shoulder and King circling excitedly  around both of them. The afternoon sunlight wrapped around the three of them as they disappeared into another argument about baseball. You rested a hand over your stomach and watched.

Your husband.

Your son. 

The life and the family you were building together. 

Years ago, you had thought some dreams were gone forever. That you would never be a mother. Now, surrounded by the people you loved most, you realized that sometimes life gave you a different ending than the one you had initially imagined. 

And sometimes, somehow, it turned out even better.

THE END

The night he admitted in a whisper to you that he did, in fact, want to be Sheriff - something shifted that night. It was him admitting who he wanted to be, on his terms, to the woman of his dreams. He didn’t know much - but he knew you, he knew he wanted to become Sheriff, and he knew there was a reason why you were the one who was finally able to pull that truth from him. 

He knew you then, and so much more now.

But how well did you know him?

The voices raised quickly. Abrupt. Two intertwined souls fighting with lack of communication. Gator swears he was watching the fallout from an out of body experience. Every couple fights… that you knew all too well. But this? This was new. Gator never raised his voice at you. He was a silent fighter, learned to be that was since he was a kid. Yet, the second he got back in the truck that Sunday night - everything just changed. 

He knew it, but didn’t clue you in. He didn’t tell you what he saw. 

He didn’t tell you that the truck that had been stalking you for well over a month now was driving around with North Carolina plates - meaning that this could be a targeted stalking by someone from your past. He didn’t tell you that every single nerve in his body fired off in fear of someone hurting you, hunting you. He didn’t explain himself. He didn’t know how, and it had never come easy to him. You knew how to read him, so why couldn’t you just understand? He didn’t tell you why he had spent the next three nights out in his cruiser, on the phone or researching - either way, he did it intentionally away from you. He would come in, shower - maybe crash for an hour or two, then would get up and go to work… just to come home and sit in the cruiser on his phone. This wasn’t just your boyfriend, no - he was your best friend. The one who knew you like the back of his hand. 

But again… 

How well did you know him… really, really know him?

“I dont wanna hear it, Gator - I asked you to be honest with me and you practically told me to shut the fuck up!”

His eyes widened, his arms flying out on either side of him, devil grin on his face, and ducking his head to crouch down to eye level with you, “I absolutely did not tell you that, don’t start lyin’ now, babygirl. I told you that I am working on something that you don’t need to be involved in and I want you to stop puttin’ your nose where it don’t belong!”

You swung around and got in his face, mere inches away.

“I already know the fucked up shit you do for your daddy! I KNOW! I know about the killin’ and the money - I don’t know where it comes from, but I know you got a whole lot of it… I don’t ask questions, Gator. Why would I?”

He grabbed a clean shirt from his drawer, shaking his head in the process. You could see his face in the mirror, he was filled with fire. And that fire spreads fast. Unfortunately, you were just as heated and you didn’t know when to quit - unlike him.

“- But when it means that my boyfriend is spending the entire night out on his fuckin’ phone sitting in his cruiser, barely speaking a word to me, I ABSOLUTELY have the right to ask you what the fuck you are doin’ on that phone! Been this way for days, Gator!”

“See thats where you’re wrong, honey. You do not have the right to ask me over and over and over and over - once I said to cut it out, I meant that. This shouldn’t even be a discussion anymore!”

He turns out of the bedroom, flying down the stairs - done done done done done with this fight, done with this evening. He had work to do. Gator had been sending his guys out with BOLOs on this fucking red pickup truck with NC plates - and you didn’t know a fucking thing. Because he wouldn’t tell you.

You were hot on his heels, not letting him get away with another night. He had been zoned in on something that was gnawing away at him - that was about as much as you knew. But you weren’t stupid. He isn’t your first boyfriend. And this wasn’t the first time a boy was too preoccupied with something else that caught his eye.

“You cheatin’?”

He stopped dead in his tracks, the screen door smacking the frame he was meant to walk through.

You could hear him mumble something under his breath.

“You cant be fuckin’ serious…-”, He turned towards you, hurt flooding his face, “Come on. You’re smarter than that, baby.”

“Thats not a no.”

Tears brimmed in your eyes, too prideful to fall but too full to promise not to.

“NO. I am not fuckin’ cheatin’ on ya, pisses me off that ya’d even think that-”

“Well, my bad. You’ve been choosin’ to sit on that damn phone away from me for days, haven’t even tried to touch me - ya know you haven’t even kissed me in two days?”

“That what this whole things about? Ya want a kiss?”

“No, not particularly now.”

“Jesus Christ, woman…- The fuck am I to ya, huh? Fuckin’ mind reader?”

All you could do was shake your head, you couldn’t believe the attitude he was dishing out to you.

“Go home, Gator.”

He blinked, confusion filled his face. Home? This was home… you - you are home. His home.

“…home?”

“Im sure Roy can clear the couch for you, or you can call Wade and figure it out - Goodnight.”

He took two large steps to where you stood barefoot in the living room. His hoodie grazing over your bare thighs, you’d lived in it for days - missing the man who was sitting outside, refusing to open up to you. Without realizing it, you shuffled one step back - he noticed.

“You’re kickin’ me out…”

“You’ve been sitting out in that car for the past three nights, sounds like a fourth is in order - don’t ya think? I said goodnight.”

His eyes widened, all anger slipping out of his veins - sadness replacing it steadily. Your hand came up and rested against the center of his chest. With tears spilling over, you began to push him out the door.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like how? All I did was tell you to stop pushin-”

“Like Roy.”

His face went ghost white. Yours wasn’t far from it.

“I love you. But you don’t get to be mean like that. I came from that and I refuse to be treated that way just because you don’t wanna talk”, Your voice cracked exactly four times, you could barely breathe through the words, “Give me the night Gator.”

He took a step back, right out of the door. The threshold separated you, but it felt like you were in two different solar systems. And with that, he turned and walked down the steps. His cruiser engine roared to life and he pulled out of your driveway.

Your whole body felt rigid. Cold.

Of course you didn’t know. How could you have known what he was actually doing? He didn’t tell you. He didn’t open up. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for you.

He drove far enough away, shifted into neutral and left the cruiser roll until he found the perfect spot. Headlights shut off. He reached into the back and grabbed his night vision binoculars. The view from the hill showed your house perfectly, he even could see into your side of the bed through the lace curtains. But you weren’t there. He watched as the lights in the house turned off one by one, and suddenly it was darkened completely. But your side of the bed was still empty, because your body occupied his side. 

Gator exhaled through his nose, biting back his anger.

His job is to protect you. That was what he lived for these days… so here he sat.

Still running different truck descriptions. Still going through traffic cam footage. Still emailing back and fourth with the North Carolina State Patrol. And most importantly…

Still watching the empty side of the bed, knowing exactly where you were.

__

“Yo, Tillman. Ya get the memo about Friday?”

“Yeah, cant believe those fuckers are gonna try it again”, Gator huffed, tired - so, so fucking tired.

“What do you think? Drugs? Prostitution?”

Gator trained his eyes to the monitor, trying to busy himself, “Lets hope thats all - not really liking the growing statistics I saw of souls crossin’ into Canada, or them to here. DEA didn’t dig much into it, that was more of the FBI - but I saw plenty enough to know the girls are gettin’ younger and younger and they’re coming from everywhere.”

“How young?”

Gator’s eyes snapped up from the screen.

“The fuck kinda question is that? Young. Kids. These are kids, man.”, Gator sneered over at Manning. He was new to the force, and Gator wasn’t particularly sold on him. Some people just wanted a badge and a gun - power and privilege. He was pretty sure Manning was one of those people. Didn’t actually have empathy in his bones. Gator snapped, “That kinda question’ll get ya killed-”

“All I did was ask how young-”

“And I said young. You got a reason to be askin’, you sick fuck?”

“Hey… man, I didn’t mean it li-”

“Yeah, no - I don’t give a fuck what you meant. In my county, you mess with kids, I’ll fucking castrate you myself and have you spittin’ out your own balls before I kill ya.”

“I-I agree, Gator - Im not trying to insinuate shit, man. I think you’re blowing this outta proportion a bit.”

“Okay, maybe. And maybe Im not. Whats that sayin’?… Fuck around and find out, bitch.”

The moment is slashed in two when Gators work phone begins to buzz. 

It was getting late, he was planning on heading out. He liked to be out on the hill just after sunset, its when he allowed his dayshift watcher to go home. The only deputy he trusted to watch your house was Davion, only reason he trusted him was because women weren’t his type… Gator figured if you flashed the window, he was the only one who had the decency to look away. Tomorrow you had clients. He needed to be gone before the sunrise just in case of the rooster. He knew because you let him onto your calendar. You’d be busy in the salon for the whole day. He could see that you slowly but surely were getting more clients, strangely enough - they were all guys that Gator actually didn’t have a problem with. He wondered about that for a while… maybe you only accepted clients you knew Gator would be okay with? Maybe you just happened to know them too and it was a coincidence? No… this town was too small - it wasn’t a coincidence. 

*ding*

Sid - bored @ home so I looked into the cams again. That truck was seen heading north to Fargo last night, seemed to be coming from the county road

The county road. Your road.

He was there all night and he didn’t see it

as in the road my girl lives on?

Sid - I mean, I didn’t know she lived out by you but yeah I guess. I was saying that more bc its close to the ranch. Didn’t know if you just maybe didn’t realize one of your ranch hands got a new truck or something? The only ALPR we have is about 3 miles out from the ranches main entrance and it caught it there. She live in the little yellow house?

thats the one

Sid - figured. Only other house for about 20 miles down that stretch. Anyways, maybe check the ranch again?

wont do no good, ive checked w my guys over and over and nothin. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check with the guards tho to see if they saw a car. Pretty quiet out there.

Sid - it came flying by at around 11ish goin close to 70mph

sounds like they were in a hurry, speed limit out there is 45

Sid - sounds like you coppers need to do a better job

careful, that almost sounds supportive of law enforcement

Sid - go fuck yourself

thats more like it

thanks, can u email me the footage? I haven’t even seen the full plates yet

Sid - its pretty blurry, probably on purpose seeing the camera so they booked it passed but sure hold on

Sid - ok snet

Sid - sent*

The sun finally set, meaning it was go time. You’d be curling up on the couch soon, probably undoubtably watching ‘sex and the city’, or maybe ’10 things I hate about you’ because right now you seemed to resonate with that a bit more. Either way, Gator needed to get into position. 

He couldn’t stand the idea of you being alone. In that house. In the middle of nowhere. Without him. God… that last part killed him, ‘without him’.

Gator pulled his cruiser up to the top of the hill, carefully not letting the nose of the hellcat show over the peak. He gave Davion a nod, a silent ‘thank you’ for watching over you and the house today. 

“She stayed inside all day. Didn’t even leave once.”

“Any deliveries? Pizza?”

“Not a peep.”

Hm. Gator knew you didn’t have groceries. That means you’re not eating… that means you’re still really really mad.

He knew this was invasive and you’d likely actually kill him if you found out he is watching your every move. But it might be worth it, knowing you’re safe - actually, its entirely worth it. Fuck it. The truck was still MIA and he didn’t know who was driving it, but they knew you… he couldn’t risk that. Couldn’t risk you.

“Alright man… thanks. She’s gonna be gone all day tomorrow, so don’t need ya here.”

“Need me to be somewheres else?”

“Actually… yeah. Go post yourself up cross the way of the little salon in town, plainclothes - don’t need her to think you’re on duty.”

“Gotcha, hoss.”

Davion got in his cruiser, and quietly rolled down the back of the hill in neutral - trying to be quiet as a mouse until the earth could muffle the roars of the engine. Gator felt the emptiness fast. Wore into his vest, seeped into his shirt, bit at his skin, stabbed through the flesh, and squeezed his heart - which only ever beat for you. 

He leaned up against a rock that sat at the top of the hill, watching the candle light flicker in the living room. It was so quiet out here in the country that he could hear the faint muffled sounds of the TV - sure enough, he could just barely make out the tune of… yep, it sure is…

… I love you, baby

And if its quite alright

I need you, baby

To warm the lonely night

I love you, baby

Trust in me when I say

Oh, pretty baby

Dont bring me down I pray

Oh, pretty baby

Now that ive found you, stay

And let me love you, baby

Let me love you…

He knew right about now, tears were streaming down your face to the famous love confession to top all love confessions from none other than Heath Ledger himself. And Gator was a smart man, who seized the moment.

*ding*

💘🐊: I love you.

You stared at the text as the tears kept falling. Always perfect timing. Always exactly what you need and when you need him. He should be here. Your feet should be in his lap, your hand should be in his hair. He should be here to tell you ‘its just a movie’, but to look at you like you're the air he breathes - knowing full well he feels just the same for you and that the movie wasn’t an exaggeration at all. Shit, he might be willing to even backflip down the concrete bleachers in order to declare his love for you - who knows. But now? Right now, he is declaring his love in quiet ways. Watching. Waiting. Protecting. This is how Gator Tillman loves you.

And you didn’t know a damn thing.

Gator watched as the bubble popped up, and disappeared. You never replied. He waited.

A loud noise caught his attention, a snap. The sound of creaking wood and the only thing he could hone in on was the muffled sound of your voice.

He jumped to his feet, hand unleashing the pistol from his thigh holster and he began skidding down the hill - anything to get to you. God, who had you? What was happening? Are you inside?

“Luna! Fuckin- you fluffy little motherfucker, come here!”

Gators feet paused on the hill, diagonal from your house and barely able to see into the backyard. There you were.

Flashlight in hand. His t-shirt. Barefoot. Hair thrown up in a messy bun, hair truly falling out everywhere - disheveled, perfection. You ran across the grass and swung Gators big mag light through the yard, looking for the kitten that had somehow escaped.

Gator crouched down and put the gun away. Eyes trained on you. Ready for the biggest talkin-to of his life if he got caught right now, but also… wow… he hadn’t gotten to see you in days. Fuck. Took every bit of strength not to cross the road and grab you. He figured that probably wouldn’t go exactly like he’d want - so better not.

The light lit the yard, and you saw it - a slight shine in the middle of the dark, bingo. As you went to adjust the light, shining it up to the hill across the street where you saw the shine come from - Luna ran to you from the opposite direction, meowing as if she didn’t do a damn thing. Curse Gator for letting her play outside with the damn chickens.

If that wasn’t her rhinestoned collar reflecting on the hill, what was that?

You shine the light back up…

Nothing.

You clicked the light off and scooped up the kitten, still staring at the hill. The peak was high, went back into the tree line a bit. You studied the way the wind blew through the tall grass blades - unknown to you that your boyfriend was laying flat on his stomach just out of eyesight in that same grass, hoping and praying you didn’t see his badge reflect off the flashlight.

Gator felt the buzz in his cargo pocket - his personal phone.

I love you too. Still mad though. Don’t come home.

good night baby

Gator smiled as he replied, feeling almost… giddy?

💘🐊 - good night, dollface

He peeked over the ridge as you turned, cat in one hand and in the other - you phone, lighting up your face… showing off that gorgeous smile. You were smiling at his text. That had to count for something. Now… if he could figure out a way to have you let him back inside…

__

Morning rolled in too quick, you barely slept. 

Though it was a bit dramatic, you swore you couldn’t smell Gator on the sheets anymore. And it was so unlike you to keep the same sheets on the bed for this long - you usually change them out on Sunday nights, but with Gator hiding out in the cruiser, you kept them on subconsciously because his actions knocked you off your routine. You are more than glad that you did. But the coffee doesn’t taste the same. The bathroom tiles haven’t been warmed by his large sweaty feet. The house sits in silence, like it wants to give you the silent treatment for kicking him out that night. But his shirt from church on Sunday still sits at the foot of the bed. His leather jacket still hangs from the antique coat rack by the front door. 

Come home, Gator. 

Oh, how easy it would be to say.

You knew he’d drop whatever he was doing.

Just send the text.

Come home.

Come home.

Home.

Just come home, Gator.

But you were one stubborn bitch. Which surprised exactly….. no one. So, that text never came.

The routine was brutal. Without him to yank you back to bed for 5 more minutes? Without the coffee waiting for you? Without your car being warmed up for you? Without a dozen kisses spread across your face before you could get out the door? Without asking him where he’s patrolling for the day? Without getting lost in his hazel eyes? It just plain out fuckin’ sucked.

As you pull out of the driveway, you notice the tire marks in the grass going up the hill. You didn’t notice any farmers working the field while you were home yesterday…

Tires crunched against the small salon lot in the back, your head staying on a swivel. You sling your bag over your shoulder, and shove your hand in your pocket - gripping your gun within the pocket of your trench coat. The morning chill still got to you, even in late June. You were opening the salon, first here for the day - suns still waking up, and you aren’t taking a chance.

But he knew that.

Gator watched you from the rooftop diagonal to the salons back lot. He swore he just needed to see you get inside… so why did he stay there while the sun painted main street? Why would he wait for Lehigh to begin waking? His camo hood pulled over his head, black bandana sitting over his nose and hung over the bottom half of his face. Yeah, it looked super normal for a large man dressed like that to be scurrying down the side roof access ladder of a bank, no less, at 6:51am.

Anything to make sure you were good. He made his way past the salon, running passed the large front windows - taking everything in him not to glance inside where he knew you were. Just two blocks down and he’d be in the Sheriffs office. Two more blocks and it would be time for him to continue his seemingly never ending search for this stupid truck. Two more blocks until he sent Davion down the street to keep his eye on the salon.

You noticed. Because of course you did.

Of course you noticed Gator trying to sneak past the front of the salon. Of course you noticed Davion walking down conveniently right after and holing up across the street, positioned in perfect eyesight to your station. Of course you noticed that Gator accidentally altered your google calendar last night, adding a bunch of 3’s to the end of your first clients name - meaning he knew exactly when you would be in this morning. Of course you noticed his truck was already sitting at the station.

And yes, of course you noticed the reflection of his badge against the flashlight. 

Of course you noticed how he perfectly timed the moment to text you about how he loved you during the love confession in the movie you were watching. Of course you made sure the windows were wide open. Of course you turned the volume up high so he could hear it. Of course you made sure to wear his t-shirt. Of course you let Luna slip out the back door. Of course. You were smarter than Gator Tillman.

But, you’d let him keep going - because you were playing your own game. He wanted to be a winner? He’d have to work for it. 

Client after client, man after man sat in your chair. It actually surprised you - you hadn’t even advertised the mens cuts yet… but your entire day was booked for mens cuts. Stranger than that, none of the clients were creeps. You hadn’t kissed a single one. You didn’t have the numbers for any of them - well… now you do, but ya didn’t. You recognized a few that you’ve seen Gator talk to at Ralphs. Process of elimination, at least one of them had to be a deputy. You didn’t think Gator was bubbly enough to get all these kind men in your chair that fast… someone else had to help. Someone like-

And like a mind reader…

The door chimes.

“Good Morning, Mrs. Gatorrrrr- I forgot his last name. I see you’ve met my new friends?”

You look up in the mirror, and low and behold - Charlie Nolan.

“Charlie! Was this all you?!”

“Well, I cant take full credit. You’d have to give some to Sadie, she started introducing me to all them. All Gator approved men of Lehigh, apparently.”

“Sadie… Sid - right. I don’t think I have ever called her by her real name, I should probably ask her about that and what she would rather…” you begin trailing off, dusting the cut hair from your clients apron.

“We went bowling on Saturday and a ton of these guys were there - we just kinda hit it off. Sadie told me Gator doesn’t really…. Have friends…”

“No, not really”, you said with a laugh, “Im his first friend and he fell in love with me, so I guess watch out because you're the next closest thing. He might give ya a kiss right on the mouth here soon. Though it took him 3 years with me…”

“THREE YEARS? What is this guy on? Sadie and I have already had sex!”

“Oh… oh God, you didn’t need to tell me that - yeah, like don’t tell people that.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Hey, she really likes you.”

“I like her too! She is probably my only friend in this whole fuckin’ town to be honest”, you mumbled out, “Well, besides Gator.”

“Ohhhh, good ole Gator Bug.”

You smirked at the nickname, but it settled in your chest heavy. Looking out the window, you caught a glance of Davion sneaking a picture and texting, clearly talking about how some man is talking to you - undoubtedly texting it to Gator.

Of course you knew. And honestly? You had enough.

“Well, darlin’ you’re all finished… hows it look for ya?”

Your client checked both sides with a smile, “Looks perfect! Thank you!”

He hopped out of your chair, stray hair falling onto the rubber mat below. The man walked up to the front desk where the receptionist rang him up. The salon was buzzing. Between the appointments you had, and the other stylists piling in? It was becoming a bit overwhelming. You had exactly 10 minutes until you needed to begin setting up for the next client.

You had an idea.

“Charlie… wanna go see Sid with me?”

“Wont I get in trouble? That at the sheriffs office, like that’s pretty important- oh, actually I forgot who I was talking to for a second there”, he laughed and roped his arm into yours, “Lets go! Lead the way because im still learning”

“Oh… I mean its literally right here-”

A goofy smile broke out on his face as he walked up to the building.

“Wow… such a fuckin’ workout”, sending a wink your way before pulling the door open for you to enter.

Sid sat at the front desk and nearly jumped 3 feet in the air when she saw Charlie. Hands instantly flattening her hair and adjusting her buttoned top, quickly undoing one… okay, two. 

“Well, hello… this is a surprise!”

“I think girlie over here is coming to see her man, so I thought… I would too?”

“Wait… like you go see her man as in Gator, or are you calling me your man?”

His eyes widened, but not as wide as Sid’s smile as she pulled his leg with the quick joke.

You admired their cuteness for 0.2 seconds before you remembered your task. You were tired of being followed. Tired of being watched. Tired of his guys stalking you. Tired of him not being home. Tired of him not being able to man up and apologize and just tell you the fuckin’ truth.

Gators back was turned towards you. You could see him chatting with two other deputies, you could overhear him talking about teaming up with the Fargo police about a suspicious vehicle.

The deputies both slid their eyeline from Gator giving direction, straight to you - heading straight towards them. Their eyes both widening in competition with the moon.

Gator noticed.

“What the fuck is the matter? Eyes on me. Y’all watchin’ a fuckin’ stripper or som-”

The fucking clicking heels.

Oh, he is so fucked.

You clear your throat, and he stills. Eyes trained on one of the deputy’s - who is trying hard to not crumble under the tension between the two of you that he somehow just got tangled into.

“Gator.”

His lips curved into his teeth, biting down hard - eyes clamped shut. Fuck.

Slowly, Gator turned towards you but couldn’t bring himself to look at you.

“Hey, baby…”

“Hi. Can you stop fuckin’ stalking me? No more guys outside my house. No more looming outside of the salon. Not even you-”

“ME?! What? I havent-”

“Ya wanna try again? I will give ya another chance not to lie this time…”

“Okay. Yeah… yeah, okay”, he cleared his throat, looking around at everyone being nosey, “Could we like… maybe go outside and talk or?”

“No, Im good! Just making sure were crystal clear that I do have the right to defend my property and technically that hill is in my lease - so… unless you wanna test how good of a shot im becoming…”

“Okay, yeah - got it. Wont send anyone over there anymore…”

“No… not even you.”

His eyes finally met yours. 

“Don’t do that - please don’t do that to me”, he whispered, only for you to hear.

“Do what?”

“Please don’t shut me out again.”

Matching his whispered tone, “Gator, all I need is for you to tell me whats going on! That’s literally all!”

“And its not safe for you to know yet baby… God - I promise, don’t ya think id tell ya? Its killing me knowing you’re mad at me. I want to die sitting out there on that hill all night. But I absolutely cannot have you unprotected.”

“I can defend myself Gator”, you pulled the gun from your pocket, “I got this-”

The sound of inhaled breaths, shuffling paper, chairs rolling, and Gators hands wrapping around your wrist were all very overwhelming. 

“Yeah, so actually lets not pull that out in the middle of a police station, alright?”, he turned to the office, “Sorry guys… thats on me-”

What are they gonna say? Can’t say shit to him… to you.

“You better figure out how you’re gonna tell me the truth and apologize to me.”

And with that, you turned and made your way back to the front, stopping at Sid’s desk - in perfect ear shot to Gator.

“Wanna go out tomorrow night? I really need a girls night.”

Sid lit up as if you told her she won the lottery.

“Uh, thats not even a question. Yes, absolutely!”

You grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze, sending Gator a sharp look. 

So, you wanted a GNO… okay.

Dropping her hand, keeping eye contact with Gator as your turned - you made your way out the door and back to the salon. 

Gator fished the phone out of his pocket, he scrolled through his contacts to find the exact person he was looking for and hit the dial button.

Both Charlie and Sid watched as Gator made his way towards the side exit door, but not before they heard a glimpse of the call.

“Hey girl… ya busy?”

They looked at each other in shock and disappointment. What kind of hole was Gator digging himself into? And are you gonna pack the dirt back on top of him?

___

A knock came to the door.

You’d be stupid not to assume that its finally Gator, ready to grovel… yet, here stood a delivery man, red in the face from spending the last ten minutes loading your front porch with groceries and flowers that you didn’t pay for. 

He might not have been Gator, but this was Gator - without a doubt in your mind. I guess he figured out you weren’t eating much. What really sold you on it was the 48 pack of cherry coke. Only he would overcompensate like this. 

Maybe, just maybe you’d forgive him now. Maybe.

im glad I was home… would’ve sucked if I wasn’t and all this food got left here…

So im guessing you knew I was home?

Still stalking?

💘🐊 - no ma’am, promised ya id stop that. im out with Charlie rn - actually him and a ton of other guys

💘🐊 - actually you apparently did a lot of their hair today…

💘🐊 - looks real good mama, ur doing great

💘🐊 - oh. Idk if I made this clear but like I aint got anyone else out there either. Keep that gun close by pls.

You finished bringing in the groceries, stepping onto the now empty porch and squinted up to the hill. 

im trusting you.

💘🐊 - good. I like to hear that.

and you better be telling the truth bc im about to test it

💘🐊 - well im being truthful but

💘🐊 - how?

You began to slip your shirt from the top of your head. Next up, your jeans. You snag off your bra and slingshot it into the yard. Finally, you step out of your panties.

Nothing?

💘🐊 - baby im so confused rn

huh okay… well my clothes are all over the porch now so… I guess I trust you

💘🐊 - you’re fuckin naked in your front yard rn?

nows a great time to confess that you’re on the hill. come home.

💘🐊 - I aint on the damn hill

then who is?

💘🐊 - aint nobody over there baby, go inside now.

rightttttt you’re not here lol

💘🐊 - im not. get inside now.

You were starting to get annoyed, and that defeats the entire purpose of this. This was supposed to be an ‘I accept your lame ass but practical ass apology’, but here he was riling you up again. Fucking typical.

Tired of the bullshit, you cross through the house - knowing full well he is outside. Right? You make your way up the stairs and begin running a hot bath. You roll your shoulders in the mirror, you needed him home. Sleep hasn’t came easy, sometimes not at all - you wanted him beside you tonight. You couldn’t stand the shadows mocking you on the ceiling anymore.

Your phone was discarded on the bed, still buzzing with new unread messages from Gator.

You were already stripped down, so you crawled into the tub while filling it with bubbles that you forgot to add last minute - thats when you heard the crunching of tires.

Here he is… fuckin’ liar.

You knew he was on that damn hill.

The sound of your screen door opening and shutting with a scratch rang into the small house. Shit, you didn’t even think about closing it. Not like it mattered though, he was right here - you were safe.

But then you heard it.

You sat frozen in the steaming hot bath as you heard the creaking of the wooden steps coming upstairs…

The house does not creak for Gator Tillman.

———

a/n 💌 thank you guys so much for your patience omg. idk why this one was so hard for me.

Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.

Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.

What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.

Steve glances down.

You’re asleep.

Completely asleep.

Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Steve blinks once.

“…seriously?”

You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.

Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.

Interesting.

The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.

You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.

“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.

“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”

“Hm.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.

Your shoulders loosen immediately.

Another few minutes pass.

Then, nothing.

No response to his last comment. No movement either.

Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.

Dead asleep.

Again.

Still sitting upright between his legs.

Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.

“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.

By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.

Especially because Steve starts testing it.

Not maliciously.

Scientifically.

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”

Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.

“Doing what?”

“The hair thing.”

“What hair thing?”

“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.

Because it really is absurd.

You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says.

You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”

Steve loses it completely at that.

You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.

After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.

Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.

The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.

And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.

On the couch.

In bed.

Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.

Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.

“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”

Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”

“She was literally talking.”

“Yeah?”

“And now she’s unconscious.”

Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.

Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.

“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”

Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s associated you with sleep now.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”

“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”

“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.

Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.

There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.

Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.

That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.

Which is why he tries not to.

Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.

You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.

“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”

Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault you’re always sleepy?”

“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”

The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.

You notice immediately, even half asleep.

“What?”

Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Steve.”

His fingers slow slightly in your hair.

“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”

Your expression softens immediately.

Because there it is.

The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.

Steve likes being trusted.

Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.

The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.

You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.

Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.

“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”

Your lips twitch.

“Me falling asleep?”

“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”

Something warm twists painfully through your chest.

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.

Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.

Dangerous.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”

“You’re literally weaponising affection.”

Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.

“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.

“No I’m not.”

“You just blinked for like six seconds.”

“That means nothing.”

Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.

“You’re done for, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Then immediately yawn instead.

Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.

It does absolutely nothing.

Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.

And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.