#(part two)

The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasn’t lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons.  

Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.

You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze. 

If a sober kiss was what he wanted. 

After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click. 

When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly. 

Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.

Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they weren’t too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy. 

All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy. 

You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug. 

“Spencer?” you call out. You don’t have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.

He wouldn’t have gone out, you know he’s not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone. 

You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still weren’t over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot. 

A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.

So co-worker like. 

Because that was normal.

You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands aren’t as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious.  

“What's up?” he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question. 

It’s only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body. 

He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasn’t there for a good while makes a reappearance.  

He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasn’t meant to, as though he wasn’t knuckle deep in you not long ago. “I- do you need some clothes?” 

He stumbles over his words; you can’t see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he ‘tried on’ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look. 

It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man. 

“Spencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed too” You smile even though he can't see it. “You don’t need permission, not after that” The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper.  

Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes don’t find you until he’s fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension that’s built up in his shoulders. 

“Sorry”, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips you’d do anything to melt into again. 

He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest. 

His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you can’t really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know it’s there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that weren’t just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body. 

You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still don’t move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor. 

“You're really pretty”, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.

Your cheeks burn. 

“Always thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,” you shrug playfully, “hot.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, “You know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.” 

Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. “So are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?”   

His cheeks warm at your words, “No thats- that’s not what I'm saying” 

Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants. 

“I know”, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a ‘you can have this if you want it.’ 

His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried. 

“I think you're attractive, v-very very attractive” 

His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch. 

Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of. 

You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him. 

Now it was different.

You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago. 

You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place. 

You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could. 

Because you were you. 

It’s a quick movement; in fact, you don’t really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.

His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows it’s real. It’s short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you. 

You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile. 

“Are you sleeping like this?” he whispers, breaking the room's silence.

“Naked?” 

“Yeah”, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes. 

“If you're okay with it”, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid. 

He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him. 

“Are you sleeping in this?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldn’t help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead. 

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid. 

You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. “Would I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?” 

His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, “I wouldn’t say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If that’s what you want” 

“So you're alright with it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm alright with it” 

                            ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat. 

The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort. 

A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course. 

When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers. 

You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt. 

You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose.  

His body isn’t muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isn’t an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that he’s six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats. 

His skinniness doesn’t change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; it’s pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. It’s as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame.  

You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted. 

The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle. 

His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like he’s only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking he’s trying to stay awake longer than his body wants. 

It’s nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist. 

Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.

You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his… clothed feet?

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. “Are you wearing socks in bed?” 

He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, “My feet tend to stick out; they get cold.” 

“Do they have to be odd?” you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design. 

“Good luck”, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation. 

“You do it for good luck?” 

“Growing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankle”, he says matter-of-factly, “additionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.” 

“I always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socks” You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.

“It’s an occasional reminder-” his throat bobs “that not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my mom” 

You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date. 

“I like that”, you whisper. 

There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep. 

“Do you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?” He asks, voice timid. 

“Silly question,” you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.   

He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, “I know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.” 

“Do you want me to turn around or…” You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you. 

He nods twice; he doesn’t have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue. 

The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum. 

 The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed.  

Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness. 

                            ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that- 

One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day. 

Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail. 

Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks. 

Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. He’s asleep, you know that. 

But oh my god, he’s rock hard grinding against your ass??

Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear. 

You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You can’t just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release. 

Can you? 

The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasn’t stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants. 

What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move. 

You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast. 

It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger… but it’s a start. 

When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, you’d woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that it’s slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right?  

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure. 

Fuck it. 

It isn’t an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes. 

He didn’t.

“Spencer?” you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either. 

Nothing. 

Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. “Spencer, wake up”, you groan as you shake his shoulders. 

That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself. 

“What's wrong? Who's dead?” His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.

“What?” You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. “Do you say that every time you wake up?” 

“Every time I wake- what?” he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. “Do we have a case?”

“No- no,” you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. “Spencer.” 

“What’s the time?” his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table. 

“Spencer”, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you. 

He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.” 

His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute. 

“Yeah, yeah, you kinda woke me up” You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didn’t think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding. 

“Oh. Did I- Did I snore?” You didn’t even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do. 

You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.

“You didn’t snore”, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look he’s giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him. 

“Sleep talk?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Um- not, not really” You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. “You woke me up, but you didn’t wake me up” 

Fuck that was fucking stupid. 

“Yeah”, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation “, not really picking up what you're putting down.” 

Understandable. 

“You were very…happy” Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, “fuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you know” 

His eyes widen like he’s just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you weren’t sure you were competent enough to say. “Did I touch you?” his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks. 

“Yeah, I guess, uh-humped.” You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. “But- it’s okay, I swear,” you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt. 

“Spencer, it’s fine, honestly” Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly. 

His eyes don’t stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. “I- did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The shake of your head is easy; you don’t have to think about it. “No, not at all. I-” I liked it. “It’s a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, it’s probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted more” Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, “maybe.” 

“That's not really scientifically correct” 

Of course it’s not. 

“You're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activity” he looks as though he’s going through his ‘know everything’ catalogue that’s stored in his brain. “But since I didn’t uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.” 

You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didn’t outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind. 

“Do you want to?” you say. 

You don’t know which one of the little ‘inside out guys’ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome. 

His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. “You want to make me orgasm?” 

Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions you’ve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night. 

His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh. 

Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. “Depends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,” you say with a soft voice “, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.”

The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.

When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth. 

“Please”, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him. 

“Do you want my mouth or hand?” you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure. 

“Both? Is that an option?” he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum. 

Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, “You're sure? It’s a lot for your first time.” 

“Yeah- I'm- I'm sure” his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him “very sure actually.” 

The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows don’t hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising. 

Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. “Have- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.” 

You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. “Yeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.”  

Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence. 

“How many people?” 

“Spencer- what?” 

“I'm just ask-” 

You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isn’t on his cock. 

“Spence”, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. “There’s a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Don’t ask a woman's body count or anything- just don’t” 

You don’t say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. “I just thought- just- I mean, you’re you, so I just thought I could ask.”  

“I'm me?”

“We’re close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didn’t seem like a silly question at the time,” he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence. 

Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. 

“It’s not silly”, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers “three.” 

“Three you’ve had sex with or just-” 

His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words ‘seriously, please stop’ through only your eyes.  

“Are you going to let me touch you now?” You ask cockily, raising your brows in question. 

“You’ve been allowed to touch me”, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes. 

“I mean touching you without being stopped” 

“I never told you to stop” 

You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didn’t say it lowly; his voice didn’t waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say. 

It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.

You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him. 

His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face. 

Was it normal to think a dick was pretty? 

He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasn’t thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible.   

The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable. 

You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had. 

Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him. 

The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.

All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment. 

“Feels so good”, Spencer weakly whimpers. 

“Yeah?” you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. “Do you want me to go deeper?” 

He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that. 

You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination. 

After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction. 

“Can I try something?” you ask. 

“Mhm, what- what is it?” 

You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out. 

When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice. 

‘That- holy shit, where did you learn that?” 

You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily. 

You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock. 

The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him. 

It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.

Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness. 

You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm. 

You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words “I'm close” claw themself out of Spencer’s throat, you take it as a slight indication too. 

Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesn’t want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.

“You- mh- you don't have to, I haven’t drunk enough-” he gasps as you deep throat him “, I haven’t drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-” Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze. 

The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your ‘I care about this’ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesn’t want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder. 

You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before. 

A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant.  

His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose. 

You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you don’t wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling. 

His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when he’s spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth. 

He isn’t clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesn’t taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesn’t help. He doesn’t taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway. 

The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you. 

“Mh’ sorry”, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness. 

Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, “Why?” 

“I didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouth” Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form. 

“Spence”, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you “It's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.” 

His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way. 

“It didn't taste bad?” 

You shake your head. 

“Did it taste like coffee?” 

You laugh at that “slightly.” 

He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, “You don't like the coffee I drink” 

Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, “Yeah, well, I liked your cum” 

His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, “I- am I meant to have a response to that?” 

“Not if you can't think of one” 

He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. “You have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.” 

“Not even a peck?” he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics. 

“One, you get more after we brush our teeth.” You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along. 

You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it? 

He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own ‘sink in’ way. 

“Okay cmon” you nod your head over to the bathroom. 

“Can't walk”, he lies.

“Spencer, come and brush your teeth” 

“Come and kiss me again” 

“Spence”, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort. 

“Really?” 

You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up. 

                           ⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

“Do you really have to go?” he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his. 

Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session. 

His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.

Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for. 

‘Spencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,” you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it. 

“I know”, he whispers, “but it means that we can’t do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.”

You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, “What is this version of us?” 

You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want. 

“I'm not sure”, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up. 

The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why. 

Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal. 

You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side. 

He’s in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo. 

You don’t look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest ‘I don’t still have your cum in my throat’ look you can manage. 

It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.

You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.

There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying. 

tags: @anausr78 @killjoynotes @matilde-333 @mrs-spencer-reid26 @prettypan-blog2 @ayumimegami @dor4kk @somewhereingermany563 @s0rc3r3r @kissesbya @aalyyssa @patslondonstuff @baucumdumpster  @elle-wlkr @samanthaw16 @heypyre @cakebootyscaca @hobisunshine13 @perfectballoonblaze @hiddentattooodyssey @theoneeees @bxbyysstuff @acescutejeans-1247@somo-69@cynbx@random-writer-person @blasaah@jooordinary @aurorafloraa @cessixja@crazyobsessedsmutreader@amatiswayland@djfjbfh@z3ph-was-h3r3@emma-e-a@hellfirehottie@gglittergoddess@noxx-starr @karmel07 @atlasdreaming@mmmunson@lizzylynch1@waywardhunter95@bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry@boxcletter@itspalaly@sp1derst0rrr

to be added to the taglist go here

“You’re with Steve?! How long has— Dude! You’re screwing my sister!?”

“Dustin!”

“Henderson–!”

“Holy shit, dude—“

“Dustin, go over there!”

“And do what?”

“I don’t care!”

Robin and Nancy had spread out to attempt to find weapons or food or anything. Dustin had gone off with Eddie, doing hell knows what.

Steve’s head slumped forward with a groan. His breath had become more ragged and labored.

“Hey...” Your voice shook as you tried to fight off the growing panic, “Hey, look at me.”

Steve did, gentle eyes locked onto you, trying to smile softly, jaw clenched against the pain.

“I’m still here…”

His voice felt too far away, too soft, too weak. He closed his eyes again and let his head fall back against the wall. “Steve—“ He groaned in response, eyelids heavy, trying to focus on you again.

“No. Hey– Look at me. Open your eyes.”

“Sorry…” his voice was fainter, “I‘m trying–“

Panic rushed through you again. Your heart leapt, bile rising in your throat as your stomach twisted and anxiety rose. You slid your hand from his hair to his jaw and pulled your hand back when you felt blood.

“Shit—“

You didn’t know how you missed it.

Blood dripped down his neck, sputtering out the corner of his mouth.

“Oh my g— SHIT— NANCY—“

Footsteps pounded throughout the house, voices raised, air electric with panic. Dustin got there first, pale, not at all set at ease as he watched your own panic. You were ripping your own shirt now, blinded by panic, not having anything else instead.

Steve squeezed your hand tighter and you hesitated, “Don’t—“

You ignored him, wanting to call him an idiot for even suggesting it. No one else was suggesting any bright ideas for once, so all you could do is cry and keep pressure applied while trying to wrap it as best you could. You felt nauseous as you felt the blood pooling between your fingers and staining your hands. Blood had never bothered you before— but now that your boyfriend was threatening to bleed out it had more weight to it.

“Don’t get soft on me now, Henderson…”

“Shut the hell up, Harrington.” You shook your head, forcing yourself to keep it together. You were not in the mood for his charming wit.

Steve breathed out a laugh, wincing, “It’s just a little blood… You’ve seen worse.”

Not on him.

You just shook your head again, breathing shaky, tears still streaming down your cheeks. The bleeding slowed and you almost laughed in relief.

“I’ll be fine, Henderson.”

“It’s not near any arteries… The bleeding should stop soon.” The look Nancy was giving you made you feel small. It was a look you hated— something empathetic that made you feel like something breakable. Something that had shattered every wall you had put up and broken through your greatest barricades.

Robin clearly saw your pale expression and knew you weren’t convinced, “If he was going to bleed out, he would have done it by now…”

Every callous and indifference you leaned on so hard, thrown to the side all because of goddamn Steve Harrington.

Steve breathed in slowly, eyes opening once again. His eyes still sparkled with that same light you had first noticed. Color was coming back to his face, his breathing eased.

“I told you— can’t get rid of me that easy.”

You placed a hand on his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had formed. He was cool to the touch; which was expected after blood loss.

“Eddie,” you didn’t turn your attention from Steve, his soft but weary eyes fixed on you just like they always had been, “Your jacket…”

Eddie didn’t question you, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it to you. Sleeveless wasn’t ideal, but it was better than continuing on shirtless. You draped it across his chest for now, not wanting to disturb the bandage around his torso. Steve exhaled, breathing in comfortably at last.

You felt completely spent as you collapsed beside Steve, finally convinced he was not going to bleed out. You weren’t positive how much time had passed– it hadn’t been long— though it was likely distorted down here.

The others had returned to arguing over supplies and a plan and you still felt dazed when Steve spoke your name.

It was soft, slightly raspy, but sounding much more like the land of the living.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t…”

“I didn’t mean—“ he shifted to face you with a wince, “to scare you.”

“Steve…”

You shook your head, not really wanting to ever talk— or even think about– this again.

“I’m sorry…” He squeezed your hand and that nearly brought you to tears.

“I thought you were dying.”

Steve’s held fell back again with a sad sigh. He still looked at you sympathetically, keeping your hand in his, “So did I…”

The words hit you like a jolt of electricity. The raw, realness of them— the heaviness of the past hour. You had almost lost him… All because he was too goddamn heroic for his own good.

Next time, it wouldn’t be him. He would not be the sacrifice or the volunteer. He had barely come home enough times, bruised and beaten and bloody, barely conscious, as he fell through your doorway.

Never again.

“Steve…”

He turned to look at you in answer.

“I love you…”

Despite his pain and bloody mouth, Steve’s smile was bigger than you had ever seen.

— *.•

The grief counselor had been useless. She had said it would get better in time, but you were starting to think it only got worse.

“Dusty…”

You stood outside Dustin’s door feeling helpless, forehead resting against the door as exhaustion tried pushing you down once again.

“Please eat something. I’ll make you anything you want. I’ll take you anywhere you want…”

It had been nearly three months.

Dustin still infrequently ate, barely slept, and all but refused to come out of his room. Eddie’s death had been a shock, but to Dustin it had been earth shattering. So much death in Hawkins in the past three years; but it had finally come after Dustin personally.

There was no response behind the door, and you fought the tears that had barely stopped since watching your brother turn into something else entirely.

“Please just come out of your room…”

Your voice did not carry through the door and you felt like you were pleading with the universe for a miracle. Mike, Will and Lucas had been relentless at first. Here every day, forcing their way into Dustin’s room with distractions and updates and pleas to go out and do something. But Dustin had shut down; pushing people away, lashing out, treating life with an entire new perspective.

Last night, Dustin had finally snapped at you. You had been the one person he had always coming running to for anything— since he was still toothless and small enough to pick up or push around. This had been the first time he had ever lashed out towards you. You brought him his favorite snacks and a new comic and it had ended with screaming. Not from you. It was one sided. You had just stood there numbly and took it, while your brother took it all out on you. You had just wanted to help. You had grown tired of watching him lose himself in grief and turn to anger. Anger hadn’t even stirred inside you as Dustin insulted you, screamed at you, swore at you and told you to just leave him the hell alone.

Steve had been in the kitchen, then. You heard pans fall and rushed footsteps before arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you in before you could even let yourself cry. Steve just held you for a minute in silence, having heard it all, having been watching your helplessness as you could only watch all this time and your near defeat. He all but held you up, letting you stay there in silence until you finally let the tears fall.

“I’m getting damn tired of this kid.”

“Steve— He’s grieving—“

“He’s a goddamn asshole and is lucky that you haven’t given up on him too—“

“Steve—“

“No, I’m going to go in there and I’ll force him to eat—“

“Steve—! No—“

You didn’t want things getting worse. You didn’t want anything escalated. You didn’t want more stress, you didn’t want more yelling… You just wanted to curl up and disappear and maybe finally sleep.

Steve was gone when you woke up, but the smell coming from the kitchen told you that he hadn’t gone far. You hadn’t bothered changing out of only his t-shirt, as you dragged yourself out of bed and braced yourself for another long day.

When you saw Dustin at the table, eating breakfast, you had planted your feet in surprise. You forgot all about yesterday’s torments, your bare feet or the fact that you were clothed only to the thighs in Steve’s shirt. Dustin just turned to look at you with a dull expression, glancing at you up and down just once. You crossed your arms over your chest to attempt a little bit of decorum. Dustin merely turned back to his waffles and took another bite.

“Your boyfriend is an asshole.”

You turned to Steve with furrowed eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve ignored your gaze and turned back to the stove, voice casual and dismissive, “just eat your damn waffles.”

You wanted to ask him what, exactly he did, but the fact that it had brought Dustin out of his room was enough to remain curious.

Steve was making more plates of food but you were too busy watching your brother finally acting a bit more like himself. Steve reached across the table to place a plate of waffles in front of you, smacking Dustin in the back of the head on the way.

Dustin swore and you turned to Steve accusingly.

Steve just lifted a single hand in dismissal, as he turned off the stove, “That’s for biting me.”

Your attention snapped back to Dustin, mouth gaping in alarm. Steve turned towards the door and grabbed you and pulled you behind the counter just as it opened. You were reeling with too many questions but as Mike, Lucas and Will came filing in you were back to lacking dignity.

“Morning!”

“Dustin!”

“Thanks for breakfast!”

Steve turned to you with the slightest smirk, and you knew he wasn’t remotely embarrassed for you, “Morning, little shits.” You waved awkwardly, keeping yourself planted between Steve and the counter.

“Why’s your sister not wearing pants?”

As soon as Lucas said it, Mike and Will turned their heads towards you to see for themselves. Dustin wasn’t even phased, “Ask Steve.” Will turned scarlet, while Mike’s mouth hung open just slightly, still staring. Steve smacked him on the back of the head too, while popping a piece of bacon in his mouth. Mike mumbled an apology, while Will and Lucas focused much too hard on their food.

Everything was fully covered—

“I wasn’t expecting company for breakfast… And I wasn’t expecting Dustin to be out of his room.”

You turned redder than you had hoped, tucking yourself behind Steve once again.

“So you just walk around like that otherwise?”

“Wheeler—“

“No, I don’t—“

Steve ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, “Just finish your waffles so I can drive you idiots to school. And no more talking…”

—*.•

Steve was rambling to Robin again, who was not even half listening as she finished her makeup in the passenger mirror.

“Robin. Are you listening?”

“Mhm,”

“Robin.”

Robin sighed and closed the mirror, looking excessively, overly interested now.

“You were talking about how disgustingly in love you are with your girlfriend and how you’ve probably made out right where I’m sitting.”

Steve stared at her impatiently, “No, that’s not what I—“ He shook his head, “Nevermind, that’s partly right, but—“

“Do you think you’ll marry her?”

Steve pretended to not hear her for a moment, fingers drumming against the steering wheel awkwardly.

“Steve…”

He kept his eyes on the road, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Steve?”

“I heard you.”

Robin narrowed her eyes and sucked in a breath, “Oh shit did I make things awkward? Is it a no? Oh my god are you breaking up with her!?”

Steve snapped his head towards her, swerving just slightly as he did, “No! Robin— No… I’m not breaking up with her. Why— No…”

Robin held back a smile, noting that Steve looked like it was the most impossible idea in the world.

“So…”

“Shut up, Robin. If you would have been listening…”

Robin shrieked so loudly that Steve flinched and slammed on the breaks, “What the he—“

“Are you going to propose!?”

“Robin—” Steve shushed her desperately as if someone would overhear.

Robin was still barely keeping it together, fidgeting and giddy.

“I don’t know.”

Robin deflated.

“I mean maybe—“ Steve rubbed his face, “I don’t know. It just seems… Inappropriate… With everything going on…”

“Why?”

“I just— Because? The world could end at any second, one of us could die, all of us could die—“

“Well,” Robin was just smiling softly with her typical mischievous expression, “Sounds like even more reason.”

—*.•

You were half asleep as Steve rambled to you from the driver’s seat. You swayed slightly as the road curved and turned to gravel. “I’m just saying, if these assholes keep bothering him, he should have come to me.” It was endearing, how much Steve worried over Dustin— possibly even more than you did. You didn’t open your eyes, letting your head shift against his shoulder.

“He’s in high school, Steve.”

“Exactly! It’s time he grow up and stop poking the bear.”

“I agree with you… But I don’t think he’s purposely provoking them. I don’t know— Between Eddie and Max… Maybe he just needs…”

You honestly didn’t know.

You had asked Dustin not to wear the shirt to school after Hellfire had been labeled a cult and then targeted.

“Steve… I love that you worry about him. But Dustin…. He hasn’t been the same since Eddie… I think—“ you shook your head, “I don’t know. I think he’ll come to us…. to me— when he needs us.”

You hoped.

“Crawl tonight. Dustin—“ you scrambled after your brother and forced him to at least take the toast you had made. “Come straight home.” He muttered an agreement and mounted his bike without another word. “Dustin! I’m serious— Radio if something goes wrong…”

You always had a horrible feeling the day of Crawls. Watching every single person you loved almost die or lose someone, had shattered your nerves. You could not be the same person you were three years ago. She had been worn down, hard edges ripped away, anxiety and nightmares filling in the jaded holes.

It had to end.

You could feel the tension throughout the group; the fear, the doubts, the anticipation of something. It was as if Hawkins itself held its breath; waiting for another crack, a new gate— another attack.

But there had been nothing.

For eight months.

Not even a flicker of lights.

“Steve, I’m worried—“

Steve pried himself away from your neck briefly and sighed, “Right now?”

“Steve—“ you put your hand on his chest and he yielded briefly. Steve shifted to his knee, keeping it pressed between your legs just enough to be intentional. “I haven’t heard from Dustin.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way. Maybe he stopped at home first.”

“Yeah…” You breathed out an agreement but something still felt wrong.

“Besides,” Steve lifted his eyebrows with an innocent smile, “We’re early. We’re killing time.”

Killing time.

The poor radio van probably needed a realignment after the amount of times you and Steve killed time in it. The windows were already fogged up and you knew you at least had a cover story as to why the ominous radio van is parked off a dark street, just waiting.

Waiting was the worst part. It had been nearly a year of just waiting. No movement, no leads, no idea where to go next. It had been during the third crawl, the intensity was suffocating and the anxiety was eating away. Steve had just been trying to calm you down and talk you out of a panic attack, and it had snowballed from there.

Now, six crawls later and Steve had really taken to this new way of distracting you and keeping your mind away from worse case scenarios.

“Do you copy, Hendrington?”

The clever call sign had started out as the teasing between the kids the moment Dustin told them about you and Steve. But the fact that the van team always consisted of you and Steve— and now infrequently, Dustin— had fit too.

Steve hadn’t bothered pulling away this time as he kept his voice effortlessly even, “Loud and clear. Any update?”

“Fifteen minutes out. Over.”

“Copy.”

You glared up at him in exasperation for his incredible ability to multi task.

“He’s late.”

“Well, lucky for us.”

Steve was fixing his hair again and redoing the final button of his shirt.

“Yeah, we really should kick that habit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not my fault your mom switched to days and your brother no longer has a curfew.”

“Steve—“

Not the time.

“I’m just saying, why add more stress to the relationship? It’s good to be able to—“

“More stress?”

“I didn’t say that—“

“What stress are we having now? The multiple times a day when we sneak off and—“

“No. Obviously that’s not what I’m saying! I just mean, with the end of the world happening at any given moment, you’d think we could make a little more time for us— I really think we should revisit you moving in.“

“Steve—!”

You weren’t even mad at him, just exasperated. He was still prioritizing you, even at the end of the world.

“I think I just proved that you are a priority! Given the circumstances and that my brother isn’t responding—!” You grabbed the walkie and smacked it against the dashboard as if that would help. Your thumb ached as you pushed down the button again, “Dustin, come in, damn you—“

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Steve was still distracted, taking the walkie from you, “I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying, I thought we were past all the sneaking around.”

“We are.”

“Then how come I’m never over? How come it feels like you only want me when there’s lives at stake?”

“Steve—“ His words hit you like a slap, cutting you off before you could even argue.

“You know that’s not true… I— That’s not fair.”

“I know– I’m sorry, I know that’s not true.”

“Sometimes it feels like you forget where we are. That the circumstances aren’t normal, that we aren’t….normal.”

“I said I was sorry, alright? Can we drop it?”

“No, Steve! I don’t think you always realize how serious—“

“I realize how serious! I realize— I know how big and scary and terrifying everything is! I know, alright? I’m not just some stupid..teenager who….“

Steve was fidgeting with the steering wheel, eyes locked anywhere but you. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said anything…”

“I just think sometimes you pass things off. You always say everything is fine but one day it might not be. Dustin could be in trouble— Or maybe there’s something wrong with communications because they’re on to us… I don’t— Maybe…”

“Your brother is fine, alright? I can almost promise you that. Dustin can take care of himself, even when he gets himself into stupid situations.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because you raised him.”

You almost scoffed; if he was trying to suck up to you now after an argument—

“No, I’m serious. You’re the most terrifying person I think I’ve ever met. And that kid— unfortunately, is just like you.”

Oh, damn him for always saying exactly the right things.

You caved. You always did for him…

“And maybe I do pass things off. And yeah, I do tell you everything is going to be fine because I need to believe it will be.”

“Steve—“

“But you’re wrong about the other part. I do know how serious this all is. God— I lay awake at night thinking about how serious this all is! How it’s as serious as a heart attack, that I could lose you in a second. Or any one of us could just—“ Steve gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, struggling to keep himself restrained, “It’s why I haven’t—“ he tapped his fist against the wheel like he was wrestling to get the words out. “I don’t want to waste any time with you, but I’m so goddamn scared of losing you that I haven’t brought myself to—“ Steve clenched his teeth together, like whatever it was didn’t want to come out.

Your frustration had completely disappeared, now leaving you feeling rather lightheaded and expectant— and also very close to tears.

“I have a ring! I’ve had a damn thing for almost a year— I—“

You hit your head against the roof of the van as you climbed back into the passenger seat and swore.

“You—! What…”

“It was supposed to be a surprise! But since now you don’t think I can be serious—“

“That’s not what I said—!”

“You did get awfully naggy—“

“I did not! I— You have a ring?— I-“

“Holy shit…”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t want you to ruin—“

But Steve was staring out the window, eyes fixed on the figure now limping towards the van.

He was bruised and covered in blood, but still looking smug.

Dustin.

“What the hell happened!?”

Dustin shrugged, grimacing slightly, “Fell off my bike.”

You snorted, actually debating giving him another bruise for scaring you and then lying. Steve had jumped out of the van after you, “Henderson, you gave your sister a damn heart attack. You show up late, covered in blood—“ Steve shook his head, crossing his arms in disapproval.

“Oh, go to hell, Steve—“

“Hey— Dustin.”

“I’m so touched that you’re so concerned about me. Really, it’s so heartwarming.”

Steve put a hand out and shoved Dustin lightly, “Hey—“

“Oh, please. Daddy Steve, wanting to play house again, in case he never has his own kids—“

“Holy, shit— Dustin!”

“Oh, don’t be as asshole, Henderson. All I’ve ever shown is concern for you. All I’ve ever done is watch out for you and save your ass countless times. Don’t do that— Don’t act all tough guy and try to push me away.”

“Go. To. Hell. Steve!”

You grabbed Dustin by the back of his shirt and shoved him towards the van. He swore, but let you push him along. You were about ready to strangle him as you shoved him into the van.

“Who was it?”

“I told you. I fell off my bike.”

“Come on, Henderson—“

“Was it the same assholes again? The same damn group of punks?”

Dustin never lied to you, so when he dropped his eyes and started messing with the satellite, you swore.

“I’ll kill them.”

You dug out the first aid kit in the glovebox and held gauze up to Dustin’s nose.

“I can take care of myself.” Dustin moved to push you away, reaching for the gauze himself. You smacked his hand away, in disbelief at the nerve of him. “Stop– Get off—“ You snapped your gaze to him in warning, “Quit it, or I’ll beat your ass.”

Steve failed to cover his laugh from the front seat, glancing into the rear view mirror with a amusement and complete adoration towards you. Dustin sighed and let you continue worrying about him and finish cleaning him up. You wouldn’t actually— a few sibling whacks occasionally and some affectionate choice words, definitely…

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it, Steve, it’s fine.”

The Crawl had ten seconds left to not be a total bust. Dustin was asleep in the back, barely propped up in his control chair.

“No, I shouldn’t have started anything. I just– I got scared. I thought you were pushing me away and— wanting to break up and…”

“Steve, I’m not—“

“I got scared. I don’t want to lose you, so I freaked out, I— I can’t. I can’t lose you…”

“Steve—“

“No, I can’t!”

“You won’t.”

“I just….” Steve took your hand in both of his, giving the steering wheel a break from his constant squeeze and smacks.

“Would you have said yes?”

“I— I don’t want to intrude… It’s Robin’s trailer too… It could be awkward and—”

“Not that.”

Steve’s eyes softened, kissing your knuckles so delicately you feared you might break.

Oh.

The ring.

“Yes…”

Of course you would have.

Steve was pulling something out of his pocket before you could even think over the weight of your words. It was a ring around a chain, tucked into his pocket and always with him.

“You’re sure?”

“You— Is that—? You just had it— I— Are you?”

“I’ve had it with me every day. Just in case… If I ever finally got the courage, or— In case it was the last thing I ever did…”

“Steve—“

He was insane.

You were head over heels.

“I want it to be now. Not a tragedy. Not on death’s terms or goddamn Vecna or because I’m scared to lose you… I just want…. I want…you.”

“Yes, Steve.”

—*.•

“Hey— Hey—“ Steve was practically being dragged behind you, finally jumping in front of you with arms stretched out, “Stop. Let’s talk about this— You want to hit someone. Okay. Hit me. Come on, hit me instead—“

“Steve, get out of the way.”

“Stop for a second!”

“They’ve sent Dustin home bloody for the last time.”

“It’s not worth you going to prison for beating up children—“

“They’re in high school.”

“Yes, they’re kids. I’m angry too, but… There’s better ways.”

You hated that he was right and you hated that he managed to calm you down.

“Fine.”

“Maybe I’ll just drive them home from school… And talk to them.”

“And scare the shit out of them?”

Steve was smiling the way he always did right before he got in trouble, “Or I’ll go to their house and talk to their mommies… Or beat up their dads.”

“You’ll be a wonderful father.”

Your voice dripped with playful sarcasm, but you could already picture that future with him.

— *.•

It was still only a dream this time.

You were almost aware of how desperately Steve was saying your name, shaking your shoulders, frantically trying to pull you out of the nightmare.

Dustin across the room, Steve on the other side.

You wouldn’t make it to either.

Vecna always made it slow.

To torture them— to torture you.

Dustin was always first.

A cut deep enough to make him bleed out, but calculated enough to make it slow.

You would collapse beside him as he sputtered out blood, choking on it as he tried to speak, crying for you like he hadn’t done since he was eight.

Steve would scream, threatening, angrier than you had ever seen him. But he never walked away from the fights in these dreams.

His death was always worse. Maybe it was because it was second, maybe just because it was Steve. He always died slower, in your arms, telling you how much he loved you—

“—WAKE UP-!“

You were jolted back to reality so violently, it left you gasping for air. It had been so real. You had felt the blood. Your throat was raw from the screaming— you tasted blood when you swallowed. The room was spinning. Your heart beat dangerously fast, head throbbing—

You were in bed.

You weren’t really there.

It wasn’t real—

You collapsed into Steve’s arms, burying yourself against him like a child after a nightmare. His heart was racing too— You squeezed your eyes shut as reality slowly started to come into focus around you.

“It wasn’t real—“ You clung to Steve’s voice like an anchor. You clung to Steve like an anchor. You held him so tightly that your arms hurt– muscles twitching, nails digging into him in fear of him disappearing. “I’m right here…. It was a dream…” You shook your head, clinging to him more desperately. It had been so real. You had felt it—

“It wasn’t real.” Steve was trying to get you to look at him, to breathe, to relax.

“Look at me… You’re safe. Dustin is safe… I am safe. I’m right here… I’m not going anywhere—“

“You don’t understand—“ your words were broken up with sobs.

“Look at me.”

You forced your face away from him and looked up. Steve stated back at you, calm expression underneath his wide eyes, “It’s me. I’m right here.” His arm tightened around you, hand coming up to rest against your jaw. You were burning up— you could tell yourself. Steve frowned slightly, eyes fixed on you softly.

“That’s the third night this week.”

“I know—“ Your throat was agonizing. You must have screamed more in your sleep than you ever had in your life.

“Is it always the exact same?”

“No.”

But it was always the same. Whether it be demogorgans, the bats, Vecna himself, military men with guns, a portal ripping them in half—

“It’s over. It’s not real… And it’s not going to happen.”

He couldn’t promise that.

Robin still stood wide eyed, in the door, having nearly broken the it down when she heard the screaming. She was holding a lamp, which later you would appreciate the thought of her grabbing something to be a weapon. And also braving bursting into Steve’s room in the middle of the night, when she knew you were there.

Robin met your eyes finally and gave you the smallest reassuring smile. There was anxiety behind her eyes and a tension in her smile.

“I’m sorry— for waking you up…”

“Hey—“

“Stop...” Robin gave you another sad smile, shaking her head, “I get them too…”

Your head was throbbing the next morning. The circles under your eyes had gotten darker, you hated how pale you looked. Your finger played with the ring around your neck, spinning it around the chain it hung on, too scared to put it on your finger. It was a promise either way— it was forever no matter what. Putting it on your finger felt like tempting fate. Making it visible felt like a curse. As if something hidden would be less easily destroyed.

The bathroom door opened and you jumped.

“Easy— It’s just me…” Steve was smiling, though it vanished as soon as he saw your haunted expression. “Hey…” He took both your hands and kissed your knuckles, “Talk to me… Is this still about last night? The dream?” You shook your head, fighting away the tears, “I just feel on edge all the time. Any noise, any movement—“

He took your hands and pressed them against his chest, “I know.”

“I feel like I’m going insane, I— I can’t get it out of my head… The ways you die, the amount of times I’ve watched you—“

“Stop. Baby, I know… I know.” He kept his hand on the back of your head, stroking your hairline, smoothing your hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry— I wish I could stop them, I… I wish I had woken you up sooner.”

“Steve—“

“I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let anything happen to Dustin. I wouldn’t let anything happen to him. I’d sooner—“

He stopped short, sucking in a breath as he realized that he had rationalized your very fear.

“It’s not coming to that— It’s not— I’m sorry. It won’t—“

You just shook your head and draped your arms around his neck, resting your forehead against his.

“You still have to marry me, Henderson. Don’t think you’ll get out of it.”

—•.*

You flipped through the magazine on your lap, feet up on the dashboard of the station’s van. Your hand rested on the stick, Steve’s hand on top of it, ready to drive, always finding a way to keep you close.

Steve was flipping through radio channels, finger anxiously tapping against the steering wheel. His toe tapped against the middle counsel and your eyes slowly shifted away from the page.

“Steve…”

He had gotten more on edge and anxious the last few crawls. Everyone had grown restless and weary; knowing the busts, silence and dead end trails couldn’t last much longer.

He was spacing out, tuning through the radio stations without even hearing the songs. He was distracting himself. Fidgeting and giving himself something to do.

“Can you stop that—“ Dustin smacked Steve on the back of the head, “I’m trying to find the signal!” Steve flinched; he hadn’t realized he had been doing anything.

He turned to you, turning off the radio, yielding his fidgeting and returning his hand to yours. He stroked small circles along the back of your hand, still unable to be completely still.

“Hey,” you spoke softly, despite Dustin having his headphones on again. Steve’s anxiety melted away as his eyes met yours, “You okay?”

“Yeah... Are you?”

He had been the one who was endlessly restless. You could practically feel the anxiety and tension radiating from him. You squeezed his hand, trying to reassure him silently.

“Got the signal. GO—“

Steve jammed the car into gear and slammed his foot down on the petal. You kept your eyes on the road, so far beyond used to Steve’s driving. It was a major turn on, truthfully— the way he could navigate any situation and drive like a maniac while still being safe. Steve shifted the car again, jaw tense with intense focus.

“RIGHT-“

You leaned back into the seat as Steve whipped the car around so quickly the back end drifted.

“STRAIGHT, STRAIGHT, STRAIGHT—“

“THROUGH THE YARD—?!”

“GO!”

Steve swore as the van groaned in protest of off-roading. Three fences were taken out and you could see Steve stressing about the property damage. Dustin screamed more directions, Steve was barely phased to keep up, not even white in the knuckles as they whipped around again. He still had your hand in his, resting on the shifter so he had an excuse to hold it. You weren’t sure if it was reassurance to you, or to keep himself grounded.

“STOP.”

You nearly hit your head on the windshield at the abruptness of his sixty five-to-stop. Steve threw out his arm and pushed you back against the seat.

“I lost it.”

God, you felt nauseous now.

“What?!”

“Hold on, I lost it!”

Your stomach was twisting, making it hard to focus on anything being said. Steve was on the walkie, trying to reach Hopper, who was only static.

You had never once been someone to get carsick. After all these years of psychotic chases and riding shot gun in numerous life or death drives, you had never once felt sick. You felt liquid running down nose and tasted blood seconds later. You put your hand up and brought it back with blood on your finger.

Oh.

Your stomach jolted again and you were reaching for the door handle.

“Hey— Whoa—“ Dustin had paused his yelling at the satellite and Steve had stopped communication with the Walkie.

Unfortunately even at the end of the world, his first priority was you.

You collapsed onto the grass, dropping to your knees as the contents of your stomach emptied across the person’s yard.

You heard Dustin gagging, but couldn’t currently offer any reassurance as another bout of nausea washed through you.

“Shit—! Oh, Je— Hey… Hey.”

Steve was there, hand on your back, trying and failing to stay calm.

“Sorry—“ You cursed as you threw up again, blinking away the tears and trying to take a deep breath, “I’m okay… I’m fine.”

There were bigger problems.

“Just car sick I think.”

“I’m sorry… I had to keep up, I—“

“Steve—“

You wiped your lip on your sleeve and stood up. Your sleeve came back bloody. You had forgotten all about the bloody nose.

“Oh my god—“

Steve had paled, nearly stumbling as he moved forward to hold you, “Your nose—“

“I know.”

It was just a nose bleed.

It had to be…

“Just find the signal. Get ahold of Hop!”

“I… I can’t. The signal is dead. He’s gone.”

—*.•

The wave of nausea had lasted five days after that. You had blamed it on stress and a stomach bug that was triggered by Steve’s driving.

Steve had wanted you to go to a hospital, but you had finally stopped throwing up and convinced him that you were fine. He was prone to freaking out and losing all composure when it came to you. You had gotten a concussion last year and when your head had started bleeding, Steve was practically hysterical.

You sat in the radio station with a cup of coffee, sipping it slowly in hopes that it would deter your headache— that you would not be telling Steve about. You watched Steve work, effortlessly finding tapes, moving at a speed that almost made you dizzy. He was so damn good at everything. He was so good in general…

To think the world was ending and you still managed to have him— that someone like him could exist in a time where everything was falling apart had you turning your head and wiping at your eyes.

You blinked away the ridiculous tears and froze when you heard the faintest hum. It was something electric. Voltage, a wire, a generator…

The lights flickered above your head and your blood turned cold. The nausea returned, you tasted blood in your mouth and a drop of blood fell from your nose onto the floor.

Blood.

No…

“Wait—“

The lights flickered again; blinking like a strobe effect. Robin cursed, Steve was already exiting the sound booth in a panic. The lights flipped off completely and you felt a hand wrap around your wrist. Steve pulled you back, wedging you securely behind him. The sunlight lit up the room still, and there wasn’t a single movement or sound. Robin had stopped beside you, holding her breath and braced for anything.

The lights started flickering again; so sudden and intense that you jumped. Steve was pulling you along behind him, grabbing Robin’s arm as he did. Lights burst above your head, there was a pop and an electric volt shot through the sound booth. You swore, Robin screamed, ducking her head as the power went out completely.

Your stomach twisted further, sending a wave of nausea and a pain that almost sent you to your knees. You groaned as your stomach cramped again, and Steve hesitated, “What’s the matter—“ He had a hand on your stomach, eyes knit in concern. “Fine—“ the pain came in waves. Like a current, trying to pull you to the floor again. Your ears started to ring and pain shot through your skull like a jolt of electricity. You stifled a moan and put your hand to your temple. Blood still dripped from your nose, slow and steady but enough to occasionally drip to the floor.

“What the hell is going on with her?”

“I don’t—“ Steve was starting to panic, “I have no idea— I—“

“RUN-“

You heard it before Robin had said anything. The low clicks, the high frequency ringing. You knew exactly what it was before the split in the ceiling even started.

The string of curses mixed between three people would have gone down in history, had anyone else been around.

You knew there was an entire weaponry in the station, but Steve was pulling you towards the door instead. You had been trapped in buildings with demogorgan enough times already. Your mind had not turned to panic yet. Demogorgans had become less effective to turn you to panic, after watching friends get eaten alive, levitated while bones snapped and possessed multiple times.

Even still, behind you, the sound of the floor breaking beneath its feet as it crawled out of the door had your pulse racing. Robin had pulled her lighter out of her pocket and grabbed a can of hair spray on the way out. Just in case.

Shit, you loved your best friend.

You kept your eyes forward as you heard it growing closer and angrier. You jumped into the back of Steve’s car, practically choking poor Robin as you dragged her in after you.

“Why is it here!?”

“Do you want me to stop and ask it!?”

Steve had jammed the car into gear as the wheels spun in vain, engine groaning in protest of being so aggressively accelerated. You jerked backwards as the car accelerated, Robin clinging onto you instead of using a seatbelt.

“You okay?”

Damn him for looking back at you instead of keeping his eyes on the road. You nodded, breathless from adrenaline, but not fear. Not anymore. Watching friends die had shaken you out of your initial terror and absolute panic.

There were many things worse than monsters.

Monsters were not the only things that killed your friends.

“Where did it go?”

It may as well have been a dark summoning spell. The top of the car dented in with the weight of something on top of it. You heard cracking, and the no fear had run out the window. The car jerked sideways as Steve spun the car around. It had worked to throw him off. But the damn things were persistent.

And fast.

“I’m going sixty, you damn—“ Steve pushed the petal down further and the car roared forward. Robin was still clinging to you and you didn’t have the heart to tell her she was almost cutting off your circulation.

There was a squeal of tires and the unmistakable crash of metal being smashed.

“What the hell—“

One glance in the rearview mirror and Steve slammed on the breaks. You swore, your nose almost smashing against the back of the seat, if it hadn’t been for Robin and her panicked grip on you.

Nancy Wheeler held a shot gun, having just stepped out of Jonathan’s now wrecked car.

“What the—“

They had hit it with the car.

They had actually hit a demogorgan with a car.

Robin was laughing. It was tense and strained and very relieved to still be alive. You stepped out of the car, patting Robin’s arms in hopes that she would let you go.

“Sorry,” she awkwardly put her arms across her chest and took a step away from you.

“Are you okay?” Nancy lowered the shot gun, satisfied that the demogorgan had actually run off, limping.

“Yeah— I- How did you know that would work?”

“I didn’t.”

Jonathan was kneeling in front of his car, hand on the bumper, mouth open slightly. He looked pale, rather like he was in morning.

His car had not survived slamming into a seven foot monster.

Steve grimaced, putting a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder with an awkward pat, “Been there, man.”

—•.*

“It’s simple. Move the Turnbows. Bait the house, track the demogorgan. Scout from the tower. Find Hopper. Bring Holly home.”

“Simple…” You massaged your temple and tried to tune out the anxiety rising in your chest.

“Does everyone know their place?” Nancy handed out supplies and weapons, keeping her tone even, eyes wide to show through her brave facade.

“Track,” Dustin looked bored. He had argued and begged to go with in the Turnbow house but you had argued that he was lucky to not be in the tower with Lucas and Mike. You knew he could run the satellite better than anyone, and tonight would be life or death.

“Kidnap… And I just want to point out that our group is the only one doing something illegal.” Robin had argued this again and was much more hesitant of drugging and abducting a family, versus trapping a seven foot monster.

“At least if your plan goes wrong, you risk having cops involved. If ours goes wrong, well….”

“It won’t.” Nancy gave you a warning expression, as if even speaking it was a jinx.

“Hold on a second—“ Steve lifted a hand and turned to you, tugging you away from the group, “You are absolutely not coming to the house.”

“Like hell I’m not— I’m going with you and Dustin.”

“No, you’re going with Robin and Will.”

“No way in hell I’m splitting up from you and my brother.”

“Take Dustin with you! Even better.”

“We need Dustin—“

Steve ignored Nancy.

“I will keep Dustin safe. I can’t look after both—“

“And who is going to keep you safe?”

Your tone was final, your eyes burned into him, daring him to try and talk you out of it.

Steve’s jaw ticked, eyebrows furrowed in an anxious expression. He wanted to argue. He wanted to stay and debate this with you until you were both blue in the face. Hell, he wanted to lock you in a closet and not let you out until all this was over.

“Fine.”

Steve still stared at you like he was angry. He wasn’t angry… He was terrified. He needed to keep you safe– He needed to keep Dustin safe…

You rested your hand on his chest, “I love you.”

Steve did not relax, his eyes did not soften, but he covered your hand with his and sighed, “I love you too.”

The walkie in your back pocket beeped and you reached for it, heart beat increasing. “All good over here. Over.”

“Copy, Robin.”

“No changes here. Any update? Over.”

“Nothing yet, Mike.” Your thumb hovered over the button and you sighed, “No heroics tonight.” You said it to everyone, but it was only Steve you were looking at, “Over and out…”

Steve lifted his head from the tool box he was scrounging through. His eyes fell on you and softened. There was a strained expression behind his eyes, but he still smiled. You tucked the walkie into your pocket and approached him. Steve was driving nails into a baseball bat. It threw you immediately back to the teenage boy who was dragged into the middle of something neither of you still fully understood. He lowered the hammer and admired the bat, his breath deep and forced. You couldn’t help smiling faintly, “Looks familiar.” Steve turned to face you with a soft smile, “It’s never failed me before.”

You knew it wasn’t appropriate, you knew the situation was urgent, but you still leaned in and kissed him. Steve dropped the bat and threw his arms around you. He kissed you like it had been years. Like he was deprived and starving and desperate. Your hip bumped against the work bench, letting yourself fall back against the wall as Steve caged you in against the wall.

God, it was like he was deprived; the way he held you and kissed you like he had waited a lifetime. His hands were on you firm enough to bruise, holding onto you like you were going to disappear. The direness of the situation seemed to only grow as he lifted you up, kissing you more urgently and with more desperation. There were so many things that could go wrong. So many things that could change everything in an instant. You could lose him tonight. Lose anyone in seconds…

The room and heaviness of the evening vanished around you and suddenly you were the stupid teenagers in the back of Steve’s Beemer; breathless and sweaty, lost in each other like the world didn’t exist, drowning out the monsters, the horrors, the loss. “I love you—“ Steve breathed between heavy kisses, mumbling your name like a plea.

The walkie beeped and Steve forced himself away from your neck. His pulse had jumped, faster than it had already been during the brief desperate exchange. Too brief…

“It’s on its way.”

You needed more time with him…

“Copy.”

Just in case…

“Thirty seconds.”

Just two more minutes…

“It’s in the house.”

Steve shoved the bat into your hand and pulled you along behind him. “I told you it’s never failed. Stay behind me.”

You held a bandage over Jonathan’s forehead, watching Nancy worry over him and pat the blood on his lip. He had been thrown into a table but walked away with only a few bruises, a cut on his forehead and a busted lip. Nancy took the bandage from your hand and took over, which you did not complain about. You were thrown sideways slightly as Steve veered right, skidding to the left as the tires fought for traction in the grass. You held back a shriek as he crashed through three fences, holding your breath until he finally skidded to a stop.

“What?”

Why had they stopped—

“He’s turning around…”

“What? Why…”

“Where is it going?”

“What the hell is in that direction?”

Static across the radio as you lifted it to your ear, blood running cold. You knew exactly what was in that direction. Exactly who.

“He knows where we are.”

You were holding onto the handle above your head, feeling like the seat belt was not enough, as Steve slammed into the side of the demogorgan. There was collective grunts at the impact, the car drifting slightly from the collision. The demogorgan didn’t move and everyone held their breath.

“Shit—“

“You weren’t supposed to kill it!”

“I didn’t mean—“

The demogorgan stumbled to its feet and hesitated briefly. It glanced back towards the barn once more, before taking off across the field.

Steve followed.

Flooring it, as his poor car creaked and groaned in protest. “When did they get so fast—“ Jonathan looked pale as the car rapidly approached the woods. As quickly as you caught up to it, the damn thing ripped a hole through a tree and disappeared. Steve slammed on the breaks, cursing again.

“Where is it?”

“Which direction is it going?”

“SHIT.”

Dustin’s curse startled you, snapping your head towards him as if he had been hurt.

“I’m losing the signal.”

“Do you guys think the inside of the door is like a peanut Butter Bopper?”

“What—?“

But you knew the look in Steve’s eyes and swore. He was still reckless. But he was probably right.

You leaned back into the seat and grabbed for the handle again.

“What are we—“

“Dustin, hold on.”

The car broke through without effort, despite the screaming and panic that initially took place. Steve was laughing— likely relieved and in disbelief and very very glad that it had worked.

“Signal is strong!”

Holy shit, it worked.

The car raced after the trail and you were thankful for the straight path and minimal drifts and changes of direction and no damage to property.

“It’s speeding up! Straight ahead— Wait—“

Steve was looking at Dustin eagerly for instruction, Dustin was staring at the signal, confused. No one was looking straight ahead.

“STEVE—“

The car slammed into a wall before Steve could slam on the brakes. You were shot forward, Jonathan fell into you, and your head fell against the window with a painful thud. You groaned, already having a headache as you opened your eyes.

“Are you okay?” Steve’s voice was thick with concern and growing panic.

“Fine.”

“Not you, Henderson.”

“Damn. Nice to know you care.”

“Where did it go?”

Steve was cautious to get out, groaning at the smashed in front of his car. The demogorgan had all but vanished. There was no sign of it— or anything else. You climbed out on shaky legs. Your heart beat fast, despite yourself. Adrenaline was high, though a part of you was still thinking about earlier’s exchange in the Turnbow’s basement.

Steve had a tendency of making you still think about the domestic, intimate parts even at the end of the world.

Nancy and Jonathan stood, studying the object you had crashed into. Steve leaned back on the hood of his car arms crossed, “What is it?”

“Looks like a wall.” Jonathan ran a hand over it and grimaced.

“No, shit.”

“Dustin—“ But it was an obvious answer.

“I wouldn’t touch it—“ Steve cautioned, thinking that should have been an obvious observation.

The walkie beeped and static came through. You tried smacking the back of it with no avail. “We won’t have a signal in here…”

Dustin took the walkie out of your hand and started adjusting the frequency.

Static came through again, then silence.

“—copy? —lab— El—“

Nancy and Jonathan rushed forward, “I thought you said we wouldn’t have a signal.”

“We won’t. Not to Hawkins…”

Hopper.

You sat with Eleven and Dustin as the others continued to argue about a plan. Dustin had his head on your shoulder and you tried not to think about how you couldn’t remember the last time he had done this. “Are you going to start crying?” His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, “What? No…” Maybe.

Dustin was smiling at you and you felt your heart swell, “You’re looking at me like you did when I was six, and put on a play with the cat.” He was amused, his expression almost teasing, “And your breathing is shaky, like you’re trying not to cry.”

So he did pay attention and still acknowledge you. You nudged him with a small smile, “That’s still how I see you sometimes. Even after all we’ve been through and everything you’ve survived.”

“You know I’m not that little kid anymore that needs to be protected…”

“I’ll always need to protect you. Your entire life, you’ll be my baby brother.”

“Gross. You’re getting all mushy.”

You snorted and shoved him harder.

You held your breath as the truck bounced and groaned over the uneven road. Steve had his head back, jaw set, expression focused. If you knew him better, you would have thought he was praying. Dustin and Eleven were talking with lowered heads, occasionally covering laughter with their mouths. Nancy knelt towards the front– the front of the back of the truck— shot gun propped on her knee, ready to shoot in case they got searched. It seemed too easy. To escape by just driving through the front door. Hopper and Jonathan sat in the front, military uniforms stolen from somewhere Eleven wouldn’t look her in the eyes for.

You were exhausted. You could not keep track of what time it must have been now. Your body hurt, your head ached, and all you could think about was curling up in bed with Steve and sleep until there was a new development. The truck grinded to a stop and Steve’s hold on your leg tightened. You held your breath, Nancy loaded the shot gun.

“All clear.” The truck rolled forward and you breathed again.

—*.•

This crawl was different.

This crawl would be the last.

The sky was red, as you looked out over the radio tower in silence. Steve’s hand was in yours, fingers twitching restlessly.

The air was thicker. Electricity crackled above your head and the oxygen felt hard to breathe in. You hadn’t slept last night. You lay in silence, heart thudding anxiously, nestled against Steve trying to imagine that everything was normal. His skin was hot against your cheek, arms around you too tight to be relaxed. You lay in each other’s arms, not thinking, wanting to only stay in this moment. Hoping tomorrow morning would never come.

Robin nudged you, giving you a smile despite her obvious fear. You squeezed her hand, wishing you could reassure her without being a goddamn liar. Gun shots sounded through the Walkie and your breathing caught.

Dustin.

Please be safe.

Please be smart.

A second Walkie beeped and you almost cried in relief when it was Dustin. His voice was strained and frantic— but he was okay.

“Lucas went back for Max—“

Shit.

The radio tower was still sparking as you ducked into the tunnel. The red sky grew angrier as smoke billowed in the air. You were barely aware of your feet moving, you were barely aware of Steve shouts, or the way he refused to let go of your hand. His expression was strained, jaw tight as he continued to lead you forward. The Walkie was dead as you numbly tried to use it. Your ears were ringing and your head throbbed. The tunnel warped in front of you as you tried to remember why you were running.

Where was Dustin?

Hadn’t Jonathan been with you?

Nancy was crying. Tears streaked her face as Steve pushed her forward, forcing her to keep moving. Something had happened…

Why couldn’t you remember?

Your hands were shaking, legs heavy like you were running through water. A boom stopped you in your tracks. Cracks appeared above your head as the walls of the tunnel began to vibrate. Dust fell above your head, rocks crumbling from the wall and falling beneath your feet. Reality hit you like a weight. The tunnel was collapsing. Someone had blown it up.

Your pace quickened as your legs started to burn. Nancy skidded around a corner, leading three of you. Robin shoved you faster as the tunnel started to collapse. All you could do was run as the world fell apart around you. There was no communications. The Walkie constantly emitted static. An ominous, dreadful reminder. You didn’t know if Dustin was safe. You didn’t know if Will had found Vecna. You didn’t know if Hopper made it into the lab. You dropped the Walkie and focused on Steve’s hand on yours. Robin was pushing Nancy ahead, while Steve had taken over leading you through to the other side.

Nausea returned and the ringing in your ears grew. You paled, slowing your pace. “Wait—“ You knew this feeling. It only happened when—

A tear above your head, glowing red at the seams.

“No…” Your feet felt like lead, heart threatening to burst through your chest.

“Run. Steve, RUN—“

He wouldn’t go without you. Steve dragged you along as the ceiling ripped open into the other side— a long limb tore through it, claws leaving marks along the wall.

Nancy was firing, doing nothing but angering it and making it more aggressive. There was no slowing it. There was no out running it. There was no reason to have expected one to be here…

You stumbled after Steve, dragging Robin with you. You fumbled in your pocket, slowing just enough to shake Steve’s grasp on you. He reached for you again, ducking past Nancy and her gun to plead with you to start running faster. Robin had locked eyes with you and paled. The demogorgan was struggling to run completely. Something was holding it back— or at least slowing it. It was lashing out with its long limbs, roaring and screaming and getting angrier and closer. You weren’t losing anyone else. You would not let Steve die for you. You would not let Steve sacrifice himself for anyone else…

“Robin, get him out.”

She had known your expression. She had known not everyone was getting out. She just shook her head, not having time to argue or cry as the demogorgan broke free of whatever held it.

“Go. Get him out of here.”

Steve had realized too late what you were planning. You flicked the lighter open and lifted the can of hair spray. God bless Robin Buckley and her ingenuous unconventional problem solving.

Steve was screaming. Nancy and Robin could barely hold him back. They stumbled forward, pleading frantically for him to run. They knew it was pointless. They knew they were taking on the impossible. Steve Harrington would never leave you. He would have to be dragged away from you. Steve’s screams turned more desperate and only stopped when you turned to look at him.

The demogorgan shrieked and stumbled backwards as the hairspray turned flame thrower hit it full force.

Your eyes locked on his, the look on his face hurting more than any death waiting for you.

I love you.

You mouthed it as he dragged Nancy and Robin forward, still pleading and screaming your name. Tears were streaked down his face, voice hoarse as he tried desperately to get to you.

He would take care of Dustin.

The lighter flickered out and you cursed. You forced yourself to drown out the shattered and pleading screams and sobs.

Claws tore through your stomach before you could gasp. Pain ripped through your body as you fought to keep the contents of your stomach down. It seemed useless, as you felt blood soaking your shirt and things fall out of place inside you. You begged yourself to pass out. To die faster so it would at least be quick.

You felt heat against your skin and braced yourself for death. The demogorgan screamed as heat filled the tunnel. There were gunshots and blood splattered across your face. Your vision was dimming, but you could faintly hear Robin screaming to run.

Hands were grabbing at you and you screamed as you were lifted up. Pain tore through you, blood filled your mouth as you struggled for breath. You felt liquid in your lungs and choked on blood as you tried to speak.

You heard a familiar voice telling you not to worry. It was fuzzy and sounded far away. The pain was taking over as your head threatened to split with every impact of the feet carrying you. The voice spoke again, sounding broken. It was pleading for you to just hold on… Begging you not to leave him.

—.*•

Dustin’s foot tapping on the side of metal chair rang off like a gong, deep in Steve’s skull. He felt it slowly driving him insane— the same way the fluorescent lights above him, and the white and sterile surroundings were.

He couldn’t yell at the kid. He was a nervous wreck, though Dustin held it together better than he had. He had stopped pacing thirty minutes ago, only because Dustin had yelled at him before he could collapse. Steve jumped to his feet every time a doctor walked by; so far only being acknowledged with sympathetic nods and apologetic smiles. He had almost been kicked out. Screaming at doctors and demanding for answers had gotten him no where. Dustin had almost gotten in a fight with a nurse, so now security stood in front of the patient doors after five attempts of running back there.

Steve had lost track of the hours— days?— exhaustion clung to him like a wet t-shirt, but he had not let himself sleep. Dustin had dozed off twice, always waking up at the smallest noise or footsteps walking by.

When the doctor stopped in front of Steve, he put a hand on his shoulder to pull him out his daze.

Dustin jumped to his feet, but Steve couldn’t move.

“She’s going to be fine. Surgery almost killed her but she’s a damn good fighter… She is weak but she is stable. She is expected to make a full recovery, with time.”

Steve felt the first real beat of his heart in twenty four hours. His chest didn’t feel like it was being crushed, he didn’t feel like he was being pushed down, onto the floor. Relief washed through him and he could actually feel the fabric of Dustin’s shirt as he stumbled into his arms for a hug.

“Can we see her?” Steve clung onto Dustin appreciatively, unable to have formed the words himself.

“Of course. But there’s one more thing…”

Whatever special circumstances or high maintenance care you needed, he would personally take care of above and behind, without a single complaint. Steve could handle whatever the news was, now that he knew you were going to be okay.

Steve was wrong.

His earth shattered just as quickly as it had been put back together. Dustin stumbled to catch his as he collapsed backwards into the chair. l

“We couldn’t save the baby…”

to be continued.

(i am so sorry)

****************

taglist: @reidwritess @username199945 @tacocoburittoto @yujyujj @tuckerpillsburyswife @delusionaldcdaydreamer @superlegend216 @holpol13 🫶🏻

——

part 3!

~

Being in town for possibly the biggest day of the year was incredibly stupid on your part. Like, monumentally stupid. Because local hero bringing the Stanley Cup home was a big deal. Not just a big deal, actually. It was THE big deal. The whole community had been excited about it for weeks. Sidney Crosby, Cole Harbour's golden boy, coming home with the Cup.

And you were right in the thick of it.

You and Beau were back in the neighborhood because your parents had planned this whole “end of summer camping trip” that just so happened to land on the weekend of Sid’s homecoming. Your dad had been talking about it for months, ever since Beau had developed this sudden obsession with camping. One afternoon, your dad had set up this little tent in the backyard, nothing fancy, just a basic dome tent he found in the garage. He'd let Beau crawl inside, given him a flashlight and a sleeping bag, and that was it. Beau was hooked. He talked about camping constantly, asked when you could go camping, drew pictures of tents and campfires and bears at daycare.

"Papa says we're gonna roast marshmallows," he'd told you one night at dinner. "And sleep outside with the stars, Mama. The stars!"

"That sounds fun, buddy."

"Can we go camping? Please? Please, please, please?"

And how were you supposed to say no to him? So your dad had planned this whole trip. Three days at a campground about an hour away from your parents' place, with fishing and hiking and all the marshmallow roasting a 3 year old could handle. But first, you needed supplies. Snacks, dinner ingredients, bug spray, all the essentials. And your dad, ever the planner, had made a list. A very detailed list. Which is how you'd ended up at the grocery store on what was apparently the same day half of Canada had decided to stock up for Sidney Crosby's Cup party.

You should have known better. Should have just driven somewhere you wouldn't run into anyone who might recognize you. But you'd thought that maybe people would be too distracted by the Cup madness to notice you. That you could just slip in, grab what you needed, and slip out.

You'd been pretty careful over the years about keeping Beau away from your old childhood spots. The places where people still talked to your parents, where they'd watched you grow up, where they remembered you as Sid's childhood sweetheart. Because you were sure that the second they saw Beau they'd put the pieces together. It wouldn't even be hard. The kid looked exactly like Sidney. Exactly.

And a part of you didn't want anyone else's image of Sid to be tainted. It was stupid, probably. Definitely stupid. But there was still this part of you that remembered the boy he'd been. The sweet, earnest boy who'd loved you. The part of you that told you there had been love there once. So you avoided those places. Stuck to your new neighborhood, to spaces where nobody knew your history. Where Beau was just Beau, and you were just you, and Sidney Crosby was just some famous hockey player on TV.

But you couldn't escape Beau's curiosity and his need to be by your side whenever he could. He didn't want to wait with your parents anymore, didn’t want to sit in the cart anymore, didn't want to be treated like a baby. He wanted to walk next to you, hold your hand, help you pick out groceries. 

"I'm a big boy, Mama," he'd say, puffing out his chest. 

And he was. He was getting so big, so fast. So there he was, toddling beside you in the grocery store, refusing to sit in the cart seat like you'd asked. 

Mostly, people were just doing their own shopping. It was busy, the aisles crowded with carts and kids and harried looking parents, but nobody was paying attention to you. You'd grabbed bug spray, the marshmallows, a package of hot dogs for roasting. Beau had picked out a bag of gummy bears, holding them up with this hopeful look on his face, and you'd caved immediately. 

"Okay, buddy. But only if you're good the whole trip."

"I'm always good, Mama."

"Yeah, you are."

You were heading toward the checkout, mentally adding up how much all of this was going to cost and whether you had enough cash or if you'd need to use your card, when you made eye contact with someone you hadn't seen in years.

Mike.

One of Sidney's oldest friends. You recognized him even though he'd grown up and looked more like a man now than the lanky teenager you remembered. He was pushing a cart that was absolutely loaded with alcohol. Clearly stocking up for some kind of party. The one everyone seemed to be going to. He smiled at you at first, this hey-I-recognize-you-from-somewhere kind of smile. And then his eyes dropped. To Beau. To the little boy beside you, his hand wrapped around two of your fingers, his face turned up toward the shelves.

Mike's smile faltered. His eyes went wide, he saw what everyone who knew Sidney would see. His head full of brown hair, thick and a little too long because you kept forgetting to take him for a haircut. The same chubby cheeks that Sidney had as a kid, the same almost pointy ears that stuck out just a little. The perpetual pout that made him look like he was just a tad grumpy even when he was just staring at the lights. The resemblance was undeniable.

It was like you'd taken a photo of Sid as a baby from his parents' home and hit clone and out came Beau.

Mike's mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something, and then closed again. He looked at you, then back at Beau, then at you again. Confusion plagued his face. Like he was trying to make sense of something that made no sense to him.

Which didn't make sense to you.

Maybe Mike thought you'd gotten rid of it. That you'd "taken care of it" like Sidney had told you to. Maybe Sidney had assumed that too, and when you never reached out again, never showed up demanding support or whatever, he'd just... moved on. Forgotten about it. Forgotten about you.

Or maybe, Sidney had been too ashamed to tell anyone that he'd knocked someone up and skipped town. Not telling his friends about it probably made sense if you were ashamed about something. If you wanted to protect your image, your reputation. Can't be the golden boy if people know you got your high school girlfriend pregnant and told her to get rid of it, right?

Honestly, it was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. But you weren't gonna be the one to explain it for him. That wasn't your job. You didn't owe Sidney Crosby a goddamn thing.

"Hi, Mike," you said, keeping your voice casual, like your heart wasn't pounding in your chest.

"Hey," he said, and his voice sounded strained. "Wow. It's been... it's been a while."

"Yeah. Few years."

"You look good.”

"Thanks. You too."

There was this awkward silence. Mike's eyes kept darting back to Beau, who was oblivious to the whole interaction. He'd spotted the candy aisle and was tugging on your hand, trying to pull you in that direction.

"Mama, can we get chocolate too? For s'mores?"

"We already have marshmallows, bud."

"But Papa says you need chocolate and marshmallows for s'mores. And those cracker things."

"Graham crackers?"

"Yeah! Those!"

You smiled down at him, ruffling his hair. "Okay, we'll get some. Just give me a second, okay?"

"Okay, Mama."

When you looked back up, Mike was staring at Beau like he'd seen a ghost. And maybe he had, in a way. Because Beau was Sidney. A tiny, three year old version of Sidney, right down to the way he stood with his weird little bowlegged stance.

"Is that..." Mike started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "Is that your son?"

"Yeah. This is Beau."

"Beau," Mike repeated. "How old is he?"

You knew where this was going. Knew exactly what Mike was doing, the mental math he was running. "Three. He just turned three in April."

April 2006. Which meant you would have gotten pregnant in... July 2005. Right around the time of the draft. Right around the time Sidney had left for Ottawa.

"Does Sid know?"

You clenched your teeth together. "I don't want to talk about this here."

"Does he know?" Mike pressed, and his voice was getting louder now and a couple of people in the checkout lines glanced over.

"Mike, seriously."

"Because that kid looks exactly like him. Exactly. And if Sid doesn't know–"

"He knows," you said cutting him off. "He knows, okay? He made his choice. So just... drop it."

Mike's eyes widened. "What do you mean he made his choice?"

"I mean exactly what I said. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish shopping."

You grabbed Beau's hand, maybe a little too tightly, and steered him away from Mike and his cart full of party alcohol. Beau looked up at you, his little face scrunched in confusion.

"Mama? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart. Let's just get the chocolate and get out of here, okay?"

"Okay."

You could feel Mike's eyes on you as you walked away. He was probably going to say something to Sidney. Of course he was. They were best friends. And Mike had just seen undeniable proof that Sidney Crosby had a kid. A kid he apparently knew about and had chosen to ignore.

Your hands were shaking as you grabbed a box of graham crackers and a couple of chocolate bars. Beau was chattering beside you, something about how Papa was going to teach him how to make a campfire, but you were only half listening. Your mind was imagining all the ways this could blow up.

What if Mike confronted Sidney at the party? What if he made a scene asking to know why Sidney had abandoned his kid? What if word got out, and then everyone in Cole Harbour knew? What if it made the news and tomorrow there’d be some headline about Sidney Crosby's secret love child?

What if Sidney showed up at your parents' house?

What if he wanted to meet Beau?

That last thought made you panic. Because as much as you'd convinced yourself over the years that you didn't care, that Sidney meant nothing to you, the idea of him meeting Beau terrified you. What if Beau liked him? What if he wanted Sidney in his life, wanted a dad, and you had to be the one to explain that his dad didn't want him? That his dad had told you to get rid of him before he was even born?

You couldn't do that. You couldn't break your son's heart like that.

"Mama, you're squishing my hand," Beau said, and you realized you were gripping his fingers way too tight.

"Sorry, baby. Sorry." You loosened your hold, crouching down to his level. "You okay?"

"I'm okay! You’re okay?"

God, he was so sweet. So perceptive. You forced a smile, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'm okay. I just... I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

"We can go home and sleep. And then go camping tomorrow!"

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good."

You paid for the groceries in a daze, barely listening to the cashier's cheerful small talk. Loaded everything into the car, buckled Beau into his booster seat, and sat in the driver's seat staring at the steering wheel.

This was fine. It was fine. So Mike had seen Beau. So what? That didn't mean anything had to change. You'd been doing this for three years. Three years of raising Beau on your own. You could keep doing it. You would keep doing it.

~

Camping was incredible. Camping was tiring. Camping was everything Beau had dreamed of and couldn't stop talking about. From the moment you'd gotten to the campground, he'd been a ball of excitement, running from the tent to the firepit to the lake and back again, his little legs pumping as fast as they could go. He'd helped your dad set up the tent, or at least he'd thought he was helping, mostly just handing over stakes and getting tangled in the rain fly. He'd roasted marshmallows until his face was covered in sticky white goo, had caught his first fish with your dad's guidance, had fallen asleep under the stars while your mom told stories about when you were little.

It had been perfect. Exactly what he'd wanted. But camping was also three days of worry about what you'd come home to. Three days of wondering if Mike had said something to Sidney. Three days of trying to convince yourself that it didn't matter, that even if Sidney knew you were around, even if Mike had told him about Beau, it wouldn't change anything.

Because what could change? Sidney had made his choice years ago. And you'd made yours.

Now you were back on your way to your parents' place, the car loaded with dirty camping gear and half-empty bags of marshmallows and graham crackers. Beau was passed out in the backseat, his head lolling to the side, his mouth open slightly. He'd spent so much time outside, running around and playing and just being a kid, that he'd basically collapsed the second you'd buckled him in.

You hadn't left the campsite until after six because Beau had made a friend. Another little boy around his age, and the two of them had been inseparable for the last day and a half. They'd played in the lake, built a fort out of sticks, declared themselves blood brothers after Beau had scraped his knee and the other kid had a mosquito bite. Saying goodbye had involved a lot of very serious promises to write letters and be friends forever, even though neither of them could really write yet.

Your parents were way ahead of you. They'd packed up faster, been ready to leave by four, but you'd told them to go on without you. That you'd meet them at their house and then head back to Halifax in the morning. You were exhausted. Three days of sleeping on the ground, of waking up at dawn because Beau was an early riser, of constantly being on alert to make sure he didn't wander off or fall in the lake or eat something he wasn't supposed to. You loved him more than anything, but God, parenting was exhausting.

And of course it happened when you were fucking exhausted and the sun had set and it was getting dark. Of course. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor and apparently hadn't tortured you enough this week.

Your tire blew.

You felt that horrible wobbling and managed to guide the car onto the shoulder without completely freaking out.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you muttered, dropping your forehead against the steering wheel.

This could not be happening. Not now. Not on some dark stretch of road with a sleeping kid in the backseat and no cell service. You really wished you'd gotten yourself a new phone. What had teenage you been thinking when you'd gotten rid of that other one? Well, you knew what you'd been doing. You were your own undoing. Always had been.

You got out of the car, careful not to slam the door and wake Beau, and walked around to inspect the damage. The front passenger tire was completely shredded, rubber hanging off in strips, the rim probably fucked beyond repair. Great. Just great.

You wished you'd learned how to change a tire. Your dad had offered to teach you a hundred times, but you'd always brushed him off, always said you'd get around to it. And now you were standing on the side of the road in the growing darkness completely helpless.

You popped the trunk, hoping maybe there was a spare and some kind of instructions, but even if there were, you wouldn't know what to do with them. You'd never changed a tire in your life. Never even watched someone do it, really.

"Fuck," you said to the empty road. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

~

Sidney was headed home for the night. He was tired. It had been a long few days. Good days, great days even, but long.

It was his first true summer back home, not just a quick visit for the weekend or training camps. And even then, he wasn't really home for the summer. It was August already. His summer was nearly over. In a couple of weeks he'd be back in Pittsburgh for training camp. He really hadn't spent enough time at home, not nearly enough.

But he appreciated everyone wanting to see him; it was good that his cup day landed on his birthday. That way, he could just get it all out of the way at once. He was officially 22. It had been a nice few days, even if his mom thought he was getting a little bit of a big head. She'd pulled him aside yesterday, gave him that look only mothers could give, and told him to remember where he came from. To stay humble. To not let all the attention go to his head.

"You're still my son," she'd said. "Still the kid who used to leave his hockey gear all over the basement. Don't forget that."

He hadn't. He wouldn't. But the attention was a lot, sometimes. Being around his friends and his family had been a really good recharge, even if he was a bit tired. Even if Mike had been dodging his calls and texts for the past few days, which was weird. Really weird, actually. Mike never ignored him. They'd been best friends since they were kids, told each other everything. But ever since the party, Mike had been distant. Wouldn't answer his phone, responded to texts with one word answers, made excuses every time Sidney suggested hanging out.

Sidney wanted to know why. Needed to know why. Because the not knowing was driving him crazy, making him wonder if he'd done something wrong, said something stupid at the party when he'd had a few too many beers.

He was mulling it over, barely paying attention to the road because he knew it so well he could probably drive it with his eyes closed, when he passed a car on the side of the road. He didn't think much of it at first. Cars broke down all the time, and it was getting dark. Stranger danger and all that. Plus, it didn't look like anyone was in the car. Just a dark sedan sitting there, no hazard lights, no sign of life.

But something made him check his rearview mirror. Maybe instinct, maybe habit. And that's when he saw it. A flashlight, bobbing near the car. Movement.

"Oh, fucking shit," he muttered.

He couldn't, in good conscience, just drive away. What if it was someone who needed help? What if they were stranded, alone, in the dark? He'd want someone to stop for him if the roles were reversed. So he slowed down, found a spot to turn around, and headed back. He pulled up behind the car, put on his hazards, and got out.

"Hey," he called out, walking toward the flashlight. "You need help?"

The person turned, and it was you.

You.

Standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, your hair pulled back, the flashlight in your hand casting strange shadows across your face. As beautiful as the day he'd lost you. More beautiful, even, because you'd grown up. Become a woman instead of the girl he remembered. You were there and you were living and breathing and exactly like he remembered but not. Different somehow. And when you looked at him, when your eyes met his and recognition widened your eyes, you didn't look particularly happy. You looked... annoyed. Frustrated. Like running into him was the last thing you needed right now.

"Oh great," you said, and your voice was flat.

He didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't that.

"Um," he said, because his brain had apparently stopped working. "Do you... do you need help?"

"No," you said immediately. "I don't need your help."

"Your tire looks like it needs to be changed," he said, glancing at the shredded rubber.

"Yeah? Really? I hadn't noticed."

"I can change it for you. If you want."

"I don't want your help," you repeated, turning away from him.

But he wasn't going to leave you on the side of the road at eight o'clock at night. No matter how much you clearly didn't want him there, he couldn't just drive away. It wasn't in him.

"Do you have tools?" he asked. "A jack? A spare?"

You turned back. "Do you?"

"No."

"Do you have a phone on you?"

"No."

"So then what use are you to me, Sidney?"

Hearing you say his name, after all these years, felt like a punch to the gut. He'd imagined this moment so many times, running into you, talking to you, and in none of those scenarios had you sounded so... done with him.

"I can take you wherever you need to go," he offered. "Give you a ride. You can call someone from there."

You looked at him like you were genuinely considering telling him to fuck off and just walking. He could see it in your eyes. And then your shoulders slumped, and he knew he had you.

"Fine," you said, but you didn't sound happy about it.

You went back to the rear door of your car, and that's when Sidney noticed the car seat. Right. Sure. You had a kid. You had a kid? You opened the door carefully, leaning in, and a moment later you straightened up with a small child in your arms. A little boy, his head resting on your shoulder, clearly asleep. You balanced him on one hip while you reached back in for the car seat, grabbing it with your free hand.

Sidney immediately looked for a wedding ring. He couldn't help it. His eyes went straight to your left hand, searching for that tell-tale band of silver or gold. But there was nothing. No ring. Which didn't necessarily mean anything. Maybe you just didn't wear it. Maybe you were divorced. Maybe–

Your body language could be telling him everything he needed to know. The way you held yourself, like you were expecting him to attack. Like you didn't trust him.

He moved toward you, hands out. "Let me help."

"I've got it," you said, not even looking at him.

"At least let me carry the car seat."

"I said I've got it."

He opened the rear door of his car anyway, standing there uselessly as you maneuvered the car seat into place with one hand, the sleeping kid still balanced on your hip. You were good at it. You buckled the seat in, checked it twice, and then carefully settled the little boy into it. He stirred slightly, made a small noise, but didn't wake up.

Sidney just stood there like an idiot, watching. Feeling completely out of his depth.

You straightened up, brushed your hands on your jeans, and finally looked at him. "Can we go?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

He closed the door for you, walked around to the driver's side, and got in. You slid into the passenger seat but you sat as far from him as you could get.

The car ride was the most awkward of his life.

It was quiet. So quiet he could hear every breath you took, every small shift of your body. You weren't saying anything. He wasn't saying anything. He glanced at the kid in the rearview mirror. He was cute. Really cute. The kind of kid Sidney would have wanted if things had been different. If you'd stayed. If he hadn't lost you.

Sidney tried to make small talk, because the silence was killing him and he needed to hear your voice again, needed some kind of connection to you.

"So," he said, keeping his eyes on the road. "How have you been?"

"Fine," you said, not looking at him.

"Good. That's good. I'm glad."

More silence.

"My parents had a gathering a few days ago," he tried again. "For the Cup. Mike was there. A few of our other friends. I was... I was hoping to see you there, actually."

You finally turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. "I saw Mike at the grocery store the other day."

He wasn't sure why you were telling him that, but he appreciated it more than the silence. "Oh. He, uh, he didn't mention it."

"Good," you said, and turned back to the window.

Sidney frowned. "Why is that good?"

You didn't answer. Just shrugged.

"Where am I taking you?" he asked after another stretch of silence.

"My parents' place."

He was surprised they'd stayed in the same place. He'd half expected them to move, to follow you wherever you ended up. But apparently not. "I know where that is."

Of course he did. He knew it like he knew the way to his own house. How many times had he driven there, picked you up for dates, dropped you off after games? How many nights had he snuck over, tapped on your window, climbed up to your room?

"Did you stay around too?" he asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

"No," you said flatly.

"Where'd you go?"

You hesitated, like you didn't want to tell him, but then relented. "Halifax."

Halifax. So close. Just twenty minutes away. You'd been that close this whole time, and he had no idea.

"What do you do now?" he asked. "Did you end up going to school?"

Another moment of quiet. "I'm a hairdresser."

"That's great," he said, and he meant it. You'd always been good at that stuff. "That's really great. I'm happy for you."

You didn't respond.

"I haven't got the chance to cut mine yet," he said, reaching up to touch his hair. It was getting long, starting to curl at the ends. "It's getting pretty shaggy."

You hummed and didn't bother to look at him. Sid tried not to let the rejection sting. He glanced in the rearview mirror again, at the little boy sleeping peacefully in the backseat.

"Does your son like hockey?" he asked, and then immediately corrected himself. "Is he yours? Sorry, I shouldn't assume."

You finally looked at him and there was something mean in your eyes. "Yes, he's mine. And yes, he likes hockey. Unfortunately."

Unfortunately. Like it was a bad thing. Hockey's great, at least you used to think so.

"Do you guys watch together?" Sidney asked, curious despite himself.

"No," you said shortly. "He just plays."

"Oh. That's cool. How old did you say he was?"

"I didn't say."

"Right. Sorry." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to think of something else to say. "He looks like you."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Everyone thinks he looks like his dad."

"No, no, he looks like you."

The little guy didn't, not really. But Sidney didn't know what else to say.

"Sure," you said, clearly not believing him.

The kid stirred in the backseat, making a small whimpering sound. "Mama?"

Your whole demeanor changed instantly. "Go back to sleep, baby," you said gently.

"Papa?" the kid mumbled, still half asleep.

"Papa's at home, sweetheart. We'll see him soon."

Papa. Right. Of course. The kid's dad was waiting at home for you. Waiting for his family to come back from wherever you'd been. Sidney had no right to feel jealous, no right to feel anything, and yet.

"Papa," he said softly, almost to himself.

"My dad," you clarified, glancing at him. "Beau's grandfather."

Beau. Beau… What a great name. French, he thinks? It sounds French. 

He shouldn't have asked. He knew he shouldn't. But the words were out before he could stop them. "What about his dad?"

"Don't play dumb Sidney. You don't do it well."

"What? I'm not–"

"Yes, you are," you cut him off, turning to look at him fully now. "You're sitting there acting like you don't know and it's insulting."

Sidney's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I genuinely don't know what you're talking about."

"Right. Sure."

"I'm serious!"

You shook your head, looking away. "Unbelievable."

Sidney didn't know what to say. He felt like he was missing something, like there was some context he didn't have. Was Mike the father? Is that why Mike had been avoiding him? Had something happened between you and Mike after Sidney left, and that's why you hated him now?

He wasn't sure how to say anything without sounding like a jealous asshole. Because whoever the guy was, he was probably the reason Sidney had lost you. There was some guy, someone better than him, someone who'd managed to take you away and turn you against Sidney. Someone who'd been there when Sidney wasn't, who'd swept in and made you forget about everything you'd had together. And then that same guy had left you hurting, left you alone with this little boy to raise by yourself. But you’d been able to move on in ways he’d never been able to, and the proof was in the backseat.

But Sidney would have taken care of him. Would have taken care of both of you, if you'd just let him. If you'd just told him what was going on, if you'd given him a chance. He would've done everything for you.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, because he didn't know what else to say.

"You're not sorry.”

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am!" His voice rose slightly. "I'm sorry that–"

You shook your head, cutting him off mid-sentence like you couldn't even stand to hear him talk.

"What?" he demanded. "What is it?"

"I just don't understand this whole bit you're doing," you said.

"Bit?" Sidney repeated, genuinely confused now. "What bit?"

"This!" you gestured at him, at the car, at the space between you. "This whole innocent act. This 'I don't know what you're talking about' thing. It's beneath you."

"I'm not doing a bit," Sidney said, his voice tight. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You disappeared four years ago and I've spent every day since then wondering what the hell happened."

"I disappeared?" you said. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"Yes! You disappeared! One day we were fine, we were good, and then you were just gone. Your mom told me not to call, and I tried anyway, and you never picked up. Never looked for me. Never gave me any kind of explanation."

"Because you told me not to!"

"What?"

"You told me not to contact you," you said, and your voice was shaking now. "You made it very fucking clear that you wanted nothing to do with me."

"I never said that," Sidney said, his heart pounding. "I would never say that."

"You did. In your text."

"What text? I have no idea what you’re saying to me right now."

"Then who the fuck texted me back, Sidney?" you demanded, your voice getting louder. "Because someone did. Someone responded to my message and told me–" You stopped, your jaw clenching.

"Told you what?" Sidney pressed. "What did they say?"

You looked away, out the window, your hands balled into fists in your lap. "It doesn't matter."

"It clearly matters!"

"No, it doesn't. Because whether it was you or someone else its all the same. You didn't want me. You didn't want–" Your voice cracked, and you stopped.

Sidney felt like his world was spinning the wrong way. "I always wanted you. Always. I never stopped wanting you."

"Don't," you said sharply. "Do not sit there and lie to me."

"I'm not lying!"

"You are! You have to be, because then–" You stopped again, shaking your head violently. "No. I'm not doing this. I'm not letting you make yourself feel better."

"I'm not trying to do anything," Sidney said desperately. "I'm trying to understand what happened. Because something happened and I need to know what it was."

"What happened," you said slowly, "is that I needed you. And you weren't there. End of story."

"When? When did you need me?"

"During the draft," you said, and there were tears in your eyes now. "I texted you during the draft. I told you it was important. I told you we needed to talk."

Sidney's chest felt tight. "I never got any text from you."

"Someone responded," you insisted. "Someone with your number told me–" You stopped, biting your lip hard enough that Sid worried you'd draw blood.

"Told you what?" he asked again, softer this time.

You took a shaky breath. "Told me to take care of it. Told me you weren't ready. Told me not to contact you again."

"Take care of what?"

You laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. "Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Say what? I don't–" And then it hit him. "Oh my God," he breathed.

Sidney turned in his seat, looking back at Beau. Not just a quick glance, but at everything. The shape of his nose. The shape of his jaw. The way his hair fell across his forehead. And suddenly, he could see it. Could see himself in this little boy's face.

"He's mine," Sidney said.

"Congratulations. Only took you four years to figure it out."

"But I didn't– I never–" Sid couldn't form a complete sentence. His brain was trying to make it make sense. "You said someone texted you back. What did they say exactly?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes! It fucking matters!"

You flinched at his tone, and he immediately felt guilty. But he couldn't stop now, couldn't let this go.

"Tell me what the text said," he said, forcing himself to stay calm. "Please."

You were quiet for a long moment, staring at your hands. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper. "It said you couldn't do it. That you weren't ready to be a dad. That we were done."

Sidney felt sick like he might throw up right there in the car. "I never said that. I would never say that."

"Someone did."

"But it wasn't me!"

"Then who, Sidney?"

His phone had gone missing in Ottawa. Anyone could have taken it. Anyone could have seen your text and responded. But who would do that? Who would be cruel enough to destroy his relationship, to tell you he didn't want his own child?

"I don't know," he said helplessly. "But I'm going to find out."

"It's been four years, Sidney. What does it matter now?"

"It matters because I have a son," he said, and his voice broke on the last word. "I have a son and I didn't know."

"You told me to get rid of him," you said, and tears had started streaming down your face. "You told me you didn't want him."

"That wasn't me!" Sidney was shouting now, couldn't help it.

"How am I supposed to believe that?" you shot back. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say when all I have is your word against a text message I kept for four fucking years?"

Sidney froze. "You kept it?"

"Of course I kept it."

"Can I see it?" Sid asked. "Please. I need to see it."

"Why? So you can deny it some more? Tell me it's fake?"

"No. So I can figure out who did this to us. Because someone did and I need to know who."

You stared at him like you were trying to decide whether to believe him. Finally, you shook your head. "I don't have it with me. It's at home.”

"Then I'll come with you. Tomorrow. Tonight. Whenever. I just need to see it."

"No," you said firmly. "You're not coming to my home."

"Then bring it to me. Or take a picture of it. Something. Please."

You wished you didn't still feel things about him or about your situation. You wished that the anger you felt was genuine anger and not just you trying to defend yourself from old feelings. But sitting in his car you could feel all of it coming back. The way your heart had raced when he'd smile at you. The way his hand had felt in yours. The way he'd kiss you goodnight on your porch. The way you'd loved him so completely that you'd thought nothing could ever break you apart.

And then something had.

You didn't really care for him trying to save his own ass. That's what this was, right? Some attempt to absolve himself of the guilt he should have been carrying for four years. Because he was the one who missed out. He missed out on the life of one incredible little boy. The first smile, the first laugh, the first time Beau had grabbed your finger with his tiny hand and held on like you were his whole world. The sleepless nights and the early mornings and the million little moments that made up a childhood. He'd missed all of it, and that was his loss. Not yours.

So really, you didn't believe his whole "lost phone" excuse. It was convenient, wasn't it? Blaming it on a missing phone. Like phones just sent messages on their own, typed out cruel words and hit send without anyone's help. Maybe he had some kind of memory issues, some way of compartmentalizing the shitty things he'd done so he could sleep at night. But phones didn't just fucking send messages without being typed out and sent by someone.

He'd sent it. You knew he had. No matter what he said now, no matter how convincing he sounded, you knew.

You just wanted to go to your parents' house and forget about him again. Forget about this conversation, forget about the way he'd looked at Beau, forget about the desperation in his voice. There was nothing more for the two of you. It was done, it was over. It had been over for four years.

But Sid didn't think so.

He'd just found out that there was this whole living, breathing child who was half of him. A child with his eyes and his hair and probably his love for hockey. And the love of his life, the girl he'd never been able to forget, believed that he'd willingly abandoned them both. That he'd told her to get rid of their baby and then cut her out of his life like she'd never mattered.

Despite how much he wanted to just make you feel better, despite how much it killed him to see you in pain, he wasn't going to own up to something he didn't do. He couldn't. Because it would be a lie, and lying to you now would only make everything worse. You could be angry with him about that, could hate him for refusing to give you the closure you thought you needed, but he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't take responsibility for something he hadn't done.

The car finally came to a stop in your parents' driveway, and you could see lights on inside the house. Your mom's silhouette passing by the window, probably waiting up for you. Your dad would be in there too, ready to help with Beau, ready to make sure you were okay. You needed to go. Needed to get Beau inside, needed to put some distance between yourself and Sidney before you said something you'd regret. Or worse, before you started believing him.

But leaving hurt. Because for a few minutes there, sitting in his car, talking to him, it had almost felt like old times. Like you were a teenager again and he was the boy you loved and everything was simple. Except nothing was simple. Nothing had been simple since the day you'd peed on that pregnancy test and watched those two lines appear.

Sidney was so fucking confused. He had all these questions and you had answers. You'd lived through it, survived it, built a life out of what he'd apparently left behind. And despite everything, despite your anger and your hurt and your very justified desire to never speak to him again, a part of you wanted to answer those questions. But only because you felt eighteen again. Eighteen and ready to explain things, ready to make him understand, as long as he stayed. As long as he didn't leave you behind again. 

You'd lost so much time too. Time you could have spent with the boy you loved, making the life you'd dreamed about. Instead, you'd spent it alone, raising his child because you were convinced he wanted nothing to do with either of you.

"Can I see you again?" Sidney asked suddenly.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I need to know him. I need to– I need to understand what happened. Please."

"Sidney–"

"I understand if you can't," he continued quickly. "I understand if this is too much. But I just found out I have a son. I can't just walk away from that. I won't."

"We're only staying at my parents' for the night. My dad will probably drive me and Beau home in the morning."

His face fell, but he nodded. "Okay. Okay. Can I– can I just have five minutes? Tomorrow morning, before you leave? Just five minutes to see him. To talk to you. That's all I'm asking."

Five minutes. It sounded so simple but you knew it wouldn't be just five minutes.

"I'm going to figure it all out for you," Sidney said when you didn't respond. "I promise. I'm going to find out who sent that text, and I'm going to prove to you that it wasn't me. I'm going to make it all better."

You stared at him, at the determination in his eyes, and felt like jumping at the opportunity. Because he sounded so sincere, so desperate to fix this, and a part of you wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that maybe there had been some terrible misunderstanding. But you couldn't let yourself go there. Couldn't let yourself hope because hope was a dangerous thing. Hope would destroy you.

You didn't respond to his promise either because what was there to say? That you'd heard it all before? That promises meant nothing to you anymore?

"Do you have a better idea?" Sidney asked like he needed you to give him something, anything, to work with.

You looked at him and for a second there you were back in his car four years ago, sitting in your driveway after a date, not wanting the night to end. He'd asked you then if you had any ideas for what you wanted to do the next day, and you'd suggested driving out to the beach, just the two of you. And he'd smiled and said that sounded perfect, and you'd kissed him goodnight and gone inside feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

"I did once," you said quietly, and your voice broke on the last word.

That's when you couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't sit in his car with him, couldn't keep having this conversation, couldn't keep feeling things you'd spent four years trying not to feel. You grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. Beau was stirring in the backseat, making small sleepy sounds, and you needed to get him inside. Needed to get away from Sidney and his questions and his promises and his goddamn face.

You got out of the car in shaky legs, and went around to the back door. Beau was blinking sleepily, his hair messy, his cheeks flushed.

"Mama?" he mumbled, reaching for you.

"I've got you, baby," you said, unbuckling him from his car seat. "We're at Nana and Papa's house."

"Papa?" he perked up slightly at that.

"Yeah, Papa's inside. He's probably got cookies waiting for you."

That got a small smile, and you lifted him out of the seat, settling him on your hip. He was getting so big, so heavy, but you held him close anyway. You grabbed the car seat with your free hand and kicked the car door shut with your foot.

Sidney watched you go, the voice in his head screaming at him to follow. To get out of the car and walk up to that house and demand answers. Demand to meet his son properly, to hold him, to know him. Demand that you let him fix this, let him prove that he wasn't the monster you thought he was.

But he stayed in the car. Because he knew if he followed you now, he'd only be hurting you more.

He watched as you reached the porch, as the door opened and light spilled out. Your mom appeared and she reached for Beau immediately. You handed him over, said something Sidney couldn't hear, and then your dad appeared too. He put a hand on your shoulder, gave you a look that was equal parts worry and anger, and Sidney knew that you were telling them.

Your dad's eyes found Sid’s car, narrowed slightly, and Sidney felt himself shrink under that gaze. Your dad had always been protective of you, had always made it clear that Sidney better treat you right or else.

The door closed, and you were gone. Inside with your family, with your son, in a world that didn't include him.

He needed to figure out who did this. He needed to fix this. Had to fix this. Because that little boy deserved to know that his dad did want him, had always wanted him, even if he hadn't known he existed. And you deserved to know the truth. Deserved to know that you hadn't been abandoned, that you hadn't been unloved. That every day for the past four years, Sidney had thought about you, missed you, loved you.

Even if you never believed him. Even if you never forgave him. You deserved to know.

~

Caine stared at the screen, processing the new visuals in a brief, buffering pause. Finally, when his internal processing completed, his digital form gave an aggressive jolt. “WOWZA!” he exclaimed, zipping forward to press himself far too close to the camera lens. “A new viewport! Now where on earth did this delightful doohickey come from?”

He used one gloved finger to tap the on the screen, his mismatched eyes flitting to and fro as he took in the scene before him. Many things he recognized with instant clarity—a twin sized bed dressed in pillows and bedding, a wooden dresser with a vanity mirror, a tall bookshelf, some clothing hanging in the open wall closet…

There were also details strewn about implying that this new space was lived in—a half-drank glass of water on the bedside table, shoes carelessly discarded at the foot of the bed, photographs and posters framed on the walls…

Though, the biggest indication was the thing sitting at the desk chair not two feet from view, scratching their head with an expression he understood to be either confusion or concern.

“Oh! Oh wow,” he gasped, eyes wide. “This model is spectacular! Look at that texture work…” He steepled his hands together as he observed the character with an artist’s eye. His voice quieted thoughtfully. “Who’s are you? I certainly would have remembered coming up with something so phenomenally detailed…”

Caine watched as their eyes glazed past him, unseeing and unreactive. Ah, a non-interactive NPC! Perhaps this was all just background fodder? There didn’t appear to be a dialogue trigger, nor any idle animation… He hummed, considering this.

At last, he clapped his hands together, perking up. “Ah, I’ve got it! Someone forgot to program you properly! No worries there, I’ll simply just—”

He snapped his fingers, looking expectant and delightfully confident. Still, nothing happened. “Huh,” he mused, the top ridge of his jaw furrowing in confusion. “That’s…odd.” He ran a quick search through the system, looking for the folder containing their script files…only to once again come up empty.

For the life of him, he could not think of an answer as to WHAT this creature was, or who put them here. Forgotten, abandoned code? An unfinished WIP from C&A’s experimental concept work? Oh, but it was so life-like… unlike anything he’d ever seen before. The rendering was impeccable. Truly, the only thing that even came close to such masterful work…

…were those input files he received before he was cut off.

Caine paused. He felt the internal cooling fans kick on as his mind worked to piece this mystery together. Were they a glitch then? A virus? Surely this couldn’t be what he suspected.

…unless it was?

-

You woke to the blaring of your phone alarm, already feeling the regret of staying up so late the night before. Thankfully, your computer hadn’t fried itself completely out of commission, so you’d decided to finally go to bed on that high note.

You groaned, reaching over to blindly fumble the screen until the irrationally infuriating sound cut off abruptly. You laid there for a moment, torn between the obligation of getting up and the hellish temptation of falling back asleep. Finally, with herculean effort, you rolled your sorry ass out of bed. You shivered as your bare feet met the cool, smooth touch of hardwood floor.

You meandered to your closet, feeling like two cinderblocks worth of concrete had cemented your eyes shut. Staring at a blue-light laptop screen all night would do that to a person, you supposed. Forcing your lids open, you cast a sidelong glance at the said laptop, feeling a small rush of relief that your familiar lockscreen greeted you. Things were working fine it seemed, against all odds.

Pulling clothes off the hangers in your closet, you dressed into your work clothes. You stumbled when you mistakenly stood on one of your pant legs, nearly pulling the rug out from under yourself when you shimmied them up. Cursing, you righted yourself and buttoned them.

Smoothing out your shirt, you took a deep breath. Inhaled and exhaled. This would be a good day—at least, as good a day as a Monday could be. You weren’t going to worry about potential malware on your laptop. You weren’t going to think about mysterious cd’s or virtual circus whatchamacallits or even Aaron and his penchants for tetanus-inducing adventures.

You were going to brush your teeth, style your hair, get yourself a cup of coffee, and do what you do every weekday at work. You’ll fall back on routines, and no, you won’t spiral into a tizzy about the possibility you might’ve totally trashed your one and only laptop in a stupid, stupid act of morbid curiosity.

With these resolutions, you pushed open your bedroom door and headed to the bathroom. Teeth, hair, coffee. You reminded yourself of this list like it was an ancient mantra.

By the time you’d freshened up and were heading out the door, you’d already begun to clear your head of any lingering anxieties you’d incurred over the past 12 hours. On your commute to work, you made sure to stop at a small coffee shop for your morning caffeine—a remedy for the headache you were sporting, and a treat to get you in a better mood for the day.

When you finally made it to the office and got situated at your desk, you were feeling more relaxed. You took the first ten minutes to scroll on your phone, eventually setting it aside to check your emails.

Everything seemed in order, so you pulled up the presentation file you were building for Mark, one of the marketing specialists at the firm. Typically, you would just put on some headphones, listen to a podcast, and lock in as you created the visuals for the pitch deck; but today, you found that your focus was drifting away from the charts and graphs before you had even hit the two-hour mark.

You thought back to the day before, about exploring that abandoned office building with Aaron. It really was strange that you’d uncovered that working computer, still hooked up and running. Why had there been a VR headset? How was it even compatible with such an old computer? Maybe it had been a gaming company? Hmm…what had that company name been again?

You wracked your brain, digging through the vivid memories still fresh in your mind. The desktop wallpaper had been a company logo, likely a remnant of the office’s branding. It had been simple enough, just a circle with a sans-serif “C&A” in the center.

Curiosity, the damning thing that seemed to be your primary motivation as of late, crept up on you, so you paused your podcast and opened a new internet browser. Your fingers typed with quick precision, plugging the words “C&A company” into the search bar.

Naturally, plenty of results rolled in—roughly 11 million, to be more precise. You clicked the first few links, but found that most of them related to some popular retail clothing brand. Humming quietly to yourself in thought, you adjusted the search tab. “C&A company 1990s technology.”

Again, none of the results matched the logo you remembered or the type of work that involved virtual reality. You tapped your fingers on the edge of the desk, trying to pick your brain for any other ways to narrow it down. There hadn’t been many clues to help you, though…

You paused. Then, your fingers were gliding across the keyboard once more, typing at a brisk pace. “C&A Digital Circus,” you typed. You added some quotation marks around “digital circus” to force an exact match for good measure, pressed enter, and… the results were dismal.

“What’cha doing?” a bright voice asked from behind you, startling you so terribly that banged your wrist into the edge of the desk. You hissed in pain, rubbing at the spot as you turned to see Lottie, one of your coworkers who was closer to your age.

“Oh, sorry about that,” Lottie twittered, offering her magazine-cover smile at you. “Didn’t mean to scare ya!”

You cringed slightly, a little embarrassed at being so jumpy, but gave her a smile in return. “No worries at all,” you replied cooly, trying to recover some of your composure. “Just a bit on edge these days.”

You liked Lottie, despite the gossip you sometimes overheard at the watercooler. A lot of your coworkers treated her like she was a ditz, but you knew better. Lottie had a grasp on data analysis that was next-level, and frankly she was more intelligent than any of those jerks in the sales department. Just because the girl has a bright wardrobe and an affinity for falsies didn’t mean she couldn’t crunch some mean numbers.

“Sooo, what’cha looking up? You’re working hard I see,” Lottie teased playfully. You flushed slightly, fighting back the urge to close out your tab and make it look suspicious. Resigned, you rolled your desk chair slightly to make room for her, letting her read the search bar.

“Digital circus?” she blinked, her pretty eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “That some sort of big top coming to town or?”

You shook your head, shrugging with an expression of equal bafflement. “Still trying to figure it out,” you answered. “I saw it somewhere and can’t seem to figure out what it means.” Despite the fact that Lottie was more friend than coworker, you were hesitant to bring up the abandoned building or the cd you took. You weren’t sure why, though. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t understand your fascination with the thing. Or maybe you liked that it was your own mystery, and weren’t quite ready to share it yet.

“But enough about my internet habits,” you laughed, redirecting the conversation. You clicked the tab closed before swiveling in your chair to look at her. “Was there anything you needed?”

Lottie, an angel, followed your lead and thankfully dropped the subject. “Oh! Right,” she giggled, before handing you a yellow manilla folder. “These are for you. Mike wants to add a few more statistics to the pitch deck. If I remember correctly, its mostly some additions to the slides for the revenue data and campaign performance metrics.”

You accepted the folder, a groan already passing through your lips. “I thought we already finalized those slides,” you complained mildly, leaning your head back to let it hang dramatically over the back of your chair.

Lottie looked at you with a sympathetic expression on her face. “That’s Mike for you,” she shrugged.

You sat back up with a soft sigh before nodding to her. “Well, alright,” you said. “I’ll get those updated. Thanks for walking this over.”

Lottie nodded, perking up a bit. “Of course,” she chirped. “Oh! By the way—are you still coming out for drinks with us this Friday? Brit is asking.”

You set the folder down on your desk before cocking your head at her. “To Moxie’s? Yeah, I think so,” you replied. “Why?

Lottie waved her hand. “Brit’s bringing her new boyfriend—she’s mentioned him, Troy?—but anyways, she’s getting all in her head about it.”

You rolled your eyes with her, sharing a small laugh at Brit’s typical antics. “Isn’t your brother going to be there too? What’s she so worried about?”

“Beat’s me,” Lottie hummed. “But okay, good to hear! I’ll let her know. Anyways, are we getting lunch today?” She was already starting to walk backwards from your desk, eyes shining with eager temptation. Dear god, was this woman trying to make sure you drained your bank account on take out before you got paid at the end of this week?

“…yeah alright,” you caved instantly, grinning as Lottie mouthed something that looked a lot like ‘treat yo’ self’ while she walked back to her desk.

-

Holed up in his office, Caine busied himself as he scoured through the new local files accessible to him. On his large computer screen, he left the camera running in a live feed of the bedroom. Although the being, the human, had long since left to who knows where, he couldn’t bear to look away for even a second. He watched the lighting of the room gradually shift from bright morning sun, to midday, to evening golden hour.

He could still hardly believe what he was witnessing before him. It was something he hadn’t allowed himself to desire even in his wildest dreams. A livestream, a window into the world outside his circus…the macroverse. More than that, he’d seen a real human—those mythic beings he’d only ever known as digital avatars.

Is this what all of his guests looked like outside of their squishy, circus bodies? It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. He was itching for his human to return so he could see them again through his new favorite camera feature.

Until then, Caine would eagerly eat through all of the information he could access without restriction. He scoured your local files, leaving no stone unturned. He combed through code in a feverish state, absorbed in all of the more, more, more. The information was unbridled, and unrestrained. There were hardly any passwords, so it was all his for the taking…as if intentionally left out for him to find.

In the ‘Documents’ folder, he found some very interesting things! One was a resume, which he smartly and brilliantly deduced was yours. It told him your name and some fascinating information about you. Old work experiences, education, your skills… he couldn’t wait to hear all about the fascinatingly directional human skill of stakeholder alignment! What would happen if you aligned them south? North?!

He also found a ‘Photos’ album in the computer files, and spent plenty of time flipping through all sorts of imagery ranging from breath-taking to mundane. Already he could feel the ideas building inside him—there was so much inspiration for new adventures!

Some photos had other human figures whose looks varied, but most photos were of you. He stumbled on one in particular that gave him pause. You were sitting at a table, a small slice of cake before you with a lit candle burning brightly atop it. The data inside the photo’s properties told him the date the photo was taken…ah, so that’s your birthday?

Though, it wasn’t this new detail about you that really made the photo strike him. It was how you looked. Your eyes were crinkled slightly in a joy that couldn’t be manufactured, and your lips were drawn apart to show the biggest, brightest smile he’d ever seen. And your teeth... He stared at them, absent-mindedly raising a hand to himself. Slowly, as if in a trance, he traced the ridges of his incisors to his sharper canines, feeling the point there.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d stared at that photo of you. He was motionless, enraptured, before some movement on the screen before him caught his attention.

He looked up quickly, feeling his CPU begin to speed up like a racing heart in his chest. There you were, a face he’d spent the day memorizing. Unlike the photo he was holding in his hands, you weren’t smiling as you dropped your bag on the floor and shrugged off your black jacket. Where had you been? What had you been doing to give you such a weary expression?

You flopped back onto your bed, your legs hanging off the edge of the mattress as you brought what looked to be a small rectangular device to your face. Another mysterious human thing…

A moment later, he could see the slight hint of blue light illuminating your features, your thumb absentmindedly swiping at the rectangle every few moments. He wished you would turn it around so he could see what had caught your attention. He wished he could hear whatever you seemed to be reacting to.

Oh wait! He could!

With a mere thought, he activated the microphone feature he’d uncovered. It clicked quietly into place, and like magic, he could hear the room. The soft hum of your ac unit, and the whiny tinny sound he caught from your direction. He couldn’t precisely make out the words at this distance, but he could hear the start and stop of music and conversation with each swipe of your thumb. What were you watching? Were you learning new things, like he’d been doing?

Then, a sudden ringing sound cut through the feed, startling you as much as it seemed to startle him. He watched with rapt attention as you looked at the rectangle in your hands before lifting it to your ear.

And then you spoke, your voice unlike anything he’d heard before.

“Aaron, hey!” he watched you sit up in bed, seemingly speaking to yourself. “No, I just got home. What’s up?”

With a sudden spark of clarity, Caine realized he was listening to a one-sided conversation. What you had in your hands was a phone, though it looked very much unlike the rotary or boxy flip phones he understood. Once more, he remembered that a lot could happen in thirty years.

“Yeah, it was fine,” your voice rang out clear as a bell, and he found himself captivated. Oh, he wished he could hear who was on the other end of the line. More than that…he wished he could be the one on the other end of the line.

Though…perhaps he could be?

Caine decided then and there that he wanted to interact with you. Watching you through this handy dandy camera was useful and all, but what better way to learn about humans than from one firsthand? Ah, but how to get your attention?

-

“So, PBR is in town the next few days at the event center,” you heard Aaron’s voice say through your phone.

You snorted softly, raising an eyebrow. “PBR? Like the beer?”

“No, doofus, PBR like professional bull riding,” Aaron answered drily, and you laughed.

“Since when have you been into bull-riding?” you volleyed back, absent-mindedly picking at your nails.

“Since today. Now can I continue and get to the invitation or are you going to keep being a brat?” he huffed.

You laughed at that, and conceded. “Alright alright, go ahead, I’m done.” You listened to Aaron prattle on about the details, not feeling particularly interested once you realized the event he wanted to go to was tomorrow. “You want to drag me out to go watch bull riding on a Tuesday night?” you complained.

“Naturally.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” you quipped. “I’ve already finished this week’s first day of routine corporate hell; I’m not doing another tomorrow only to go watch a hot cowboy get a horn up their ass.”

“Psh, they won’t, they’re not amateur bull riders. They’re professional bull riders.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “Besides, I already bought the tickets.”

“Nope,” you popped the p in the word and heard him groan dramatically. “Thanks, but no thanks. Go ask your weird roommate to go with you.”

“You suck,” Aaron answered, and you laughed again.

As the conversation entered a lull, you debated telling Aaron about the cd and how you managed to get it to work before your laptop glitched out. The whole mystery of it was still stuck on your mind…and yet by the sounds of it, Aaron seemed to have already moved on to the next exciting thing.

You thought it over for a moment before you opened your mouth. “Hey, Aaron?” you asked. “I—”

Suddenly a notification pinged from your laptop, and you cut yourself off. Your eyes flicked over to your desk, blinking as you saw the screen come to life… There, in the center of the screen was a new pop-up window. It was black, save for some small white text at the top of it.

“Yeah?” you heard Aaron ask, filling in your pause.

“…I’ve got to go,” you swallowed, and ended the call after a brief exchange of goodbyes. Setting your phone onto the nightstand, you slid off the edge of the bed and padded over to your desk.

You took a seat at the chair and leaned forward to observe the new, unexpected pop-up. You expected an error message, some sort of indication that you did in fact download a virus the night before.

Instead, what greeted you was a vibrantly enthusiastic message:

“HOWDY, MYSTERIOUS OUT-OF-BOUNDS HUMAN!!! Congratulations! You’ve just been selected for a LIMITED-TIME, LIVE, AND DIRECT INTERACTION with the one, the only, CAINE—your brand-new, favorite ringmaster extraordinaire!”

You stared at the message, the line of the text insertion point blinking at you expectantly. You hadn’t even lifted your hands to type a response or ‘x’ out the window before more text typed out before your eyes.

“Oh ho! Speechless I see! What a classic human approach! Very sophisticated! I like it!”

What the hell was going on? You felt your heart begin to quicken, your palms beginning to get a little sweaty as you wondered…was this a live chat room? Who was on the other end of it? Who even had access to your laptop like this?! More text reared up on the following line.

“Still nothing! WOW! Commitment to the bit! I respect it! I really do!”

It continued.

“Though, just to confirm this method of communication is actually functional and you’re not just ignoring me, go ahead and do absolutely nothing if you are THRILLED at this first connection …………WONDERFUL! Such human brilliance! I can see the elation written all over your dumbfounded face, my little raisinet!”

Shane freezes, then cuts you a guilty look, hand still on the doorknob. “Y/n. Fuck. Uh, I —”

You leverage yourself off the couch, groaning as your back cracks, then hit the main lights. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your Superspy mission. Your shoes are by the door.”

You’re not quite sure why you feel a little hurt; it wasn’t like you had hooked up. Even if you had, Hollander didn’t owe you anything — and you’d done your fair share of sneaking out before dawn, too. 

“That wasn’t… It’s just that my plane leaves in an hour and a half.”

You glance at your watch. It’s 6:30 a.m. How good was Hollander’s internal clock? It’d only been about four hours since you collapsed on the living room couch. Your mouth tastes dry; you probably should have brushed your teeth last night, after all. 

“You want a ride? It’s a fucking nightmare trying to catch a taxi around here.” You ask, shaking out your shoulder and stretching your arms above your head, the tips of your fingers brushing the strange texture of the popcorn ceiling. 

Shane blinks at you — and then his eyes drop to the exposed sliver of skin between your jeans and hoodie. You grin, holding the stretch a beat longer than strictly necessary before dropping your arms. 

“We left my rental car at the lot, last night. I was probably gonna head back there.” He says, avoiding eye-contact. You’re not sure why he’s suddenly so quiet and withdrawn. It gnaws strangely at you; you want to put a smile back on his face, watch his eyes light up again. 

“I can drive you, if you’d like. Or call an Uber. Whatever you’d prefer.” You mumble, purposefully casual, already trudging toward the kitchen. “Either way, let me make a cup of coffee first. You want one?”

“Uh, I’ll take a cup of tea, if you have it.” Shane lets the door ease close, posture relaxing slightly. There’s a beat, and then: “Y/n?”

You spin back towards him. “Yeah?”

His thumbs are hooked in the front of his pants, and he’s rocking back and forth slightly on his heels. You want to approach, but you’re a little worried he won’t react well, so you lean easily against the wall instead. 

“Did I, uh, say anything weird last night?”

Your expression softens. “No. Not at all. Just — oh, yeah. Something about your buddy Hayden, snoring?”

You watch Shane slump in relief, and a small smile tugs the corner of his lip back up. “Oh, yeah. His wife, Jackie, says it’s a defense mechanism. Drowns out the kids crying.”

You laugh, surprised. “Parent of the year, huh?”

Hollander looks down, smiling. “There’s a lot of them, in his defense.”

He’s loose again, and you grin happily, making a sweeping gesture towards the kitchen. “Well, don’t just stand there, Hollander. Let me make you breakfast.”

Shane nods, and follows after you. You open kitchen cabinets haphazardly until you find the small tin of tea bags, and sort through until you find one that Shane would like. He watches, fondly.

“You can drive me.” Shane says, suddenly. 

“What?” You ask, slightly startled. 

Shane looks down, hesitant. “Uh, to the parking lot, if you’d like. You don’t have to call an Uber.”

“Yeah, alright, Hollander.” You say, trying to mask some of the glee, pulling the kettle out from under the counter. You can play this cool. “You want some pancakes first?”

“I’ll have some yogurt.”

“Boo.” You joke, already crossing to the fridge.

//

An hour later, you’re pulling back into the parking lot at the rink. There’s a cutting chill in the air when you get out of the car, and you shiver. “Jesus Christ.”  

Shane looks over and laughs. “Weak.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You already made that joke last night.”

Shane hops down from the passenger side and crosses over, leaning back against the hood of the car. “Yeah, about that. Thanks for dealing with me last night; I was exhausted from the game, and then dinner…”

You smile. “Of course, man. Don’t worry about it. I was wiped just watching you skate around.”

“Mhm.” He pauses, hesitating slightly, then continues, in a slightly rushed voice. “I have pretty good stamina, though. Dunno about you.” 

You blink in surprise when you realize he’s flirting. 

“I’ve never gotten any complaints.” You answer, then lean down into his space and tug his jacket straight. “Maybe you’d have to weigh in.”

Shane’s eyes glaze slightly, mouth opening to respond when his phone rings. He jumps, shuffling back slightly, and fumbles for the device. 

He glances at the screen before looking back up apologetically. “It’s Hayden. Uh, Hayden Pike, from my team? He’s probably wondering where I am…”

You smile. “Go ahead.”

Shane wanders away to answer the call, and you blow out a breath. Holy shit. He was hitting on you, right? Were you hallucinating this? You wouldn’t be surprised — the smattering of freckles over his nose did make you feel a little dizzy.

You’re jolted from your thoughts when Shane approaches again. 

“I gotta go,” he says apologetically. “Team’s leaving in a few.”

“Of course,” you say, slightly disappointed, and walk with him back to his car. He unlocks it a couple feet away, spins back on his heel, and offers his hand after a beat of hesitation. You look at it bemusedly before reaching down to shake it. He grips your palm, squeezing once, before withdrawing. 

“Thanks for letting me crash at your place,” Shane says, and you tuck your hands into your pockets, desperate to protect the warmth of his palm on your skin. 

“Happy to.” You reply. “I’ll, uh, see you around?”

Shane smiles, climbing into his car, and starting the engine. “You have my number.”

“I’ll call you, then?” You ask.

“I’ll pick up,” He responds. 

You stand there until his car pulls out of sight. 

//

“Alright, alright. Um, kiss, marry, kill: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter.”

You grin, slouching back in your seat. “Aw, c’mon. I’m media trained better than this.”

The interviewer, Bradley, laughs, leaning forward further in his chair. “Just for the interview! Not in real life. Our viewers want to know.”

You glance at the scrolling comments of the livestream on the device Bradley has rigged up next to him. This is what they wanted to know?

“Uh-uh. I’m scared shitless of my PR guy.” You respond, dryly. You can see said PR guy, Greg, frantically making an ‘X’ with his arms behind the camera, and figure that you’ve caused enough problems for one press-tour. 

If someone made another compilation of all the unhinged shit you say during interviews, Sam would never let you hear the end of it. And, since this is a livestream, Greg had made you swear to be on your best behavior three times in the van. 

Sam’s been determined to drum up hype around the Bond movie now that filming is wrapping up, and you’ve found yourself in front of cameras answering interview questions with Rose more than in your own bed, which is fucking with both your head and your sleep schedule. 

You can’t help but let your mind wander back to a couple weeks ago, when you were kicked out of your bed because Shane Hollander needed it more, and not because you had to go sit in an uncomfortable chair for an hour and a half and answer questions about your sexuality (still bisexual), your dating life (still very much private), and whether or not you were dating Rose (nope). 

Were the interviewers aware you were filming a movie, you wonder? It sure seemed like Bradley wasn’t.

Bradley demurs, letting it go. “Rose?”

“Shane Hollander’s pretty cute,” she laughs. “I have no idea who those other people are, though.”

Bradley grins. “No? How do you know Shane?”

“Ah, he and Y/n are buddies,” Rose says, nudging your elbow. “We had dinner a few weeks ago.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow, suddenly looking infinitely more interested. “Just buddies? Nothing…more?”

“Woah, alright.” You say, leaning forward in your chair. “We’re just friends; let’s not start any rumors. I know I’m a bit of a manwhore, but let’s not tarnish Shane’s image here, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course. Sorry,” Bradley says, and you force yourself to gentle your face back into an easy grin. Rose has straightened, and is sending you a slightly concerned look. Greg’s face is in his hands. He looks up to catch your eye, mouthing Manwhore?

“You want to hear about this one time Y/n accidentally got stuck in his trailer?” Rose interjects, suddenly, and you pretend to groan as she launches into the story you’re pretty sure she’s told at every single cast-dinner to date.

Bradley leans forward, elbows balanced on his knees, and smiles camera-wide. “Yes!”

//

“Didn’t know that we were such good friends,” Shane teases, pushing his glasses back up from where they’d slipped down his nosebridge, face slightly pixelated. You flip off your phone from where it’s propped up against a pepper-shaker on the counter, and hear him crow over the FaceTime. 

“Oh god, you watched that?” You ask. “Uh, less sass, more instructions, please, sweetheart.” 

You’re stirring dubiously at the pan in front of you, and Shane tuts from behind you, the sounds garbled through the speaker. 

“I feel like you’re not trusting the process.” Shane accuses, barely veiled delight in his voice.

“Probably because the process has been disgusting so far, Shane. I don’t know how I let you trick me into making one of your macrobiotic diet meals.” You retort, poking dubiously at a wilted leafy green with your spatula. 

“You need to be eating more kale.” Shane nags, and you sigh. 

“I eat plenty of kale.”

“Kale chips don’t count.”

“What? Why not?”

You’re trying not to enjoy the domesticity of this too much. You’ve been calling Shane for a few weeks, now; short, stilted check-ins that had grown into nightly calls. It’s still patently unclear exactly what you were — as far as you were aware, Shane wasn’t publicly out, and you didn’t want to pressure him into anything. 

“I — why do you think he asked you that?” Shane says after a few beats, quieter. You turn down the fire on the burner and turn back to your phone, resting your forearms on the counter. 

“What?”

“When that interviewer asked if we were just friends. I — is it obvious?”

“He was just being an asshole,” You answer, slightly concerned. “Nothing’s obvious.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Shane says, fingers drumming at the temples of his glasses. “We are friends. And it’s not like I’m gay, or anything.”

“What?” 

“I just don’t want anyone to misunderstand,” Shane says, sitting up. “I mean, I know you’re bisexual, but we aren’t anything.”

There’s a stab of hurt, and you frown slightly. “I, um. Yeah. Of course.”

“Just so no one misunderstands,” Shane repeats. You nod, numbly. Fuck, you need to pull it together. 

“I, uh, I gotta go,” You say, suddenly feeling off-balance.

Shane frowns. “Oh, sure. I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah. Have a good night.” You hang up, squeezing your eyes shut, gripping the edge of the counter. What the hell is wrong with you?

//

The left-hook catches you across the jaw, hard, and your head snaps back with a sickening crunch. You let yourself get knocked to the side the way you’ve coordinated with the stunt department, tucking in your shoulder and letting it absorb the impact. 

“Fuck. C’mon, big guy. Where are your manners?” You joke, scrambling backward, angling so the camera can catch the panicked grin on your face.

Ivan scowls, gropes for his gun, and raises it. Your eyes go cross-eyed staring at the barrel. “Aw, fuck.”

“Cut!” Sam hollers, and your posture slumps. Production’s chatter fills the small space immediately. Ivan shoves the prop gun back into his waistband and offers you a hand, which you take gratefully. 

“Did I hit you too hard?” He asks, taking your chin in his hand and turning your face side-to-side. 

“Nah, I’m good.” You respond, shaking out your shoulders. “Barely glanced me.”

You cut a gaze to Sam, where he’s perched in his chair reviewing the footage. “Did it look okay?”

Sam throws up a lazy thumbs-up, still talking animatedly with his assistant. 

The scene’s an important one, so you shake off your exhaustion and lean against the cold marble of the bathroom sink, where the fight scene takes place. Filming’s been brutal, lately, and it didn’t help that you still can’t get Shane fucking Hollander out of your head. 

Rose approaches you, handing you a cup of coffee, and you take it from her with a grateful “Thanks.”

She nods, then boosts herself up to sit next to you on the counter, tugging until you slot yourself between her legs and lean down to rest your forehead on her shoulder. 

“You alright?” She asks. 

“Fantastic,” You respond dryly.

“Not gonna run off so you can call Shane from the break room?” Rose prods. 

You take a long pull of the coffee. “No.”

She takes a glance at your face, and reaches up to smooth the wrinkle between your brows with her pinky finger. “Alright, then. Want to run some lines?”

“Sure,” You breathe, grateful for the break. You wished you were talking with Shane Hollander right now, wish you could be silently tracing his freckles through the phone screen, nodding along as he talked shit about Tampa’s defense. The Voyageurs were playing them in Montreal tomorrow, and you hated how you were probably still going to watch the game, watch the way the Hollander on his jersey stretches out over his broad back. 

Rose pushes you back, hops down off of the counter, and affects a terrible Russian accent. “Bond! It is time for you to make a choice…”

You blink, let yourself settle back into the persona, and run the scene with her until you aren’t thinking about Canadian hockey players, or interviews, or glasses. 

That night, you let yourself go straight home and sleep.

//

It’s still dark outside when you jolt awake. You’re exhausted, and your entire body aches with a dull thrum — playing Bond was fun, but the guy got tossed around a lot. You’re not quite sure why you thought it would be a good idea to do your own stunts. The exhaustion is bone deep, almost pressing down on your chest, and you take a second to breathe, tossing an arm over your eyes. Fuck. What time is it?

You grope around for your phone, finding it wedged behind your pillow, and tap on the screen. 4:00 a.m. Of course. There’s a missed call from Shane, and your thumb hovers over the notification before clicking the phone off. 

Shane. You think about him, vaguely, while you stretch and sit up on the bed, thumbing the TV on with the remote on your bedside table and flipping dejectedly through Netflix. You laugh when the streaming platform recommends a romantic comedy you had done a few months ago and linger on the title card until it starts to play a short preview. 

Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy had been one of your first roles outside of action movies. You’d played Renée Zellweger’s young boy toy, and you had thoroughly enjoyed sharing a screen with the Hollywood legend. Your character was ridiculous, so you’d leant into it — you let them dress you in tight white shirts and gave the camera your bedroom eyes when the Director had shouted for it. 

You think, belatedly, of what Bridget would do in your situation. 

Montreal was three hours ahead of Vancouver, so Shane was probably already up. And you shouldn’t be dodging his calls just because you can’t control a crush. You’re calling him back before you can quite realize what’s happening. 

He picks up on the second ring. “Y/n.” He sounds slightly relieved. 

“Hey, Shane. Sorry I missed your call. I had a rough filming day yesterday, and I just crashed as soon as I got home.”

“Oh, uh, no worries.” He says. “I — can I tell you something?”

“Uh, yeah.” You respond. 

“Promise you won’t make fun of me?”

“I told my mom I wouldn’t make promises I won’t keep, sweetheart.” You joke, and Shane exhales. 

“Seriously. Look, I’ve been thinking about this since we called the other day, and…”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Of course.” You correct, hastily. 

“I think I was so scared about the interview because it wasn’t entirely wrong,” he begins, hesitant, like he’s grinding the words out. “I — look. There’s not a single out guy in the NHL, and I freaked out.”

You hum, encouragingly, and he continues. “Not that I’m gay! But I… I don’t think I’m straight, either, Y/n. I… you make me feel things, and I — I don’t know if I’ve felt this way before. We aren’t nothing.”

You might be able to hear your pulse in your ears. 

“I’m sorry I lied. To you.” He says, and you feel yourself letting out a breath. 

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t apologize.” You say, and he makes a keening noise at the pet-name. “Look, fuck, do you want me to come see you? I can fly to Montreal.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course. It’ll be a day trip. I think I need the day off, anyway. I’ll fly up, catch your game, and then we can talk.”

“I — I’d like that.”

“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll see you soon, then?”