#ceo!steve

“What size?” the barista inquires.

“Largest one you have.”

Go big or go home. You’re going to need it anyways.

Last night was a clusterfuck of emotions, all of which you had no idea how to process. But you figured that, with Isabelle being the heavy sleeper she is, that you could get away from her and the room you shared and clear your head for a bit. Coffee and contemplation.

“You can put that on my tab.”

Following the direction of the voice, you're surprised to see Steve, up as bright and early as you are, just a mere few inches away. Except he looks more presentable than you, dressed in creaseless neutral-toned athleisure, hair neatly kept with pomade into a sleek swish.

You want to curse under your breath. Fuck. When didn't he look hot?

"Well I'll be damned," you mutter with a gentle smirk.

“I knew I’d get you back eventually,” Steve winks. “Course I didn’t think it’d happen eight hours later.”

“Good morning."

“Now it is.”

Steve slips in beside you and greets you with a warm smile. His eyes remain glued to yours as he extends his credit card to the cashier, placing his order before motioning you towards some elevated bar tables. It doesn't slip your mind to be in his company.

"Did you sleep well?" you ask him.

"Yeah," he nods. "I did, actually. Did you... sleep well?"

Steve seemingly searches for an answer in your eyes. A specific answer it seems, quite possibly pertaining to the events that unfolded the night before.

"Yeah," you chuckle. "Given everything."

“I'm so sorry about last night," he exhales. "Didn’t mean to put you in the middle of all this."

“Yeah…” you shrug unsurely. "But I figured that by association, I'd get sucked into it somehow."

He laughs softly. “Isabelle your friend?”

“What’s it to you?” you cock a brow.

“Just curious.”

“She’s more like a big sister to me,” you explain. “We met in college.”

The drop in Steve’s face was something you couldn’t decipher. Or something you didn’t want to at least.

All morning, this dark cloud of uncertainty has been festering over you, making you more and more anxious because you couldn't seem to grasp what the hell was going on. Judging by the vibes of it though, it doesn't seem good.

"Eddie's a good guy," Steve sputters, almost spastically. "I don't know what your best friend told you, but based on our collective experience with him, Eddie's nothing like the monster Isabelle's painted him to be."

"Isabelle hasn't said much about him actually," you counter. "Until lately."

Steve is almost shocked. "She didn't?"

"She doesn't really talk about her past," you elaborate. "I'm assuming it's because she's traumatized by it. I did know she was married though. And that she cheated on Eddie."

It's not something Isabelle is proud of. In fact, when you met her, Isabelle had been embarking on a journey towards redemption, taking you with her to local humanitarian events, and even to church with her folks every Sunday during second year.

Because your parents had been unavailable in every way your whole life, Isabelle believed you needed to be surrounded by good people. A good deal of the woman you were shaped to be was from Isabelle's influence. You don't know what to feel now.

"Wow," Steve reflects. "She at least owned up to that, damn."

"Yeah, but given the layers of the story..." you shrug. "It all just sounds so complex and confusing. I never knew this about my best friend. Never knew she danced... maybe she was ashamed."

"I'd like to think that's why she didn't tell you," Steve kisses his teeth. "But I have a very hard time believing that's the case."

They were high school sweethearts, Isabelle and Eddie. And according to Steve, they got married right after graduation. Starting from scratch with his money he made from dealing, Eddie built his own business, the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club, a strip club in their small town with a nerdy Dungeons & Dragons theme.

"Eddie has always respected women," Steve elaborates. "Even when they didn't respect him. Never laid a hand on a lady, treated them like queens... Eventually he had me hop on board, with my business. We've always been... for the girls."

"I believe you," you grin up at him.

It got ugly pretty fast, according to Steve again. Before everyone knew it, Isabelle was running the show. Calling the shots. And the dancers, who all seemed to have the hots for Eddie, jumped to his defense and tried to run her out the club. Eddie ultimately ended up sending Isabelle to another club across town to ease the tension.

"Terry's club..." you start to piece it all together.

"Precisely," Steve nods. "And unfortunately... that's where the lines start to blur."

"STEVE?!"

You both shudder at the sudden exclamation, and Steve is quick to retrieve your coffees from the bar. You two then resume the story-telling with a brief 'cheers'.

“Childish beverage you got there,” you nod towards Steve's cafe mocha with whip cream.

“Keeps me young,” Steve shrugs.

You gaze at him flirtatiously as you sip your black coffee. "I'm sure."

You fawn at his hands, the thick veins on the canvas now brought to life by the warmth of his drink. He takes mental note of your observation, clearing his throat, and shifting slightly, but notably more towards you as opposed to further away. He wants you too, there's no denying.

"Listen, Sweets," Steve sighs. "It kills me to say that... even though I'm very much attracted to you, I don't think entertaining this any further is a good idea."

"I'm very much attracted to you too," is all you say.

You hope he takes the bait. If Steve wants you enough, he's sure to choose batty lashes over logic any day.

"I mean, I feel a connection, I really do," Steve adds. "But with all of this 'he said', 'she said' bullshit, it's only a recipe for disaster."

"I totally agree," you nod along. "It's messy."

"Spicy, if you will."

"Almost forbidden," you bite the fruit.

"Tempting..." Steve's tone darkens, complementing your previous statement. "But because of Eddie and Isabelle, I feel like we just need to leave it at that. Because they're our best friends, we shouldn't pursue anything with each other. We can't carry all this drama back home with us."

It seems like Steve was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince you. His gaze drifts to the ground for a bit, then back up at you, a mix of both hesitation and resolve in his eyes.

"Right..." you concur once again with a firm, respectful, tight-lipped smile. "Gotta stay away from each other. For the sake of our friends."

It's a good thing whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

"Jesus, fuck."

A scream furls at the base of your stomach as you fuck yourself onto Steve's stiff and heavy cock, the back of your thighs red from how aggressively they were slapping against his hips. Shock spreads across your body as you muster yourself up to accommodate him, the exhilaration and intensity of his pumps both euphoric and ruinous at the same time.

"How do you hit it so good every. fucking. time?" you cry out as you take every single one of his blows.

Steve smiles to himself in amusement while you unravel beneath him, brushing his soft lips against the crook between your neck.

“I jus' pay attention,” Steve whispers as he rubs delicate circles against your clit. “And you have every bit of mine, baby.”

"Oh I feel it," you say with a joke-filled whimper. "Goddd...damn..."

"Ha. Funny and cute," Steve huffs, digging himself balls-deep into you. "Guess I won the jackpot."

Hooking your ankles with Steve's now as you reel him in, you begin to clasp at the sheets for both security and leverage. His rock-hard cock and heaving pants are sure to spring you into an eye-scrunching, lip-biting, toe-curling release. And just when you thought you had a good couple of minutes left in you, you feel Steve's fingers sink into the pleasure points of your neck.

He shoves your face down into the mattress.

"'my fucking god I'm cumming!" you scream as he relentlessly fucks himself into you.

Your orgasm splashes against Steve's quads as he fucks you out, his continuous prowling despite BOTH of your evident climaxes turning your legs into a quivering mush. And hitting the sweet spot every fucking time? For a stranger, he knows your body very well. Of course, he might have 'experience' to thank for that.

You're never going back to the college boys again.

A gentle slap on the butt snaps you back from your lust-filled trance. You turn to look at Steve, whose now got a boyish smirk on his face.

"Good morning," you giggle, repeating yourself from earlier.

"Now it is," Steve joins in.

You toss the fluffy comforter over your body while Steve goes to dispose of the condom. While you wait, you take a moment to soak in the elegance of the Encore suite, comparing it to that of yours at the Venetian.

Before you know it, Steve is back at the bedside, reaching into his wallet as he glances periodically over at you.

"What do you want for graduation?" he questions.

"Huh?" you respond blankly.

"On me. I insist."

"Steve..." you chuckle nervously, bringing the comforter further up towards your bare chest. "You really don't have to.''

"I insist," he repeats.

"It makes me feel like your gift is some sort of payment."

Steve's eyes widen suddenly.

"I did not mean for it to be that way, I'm sorry," he gulps. "Gift-giving is just my love language, I've learned."

"Well I'm fine with the anti-roofie bobby pin you gifted me," you blush gesturing towards your purse where it's neatly kept. "That is enough in my book."

"But not enough in mine," Steve counters. "Matter of fact, take a look at this."

You watch as the handsome CEO scrambles across the room in his boxer shorts, all just to retrieve a pen that he graciously hands over to you.

"It's not just any pen," he explains. "It's the audio recording pen."

"Wow," you remark. "It's giving... Russian Spy."

Steve chuckles. "Well when you put it that way..."

"Maybe you are a spy," you shoot him an insinuating wink. "Did someone send you to watch my every move?"

"Mmm, I think you cracked the case," Steve smirks, matching your energy almost immediately. "Can't have a bad girl like you walking around with no supervision."

You feel him melt into you...

"Or consequences," he strains, leaving some delicate kisses at your neck.

The opening of a nearby door interrupts your foreplay for round three. Almost like it's a defense mechanism, you shift instantly, attempting to sink further into the sheets to cover yourself up.

"Morning!" comes a voice. "We're all gonna go get some donuts at the Excalibur do you wanna come wi—JESUS CHRIST!"

Eddie's wife. Taken aback by another presence in the room, Steve damn near collapses onto you to make sure you stay concealed.

"Oh god," Shy Girl remarks. "HAHAHA. This is hilarious."

"Munson," Steve whines, attempting to bury his face in his forearm. "How did you get in here?"

"Uh, joint rooms remember?" she responds. "Also... if you didn't want any visitors you should've made it obvious. Your DND sign was also not on at the main door."

Shy Girl cranes her neck over to you. When she registers who you are, there's a glisten in her eyes; and a profound, wry smile she is merely unable to hide.

"Hey stranger!" she chirps. "Get some good sleep after last night?"

"As much as I was able to," you mumble.

"Ah," she pouts. "It seems like your morning fix made it better though. The invite's still open. Doughy goodness at pretty castle awaits."

Shy Girl turns her head to ensure your clothes are on when your gazes meet again. While she waits, she takes a stroll around Steve's single room, playing around with his hair products and fancy looking e-razor.

Knowing there's absolutely nothing to say, you toss your sweats on and quickly grab your purse. After bidding Steve a silent goodbye, you start towards the door, maintaining your head in the lowest possible position.

"Really?" you hear Steve say to Shy Girl in the room, the ruffling in the background presumably him tossing his clothes on as well.

"What?" she tuts. "She's a cutie pie."

To ensure you don't lose your way, you open Maps to route your walk back to the Venetian. You also take a moment to look at your messages, your heart nearly plunging to your ass when 10 texts from Isabelle await you.

All of them asked where you were.

Frozen in place, you gulp as your trembling fingers think of what to say. And before you can craft your response, the entry door to Steve's room cracks open.

Your body remains paralyzed as Shy Girl emerges from the room, only to walk herself directly one door over. Before you two officially part ways, she says to you,

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Your secret is safe with me."

“Where have you been?!” Isabelle demands the moment you get back to the room.

“Coffee run…” you vaguely reply.

“For two and a half hours?!”

Her agitation is evident. You meander cautiously around the hotel room, careful enough to not make any eye contact because you know Isabelle can crack you like that. But soon, her constant prying makes you agitated.

"I don't know anyone who takes three hours to get a coffee."

“You’ve taken shits longer than that,” you roll your eyes. “And plus you were out like a light, I needed to get some form of a Hot Girl Walk in.”

"At the Encore, huh?"

The air turns cold. Bitter.

"Excuse me?"

You and Isabelle have each other's locations for safety purposes. But now you realize that it seems she checks it more frequently than you thought.

"At 8:04 AM, your location pinged at the coffee shop outside, between the Venetian and the Encore," Isabelle reports, as if you weren't aware. "And then by 9 AM, you were inside the Encore where you remained until now. It's about to be noon. Must've been quite some line for you to stay in that area for so long. Unless you were with somebody."

"What if there were some shops I wanted to check out in the Encore?" you challenge her.

"Like which shops?"

"The shops we don't have here."

"Cute..."

It had been a while since you and Isabelle had an exchange this hostile. Isabelle always speaks to you kindly. But with all of this unraveling, she's feening for just survival. Or an escape. From what though?

Buzz!

Your phone buzzes with a text. Opening the protected message, a smile creeps onto your face when you see who it's from.

Maybe: Steve

When can I see you again?

You:

You free tonight? Maybe we can meet by the gondolas at the Venetian.

Maybe: Steve

👍

You giggle at the simple text. Older men and their vagueness.

“What are you laughing at?” Isabelle pries.

“A meme…” you fib.

You don’t know why you keep lying. Friends don’t lie. But something in your gut tells you you’re trekking dangerous waters. And a part of you, strangely enough, doesn’t want to be rescued.

“Can we talk about last night?” you request, yearning for a civil conversation.

“What’s to talk about?” Isabelle snaps.

“THIS," you explain, gesturing up and down. "You just seem…very shaken up about seeing your ex-husband."

“Anyone would be!”

“Okay I get that, but you don’t have to take it out on me…"

Isabelle is quiet, which allows you to finish your statement.

“Especially because I don’t know the whole story.”

“Eddie just…” your best friend sighs. “Really fucked me up. That’s all I have to say about that.”

"I really wish you would give me more details," you mumble. "I don't have much to work with here."

"Asking your best friend to revisit her TRAUMATIZING past when she's still healing is a little fucked up, don't you think?" is what Isabelle fires back with.

"It's not like that at all! I thought you'd know my intentions by now."

"Touché," she snarkily responds.

"Oh," you exhale sharply.

It's become nearly impossible to deal with. All you've wanted was honesty and all you've gotten was rage. Before it escalated any further, you decide to temporarily remove yourself from the equation.

"I'm gonna step back out for a breather."

You didn't expect your best friend to deflect. "I think that's a great idea."

Refusing to acknowledge Elle any further, you yank the room key off your shared bedside table, shoving it into your purse, and pulling the purse over your shoulder. You take one last glance over at Elle, arms crossed by the window, her current mask now that of a stoic one—no trace of the rage that had filled the air just minutes ago.

But the silence is deafening. Finally, after seemingly like an eternity, she turns to you.

"By the way," Elle snarls. “If you're gonna do what I think you're doing, I don't think it's a good idea. I don't want you to regret it."

It's hard to take her seriously given her current state. But somehow, what she says next finds a way to vex you somehow.

"There’s a reason why Steve Harrington can’t bag a chick his age.”

I just can't get his little grunts and groans out of my head? Like the little "Oh fuck baby"s and the "sh-shit you feel so good" and "yeah baby girl, just like that." bc it would be rough and primal but it's not just for your benefit, he's getting plenty of pleasure from it too

And I feel like it really would be a defining moment for you guys as a couple bc typically, you're very careful not to mark each other? At least not anywhere visible. You're CEOs after all, you're the very definition of a strong woman, poised and eloquent and considerate, you couldn't even dream of the notion of coming across as anything less or giving any of your male colleagues anything to whisper about

You'd be so careful about leaving traces on each other. If your lipstick smears on Steve's shirt collar, he always has a spare in the office. If your skirt gets ripped, you've got another one. But in that moment, you're sucking dark hickies on Steve's neck without a care in the world. He's grunting, keeping his pace and as soon as you stop your biting and sucking, his head is thrown back, a deep rumbling groan leaving his throat.

"You're mine Steve." You pant softly, clinging to his broad shoulders.

"Always was, sweetheart. All fuckin' yours." He reaffirms, giving a few harsh thrusts that make you moan

But afterwards he's so soft, he makes sure you're all clean and warm and cosy. He makes sure he does your skincare routine for you (he's seen you do it so many times, he can work out the order just fine). He makes sure your hair is the way you like it to be before bed and he makes sure he has the silk bedsheets on before laying you down on the bed.

"How do you feel?" he asks softly, drawing gentle shapes on your skin, noticing you're dozing off.

" 'm good Stevie." you mumble, half asleep, clinging to him a little in a way that makes his heart melt because you're slowly letting him in

You should've known.

You should've fucking KNOWN. The answers were right in front of you, clear as day.

But how could you have possibly had any inkling?! Eddie is such a common name.

And who's to say Eddie wasn't short for Edwin? Or Edward. Edgar, maybe. And the fact that the man owned a strip club? Isabelle never told you that.

But there were signs for that as well. You think back to earlier.

<< If I had a stripper in my life, I would treat her like a queen. >>

"THAT'S EDDIE?" you speak again. "Steve's buddy Eddie is your Eddie?!"

"Was my Eddie," Isabelle sharply corrects you. "Clearly he's someone else's now."

And without any further thought, Isabelle struts towards the group with her hands at her hips. You storm after her, curious as to where the strong need for confrontation came from.

"My, my..." Isabelle tsks, kissing her teeth. "Just how I left ya, Eddie. In the arms of some raunchy stripper."

<< If I had a stripper in my life, I would treat her like a queen. >>

When the group registers Isabelle, the atmosphere flips.

And it’s as if your whole world is jerked upside down too, watching your best friend’s past unfold before you—a past you thought you knew all about… but clearly didn’t.

"You have some damn nerve coming up to us," Shy Girl is the first to speak up. "After everything you've done."

"You have some damn nerve saying that to me," Isabelle counters with a satisfied smirk. "Wearing my set."

When the epiphany hits her, it's evident that Shy Girl goes through a whirlwind of emotions—denial, annoyance, anger, and perhaps a touch of embarrassment. Slowly, she pulls back, and Steve, ever-so-protectively, steps in, guiding her behind him as he offers his take on the situation.

“You really thought you did something walking up here, huh?” he hisses, a glare fixed on his face that is eerily similar to Isabelle’s. “The last four years mean nothing to you?”

“I can imagine they wouldn’t,” Eddie shrugs. “After all, she thinks of no one but herself.”

“ALL OF YOU put me through hell four years ago," Isabelle counters. "Must be absolute torment seeing a woman win for once in her life, huh?"

"You still with Terry?" Eddie chokes. "Or did you find some other man to use and manipulate? Or did you meet your match this time around and land yourself back in square one? Hence why you're here."

“Elle is doing just fine without you," you gather up the courage to say. "We're here to promote her lingerie line, actually. So you can pipe down."

“Elle?!” Eddie shrieks in disbelief. “ELLE. THAT'S the name you’re going by now?”

“What’s it to you?” you scoff, bitterly crossing your arms.

Your bestie’s ex-husband suddenly backs down. You can tell there’s a lot he wanted to say about the name but couldn’t figure out what.

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, tongue rolling around in his cheek. It certainly is something. “I just think it’s funny.”

“You think everything is funny, Eddie and that’s the problem," Isabelle scorns. "Putting your precious Hellfire Girls before me as they ran me out the club? Setting me up with your 'friend' who legit tried to traffic me? Screwing Chrissy Cunningham because you couldn't resist the idea that your High School Wet Dream finally wanted you after all these years? Putting me in physical and psychological turmoil that took me AGES to heal from?! Yeah...but I'm the devil."

"I never screwed Chrissy Cunningham, okay?" Eddie snaps. "By God, when are you going to let that rest?"

Your eyes trail over to Eddie's friends — and even his wife — all of them having an indecipherable gloss over their eyes. They squirm uneasily, noticeably more uncomfortable now, but still keeping their defensive stances.

BUT WAIT.

"Hold the fuck up," you raise your hand. "We're not going to gloss over what we just glossed over. You mean to tell me you almost got my best friend trafficked?!"

What WAS this life that your best friend lived before meeting you?! And why, after four years, are you just finding out about this now? In a random strip club in Vegas. An environment that now seems way too close for comfort. Could it be...?

"She left out the part where she pressed charges against MY husband and not Terry," Shy Girl barks. "Because she knew Eddie being in jail would entitle her to most of his assets. Makes her look like a goodie-two shoes."

"TERRY TRIED TO TRAFFIC YOU?"

"You know Terry?" Steve questions.

There's an alarm in his gaze, but it begins to illicit a softness the moment your eyes meet his. He raises a tender brow, eager for your input, but it seems you don't play a prominent role in this narrative.

"I know of him," you correct him. "Didn't know he tried to traffic Elle."

"So how'd you fund this business of yours?" Shy Girl questions Isabelle. "Daddy's money? Your leftover stripper money? Eddie's money that your lying ass wrongfully took?"

Your ears quirk up, and suddenly the environment is heavier.

"Leftover stripper money?" you can't help but echo.

"Wait a minute..." Shy Girl smirks. It's a memorable one.

An epiphany clicks as a dark laugh escapes her lips.

"Ohhh, it seems like your little friend didn't know you stripped, huh?What a surprise. You're in for quite the story time, girly."

You watch from the corner of your eye as Steve takes a cigarette break, a jitter in his hands so angry that it's practically seeping from his bones. Everyone else around begins to spew on about a phase in life that seemed so alien to you — all the while Steve's strong hands and delicious occupied lips were at the forefront of your attention.

A part of you feels bad that this is what you chose to hyper-fixate on. But can you really be blamed? Not when he looks like that.

"The courts are undoubtedly a just system," Isabelle snaps you back. "I deserved every penny in that settlement. I told nothing but the truth about my experience. Sorry if that taints the image you have of your husband."

"Funny how you're the one talking about telling the truth," Eddie chuckles. His gaze lands on you. "Wonder what else she doesn't know. Mind sharing with the class? Elle?”

"Even if she didn't know I was a dancer, she wouldn't have cared," Isabelle spits, speaking for you. "Women aren't objects Eddie. Kinda low of you to bag on the women who work for you."

"Who said I was bagging?" Eddie smirks. "What I'm getting at is that you're living a lie. And it's gonna catch up to you eventually, one way or another."

He steps towards his ex-wife with a seemingly newfound confidence, a rehearsed, amateur stance that still bothered Isabelle more than her exterior wanted to admit. You watch as she furrows her brows in retaliation, shaky fists clasped at her sides in rebellion.

"In fact, it looks like the day is here."

"We're leaving," Isabelle announces firmly. "Sweets and I are above this shit. This is the last thing we need."

<< If I had a stripper in my life, I would treat her like a queen. >>

Nothing made sense. Who knew the small, conservative, midwestern town that raised your best friend housed so many dark secrets? It makes you wonder if Isabelle would've even eventually told you this secret if the circumstances were better. It also makes you wonder what else she could be hiding.

You're drowning in your thoughts as Isabelle takes it upon herself to drag you out of the club. As an attempt to ground yourself to this —very odd — new reality, you turn around to get one last look at Steve and his friends.

And much to your surprise, before you can even sneak a glance at him, you notice that Steve was already looking your way too.

Not your favorite way to wake up…

Roused in the morning dark of New York winter, Steve’s mom calls him bright and early. She is one of only four people who can evade his Do Not Disturb setting, and as much as you enjoy Sarah, you groan in irritation when Steve has to untuck himself from beneath you in the sheets.

But that’s not where it ends.

He takes the call and walks out to his kitchen. His voice only just becomes inaudible when your mother calls.

Chatty. Mom is chatty way too early this morning, and she wants participation in her gossip.

You get it; your parents are pure balls of excitement about their upcoming trip to NYC to see you and officially meet your boyfriend for the first time, but 6:50 in the morning on a day off is not a great moment to get reciprocation of any amount of energy.

It’s not even five in the morning where your mom is. Come on now.

You hold the phone arm’s length away to scream into your pillow before heaving yourself out of bed. Maybe if she hears Steve’s voice in the background, your mom will think you’re busy and need to get off the call? Maybe standing up will help keep your eyelids raised? You’re so tired, you’ll try anything.

As soon as your butt hits the couch cushion though, your eyes shut again, too comfortable, too quickly. You jump up and meander over to the exercise bike, muttering something about the neighbor Mom’s had this same beef with for a decade, but she’s on a roll now. You barely need to interject an “uh-huh” or “yeah.” Your mother just keeps going.

So you sit on the bike, lazily putting one foot on the higher pedal, and you nudge it. Nothing happens.

Steve rustles the coffee beans into the maker and pulls down plates because if he’s awake, he wants breakfast. He’ll go back to sleep if he can, but if he’s conscious, food should happen. That’s the Steve Standard of a morning ritual. He also has very little input for his conversation, mostly humming every so often.

You hear the crack of eggs against the bowl’s rim and yawn, hiding that sound as best you can from your mother.

Your dad is equally grumbly in the background. He chides his wife with you in solidarity.

The pan sizzling acts as white noise countered by the first whiffs of brewing coffee.

“Of course, I’m listening,” you rush out, leaning forward on the handlebars and mock-bashing your head.

Steve must have turned to watch you because you hear his deep chuckle from across the room.

Absently, you step onto the pedal, thinking it will start rotating as you press down. You don’t realize how high Steve has turned up the resistance until it’s too late. You stand with your full weight on the tiny, shifting pad, and your foot slips right off when the mechanism caves.

Off-balance and crash-landing on your foot, your ankle tweaks out harshly, and the hard plastic grooves for friction scrape all along your bare calf. It hurts like hell but happens so fast that you hardly make a sound aside from hissing.

The phone drops out of your hand as you untangle yourself from the bike and trip down to the floor.

“Honey?” Steve clearly hasn’t seen until “shit” and you hear the pan torn off the burner and his own phone tossed to the counter. “Precious, you okay? What—“

Thin gashes are already red and bleeding all up your leg. The pain is such a tense sting that you can’t manage much else other than biting your tongue and clutching at the wound, but Steve peels your fingers away, ripping the kitchen towel from over his shoulder to apply pressure.

“It’s fine,” you still hiss. “I’m fine, Steve.”

His huge palm and fingers splay across the fabric, his other hand guiding your over to replace them after he coos, “I know. I’m just gonna clean it up. I’ll be right back. Can you hold this? Just there. Good girl. Ok.”

He jumps up and thunders to the bathroom.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on? Hello?”

You look up to where your phone dangles in the water bottle holder by the bike’s handles, but you can’t reach it without harsh sensations shooting around your foot and leg.

“I’m fine, Mom,” you yell toward the phone. “I just fell. I’ll call you back later.”

There’s an incoherent fuss, your dad’s voice joins what sounds like muttering but is more likely a heated argument on the other end, and then the screen lights when the call disconnects.

Steve returns with a little box and a white bottle.

“Ok, precious--" he leans to kiss your knee "--you ready? This part is gonna hurt.”

You pull back the stained towel, lip lodged between your teeth, and Steve soaks a cotton ball. He bares his teeth when you react to the bite of alcohol.

The excess drips down to the mat.

“I know, honey. You’re doing so good though. Just a little more." He tries to move the foot. "Can you—“

“OW!” Like a shot, your ankle cries all the way up to your hip. “Sorry,” you say through threatening tears, “I landed on it wrong.”

Steve’s hand cradles the joint, keeping it still even as he lowers to kiss there, too, his blue eyes worried. “Okay, I’ll get ice for that, but first, we cover this.” He wipes gently at the deepest gash by your Achilles tendon before ripping open a packet of antibacterial ointment. “Just another minute, alright? You’re doing great.”

His rough morning voice and soothing tenor nudge your heart rate back in the right direction.

At least the medication doesn’t hurt. Between treatment and bandaging, he lifts your wrist to his lips and plants a double tap of encouragement.

"So good," he rumbles.

Steve carefully unfolds and layers some gauze across the whole area and carefully tapes the edges. On instinct, you bend your knee to get yourself up, but the tape pops right off when you flex.

“Uh-uh, precious. You’re not doing anything until we get some ice on that.”

You think he means to leave you sitting on the ground, but Steve pivots to a squatting position, tucks his arms beneath your knees and around your waist, and lifts you straight into the air, kissing your cheek for good measure.

Well…all that gym equipment’s been good for something…

He carries you all the way back to the bed, kissing your forehead to force you to relax backward and excusing himself to the kitchen again. A few drawers open and shut. There’s a racket of ice clattering into a bag.

Another light scuttering noise.

“Ma, I gotta go. Yeah, I love ya. Okay, bye.” He rounds the doorway again, compress and coffee at the ready.

Steve wraps a fresh towel over your skin before arranging the ice to lay just right, covering as much curve as possible without too much pressure. By the time he’s satisfied, he’s created a majestic-looking nest of sheets and blanket around your foot.

You chuckle as you blow across the hot liquid in your toasty mug.

This is his near-military precision and focus again, except this time, you are the mission.

Finally, his equally warm gaze meets yours, dawn breaking outside the wall of windows surrounding the corner room.

“Want your phone back?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. “They can wait.”

Everything still aches, the dull throb seeming miles away when Steve grips your thigh before straightening.

“You know, precious, if you wanted breakfast in bed, you could have just asked.”

You shrug, a little embarrassed but very appreciative. This certainly hasn’t been your favorite way to wake up, but it’s not the worst either. Plus, the morning has just begun.

“Sometimes the only thing that gets your attention is a crisis, Captain.”

from this game of "Comfort My Characters"

Thank you for asking!

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