triangle28

He didn't answer and continued to smoke.

"Are you kidding me?" you huffed, now scowling at him "We've been invited together! You know how awkward it's going to be for me if you don’t show up, especially when we’re..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you, searching for the right word. "When we’re like this."

Eddie's brow furrowed as he finally stared at you. The lazy, post-coital warmth in his eyes hardened, making you shift away from him. 

"Like what? We sleep together, that's all there is between us. That doesn't mean I have to be your plus-one to every social obligation you have."

You swallowed hard and tried to stay calm, but your frustration with Eddie's behaviour over the last few weeks kept mounting.

Eddie became irritable and rude, even mean at times, until he'd offer some pathetic apology, invite you over for sex to make up for it, just to end up being rude again. His genuine softness and care seemed to wither away; he wasn't the same Eddie you fell in love with. The Eddie who made more than an effort, who dropped everything to make sure you were okay before you even knew what was wrong, who acted as if you were more than just two people who had regular sex.

"It's not an obligation, I just want my boyfriend---" you felt as if you had stepped into a bear trap uttering that word, you quickly lowered your voice, trying to recover "or whatever you think you are, to be at a party with me."

Boyfriend. Eddie wanted to be your boyfriend more than anything, but nothing could ever convince him he was good enough to be such a thing to you; he couldn't risk getting his hopes up and falling for a lie. Not again. 

"Boyfriend?" Eddie broke into a light laugh, shaking his head, though his heart ached at the word. "Can't you just accept that I don't want to go and move on with it? I don't want to deal with Steve and other people I can't stand getting too drunk for their own good."

"Why are you being like this?" you snapped, sitting up and pulling the sheet around you, covering your breasts. "You're being a dick to me all the time at the moment, and I'm sick of it! How many times have I gone to The Hide Out to spend time with you, surrounded by drunken creeps?"

You weren't wrong. Eddie knew he had been more than unfair to you, the guilt began to flood hin his chest and pool in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to give in and apologise, but he couldn't; his dad taught him otherwise, and he switched off all of Wayne's advice and voice of reason. 

Unable to control the narrative, Eddie sat up, his movements now sharp and agitated. He crushed the cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on the nightstand with a bit too much force, making it shake.

You continued, "You’re so incredibly selfish sometimes. You want me in your room, on your terms. But as soon as I want you to be part of my life outside of sex, you turn into someone else. We're meant to be friends! What happened to that?"

"I don't want to be your fucking friend, I don't want to be part of your life outside of this arrangement!" Eddie raised his voice, making you jump.

A sudden intense heaviness settled on top of your chest, and your eyes pricked with tears. You pursed your lips and sighed with a shaky breath. Swinging your legs over the side of his bed, you grabbed your clothes off the floor, forcing them back on in silence. Standing up, you walked out of his room, trying to blink away the tears.

"Where are you going?" he called out from his bed through the slight gap in his door.

"To sleep on the couch," you shouted back.

Eddie sat in the silence, the mattress still bearing the faint smell of your perfume as he stared at where you had been sitting, his chest feeling hollowed out. He wanted to go after you. His feet were practically twitching to hit the floor and pull you off the couch, to explain everything as he carried you back to his room and apologise. He wanted to tell you that he didn’t mean it, that he'd make an effort and go to the party, even if he hated it. But he stayed put, unable to face you after hurting you when you were so vulnerable.

As the night grew later, Eddie's guilt became heavier, sitting over him like a suffocating weighted blanket. The shame slapped him hard across the face every time you gave him that hopeful, longing expression, every time you hinted at becoming something more or showing him any sort of affection outside of sex. The worst part? Eddie knew exactly what he was doing, and you were too in love with him to realise that he knew

"Fuck," he whispered to himself, reaching for another cigarette, "I gotta stop pushing her away, man. Wait, fuck that. What am I thinking? No, no, no. This is sex and nothing more. This is all temporary until Mr Right comes and gives her the entire package." 

Yet, selfishly, he couldn't let you go. Dangling enough affection to keep you close but pulling back whenever you got too close, close enough to break the wall he'd been so hellbent on building. 

Eddie slumped back against the headboard, his eyes stinging as he smoked and stared up at the ceiling, focusing on the small cracks, hating himself for how he spoke to you, and for the fact that tomorrow he'd try to manipulate the situation just enough for you to forgive and run back to him. He could hear the muffled sounds of you moving around in the living room, settling onto the cushions, finishing his cigarette as he lay there in the dark, finally switching off the light.

You hated sleeping on the couch, even though it was a rare occurrence. The couch was uncomfortable and the air was bitterly cold. You searched for one of Eddie's blankets when you realised they were in his room, tangled up with the sheets in his bed.

"Fuck sake," you grumbled, giving up and trying to get comfortable enough to get warmth.

You couldn't face him again tonight, not after he made it clear you were just a fuck to him, not worthy of being seen with afterwards in any capacity.

It took you a while to drift off between the cruel reminder of what he said between sobs, but eventually your brain shut off, your eyes closed, and the darkness temporarily consumed you.

The first light of dawn began to bleed through the thin curtains, waking you from your sleep. Your skin was ice cold and looked slightly marbled. You didn't wait around for the sun to finish rising, and you knew Wayne would be furious with Eddie for leaving you on the couch, so you stood up with stiff legs and began packing your things. 

You heard the floor creak in the hallway.

"Hey," Eddie’s voice was gravelly, thick with sleep.

 You didn't turn around. 

He stood in the doorway, his hair a mess, his eyes following your every move, his face dropping when he realised you had slept in the cold without a blanket. 

"What are you doing? It’s barely six."

"I'm going home before Wayne gets back," you replied coolly.

He walked into the room, lingering over you as you continued to pack, his posture hunched and his hands fidgeting at his sides.

"Come on, doll, you know I didn't mean any of that stuff. I was just tired, and irritable—"

"You were being a dick," you interrupted, sliding your feet into your shoes. "I didn't deserve that, Eddie."

"I'm sorry," Eddie sighed, pushing his hair out of his face, "can you just come back to bed? I'll make you a coffee, and we can talk about the party later." 

You grabbed your bag and brushed past him, walking towards the door and fighting the temptation to give in and crawl into his bed, allowing him to smother you in kisses before you took the blame for his behaviour, repeating the cycle. 

Grabbing the handle, you briefly turn back to face Eddie with his beautiful, wide eyes.

"I'm not your girlfriend," you reminded him, "there's nothing else to talk about."

Eddie began to panic as you opened the door and walked out. He snatched his van keys and hurried after you. "Just let me drive you home, it's fucking freezing out here."

"You're not my boyfriend, Eddie!" You raised your voice, as you picked up speed, leaving the trailer park. The neighbour's dog barking after you. 

Eddie and Jonathan were cooped up in Jonathan's hotboxed room, already burning through his stash.

"Your mom not coming back tonight?" Eddie asked, "Where's Little Byers?"

Jonathan took a long drag, "Mom's at Bob's tonight, Will's at Mike's."

"And Nancy?" 

Jonathan exhaled, his eyes not changing from the default sad expression he'd had all year.

"She told me she needed space to figure out what she wants," he slowly stood up and walked across his bedroom, pulling out his bong from an unsuspecting cardboard box, filling the bong with water before bringing it over to Eddie, "Where's your girl?"

Eddie took the bong and scooped up the flower from his grinder and packed it into the bowl piece, "She’s going to Steve’s party tonight. I fucked up last night, pretty bad." 

Jonathan looked over at the mention of Steve, his brow furrowing. He finished his joint and stamped it out on the ashtray, "Why'd you do that, man?"

Eddie ran a shaky hand through his messy hair, "because I'm too much of a coward to tell her how I really feel, to treat her how she deserves to be treated, I got scared. Her eagerness to be committed to me scares me." 

"So you're just going to let her go to this party on her own, let her get too drunk, where anyone can make a move on her?" Jonathan took the bong from Eddie, "I don't know, Eddie, I couldn't do that to Nancy, especially if it's Steve."

Jonathan held the bong with one hand, his mouth inside the mouthpiece, whilst lighting the weed with the other. He inhaled deeply as the smoke climbed through the chamber of the bong and into the mouthpiece. 

"You should've seen her face before she walked out, and the way that she ended things when she left. She's done with me, man, whatever chance I had at her actually being my girl, I stupidly pissed away." 

Jonathan didn't offer any more advice or sympathy. He just leaned back and let out a long, slow breath, wearily passing Eddie the bong as he slumped back against the cushions, closing his eyes. 

You stood in Steve's kitchen, surrounded by people you didn't recognise, feeling like an imposter. Every time the front door opened, you caught yourself glancing over with hopes that Eddie realised how much showing up would mean to you, but he never came. 

Every time someone else walked through that door, you had a drink, and then another. You were swaying slightly when Steve found you but luckily, he was just as drunk as you were, with bright eyes filled with tiny tears.

"Hey," he smiled, quickly blinking away his tears. He looked around the kitchen and through the waves of his guests, then back at you, his eyebrows knitting together. "Where’s Munson? I thought you two were a package deal tonight."

Your chest tightened, and your embarrassment felt hot and prickly, climbing up your neck and flushing up to your cheeks. You tried to take another quick, desperate gulp of your drink, but looked even more horrified when you realised it was empty. 

You didn't want to lie; you were tired of hiding things, you knew it wasn't Steve's business, but you couldn't stop your truth from spilling out.

"We're not a package deal," you slurred, "he doesn't want to be seen with me in any ca-capacity that isn't his bedroom."

"Wait, you're not..." Steve realised how obvious it seemed now. He took a sip of his beer, "What a dickhead." He studied you carefully and closed in on the gap between you so he didn't have to talk too loudly. "You okay?"

You shook your head, your lower lip quivering, "No, I'm not okay. I'm in love with a guy who..."

"Thought it was all bullshit? Yeah, Nance pulled that one on me a few years ago." Steve leaned in but offered you a grin that didn't reach his eyes "We’re quite a pair, aren't we?"

Steve's self-pity was contagious; you reached for the bottle of vodka sitting on the counter and refilled your cup, "Fancy a dance?" you asked him, not wanting to talk about Eddie anymore.

Steve flashed a genuine smile and took your hand, "Don't go stepping on my feet." 

An hour later, the party had dissolved into a blurred, spinning mess. You were leaning heavily against Steve, your head lolling on his shoulder. You were both swaying together, giggling at absolutely nothing, while your drinks sat forgotten on the floor.

"I'm glad I came tonight," you slurred, trying to focus on his face but seeing two of him instead. "You're... you're a good listener."

"I'm a great listener," Steve agreed, his voice thick. He looked at you, and for a second, the sadness in his eyes was replaced by a drunken, reckless curiosity. "And you're... you're too good for Eddie."

"He's what I want, but I just wish I could forget him for a night," you confessed, "like how you could do with forgetting Nancy for a moment."

Steve went quiet, his hand resting on your lower back, the air between you feeling heavier. 

"Y-you're not Nance," he murmured, his hand coming up to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

"And you're not Eddie," you whispered.

He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, the kiss became a frantic collision of desperation and as you kissed Steve back with mirrored intensity, you couldn't stop yourself from pulling him closer so his body was pressed against yours before your fingers became tangled in his hair. 

Steve pulled back just an inch, "Let's go upstairs, no one will notice."

You weren't thinking about Eddie, Steve wasn't thinking about Nancy, and neither of you was thinking about the consequences.  

"I trust you," you said above the music as he took your hand with a firm grip, pulling you through the crowded room. 

People were shouting, dancing, and laughing. You and Steve weaved between them and navigated the stairs together, stumbling slightly until he pushed open the door to his room and shut it behind you, not realising he hadn't waited for the door to fully click shut. 

Steve kissed you again, harder this time, backing you toward the bed and easing you down on his mattress. Even in his drunken state, Steve was careful with you. His hands and lips roamed over you until you gained the confidence to mount him, which surprised and excited him. 

Allowing yourself to give into the moment after your moans and his groans seep through the room, you felt the tight knot in your stomach finally dissipate, causing Steve to get ahead of himself and spill himself inside of you. 

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," you murmured, slowly unmounting him, clumsily falling beside him into his bed, "we'll worry about it in the morning."

comment to be added to the taglist

Usually, he'd have his set-up for this type of content anywhere else but the bedroom, but knowing how tired you were, he kindly compromised. You were never really into vlogging or taking part in viral trends, but you would do anything for Kurt, so this was it.

His eyes lit up when you went into the candy store. You kept reminding him that we were here for one specific trend and that you guys could come back for the candy he hadn't tried yet, specifically for reviews. Somehow, you came home with twice the amount, including the candy for Kurt's reviews; but you didn't mind, you wanted to indulge him and keep him happy.

"My name is ____ and when I was thirteen, my next door neighbour stood outside of my window, took his pants off and flashed me... and I brought the Sour Patch Kids Fruit Mix."

You carefully used some scissors to cut the top of the bag open, and before pouring the whole contents of the colourful and sugar-coated Sour Patch Kids into the bowl, with a trail of the excess sour sugar raining down on top. The sound of them hitting the glass was loud, like hailstones. 

Kurt’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes stayed locked on the bowl, "When I was a child I remember I saw, I remember seeing the twin towers collapsing on Fox News. My mom and dad were so upset, like crying, they were distraught and it was hard to see them like that. And, And I brought the Hershey's Popped Snack Mix."

Kurt didn't bother to use the scissors; he tore the bag open with his teeth and quickly flung the bag upside down, the tiny pieces of Hershey's hit the bowl, pinging against the glass and thudding on top of your Sour Patch Kids. The popcorn followed behind, and the brittle pretzels, which broke when coming into contact with the other snacks. 

"Do you remember where you were? When the towers collapsed?" Kurt asked, fighting the urge to swirl and shake the bowl. 

Pausing for a moment, you shook your head, "I was too young, Kurt," you said softly. 

You reached for the next box, the Mike and Ikes rattling as you shared the story of the predator substitute teacher, digging your fingernail in the small gap between the tab of the box, you tore the cardboard off with your index finger and thumb. With a small square window now in the box, you emptied into the bowl, the small blue pellet-shaped candy cascading below.

Kurt's eyebrows furrowed as he tensed up, zoning into his own world. Kurt would often get like this when he became angry and felt out of control. He spent many evenings chewing at his nails and constantly vaping when the demons from your past stressed him. He blamed himself for not being there for you despite how many times you reassured him that he couldn't have done anything to prevent it.

"Kurt, are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm totally cool." He nodded rather quickly, pulling out another bag of candy.

He grabbed the Nerds Gummy Clusters, ripping the plastic so hard a few spilled onto the bed. "My mom... she lost the baby. Lucas. That was supposed to be my brother. Everything fell apart after that. My dad left, she stayed... and I brought these."

The clusters brought the bowl to being half full, getting heavier with each pour, a rainbow assortment of savoury and sweet bites that would give you and Kurt an intense sugar rush.

"When it was my first week in LA, outside of Target, a man pulled out a hammer from his backpack and started smashing up his belongings. Literally swinging his hammer in the air. I was so scared because he was sat right next to me, so I stood up and walked away before he could notice me. I brought the Airheads Bites Paradise Blends."

Before you were finished emptying out the Airheads, Kurt already poured his into the bowl, his tone no longer high pitched and energetic. 

"My dad has a drug problem and when we're together he can be, he's really mean and he makes me feel like I don't matter to him at all. And, I brought, I brought the Gummy Krabby Patties Candy."

"Kurt," you said softly, slowly placing your hand on his arm "we can stop for a minute if you need to?"

Small tears formed in his eyes, instantly noticeable as he slowly rocked himself on the bed, bringing his hand up to his face, his fingers pressing against his eyes to force back the tears.

He shrugged "I can edit this out," Kurt croaked, his voice quiet.

You reached out and pried Kurt's phone from the tripod, ending the video and turning off his phone, your other hand still on his arm. 

"We don't have to post it." You moved the bowl away from between you.

The moment the bowl was placed on the floor, Kurt launched his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace with his nose pointing into your neck. 

"I just wanted it to be a good video," he croaked, wiping a stray tear with the back of his hand. "I wanted people to see... I don't know. That we’re a power couple. That we can handle anything."

"Oh, Kurt," you murmured, "we are a power couple already."

Kurt slowly pulled you down onto the bed, his arms protectively wrapping around your waist. Leaning across the floor and towards his chair, you snatched his laptop and brought it into the bed with candy wrappers and empty boxes littered everywhere, but neither of you cared.

Kurt watched silently as you opened the editing software, a small smile spreading across his face when your vlog from the candy shopping was paused on the screen.

You could feel him begin to relax, the tension bleeding out of his muscles. He reached into the trauma bowl and fished out a single Sour Patch Kid and held it out to you. 

"Thank you, Kurt," you smiled, opening your mouth so he could feed you. 

The two of you quickly recovered from earlier, pouring yourself into editing the vlog, cuddling in the glow of the blue light, sharing the candy without any further worries in the world. 

A/N: This is my first time writing for Kurt, and I felt kinda nervous with this one but here we are, it's a little rushed because I'm ill atm and just wantd to get something out there. Requests are open and feedback is welcome :)

The guilt wouldn't stop searing in his skull like a fiery hot poker: the drive to the motel as he felt like a failure from the collection of negative pregnancy tests, the feeling of the other womans hair draping over his skin as bucked her hips, riding him, and the building stack of lies mounting up, to the worst one of all, his cruelty from last night in the office, looming over you and branding you as hysterical.

He thought back to the weeks you tended to his cracked and bleeding skin, the arguments he caused over your concern in his lack of sleeping and eating, the cold silence he had forced upon the house to protect his secret when you were anxious and needed reassurance. He thought of the way Dustin's face dropped when he uttered the truth, and all of the missed opportunities he had to come clean. Steve was a coward, a pathetic coward.

The sonographer eased your rambling, "Mrs Harrington, sometimes these things just happen and we can't always find out why. I know this isn't your first rodeo, and you've probably heard this a thousand times, but every pregnancy is different." The Sonographer paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, "You're nearly forty, your age could probably be a factor."

Age. Nearly fourty. Old. 

You felt like you were back in the Drs Office again whilst Steve was at work, planning for his affair without a second thought, his fingers skimming over the buttons of his mobile phone calling up to make a reservation and carefully choosing another woman, your kids at school playing away without a clue how the next nine months would unfold and change the rest of their lives forever. None of you knew but Steve.

"I know I'm old," you sighed, tears prickling your eyes, "My Doctor told me that and so much more..." 

You cried, and the sonographer placed a gentle hand on your arm, soothing you softly as she tried to calm you down, listening to every word that left your trembling lips. Your voice was muffled in Steve's ears, and a faint ringing settled behind, yet was slightly louder than your voice. 

How could he come back from this? Any of this? How could he confess now, as you were torturing yourself over something you couldn't help? How could he possibly keep you when you learn that the woman he chose over you was so much younger and had a body that didn't yet know the experience of pregnancy and childbirth?

"Could it be stress-related?" you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked at the monitor. "I've been so stressed lately, with my husband, Steve, having to work so hard towards the mortgage that I don't contribute to, then there's my other five kids I'm chasing around and-"

Steve felt like he was suffocating. He wanted to scream the truth; that it was his fault, his rot, his father's cursed blood in his veins. But he just sat there, frozen, feeling as if he would vomit all over the floor as your hot tears kept rolling and rolling down your red cheeks.

"If this were stress-related, I think every baby in the state would be like this," your sonographer reassured you, "it sounds like you've had things so rough, I'm so sorry."

The sonographer handed you a generous amount of a blue towel to wipe up the cold and sticky gel from your bump, writing more notes into your file before handing it to you. You were to return every week for extra monitoring on both the baby and your placenta, with extra appointments to be arranged with your consultant to discuss the possible outcomes of what delivery you would need to choose from. You expected extra monitoring, but nothing quite as serious as this.

 Every time Steve heard or saw the words restricted growth, he felt as if the words applied to him. He was a restricted man, a very small man whose sins were manifesting in the innocent child he had begged for and claimed would be his final blessing.

"We'll do everything we can to make sure she'll be just fine", Steve said, his voice regaining that hard protective edge. "She'll be fine. I'll make sure of it, I promise."

Inserting himself into the role as a protector had always come naturally to him, but as he helped you onto your feet, he couldn't look you in the eye. His own reflection felt like a slap across the face.

"We should go home and tell my mom," you said, trying to find a silver lining. "Then the kids, they'll all be so excited it's a girl."

"Yeah," Steve said, his heart breaking as he led you to the door. "Our second girl."

As you walked to the car, Steve looked up at the clear blue sky, birds and light traffic surrounding him. I know this is my fault, but please save her. Keep her safe, and I'll be the man she thinks I am. I'll never stray again. Just don't let her pay for what I did that night. Steve was pleading to anyone above who would listen; he pleaded without knowing who he was pleading to.

The ride home was suffocating. Steve drove slowly with both hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, the one he had scrubbed within an inch of its life after the affair, the same way he had scrubbed his entire body red raw for months. Every time he glanced at your pale and exhausted face with your gentle and shaking hand resting protectively over your bump, the migraine behind his eyes pulsed like a strobe light.

"It’s my fault this is happening," he muttered, his voice gravelly. "I’ve been a horrible Husband, and you’ve been stressed and so exhausted, and that’s why she’s small... It’s because of me and my shitty behaviour."

"Steve, stop," you whispered, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the trees flicker by. "It’s a placental issue. Don't make this about you or our marriage right now. I just need us to get home so I can make sense of all this."

You were still hurt from Steve's behaviour. From the way he raised his voice and spoke to you as if you were nothing but trash, and no amount of apologies or acts of self-hatred from him would make you forgive him. 

Rather than look forward to the last months ahead of your last pregnancy and get your hopes up for a beautiful and smooth birth, you were confronted with the gruelling, never-ending appointments that would no doubt increase your own guilt over having another baby when the medical world kept scolding you for it. You gave in to Steve's dream, and rather than being treated so preciously, you were nothing but an afterthought; it suddenly dawned on you that a husband who actually loved you would never raise his voice and gaslight you over a piece of paper. 

Something was wrong with Steve, and you knew it. 

When Steve pulled into the driveway, your mother’s car was still there, and his face contorted. He hoped that she would have taken your toddler to the park and would return when you were already asleep. He knew he had no right to kick her out, but his shame would be uncomfortable for all of you after she put him in his place; she was truly the only one who had your back. Steve's dad encouraged Steve's betrayal, Steve's mom opted to hide the truth, Dustin kept away from you and your family, but your mom knew the truth and she couldn't keep it from you. 

Upon entering the house, you were hit with the smell of delicate lavender and fresh lemon with a hint of vinegar, the scent immediately reminding you of being a child again on a Sunday morning as your mother meticulously and aggressively deep-cleaned every inch and corner of the small and comfy house you grew up in whilst your father flicked through the news channel, always complaining about someone or something.

"How was it?" she asked softly, walking towards you, ignoring Steve as he walked past her to drop the keys.

"It’s a girl," you said, a small, fragile smile appearing.

"Oh, my! Another girl!" She hugged you, but felt the tension in your frame. "What’s wrong? What else?" she said quietly, walking you away from the kitchen.

As you explained the diagnosis, Steve stood by the sparkling sink, filling a glass of water he didn’t even drink, the rim of the glass pressed against his bottom lip as he carefully listened to your mother’s voice shift to deep concern.

"Monitoring? Every week?" your mother asked, her eyes shifting to the back of Steve’s head. "Well, then. You aren’t doing a single chore. You need to be sitting on that couch or lying in your bed! Steve can handle everything. Won't you, Steve?"

Steve slowly turned around, still pressing the glass to his lips; he looked lifeless. "Of course, whatever she needs."

"Good. Because I've got a job for you to do," your mother announced, the corner of her lips curling upwards. "Why don't you go and get the baby clothes off the washing line and fold them up for me? Put them in the basket and take it upstairs beside her crib once you're done." 

The second Steve stepped through the sliding glass door, mistakenly closing it behind him, your mother’s demeanour shifted. Rather than continuing to comfort you with words of reassurance or Google search articles or conversations on forums that would offer hope, she reached into her cardigan pocket and fished out a small, smoothed-out, crumpled piece of paper.

 The invoice.

"Mom, I don't want to look at that right now," you groaned, closing your eyes. "I have enough to worry about with the baby—"

"I know, and I'm sorry, but just look at the phone number," she whispered, leaning in close. "I called it while you were at the hospital. I didn't say who I was. I just asked for their corporate billing department to verify a stay."

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes opening wide. "And? W-what did they say?"

You were begging for Steve to be right, that you were being hysterical. You were desperate for your gut feeling to be wrong, so diabolically wrong. 

"The woman on the phone... well, she was confused. She said they don't do corporate rates for businesses because they weren't that type of motel." Your mother’s thumb pressed against the ink. "I asked about the extra guest charge, and you know what she told me? She said-"

You frowned, your brain trying to find any possible explanation that wouldn't hurt, but before your mother could reveal the rest, the sliding glass door opened, and Steve walked in with the basket full of freshly washed and sun-dried baby clothes tucked under his arm. Your mother's hand dived back into her pocket, the invoice squeezed tightly in her small fist. Your heart thumped at the same pace as your mother's, but she didn't miss a beat. 

"Goodness, you're fast!" She put on a light laugh, walking over to him.

Steve's eyes landed on you, and the colour drained from his face. You were hurting. Bad. 

He knew that his secret was slowly unravelling at the frayed ends. Time was running out.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Steve asked, his voice trembling.

"I'm going to go lie down," you said, your voice little and far away, "Today has completely worn me out." 

Steve walked over to you, the basket still tucked under his arm as he followed you up the stairs. "You need all the sleep you can get," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Mom?" you said softly, slowly turning around, "Once Steve has put the baby clothes away, you can go home. You've done so much for me, but you need to rest too."

Your mother nodded and didn't try to argue; she knew just how quietly your heart was breaking under your flesh and bones. Steve continued up the stairs, but your mother managed to pull you in for one last hug, pushing the crumpled invoice into your hand. 

"Trust me," she mouthed, "trust your gut."

As you climbed the stairs, the weight of the unknown surrounding the extra guest charge sat in your stomach like an anchor. You thought of the tiny girl on the monitor, struggling to grow in a space that felt like a garden full of wilting flowers. With each step, you slowly began to realise that your husband reminded you of his father, a man so unhappy and angry with many secrets.

The silence of the house at 3:00 AM was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the clock in the living room and the distant, muffled sound of a woman’s voice coming from downstairs.

Steve bolted upright, his heart thumping and beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead. The space beside him in the bed was cold; your pregnancy pillow was discarded carelessly onto the floor. His migraine had dulled to a throb, but a new instinct took over, similar to when he knew when one of the kids had thrown up in the night or was about to fall off a swing or scooter.

Steve knew his time was up; he knew the floor was about to give way.

He didn't grab his slippers or nightgown. He ran down the stairs in bare feet as quietly as he could in case he startled the kids who were fast asleep and tucked up into their beds, dreaming away.

Steve's breath hitched in his throat, and he felt as if he had been punched in the stomach and left violently winded. Standing by the kitchen island, you pressed your phone against your ear, the glow from the screen illuminating the look of fear and fragility on your face, with your free hand clutching your 27-week bump. 

Steve's eyes fell on the crumpled invoice sitting on the island, staring at him, taunting him.

You knew this day would come.

 "Yes, his name is Mr Harrington," you confirmed down the phone, hearing the woman's long fingernails clacking against her keyboard. 

"Baby," Steve's voice cracked, "Give me the phone!" He lunged forward, his face contorted in a mask of desperation.

You backed away, rounding the kitchen island, your feet sliding on the tile. "Don't touch me!" you hissed.

Whilst Steve slept, you woke up, your gut screaming at you through your dreams to wake up and call the number before it was too late. You quietly escaped Steve's arms that were caged around you, and you sneaked down the stairs, dialling the number and talking to a member of the night team.

"Look, can you explain the extra guest charge. I need to know who was in that room."

"Give me the goddamn phone!" Steve snapped. His guilt transformed into a defensive, ugly rage.

The woman's frantic typing suddenly stopped, "We don't keep names of the escorts' for their safety, Mr Harrington would've paid to keep her in one of our rooms, for the drinks and food they shared, what he paid for her service is off record." You dodged his final lunge and your eyes met Steve's, the two of you full of tears and fright. 

You hurled, and Steve's heart felt like someone had shot a rubber band at it. As he stared at you, every single version of yourself haunted him. Each smile of yours from the decades spent together flashed before him as the truth stabbed into you like a knife.

"Please hang up," he cried, "W-We can talk about this, it's not what it seems, I swear." He stepped forward, his hands shaking.

"An escort..." you whispered, your hand that clutched your phone suddenly became weak, and it fell from your ear, dropping your phone, it slammed against the kitchen floor, the screen cracking instantly.

"You're a cheat and a liar, Steve" You backed away, your hip hitting the counter. The disgust is slick and oily in your throat. "When I find out what exactly you've done..." you sobbed, quickly gasping at a sharp and quickening in your lower back and beneath your bump. 

Before you could recover and demand that he come clean and kick him out of the house, a second sharp, searing bolt of pain shot through your lower back, radiating around to the front of your abdomen. You doubled over as a wave of agony gripped you. The phone was still between you on the floor, smashed, the line was still open, and the faint sound of the receptionist asking if anyone was there made everything worse.

"Steve, something's wrong...I'm- It's- the pain is fucking killing me!"

Steve fell to his knees, his face reflecting the pain he had unleashed on you, as a terrifying gush of fluid soaked through your pyjama pants, drenching the floor beneath you, a bright streak of blood gleaming in the moonlight.

"No," Steve breathed, his voice a pathetic whimper. "You're too early, this can't..."

Another contraction slammed into you, intense and terrifyingly frequent. You let out a strangled scream, your fingers digging into the wet fabric of your pyjamas. Steve had always been calm and strong when you went into labour; he never stalled, not once. Yet he didn't move a muscle, he stared at you and looked as if he had no idea what he was doing. 

"Call 911," you sobbed, the pain folding you in half. "Now! Call them now! She's coming, Steve!"

Steve snapped himself out of the horror before him and snatched the smashed phone off the floor, his hands shaking violently. He looked at you, bleeding and broken on the floor, staring up at him with pure hatred and blame, both of which he knew he would deserve for the rest of his life.

His debt had been paid. But at what cost?

The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway were a horrifically harsh contrast to the dark kitchen you’d just escaped. Every bump of the stretcher made you cry out, as the contractions came in a relentless, overlapping wave that left no room for breath, and your screams sounded like that of a final girl in a horror film you and Steve flinched away from at HAWK Theatre.

"Twenty-seven weeks, suspected placental abruption, possible IUGR," the paramedic shouted, his voice echoing off the sterile walls.

"Placental abruption?!" Steve repeated breathlessly out of fear.

Your husband was a frantic, blurred shadow at your side, his hand trying to find yours. Each time his skin brushed yours, you flinched and snatched your hand away. You didn't want his comfort; you didn't want him anywhere near you. When you looked at Steve, the endless thoughts of who and what he did in that bed exploded in your mind. You gave up your career and put your personal dreams on hold just so you could achieve his, and this is how he repaid you?

"Get away from me," you choked out between a guttural moan of pain. "Don't... don't fucking touch me."

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed, his face a mess of snot and tears, his eyes full of fear, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen." 

The room was a whirlwind of blue scrubs and the sharp snap of latex gloves. The loss of blood and the beginning of the truth shattering your world made you exhausted, and as the team of midwives and surgeons thrust into the room, talking to you and amongst themselves of what was going to happen, you drowned out their voices and shut your eyes. 

"I fucking hate you," you muttered at your husband, no longer awake enough to be loud and assertive, "I regret the day I ever laid eyes on you."

One of the midwives placed a firm hand on Steve's chest as you were wheeled away, "Sir, I'm sorry, but we cannot allow you to follow her any further. This is serious. To keep your wife and baby safe, she needs general anaesthesia, and we cannot have you in the room." 

Steve's body vibrated with every sob, "I can't be without her," he croaked, "Not now."

There was no time for you to open your eyes and accept the reality of your situation; you didn't listen to the soft and kind whispers of the midwife crouched next to your head, promising that you and your daughter would be alright. You didn't notice the harsh, bright lights or the cold air; all you could do was welcome the dark and numbing peace of the anaesthesia; giving in to it felt like a kindness. Steve would no longer exist until you were brought back.

Steve sat in the waiting room with his head between his knees, each minute feeling like an hour. The silence was worse than your screaming in the ambulance, worse than the look of hatred in your eyes. Every time the door opened, he flinched, expecting a doctor to tell him he was a widower and without a baby. He kept looking at his hands, the ones that touched another woman whilst you were at home, allowing yourself to hurt if it meant making his now stupid, dream come true.

Nearly two hours later, a surgeon in blood-speckled scrubs walked out. Steve scrambled to his feet, his breath hitching, the rest of his life as a father and husband hanging on by a thread.

"Is she... are they...?"

"Your wife is in recovery," the surgeon said, his voice professional but weary. "The abruption was... severe. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable."

"And the baby?" Steve whispered.

The surgeon’s expression softened, "She’s very small. Two pounds, one ounce. She’s in the NICU and on a ventilator. The pediatric team will visit you and your wife to explain everything before the shift changeover."

"Can I see them?"

"If you want to be there when your wife wakes up, go ahead."

When you finally blinked your eyes open in the recovery ward, the world felt heavy and numb, you were confused, and your throat felt tender and sore. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach, finding only bandages and a terrifying flatness.

The midwife who whispered in your ear earlier was still beside you, instantly squeezing your hand. "She's in the NICU, and oh boy, is she a fighter!"

You smiled weakly, with tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, a heavy relief washing over you, feeling the ache in your core where your daughter had pried out of you, and the deeper ache in your heart. 

You were alive, and she was fighting, but your life would never be the same. You knew that once your daughter could come home, you'd be raising her alone. Glancing at the ring on your finger, you jolted as you noticed Steve sat beside your bed in the plastic chair, his head in his shaking hands. 

As you stared at him and listened to his cries over and over, you knew that there was no other option but to divorce Steve; the confirmation of his unfaithfulness had sealed his fate; you were done with him. He could tell you the details in court or from across the table as you sign the papers. 

"Now, let me go and see if your little girl is ready for visitors" the midwife chirped, smiling away. "I'll also go and see if I can get you a drink and something to eat," she walked out of the room, leaving you and Steve alone.

"I made a mistake," Steve whispered, his voice cracking. "It was just... it was a mistake."

You didn't answer or ask any questions; your eyes stayed glued to the door.

"I lied about the business trip, I.. I felt like such a failure because I couldn't get you pregnant. I told myself that I was lousy, that I'd be nothing without a sixth child, and I just, I got so angry at everything and everyone. I told myself that you weren't doing enough for me, and I am so unbelievably stupid and wrong for all of it. You have no idea how much regret I have for what I've done. I hate myself every single day for having sex with her. I left the next morning, wanting to rewind time because I knew what I had done, and then when I found out you were..."

Steve shook his head, his confession trailing off with more sobs, "I am such a horrible husband, and I'm so fucking sorry. I'll do everything I can to fix this, us."

Squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, remembering every inkling of evidence you saw that something wasn't right, you swallowed down a yell and a scream. Bravely opening your eyes and staring at your husband, you took a deep breath and sighed.

"There is no us, Steve."

"W-What? I know how badly I've fucked up, and I know you can't forgive me, but what about the kids? We've been together for so long and-"

You couldn't hide your laughter even if you tried; doing so caused you deep agonising pain. "When our daughter is free to leave this place, you'll be packing your bags and leaving. We'll be divorced before the end of the year."

Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a strangled cry. Bile climbed up his sore throat, and his heart felt like it was about to explode.

"I want you to leave, Steve," you said, your voice cold and hollow. "Get back to the kids, explain to them and my mother about what's happened with the baby and me, and then prepare them for what life is going to look like when we return home."

"P-Please," Steve begged, trying to reach out and take your hand.  

"Now." 

Steve looked at the door, then back at you. He no longer looked like the boy you had loved at graduation, or the young man on your wedding day who promised to be faithful just to you, but as he turned and walked out of the room, with his heavy, broad shoulders hunched and his head down, he looked exactly like the man who had destroyed his family and was now forced to walk the hallways of his own making, alone.

The drive back to his home felt like torture; hours earlier, you were sitting in the passenger seat, with your hand on your bump. The home he slowly entered no longer felt full of love and hope; it was a home he knew that soon he'd no longer return to after work. If you were serious, which he knew you were, Steve would need to prepare for living without you next to him at night, mornings without kissing you and the kids goodbye, and dinners at the table without your loving glance. 

He got out of the car and walked into the house, your mother pacing around upstairs, a nervous wreck.

Hours later, you were finally wheeled down to the NICU. Sitting behind the incubator, you watched the machines breathe for your daughter, as her tiny body was surrounded by long wires and thick tubes. Her skin was angry and red, with tiny, thin limbs, resembling a baby bird. You couldn't believe how perfect she was, you wanted to pull her into your chest and feel her skin on yours, the very thought making you realise you were producing milk she was supposed to drink.

You pressed your hand to the glass, a sob catching in your throat. "Hello, Beautiful," you breathed, tears of relief falling "You are so brave." 

Raising your kids without Steve felt daunting, but it wouldn't be any harder than the last thirteen years. As you stared at your tiny, final baby, you realised that you had raised the other five kids alone whilst Steve worked. Steve only provided money and kept the roof over your head. Steve wasn't the constant and present father you thought he was; you had been doing this alone from the very beginning, and nothing could shake you from the promise of raising your daughter alone now. 

Your parents would support you if you needed them, and you didn't care about Steve's parents at all; they would have no choice but to take him back under their roof and host their grandchildren every weekend. It was the least they could do. 

"We're going to be just fine," you hummed,  "I promise."

End of Part 5

Comment to be added to the taglist

Reblogging is a writers bestfriend :)

The next family would be arriving soon for Marcie's grand tour of the place. He hated unwelcome guests, especially those who thought they could eye up your room, making plans to claim it. Tate would often send uncomfortable chills down the spines of visitors he didn't like, and the young guys around his never changing, were driven out of the house with an overbearing fear and searing pain in their chests that they couldn't explain. The cure? Leaving the house. 

Tate noticed the corner of a manila envelope peeking out from under the blinds you left behind. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before, with how his pacing around your room was part of his eternal routine. He walked over to the blinds, his finger still brushing against the wallpaper, until he finally lifted his finger and pinched at the envelope, before carefully pulling it from under the blinds, dust floating in the air.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, like he had done hundreds of times with you to listen to music or write depressing poetry together. When the first Polaroid slid into his palm, the air in the room seemed to shift, the photo staring up at him could've shifted gravity for a split second if he allowed it. 

It was you, the you he saw every day, who laughed at his morbid jokes, listened eagerly to his ghost stories and shared earphones with in bed; but something was different. These photos that he began to look through one by one were raw. Private. The flash of the camera had washed out your naked body, making you look ghostly against the dark sheets of the bed.

He didn't look away. He couldn't. 

Up until now, he had only seen your face in his memories that were on a constant loop in his brain: How beautiful you looked wrapped in a towel with damp hair after a long shower, how wary you were when you first agreed to join Tate in the basement, to other, more personal memories like your first kiss and first time together. 

Tate's thumb brushed over the glossy surface of the photo, tracing the line of your hip, the one he loved to pepper kisses on. He didn't break into a smirk, and his cheeks didn't flush at the sight of you in different poses like the ones in the magazines that only sat on the top shelves. Tate's expression was focused, and as his chest deeply ached from your absence, his eyes slowly filled with tears. 

To him, you weren't just another occupant of the murder house; you were a person, his person. You were the only light in that house full of rot, and seeing you like this, captured in a moment of total vulnerability, he felt like he was holding your beating heart, gripped tightly in his cold, bloodstained hands.

The floorboard creaked behind him. He didn't jump; he didn't have to. 

"A car has just pulled up outside," an elderly woman said softly yet firmly. It was Moira. "I wonder if they could be the new owners, who knows what they'll think of the place." 

He turned slowly, the photos fanned out in his hand like a deck of cards. "I don't want new owners, I want her." 

Moira pouted and sighed, "No matter how much I tend to the dust in this house, it never really leaves." 

She glanced down at the photos in Tate's hand, studying them carefully. 

"You're still hung up on her?" Moira was careful with her question, knowing how quickly Tate could flip. "She chose to leave this house; she left you."

Tate's eyes darkened with an intensity that would've made his mother stumble. 

"She isn't like other girls," he muttered, walking towards the window, watching the new family of three, with a white dog, walk into the house with Marcie. 

He glanced down at the last photo, you were looking directly at the lens, your eyes radiating the darkness from Tate behind the camera. Your neck was covered in marks Tate aggressively sucked into your skin, the red trail reaching your breasts, which were hidden behind your hands.

"She was the only beautiful thing left in this dump," he said, his voice low and raspy.

Moira hesitated for a moment, listening in to the Harmon family downstairs. 

"The young girl downstairs is named Violet," she hummed, hovering in the doorway of your old room, "and it appears that the Little Miss has chosen this house."

Steve’s calls that were once the highlight of your day now started to fill you with worry; you were spending more and more time with the quiet guy whose hands were glued to a camera, and although you hadn't cheated, you couldn't help but feel like you were betraying Steve. That's even if he bothered to call at all. 

The conversations were a repetitive cycle of him complaining about the brats in his classroom and you offering shallow reassurances that felt increasingly hollow; after he disappointed you yet again so easily, his reassurance meant nothing, you didn't trust him as you did on Graduation night. Which honestly felt like the last time things were... okay.

"I just feel like I'm talking to a wall sometimes," Steve snapped over the phone, "Are you even listening?"

"I'm listening, Steve. I'm just tired," you sighed, your tired eyes were fixed on a small, glossy photograph tucked into the corner of your mirror. It was a shot of your friend with the camera had taken of you laughing over a milkshake.

Meeting up at the diner where you shared secrets, coffee, and fries became your regular hangout spot when you weren't constantly together on campus. He was sweet, friendly, and gentle, you could let the mask completely slip around him and his presence began to feel like a craving.

"Tired of me?"

"No, I.." you took a deep breath, "I'm just tired of the distance, I'm tired of you making promises to see me, and then you fuck me off at the last minute. It's not fair, Steve. You squashed our plans for Halloween and the two other visits you promised since then. I'm just tired of being messed about." 

Steve didn't say anything for a moment or two, processing your confession carefully, seeing if there was anything he could read between the lines.

"I know it's not fair," he softened, "I'm sorry, I'm-"

"Swamped with work?" you interrupted, "Yeah, I get it."

"I'm a teacher, with students and lessons to plan-"

"I was your student, Steve." You huffed, "You made sure there was time for me to get on my knees when it suited you, and you can't even clear a weekend for me? I'm studying towards my future, I'm the one who is swamped!" Your voice rose ever so slightly, prompting you to get up off your bed and hurry towards your door, making sure it was locked in case Kelly tried coming in to supervise your conversation. 

Steve swallowed hard; the memories of you a year ago sitting at your desk in front of him splashed before his eyes. He focused on your scent, how your skin felt against his as he pushed you against the wall and sank his face between your damp legs. You were right, he made time for the heated explorations of your body, but he hadn't bothered to visit; he had no excuse. 

"I'm sorry I've been hurting you again, you're right, this isn't fair. I, I'll make this up to you, and I'll clear a weekend to come and see you." His voice was thick with sincerity, but you couldn't believe him. 

Climbing back into your bed, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling; this time, a large poster was staring down at you rather than the blank and boring paint. 

"I've gotta go," you murmured, "I've got two assignments to finish. Goodnight, Steve." 

"Goodnight, baby, I love you."

There was a time when you'd never hesitate to say those three easy words, but love wasn't supposed to feel so painful, so meaningless. 

"I love you too, Steve," you forced yourself to give in, hanging up and closing your eyes.

The silence after the dial tone was loud and clear. Steve fucked up big time. 

He sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, his phone still clutched so tightly in his hand, the sound of disappointment drilling through his skull.

"You can't even clear a weekend for me" looped in his brain, each repetition made you slip further away from him, as if you were fading right in front of him. 

He threw the phone onto the mattress and stood up, pacing the length of his room; his floorboards creaked under his weight, and he moved to his desk. Approaching the large stack of essays he had reserved for the weekend, just as he had done the week before, and the one before that, he tried to focus on the papers, but the writing became blurred the longer he stared at it. 

I'm dedicating my weekends to pieces of paper instead of her, for what?

Steve angrily picked up the stack of essays and threw them across his room, the pieces of paper now slightly crumpled from his grip as they rocked in the air, falling lower and lower until finally sitting over his cold and empty bed, and parts of the floor. 

The sight of his bed set him off, causing the intrusive thoughts in his brain to multiply out of control: he knew about the hormones these young guys on campus were raging with, he taught it, and he knew that a girl like you, thrust into a world of guys your own age, was a ticking time bomb for him to prove himself worthy of being kept.

"She’s a college student," his voice cracked. "She’s supposed to be having fun. She’s supposed to be..."

Forgetting me.

The thought hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. He hurried into the same bathroom in which he lovingly washed you, and leaned over the sink, his breath coming in shallow hitches. Steve felt terrified, losing his mind over a girl who was finally trying to take control of her life and pushing back.

Things weren't supposed to be this way. He wanted to so easily control you the way he did back in his classroom; he knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it. He claimed you the moment your eyes met in the principal's office.

The bile in his throat only climbed higher when he thought back to when he cancelled your plans for Halloween, telling you to go to a party, pushing you into the arms of someone else because he told himself you'd never stop chasing after him, that you would continue to hunger as he starved you more and more.

"I’m an idiot," he whispered, "I'm losing her, and I'm just sitting here marking papers."

Steve thought about the papers all over his bedroom, realising with panic that he couldn't wait another week without seeing you. He needed you now.

If he knew if that he didn't grade these papers, he’d fall behind, but all of these worries felt so insignificant against the worries mounting in his brain and turning his stomach into knots. He didn't care that he had a first-period class on Friday. He’d call in sick. He’d tell them he had the flu. He’d tell them his car broke down. He would do anything if it meant he could see you.

He needed to be the man who fought for you, the man you fell in love with. He couldn't allow himself to continue being the secret boyfriend six hours away.

The November air was biting the end of your nose and your cheeks as you walked towards the rusted iron bench that sat beneath a large, naked tree. It was where your friend, the photographer, spent his free periods when it wasn't raining. 

"Are we seriously sitting out here?" you shivered, "it's freezing out here!"

He looked up at you with a small and sweet smile, his leather portfolio spread across his lap. "We can go inside and grab something to eat if you're hungry? But sit down for a sec, I want to run some of these shots by you for approval."

You sat next to him, the smell of damp earth hung heavy around you, instantly making you think of the chalky smell in Steve’s classroom. 

Stop thinking about him. 

Is he even thinking about you?

"This one," he said softly, pointing to a grainy black-and-white shot. It was a close-up of a single raindrop mid-roll down a steamy window,  "How does it make you feel?"

He shifted slowly, his shoulder brushing yours; the contact was light, but it sent a hum through your skin, comforting, soft, gentle.

Studying the photo, you felt a little down, gloomy even. "It makes me feel... sad."

"I took this the week after I moved here. I still didn't know anyone."

He turned the page, and there you were.

It was a shot from the night at the diner. You weren't looking at the camera; you were looking into your coffee cup, the steam curling around your face; you looked fragile from missing and desperately needing Steve, but there was a budding strength in your expression you hadn't recognised in yourself. 

"You're reconsidering, aren't you?" he asked softly, looking at you instead of the photo.

You let out the breath that got caught in your throat, taking a moment to truly consider what he was asking. 

"Is it that obvious?"

"No, no, it's just, you always look and sound so sad when you talk about him."

You traced the edge of the plastic sleeve covering your own image. "He was my first everything, he taught me... well, he literally taught me. He was there when I felt like no one else was. I feel like I owe him my loyalty because he risked his job, his entire life for me."

Your chest felt heavy, you braced yourself to be shamed and judged, but your friend did neither. You loved Steve, part of you still figuring out if you still had any lingering love left, could it be possible to take that first step and leave the man you once thought was your only one?

"Love isn't supposed to feel like a debt you gotta pay off," He countered, reaching out with his long fingers, hovering over the back of your hand before he finally let them settle there.

His skin was warm, his touch asking for permission rather than demanding attention. "You're at college. You're becoming a version of yourself he doesn't even know."

"I don't think he wants to know her," you admitted, your heart aching "I think he still wants the girl who didn't know any better."

Your friend moved closer, the space between you vanishing. 

"I want to know her," he murmured.

He leaned in, his fringe casting a shadow over his eyes. You didn't pull away; instead, you found yourself leaning toward him.

Just as your lips were inches apart, Steve's voice broke out in the back of your head. 

 "I pushed you away because I'd rather lose you now on my terms than watch you fall in love with some college guy who doesn't have to keep you a secret, because keeping us a secret is killing me." 

You jumped back, your eyes widening, the portfolio sliding slightly off your friend's lap.

"We should go inside," you breathed, though you didn't move, "If I stay out here any longer, I'll freeze." 

Eventually, you slowly stood up, hoping your friend wouldn't be angry with you.

He didn't look angry. He just looked patient, his hand slowly closing his portfolio. 

"Yeah, I probably should've picked somewhere warmer," he said softly, noticing the way you’d tucked your chin into your scarf. "On second thought, instead of food, I'll walk you back to your dorm. You seem a little tired today."

The walk across the quad was brisk, the wind whipping your hair across your face. Your friend walked on the windward side, shielding you without making a show of it. When you finally stepped into the warmth of the brick building, he pulled out a thick, brown envelope from his deep pocket, handing it to you.

"I finished developing these early this morning," he said, his fingers lingered against yours for a second longer than necessary. "I wanted you to have them. All of them."

You blushed lightly at his thoughtfulness, "Thank you, are you sure? That's really kind."

"Get some sleep," he murmured, "you need it." He slowly turned, leaving you at your door.

As you fanned through them, a small, cream-colored scrap of paper fluttered out from between a photo of the campus tree full of flowers and leaves, the one you had sat under earlier, and a portrait of your own tired, smiling face. You picked it up. 

The note was written in his steady handwriting :

You have the right to choose what makes you feel whole, not just what makes you feel obligated. You deserve a love that makes you feel seen and heard.

It was Friday, early afternoon, and you were halfway through the personal, one-man debate of studying or asking your friend to meet you at the diner when a sudden, jarring knock on your door.

"Kelly, if you forgot your key again—" you started, pulling the door open, when your heart jumped up into your throat and suddenly stopped.

Steve was standing there with his hair windblown and his eyes red from crying.

"Surprise," he said, his voice cracking. "I said I'd make things up to you and uh, here's me trying."

The guilt hit you like a physical weight; you didn't even blink. The feelings of your intense love and yearning for him came back at an uncontrollable speed, slamming into you like a high-speed train, your body reminding you of how soft his kisses were when he peppered them all over you before he gently made love to you in the moonlight peaking through the gaps in his blinds. 

Any restraint you had completely melted, and you leapt into his arms, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, nuzzling yourself into him, taking in the scent of cologne you had missed so much.  

"Steve! What are you doing here? You have the grading—"

"I called in sick," he said, stepping into the room and pulling you into a desperate, crushing bear hug. He smelled just the same as he did when you left for graduation, the same as he did during every private, intimate moment in his class after teaching hours.

Your legs wrapped around his hips, and almost naturally, your lips attacked his with that desperate need and want, clawing through whatever doubt you had to get to him. Steve didn't want to stop you, and as your door closed behind him, he skillfully turned the lock with his hand stretched back, before carrying you over to your bed. 

Your back sank into the mattress, and his hands pried you out of the clothing on your upper half, wasting no time to undress you and throw your clothing to the floor. His hungry eyes trailed down your neck, the slight curve of your breasts and down your stomach. 

"I've missed you, Steve," you breathed, your chest quickly rising and falling from the intense kissing, your lips now plump and red.

"Not as much as I've missed you," Steve removed his jacket and shirt, revealing his hairy chest without the summer glow. 

Your hands reached out and attacked his belt, tugging at it, "take it off, take it all off," you pouted, unable to control yourself, "I need you, I need to feel you again." 

Only having sex once with Steve and then being forced to be away from him for over four months was an agony you had never known before, and as angry as you were with him for not being here, you were struggling with the sexual frustrations building up inside of you that needed a release. 

Steve did as he was told, and a prickly shade of pink broke out across his cheeks. Hearing you command him took him by surprise, and he liked it. You hadn't ever been the one to call the shots and take control, he didn't know you had it in you, and neither did you.

You removed the last of your clothing, the two of you completely naked in your single bed, not hidden in the summer night. This time, you could see every inch of Steve's perfect body, and he could see yours. Taking Steve's large length in your hand, you pumped his cock gently and softly, you could feel him throbbing against the soft skin of your fingers, and heard a sharp gasp escape Steve's lips as you tugged on him.

"Fuck," he groaned, "Lie down, baby girl, I want to feel you."

"You lie down," you blushed, "let me take it from here."

"Go on, baby," Steve said proudly, "show me what I've been missing."

You climbed on top of Steve, you were a little nervous and wobbly with your legs spread, as you slowly lowered yourself down on his dick after he coated the head and shaft in his thick saliva. His hands ripped onto your waist, helping you sit down as he pierced inside of you, his girth exploring you deeply, and the tip of his dick reaching your lower stomach as he finally filled you entirely.

Your legs rested at his sides, your jaw dropped as you forgot just how big Steve was. Taking a moment to adjust to his size, your palms rested on his chest, delicately tracing circles into his skin, before you finally began to slowly buck your hips, riding him. 

Steve kept his grip on your waist to keep you grounded, his eyes locked onto the sight of you getting more and more confident with each movement, your soft moans filling your small room as Steve's groans intensified at the feeling of your gummy walls strangling him.

Continuing to buck your hips and now carefully bouncing up and down, your breasts rising and falling with each jolt, you leaned back slightly, which only made Steve feel even better inside of you. There was nothing between you, just his skin against yours. 

"Steve," you moaned out through panting, your voice high-pitched, "You feel so fucking good."

Steve looked up at you with a proud smile on his face. You were moaning his name, no one else's, which seemed to calm the growing suspicions and paranoia in the back of his head. You were careless with your moans, which only made Steve get closer and closer to the edge. You weren't forcing yourself to bottle up your proof of pleasure, so neither did Steve. 

For the first time in your relationship, the two of you were careless, tossing aside your secret. In this moment, you were both all you ever wanted and needed. No one else mattered; nothing else was as important as you were to one another. 

Steve noticed you were getting tired, and he wanted to help you. 

"I'm going to shuffle and stand up in a moment," he whimpered, "wrap your legs around me and trust me." 

You nodded your head, "Don't drop me," 

"I won't," he said softly, " let me take it from here."

Steve slowly took his time, gently moving until he was able to stand up off the bed, holding you so you didn't fall, with your legs now wrapped around him, still inside you, as he turned around and placed you on the bed, your back lying against your mattress. Lifting up your legs, Steve placed them over his shoulders, his cock sliding even deeper inside of you.

Glancing down at Steve gracefully fucking you,  you could see the outline of his length poke through your stomach, such a sight making you even slicker and pushing you to the edge. Your excitement over Steve filling you up caused your walls to tighten around him even more, and he didn't know how much longer he could cope. He was getting so close, so desperately close. 

"You're so deep inside me" you whimpered, watching him start to slam in you, your moans becoming more frequent and louder.

"You feel so tight," he grunted, "I can't last much longer,"

"Neither can I," you whimpered, "please d-don't stop, I'm going to-"

The mounting desperation, greed, and demands for him finally reached their peak, and as he slammed into your wet pussy deeper, you were finally able to release, coating him with your orgasm, which sent Steve jumping ahead. 

Unable to stop himself, he practically vibrated, spilling his seed inside of you, with beads of sweat breaking across his forehead and glistening across his chest.  

"Oh fuck, I-I'm sorry," Steve breathlessly panicked, slowly pulling out and lowering your legs, his cum slowly oozing out of you. 

"It's okay," you murmured.

The silence of the room returned, punctuated only by the distant sound of Kelly laughing in the hallway. Steve was propped up on one elbow, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest. He looked slightly confused at your calmness. 

Steve's gaze drifted to your desk. "I won't do that again, we can't afford to take risks like that-"

"Steve," you smiled, tiredly, "It's okay, I'm on the pill."

"The pill?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "Since when? You didn't mention it on the phone."

You'd know if you were ever listening to me. 

 "A few weeks ago," you said, trying to keep calm, "I told you, the doctor said it would level everything out or whatever, I just couldn't cope with the cramps and heavy bleeding."

"Right," Steve said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "For your periods. Funny how that works out, right when you're surrounded by thousands of guys your own age."

"Steve," you sighed, closing your eyes, "please don't, you just got here," you pleaded, feeling the weight of his mistrust. "I need to take a shower... can we just be happy? for a minute?"

Steve swallowed hard and nodded, "You're right, I'm sorry. Go take your shower, I'm not going anywhere."

The bathroom was down the hall, a communal space that felt gross and cold against your bare feet. As the steam rose around you and the water hit your shoulders, you leaned your head against the tile, closing your eyes. The guilt of even considering leaving him for as long as you did became a physical ache. 

Back in the room, Steve sat on the edge of the bed in the silence of you small room, which made him feel uneasy. He put on his underwear and reached out for his shirt until his eyes focused on your desk, the place where you spent the hours you weren't talking to him, often fast asleep over a book, waiting for another one of his calls that never came. He stared at the top drawer. It wasn't closed properly, and a corner of a heavy, brown envelope was wedged in the gap, preventing the drawer from closing.

He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was snooping, but the paranoia that had been festering in his brain since before you even left Hawkins for college boiled over.

He stood up and pulled the drawer open, his heart thumping in his chest as he picked up the envelope and tipped the contents onto the desk, causing too many photos for his liking to spill out, making his breath hitch in his throat. 

You didn't look stiff or posed; you weren't forcing a smile or hiding your face. These felt intimate and artful in a hurtful way. The first photo was of you laughing at a diner table, the second, you sleeping in the library. In every single shot, you looked so naturally happy, without stress, and free.

Steve reexamined the collection of photos, and that's when he noticed the note. He picked up the scrap of paper and examined the handwriting he didn't recognise. 

You have the right to choose what makes you feel whole, not just what makes you feel obligated. You deserve a love that makes you feel seen and heard.

Steve's face dropped and turned a deep, mottled red, as he crumpled the paper in his fist. He looked back at the photos, seeing the way the 'photographer' looked at you through the lens. This person was no longer just a friend, they were a threat. 

The sound of the shower stopping echoed faintly from down the hall, but Steve didn't scramble or put the photos back. Instead, her stood over them with his chest heaving and spread them out across your desk, placing the handwritten note directly in the middle of the shots. He couldn't look away from it all.

The steam was still clinging to your skin when you left the shower, you could feel something uneasy hanging heavy in your gut, and by the time you pushed your bedroom door open, you knew why.

"Did you want to quickly shower? It gets cold in here, so if I were you I would-"

Steve was standing by your desk, his back a rigid, trembling line. He didn't turn around; he just kept staring down at the pictures with his hands braced against the wood of your desk so hard that his fingers began to hurt. 

Your eyes dropped to the brown envelope on the floor.

"Steve?"

He turned slowly, and in his hand, he held the now crumpled note, with fury scribbled across his face.

"You deserve a love that makes you feel seen and heard." Steve quoted, tossing the paper onto the desk. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he glared at you. 

"Steve," you said softly, "give me that," You stepped forward, your voice trembling.

"Give you what? The evidence?" He swept his hand across the desk, scattering the Polaroids. The one of you laughing at the diner fell face-first onto the floor at your feet. "Who the fuck is he?" Steve raised his voice, "Is this why you're taking that fucking pill?"

"What?!" Your eyes widened, you quickly bent down to grab the pictures, "It isn't like that! I told you, I got those for the stress of exams, my periods—"

"Don't lie to me!" Steve roared, the sound echoing off the thin dorm walls.

"Steve, they'll hear you, please don't shout!" 

"Who is he!" He stepped into your personal space, his anger overwhelming.

 "He's a friend," you sobbed, the hot tears finally breaking through. 

"Bullshit, you've replaced me, I knew-"

"I haven't replaced you!" you raised your voice back at him, "The night you called to tell me not to come to Hawkins, the night you told me to go to a party, well, I went. I hated it, I went outside to get some fresh air, and I made a friend! A friend, Steve!" 

"You're his personal model from the looks of things." 

"He doesn't just call to groan about his day or demand that I reassure him every five minutes, he doesn't cancel on me at the last minute to stare at a bunch of papers!" 

Steve flinched, "What part of I am risking everything for us! I could lose everything! I'm protecting us, do you not understand?" 

"No! You're not! You're keeping me a secret to protect you. You wanted to keep me in that classroom, Steve. You wanted me to stay the girl who didn't know any better so you could be the only person who mattered." You couldn't stop it all from coming out, "You push me away over and over, and I come running back because I love you, just for you to do it again! My friend has made me realise that I have a choice, I don't have to be a fucking secret to him, to anyone for that matter!" 

Steve grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm but shaking. "I love you. I drove all night to be here because I felt you slipping away. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"It means you're scared of being alone," you whispered, looking at the photos scattered on the floor. 

Steve let go of you, "D-don't you love me? We just fucked, doesn't that mean anything to you?" 

"Of course it means something to me! But you acting like this is killing me, Steve. I-I can't do this anymore."

"If I walk out that door," his voice cracked, "there is no us to come back to, we'll be over permanently."

Your heart began to split into a million pieces, each piece shattering into nothing. You knew Steve was serious, that he meant it, and you couldn't be without him, but you couldn't cope with the constant lack of trust, or the mounting disappointments.

"I think," you said, your voice steady despite the tears, "that's been the case for a long time already, Steve... y-you need to get your clothes back on and leave."

end of part 7

comment to be added to the taglist

reblogging is a writers best friend :)

"It came," you chirped, your smile spreading into a grin.

Eddie stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, "Are you okay?" he asked, "You're shaking a little bit."

"I'm shaking even more on the inside," you admitted, taking him by the hand, leading him to the couch. "It's real, Eds, I can't believe it’s real."

He sat beside you, his thigh pressing against yours, his rings clinking as he reached out. "Can I?"

You pursed your lips and took a deep breath, "I haven't looked at it myself yet," slowly handing the magazine to him, there was no denying that the cover was a masterpiece, you were bathing in the soft lighting, with your soft and genuine smile, the subtitle next you in bold: 'MISS HAWKINS 1986'

Eddie’s throat went dry, he swallowed hard and turned the pages slowly, his eyes widening as he reached your feature inside. He had expected to feel that hot, territorial anger again but as he looked closely at the photos, examining you, he felt his heart go all soft. 

"God, you’re so beautiful," he rasped, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw on the paper. "I’m gonna have to fight the entire state of Indiana, aren't I?"

"Maybe the world," you giggled jokingly, "you should read the interview, Eddie," you urged, leaning your head on his shoulder. "The Playmate Data sheet."

Eddie flipped past a stunning centrefold, one that made him lose his breath and mutter a quiet "holy shit" and ache in his pants until he found the text block. He started reading carefully, squinting at your delicate handwriting. 

He got through the basics like your name, date of birth, bust, height, and waist measurements and underneath, there it was.

TURN ONS: a guy with sweet old tatties, long hair, silver chunky rings, who wears a leather jacket and a battle vest. 

TURN OFFS: being surrounded by people who purposefully blend into the crowd rather than stand out as themselves, even if it means being labelled a freak. 

The magazine trembled in Eddie’s hands as he continued to read.

PERFECT DATE: quiet nights in with my perfect man, watching slashers we rented from Family Video, cuddling up, sharing popcorn and missing half of the film because we're far too busy kissing.

"You actually told them?" Eddie whispered. "About... us... me?"

"Of course I did, Eds, I wanted them to know," you smiled, gazing at him "I wanted every man who looks at these pictures to know that the girl in the magazine has a man, that she's completely untouchable. I wanted them to be jealous of you."

Eddie let out a shaky laugh and finally closed the magazine, pulling you into his lap. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and kissed your neck softly, longingly.

"I feel like such an idiot, I mean, I am an idiot," he murmured against your skin. "Fuck, I feel stupid."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, "Well, now you know what I've always thought of you, I'm all yours,"

"Damn right," Eddie growled playfully, tightening his grip.

Steve sat on the edge of his bed, the magazine heavy in his hands, without a single fold or crease. He knew that he shouldn't be doing this; he knew he should've cancelled his subscription before your issue got printed, out of respect for Eddie, but temptation took over him entirely; he couldn't resist going beyond the front cover.

His shift was stressful and tiring, and he needed a release. 

Don't do it, she's your friend... she's your friend's girlfriend. 

Once you look at her like this, you won't be ale to stop. 

You can't have her, so don't go there.

Don't.

He tried to focus on the interview pages, the condom and cigarette adverts, the vhs pornos with order forms, and the joke pages, but he couldn't stop his fingers from flipping to the thick and glossy centrefold, the page rolling out like a long tongue.

Steve's throat went dry, and he swallowed hard, taking a deep breath as his pulse began to drum in his ears, his dick immediately going rock hard.

There you were. The girl he saw every now and again at Family Video, picking out a horror film to watch with Eddie, the girl who laughed at his cringey jokes and tried to keep things calm when Eddie lured Steve into a debate.

But on these pages, you were a goddess, you were forbidden fruit; the lighting was honey-warm, catching the curve of your hip and the soft swell of your breaststhat was both classy yet straight up provocative.

Every single inch of you was perfect, and Steve couldn't look away, he wanted you. 

"Fuck," Steve whispered, feeling the instant ache in his jeans.

This is wrong, so wrong. Eddie will kill me if he finds out.

Steve stared at the way your hair fell across your collarbone, the sheer and raw beauty of you nude with your eyes piercing into him, telling him things he wanted to hear.

Slowly, his hand moved to the button of his fly, and leaned back against his propped up pillows, his breath hitching as he kept his eyes locked on the image. It was surreal; he knew the scent of your perfume, the sound of your laugh, and now he knew every inch of you. Inches he would've never seen.

He pulled his pants down and tugged down his underwear, his dick springing and slapping against his stomach. He gripped the base of his shaft and spat down his length, the spit slowly trailing down him as he started to pump, up and down. Steve couldn't be gentle with himself if he tried; this deep hunger and desperation took over him completely.  

His grip was tight, just how he imagined your insides, and his strokes were fast and frantic, the speed at which he wanted to fuck you, so fast, so hard, and so so deep. 

Steve's lips were pursed, and his saliva dampened his bottom lip. He could hear your voice in the back of his head, the sweet nothings you would whisper to Eddie replayed, but just for Steve. 

The guilt kept flickering here and there in the back of his mind, but as he closed his eyes, remembering the scent of your perfume, the pictures of you from the magazine sprang to life as he imagined the real you, right here in his room, before snapping them open again to drink in the details David's photographer had captured so perfectly.

His movements became hurried, desperate, a frantic attempt to reconcile the girl he knew with the goddess on the page.

Up and down, up and down, faster, faster. 

Nearly there, fuck, look at that body of hers, look at her lips, her eyes, those breasts, trail down her tummy, curve around that waist, get lower... lower...

Steve's seed shot up and leapt across, hitting the bottom of the page, landing across your legs, sticking to the high-quality paper. His chest was heaving, and walls started to close in, as if a million eyes were watching him through the pain and wallpaper.  

Steve felt shame, yet he wanted more. He grabbed a tissue and blotted the paper, praying the pages wouldn't stick together before cleaning himself up and putting his pants back on, zipping them up with a thundering heart.

"Fuck, I don't know how I can come back from this..." he muttered, wiping his brow and staring at the magazine, his heart rate finally levelling out.

He was in the middle of tucking the magazine under his mattress, when the sudden, violent thud-thud-thud of someone hammering on his front door downstairs made him nearly jump out of his skin.

"Harrington! I'm sorry, I know it's late, but are you in? We need to talk." It was Eddie.

Steve quickly scrambled to smooth his hair, his face still flushed. In his panic, he only managed to tuck the magazine under the mattress, half of it hanging out, as he thundered down the stairs.

Approaching the front door, Steve cleared his throat, and his hands were shaking as he fumbled with the deadbolt. He took one last, desperate swipe at his face and pulled the door open.

"Eddie! Hey! Man, you're... you're really worked up," Steve stammered, blocking the entryway with his body. "Maybe we should just go grab a beer or something—"

Eddie didn't even look him in the eye. He used his shoulder to shove past Steve, his leather jacket smelling of cigarettes and nervous sweat.

"You were right, and I owe you one, man. I'm finding this difficult, but I know she loves me. Thank you for talking sense into me-"

Eddie stopped dead. He turned, his dark eyes narrowing as they locked onto Steve's face. He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring. "Why are you sweating, Harrington?"

"It's the heating. I put it on a little too high, bad habit," Steve lied, his heart hammering, "Why don't we go upstairs?"

Going upstairs and entering Steve's room, Eddie's gaze dropped as he saw the way Steve's hand was still hovering near his belt, a slight tremor in his fingers.

Before Eddie could sit down, he noticed the pages of a magazine peeking out from beneath his mattress.

Eddie's face went dangerously still. The frantic, manic energy he'd walked in with curdled into something cold and frozen. He walked over to Steve's bed, not looking back at him. 

"Did you cancel the subscription?" 

Steve could feel his face burning, his ears prickling. "Yeah, I was meaning to tell you-"

Liar.

You've been looking at my girl. 

You've been thinking about her, imagining my girl.

You touched yourself over her.

Eddie leaned down and tugged on the pages beneath, revealing the pages Steve had been looking at, still warm and creased from being gripped and pressed against Steve's body. Eddie stared at the photo of you, completely exposed and noticed the creases in Steve's bedsheet, piecing it together, looking back at his friend's flushed face.

"You were looking at her," Eddie whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

"Eddie, I—"

"You were jerking off to her!" Eddie raised his voice, causing it to crack. He threw the magazine across the room, causing pages to rip and fly out. "You were with her. In your head! That's my girl, Harrington!"

"It's a magazine! That's what it's for!" Steve shouted back, "What did you think was going to happen? You think David flew her to LA to be a hand model? You agreed to this inevitability!"

"I didn't agree to my 'friend' fantasising over her!" Eddie roared, stepping into Steve's space, his chest heaving, his face inches from his friend. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To know that every piece of her I thought was secret is now... material for guys like you?"

Eddie's tears streamed from his eyes from humiliation and possessive rage. "You were supposed to be my friend," he shoved Steve and pushed past him, walking out of his bedroom and down the stairs.

"I'm sorry," Steve said, following Eddie, "I'm a total piece of shit. She's... she's just, man. She's so beautiful, I got confused. I didn't mean to—"

"If you ever, ever talk to her about this, or look at her that way when we're at the bar or in your company, you'll be more than sorry." Eddie grabbed the door handle, pulling it open before storming out.

Steve was behind the counter at work, going through stacks of comedy films to put out on the shelves in alphabetical order.

When you walked through the door, his eyes widened, and his face flushed, almost dropping the tapes all over the floor.

"Hey, Steve," you smiled as you approached him. You looked tired, but happy. "Can you help me pick out a Horror film me and Eds haven't seen yet? He's refusing to come in, you know what he's like sometimes."

He didn't tell her about last night?

"Uh, yeah-" Steve squeaked, quickly clearing his throat, "Yeah, I mean, you guys have watched almost everything here, so we'll have to uh, start with the new releases," his gaze kept flickering to you and then darting away to a spot on the floor.

"I need something scarier than the slashers we binge-watch... something that'll actually make him stop talking for two hours. Any ideas?"

Steve felt like he was in a daze, and every time he looked at you, his brain involuntarily flashed to the glossy pictures of you he had ejaculated over, which he had to pick up and put back together after Eddie tossed the magazine across the room in a rage.

You didn't know what Steve had done; Eddie hadn't told you. He was more protective than usual, but you put that down to the magazine release.

Eddie felt more than devastated, seeing his best friend fall into the exact trap he'd feared, looking at you as a fantasy instead of a person. You were off limits to everyone, especially  Harrington.

Steve walked aimlessly toward the back of the store, and you followed him, puzzled by his jittery energy.

"Steve? Are you okay? You're sweating a little bit." You murmured.

He wiped his forehead, "I uh, ate something... made me queasy all morning." Steve grabbed a box without looking. "Here. The Hitcher."

You took the box, your fingers brushing his. Steve flinched, gasping at your touch.

"Okay, I call bullshit. Steve, what's going on?" you asked, setting the movie down. "Eddie has been in a rotten mood since late last night, and he won't talk about it. Did you have something to do with his... mood?"

Steve looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He didn't want you to see him as a bad guy, as a guy who spilt himself over you with no control, not when you were friends, and you had a boyfriend. 

Eddie stared through the windows of Family Video from the van, his eyes burning into Steve and how flustered he was around you.

He wanted to storm in there and wedge himself between the two of you, but he couldn't; he promised you he wouldn't chase your friends away if you didn't need protecting from them to begin with. 

Steve sighed and ran a shaky hand through his hair, "I... I just messed up, okay?" he whispered,  "I saw the magazine, your... pictures and I-I didn't look at it like a friend should, and Eddie knew. He knew that I, uh... please don't make me say it."

The realisation hit you like a cold wave, and the shame radiating off Steve told the whole story. Even to your trusted friend, you were a girl on a numbered page.

You stared at the floor and felt your cheeks burning; you felt exposed yet flattered at the same time. You never thought Steve could do such an intimate thing over you. 

"I'm so sorry," Steve choked out, "I just... you're so beautiful in them, and I forgot for a second that you're his. That you're weren't mine, that you were my friend. I'm so sorry."

"Steve," you said quietly. "You... you aren't a bad person, a-and I'm not mad, but I need to stand my Eds, okay? All of this has him on edge. I need to allow him to feel his hurt with what you've done." 

You looked back at Eddie, still sitting in the van, his eyes glued to you like a hawk, "He'll move past it eventually, Steve."

Steve nodded frantically and processed your rental tape for free, handing it to you. You couldn't hug him, not with Eddie watching. Instead, you smiled softly at Steve and thanked him for the tape, slowly walking out of the store towards Eddie's van, waving and smiling at him. 

End of Part 5

Comment to be on the Taglist

Reblogging is a writers best friend :)