girls, will you please take the wheel?

By the time the following week rolls around, Steve honestly forgets about the bathing suit. His summer schedule is fully booked up with teaching classes and lessons, though the highlight of his week is always when you and Lia show up every Tuesday at 10 a.m. on the dot.

He's busy, tanned, and tired, not to mention, Dustin keeps calling and sending him letters from Camp Know Where, where he's a counselor this summer, nagging him about giving him the "latest Hawkins gossip."

(There is none.)

Steve's just emerging from the staff locker room in his red swimming trunks when you're carrying Lia in on your hip, pool bag on your other shoulder. The second Lia sees Steve, she's clapping her hands excitedly, and he grins as he jogs over to grab her, his heart growing three times its size when he realizes she's wearing the bathing suit and sunglasses he bought her — and you're wearing one to match.

The same beautiful bright hue, not quite cerulean and not quite cobalt, but effulgent enough to remind Steve of pretty ocean waters he'd like to take you and Lia to one day.

And he can't believe how beautiful you are.

"You're kidding," he laughs, just as Lia's squirming of your arms, desperately reaching out to grab onto Steve. He takes her effortlessly; a wordless and practiced trade-off that you two have become experts at lately. "You guys look amazing."

You grin at him, "I couldn't help it. It's not the exact same, I think mine's a little cheekier in the back, but—"

"That's not an issue for me."

You roll your eyes and lightly shove his shoulder. "Lia was super excited to come see her favorite swim teacher today, wasn't she?"

"Oh, yeah?" Steve asks, bouncing her once on his hip. Lia giggles, as if she understands a word that they're saying. "These shades look so cool on you, Li. I think I need a pair."

"No, you need a matching pair of trunks now," you say, pointing to the red ones at his waist. "That way we'll look like a proper family."

What you could really use now is a little quality time with your boyfriend, who’s seemed intent on ignoring you while his attention is commanded by running errands or finishing projects or whatever else has kept him from you for the entirety of his Saturday. The part of you that isn’t sulking petulantly is aware that he’s not doing it on purpose, but that does nothing to stifle your annoyance or your itch to spend a few hours tucked in his arms tonight. You can’t help it– you always need him close.

Rubbing the remnants of your fragrant lotion into your hands, you stroll out of the bathroom intent on wrangling him for yourself for the rest of the evening. 

You find Gator in the bedroom, a cap turned backwards on his head, the earbuds in his ears making him practically deaf as he gets ready for bed.

You sneak up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, and he startles before realizing it’s you. He’s still immersed in his music or his thoughts or whatever task he was doing outside— probably working on the truck, if the faint scent of engine oil is any indication. You don’t really mind the quiet, though– just him being gone for so long. Gator’s always been a man of few words once his pretenses are down.

You prop your chin on his shoulder and reach up to pull out of one of his earbuds. He doesn’t object. 

“I’m making tea,” you inform him, your other hand smoothing flat over his abdomen. “You want some?”

He snorts. “You ever seen me drink a fuckin’ cup of tea?”

You huff a laugh. “You’re such a man. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t take long,” he calls after you as you retreat to the kitchen, still not glancing up.

The annoyance you feel at his preoccupation is lessened by his request you come spend time with him. He’s usually needy at the end of the night, especially once he realizes you’ve spent the day largely apart. 

When you return to the bedroom with two mugs of tea in your hands despite his request, Gator’s reclined on the bed over the covers, one hand propped behind his head while the other scrolls aimlessly on his phone.

He notices the two cups you’re carrying and groans softly in complaint. “I told you I didn’t want any ‘a that shit.”

“It’s chamomile,” you inform him. “It’s calming. And you’ve been sleeping like crap lately— it’s keeping me up.”

“It tastes like grass,” he gripes as you set both mugs down on the nightstand on his side of the bed, knowing you’ll probably end up cuddled up next to him anyway.

“I put honey and lemon in it, you baby,” you counter, fully aware that for all his bitching, he’ll give in and drink it no matter what he says. You made it for him, and so he’ll take it. That’s just how things work between the two of you.

Gator lays his phone flat on his chest, staring up at you as though just now noticing how you look. His eyes track up and down your figure, combing over the white pajama set. Before you can retreat from his side, he reaches a hand up and pulls slightly at your top, skimming his fingers underneath the hem to examine the fabric. “You look cute tonight.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re not having sex right now.”

“I didn’t ask,” Gator defends himself mildly, his hand smoothing down your body to touch the fabric of the shorts covering your upper thigh.

“You were thinking it,” you snort. “I just washed my hair. I don’t want to get sweaty again.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ it,” he drawls, his hand sliding to your waist before tugging at you, pulling you closer till your legs bump against the bed. . 

“Mm-hm,” you intone, raising a brow at him. 

“Gimme some credit,” he complains. “Just wanna love on my woman at the end ‘a the night. Is that so bad?”

A smile spreads across your face as you turn pliant under his hands. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so clingy if you paid more attention to me during the day.”

Gator grabs your waist suddenly and yanks you down on top of him, and you yelp, your hands bracing yourself against his chest. 

“I pay plenty of attention to you,” he protests gruffly. “You’re just a drama queen.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Oh, and you’re so mature?”

Gator’s fighting a smile– one of your favorite expressions on him. It cracks the tough-guy facade completely, that humor, and there are few people you know who can bring it out of him. “Yeah, that’s right,” he teases you. 

You stare down at him with lowered lashes, your lips curving into a smile. “And who was it that got pissed off last week because he didn’t realize I picked up a shift, even though I told him the night before and gave him plenty of time to come say goodbye?”

“That was your damn fault,” he argues, though the sting has faded from the fight since he got over his frustration at spending an entire day without, mostly because of the supplemental few hours of makeup sex the next morning. 

“You wanna see me more, you better start letting me know you’re thinkin’ about me, Alligator,” you hum, tracing a finger along his pec mischievously. “You’re too preoccupied. I like it when you notice me.”

“If I think any more about you during the day, I’m gonna be jobless and broke,” he informs you dryly. “I’m already thinkin’ about you every minute. You’ve got me fuckin’ obsessed.”

“Creep,” you hum as his hands start smoothing up your waist.

“Your fault,” he murmurs, head dipping to kiss sweetly at your neck. “You’re like a witch, or somethin’. Got me under some kinda spell.”

You giggle as he nuzzles at the ticklish spot on your pulse point, your fingers carding through the loose hair at the back of his head. 

You feel a frown pull at Gator’s lips. “Why do you smell so good tonight?”

You fight not to roll your eyes again. “Rude. I always smell good.”

You hear him take in a deep breath, his nose tucked beneath your jaw. “It’s different,” he insists. “Like… I don’t know. Some flower bullshit.”

You laugh and push back, rolling off of him and onto your side of the bed. “‘Cause I just spent an hour making myself all clean and pretty for the week. I had an everything shower.”

“That’s what took you so long?” he demands, turning onto his side to chase you. It’s dimly amusing to you that he remembered the time you explained to him what an everything shower was– even if he scoffed and griped about how stupid it was at the time. “Why the hell are you doing all that bullshit?”

“Because it makes me smell nice and look cute,” you tell him flatly, propping your head up on your hand. “And it feels good. I like being all freshened up.”

“Well, I don’t know what the hell that means,” Gator grumbles, one of his hands travelling down from your waist to your thigh. “I just know I’m tired and you look pretty and I wanna hold ‘ya. Get over here.”

“You gonna ask me nicely?” you challenge, your smile splitting into a grin as his hand keeps wandering. 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he admits, eyes dancing. His hand slides down your thigh, then halts all movement. 

Gator’s frowns, tearing his eyes away from your face to study your leg where it sits beneath his fingers. “What the hell did you do?”

Your brows knit. “What?”

Gator sits up, smoothing his hand over your thigh, then back up. “Your leg. It’s, like, slippery, or some shit.”

You laugh incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

“Here–” Gator starts, wrapping his hands around both of your legs and dragging you toward him, spinning you around on the bed so your feet end up by the pillows. “Lemme see.”

You make a noise of aggravation at being tossed around, but you can’t deny the little thrill it sends through you when he manhandles you like this. And Gator’s face has drawn an amusingly skeptical kind of focus as he grabs your leg toward him and runs his hands up over your calves, feeling the softness of the skin. 

“Gator–”

“What’d you do?” he repeats, utterly fascinated by the lack of resistance under his calloused palm. 

“I shaved my legs, if that’s what you’re talking about,” you return dryly. 

“Why’d you do that?” he challenges, raising a brow at you. 

You roll your eyes as he keeps at his careful examination. “I just wanted to throw off your routine, Gator.”

“Shit is crazy,” he marvels, the judgement not entirely out of his tone as he lifts your leg toward his face, his fingers smoothing over your shin. 

You can’t help but laugh as you inform him, “I have shaved my legs before, Gate.”

“Not while we’ve been together,” he huffs skeptically.

“Yes I have, dummy,” you retort. “I exfoliated today— that’s all. I shave all the time.” Sure, you’re normally too lazy to care about your leg hair growing in in the winter, but you usually keep it pretty maintained. It doesn’t hurt that body hair is something Gator wouldn’t ever think to care about— something his dad probably told him he should hate once, but that he couldn’t give two shits about once he actually ran into a woman.

“No, you don’t,” Gator argues. “I woulda noticed before.”

“Yeah, right,” you snort. “You don’t notice shit. You thought my magenta nail polish was lavender.” 

He frowns. “Those were the same damn color.”

“Is this really that fascinating to you?” you drawl. 

“You bet your ass it is. You feel like a fuckin’ dolphin,” Gator gripes, and you swat his arm.

“Just relax!” you return, drawing yourself out of his grip. “It’ll grow back in a few days if you really care that much.”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” he corrects you, eyes fixed on your legs. “S’just weird. Come back over here. Lemme feel you.”

You grin wickedly and inch backward, out of arm’s reach from him. “No, you had your look. Now I just want to drink my tea in peace.”

“You better get back here, mama,” he threatens you mildly, humor in his eyes as he advances on you.

You shake your head in challenge, mischief dancing through you as you ease away from him. But before you can get far, Gator’s hand clamps around your ankle, and he yanks you back toward him once more with a triumphant, “Gotcha.”

You let out a little eep as you’re raked back over the bed, and then Gator’s hovering over you, a dopey grin on his face. “Gimme a kiss.”

You shake your head, fighting your laughter. “You think I feel weird. I don’t think I wanna kiss you.”

“Now, come on, you know I didn’t mean that,” he grumbles, his head dipping to capture your lips. 

You turn your face to dodge the kiss. “How would I know that?” you challenge, smiling smugly despite yourself. “I spend an hour of my time getting all pretty, and you just want to complain.”

“You’re already pretty,” Gator groans against your cheek. “You don’t need to get any prettier. You get any prettier, I’m gonna be in real fuckin’ trouble.”

“See, look at that,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. “You can be nice when you really try.”

He grunts. “You gonna kiss me now?”

“You really are clingy,” you huff lightly, then turn your face back to smile up at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says back, already smirking. His face lowers to yours, but you halt him again with a finger pressed up against his lips, and he groans. 

“Gator,” you start, “First we’ve gotta do some of that ‘communicating’ stuff.”

He groans again, his head dropping to your shoulder so some of his hair tickles your cheek. “I fuckin’ hate communicating.”

“I know,” you say comfortingly, one of your hands scratching at his head. “But you have to. You wanna keep me, don’t you?”

He lets out an “Mm-hm,” that sounds a little reluctant for your taste, but you let it go. 

“If you want me to kiss you and look pretty for you and have sex with you and listen to your opinions about my leg hair,” you go on, speaking gently but firmly into his ear, “Then you have to start noticing me a little more. Not just when you have a spare minute. Not once you’re done working on the truck. You’ve gotta remember I exist every now and again, Gate.”

“I do,” he insists in a grumble. “I’m just busy. Doesn’t mean I’m not thinkin’ about you.”

“But I wouldn’t know it,” you argue. “I need you to understand that part of being my boyfriend is that you get me all the time. Not just when you’re ready or when it’s convenient.”

Gator lifts his head and opens his mouth to speak again, but you shush him. 

“I’m not going back to how I felt about our situationship, Gator,” you tell him sternly. “That means you’ve gotta give me a little more effort. You’ve gotta notice me. Alright?”

Gator has that look on his face that’s always reminded you of a little kid that just got told to go clean his room. You disguise your amusement at that fact and stare him down. 

“How ‘come anytime I just wanna kiss you, I wind up with another fuckin’ lecture?” he asks you ironically. “I was just tryna’ pet you, woman.”

“I’m not a dog,” you reply flatly.

“Nah, you smell too nice,” he intones, the arm that’s not holding him over you sliding down your waist a bit. “And all your fuckin’ hair’s gone.” You roll your eyes and loose an aggravated sound. “Do you really hate it that much, you caveman?”

Gator laughs a little, the sound raspy from all those years he spent hooked on inhalables before you nearly forced him at gunpoint to quit. “You’re gonna slip right outta my hands.”

“Maybe that’s why I like it,” you return. “I’m harder for you to catch.”

“I already caught ‘ya,” he determines mildly. “No sense complainin’ about it now.”

“Gator,” you cut in again. “Did you hear me back there?”

He heaves a sigh, though you can tell he’s not really that frustrated. He never really is when you’re underneath him. “I heard ‘ya, I heard ‘ya. We’re not goin’ back to that situationship horseshit you were talkin’ about.”

“So?” you prod him, raising your brows as you lead a horse to water. “What are we gonna do differently?”

Gator huffs. “I’m gonna pay attention.”

“Even when you’re busy,” you clarify.

“Even when I’m busy,” he promises, the sarcasm not entirely gone from his tone. “And you’re gonna tell me when you decide to go all smooth on me again.”

You let out a sigh. “Fine, Gator. I’ll never shave my legs again. Happy?”

“I never said that,” he corrects you, and you finally allow his head to lower again, let him press gentle kisses to your collar. “I like it. You’re… soft.”

The way he says it, the gentle caress of the word, almost makes you shiver. “You actually like it?”

“Mm,” he agrees, working his kisses up your neck. “Want me to show you how much I like it?”

Despite yourself, a grin is pulling at your lips again. “You’ve got selective hearing, Alligator. I said not tonight.”

He finally makes his way to your lips, and the kiss he presses there is so perfectly sweet you can’t help but smile into it. “I heard you,” he says when he pulls back, peppering his mouth against your face. “Just thought you might change your mind after all that good comunicatin’ I was doin’.”

You blurt out a laugh, and you feel Gator’s lips curve against your jaw. “You know, when I shave my legs like this, I like to rub ‘em together like a cricket. It feels cool.”

“You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he mumbles against you, and you laugh again. 

“Here, you feel,” you insist, and slide your calf along Gator’s to show him what you mean.

Gator pulls back from kissing you, raising a brow. “Hold on– do that again. Feels crazy.”

“See, I told you!” You smile triumphantly, skimming your leg against his. 

Gator reaches his free hand down and wraps it around your thigh, hitching it up to accommodate the press of his body between your legs. “So…” he starts, a wicked smile back on his face as his hand slips up your leg and beneath the hem of your shorts. “How far up did you say this ‘smooth’ thing goes?”

“Gator–”

“I’m just askin’!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m sensitive,” he whines, tipping his head back to grin at you where you’re sitting on the counter behind him. 

“Yes,” you agree. He is quite sensitive. 

His nose is so straight from this angle. You like to look at it, think about drawing it, the neat triangle of it in a pale face, his hair long and unstyled laying in slight waves over his forehead. His smile is so specific to the moment, like, he loves to be loved and to make that dumb joke. 

You offer a smile back, more melted by his pretty face than you mean to be. 

Steve’s fish ragu is nice. It doesn’t taste like the smell of fennel, and the pasta is long and tasty, if hard to eat. You insist on washing the dishes but you’re really not practiced, and you get dishwater down your belly and in your hair. “Splash me!” you complain. 

Steve takes your wet hands and dries them with a hand towel. “Hey, it happens to everyone. You make it look hard, though.”

“I make it look hard?” you say, very surely understanding enough English to realise he’s insulting you. “Rudest boy ever. Have enough.” 

You put your hand on his chest and kiss the base of his throat. 

“That doesn’t feel like you’re mad at me,” he says. 

“Feel like need kiss here, so.” 

“Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

He is pink at the neck and ears as you follow him upstairs. Your shirt is uncomfortably wet on your stomach, shifting with each step. You yank it over your back and your head before you’ve hit the landing, but Steve doesn’t laugh like you expect, he takes your shirt and dumps it in the laundry basket in his room. 

“I was thinking we could take a shower.”

The shower is a funny memory. You squished in the well of the bath with Steve’s feet under your tail, hiding behind the shower curtain from his mom. “Yes.” Then, “Want word.”

“What word do you want?” 

You grab your shower basket and follow him into the en-suite. “When something happen before, think about.”

“Remember?” he suggests.

“Yes.” It’s funny how many words you can forget until you hear Steve say them aloud. “Was… what saying? On tongue.”

Steve reaches for you to shake you gently and affectionately, “On the tip of your tongue, yeah! Why did you want that word? What do you remember?”

“Me and you shower first time.”

“Aw, shit, when I almost got you caught? In my defense, they’re never home, like never. You’ve seen it… or not seen it.” His hand follows down your arm before he spins on the spot to turn on the shower. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Wait. Shower now? Not have bath?” 

“Well– No, cos we can both fit if we shower. Is that okay? I figure we can do it at the same time?” Steve seems startled as he is flushed. 

“Really!” You begin to pull your newly acquired sweatpants down your thighs. “Yes, honey boy, we can shower! Fun. Not know me and you for same time, why not?”

“I was trying to give you privacy.”

“Privacy,” you say, reaching backwards to get the catch on your bra. When you can’t get the hooks out and your shoulder twinges cruelly, you huff and pull it up your back instead. 

Steve snorts. “Maybe you didn’t want me to see you naked all the time.”

“Want all the time,” you say. 

“I want it all the time,” he says, slinking into your space, his hand vying for the small of your back to draw you in.

You bite your bottom lip as he leans down, trying not to smile but failing miserably. 

“I’m trying to kiss you, weirdo, can you kiss me back?” 

You smile into his lips, his cheek, wrapping your arms lazily behind his neck. Your smile won’t quit, but whatever Steve wanted must have time to wait. He covers your naked back with his arms and holds you, hugging you, at first tentative as the moment you met, and then with the easy confidence he’s earned, stretching a second into a minute, shower water pattering the tub’s floor. 

Your tummy flips with a fleeting memory, the weight of him against you, his curled arm like a safe haven.

You smile into his neck. Steve bends you about like this is fun and you’re made of malleable kelp, teasing you backwards and following you down, dipping you into a kiss. 

“Kiss ear?” you ask. 

He hums. It is loud so close to your ear. The little kiss he places on your lobe makes you squirm. 

“Weird,” you say. 

“You don’t like that?”

You aren’t sure, but Steve doesn’t need an answer. He pulls away, brushes your ear, and undresses, encouraging you to kick out of your panties and into the shower. He joins you a half a minute later, naked and pink already, your shower caddy hanging from his fingers. The water is hot, plinking off of your skin and running down your fingers, and you almost slip trying to make room for Steve under the water’s spray. He tells you it’s alright, that there might be room but the shower head isn’t magic, and he says you’ll take turns washing off. You get your body wet and Steve gets your loofah off of the hook, and he soaps it up, puts your caddy on the shower floor and he washes you slowly. 

It’s not completely unawkward. You’re uncharacteristically nervous, maybe. It’s stupid. He’s seen it all before, your naked chest, your belly button, your hips and your scraggly thighs, but it’s– it’s different. When he brings the loofah gently between your legs it should make you laugh, it should be weird, nobody’s ever done that for you, but you hold his elbow and he just moves down again to scrub gently at your thighs and your knees and your feet, like it didn’t mean anything to him that wasn’t plain love. He kneels there and washes your toes, and it’s just… it’s so daunting to have him love you so easily. He looks up at you, his hair damp and curling, probably cold, that sweet line of his nose begging to be kissed. His palm on your ankle. 

The awkwardness thaws completely. 

You reach down to stroke back his hair. Steve, sweetheart, kisses your sudsy thigh. 

You could tell him you love him. 

You think of every word one at a time to get it right, measuring the syllables and all your learned words. “Can I wash your hair?”

Steve kisses your tummy and stands. “Yes. Please.”

You and Steve swap places. You realise quickly that he loves you dearly, for the place out of the water is cold and miserable, marginally better when he notices you’re not getting hit by the spray anymore and drags you into his chest. You use your shampoo, and he kisses your shoulder and it’s a nightmare because the water’s raining down on him and washing the soap out before it gets sudsy, because he keeps forgetting to stay out of it. 

“Me and you,” you say, pausing briefly to curl a lock of his hair over his temple with your fingertip. It looks like a wave. “Do this forever.” 

Let’s do this forever, you think.