You’ve been trying to get her settled down for nearly an hour now, but she was not having it - fighting you with every fiber in that tiny body of hers.

You take a deep breath, sitting on the floor next to her, “Baby, he’s at work. Remember?”

“No!” She screams at you, kicking her feet dramatically against the floor of her room.

She was officially on the verge of being in the trenches of her ‘threenager’ stage, and her mood swings were all over the place. One minute she was clinging to you desperately - refusing to let you go, and the next she was wailing her lungs out because she didn’t want you to say goodnight to her, she wanted Steve.

The problem was that Steve was currently coaching a late night baseball game at the middle school.

They were rare, but you absolutely dreaded them. It meant you were on the bed time shift by yourself - in a house full of kids who were grumpy over not getting to see their dad the whole day. And in your girl’s brain, she just couldn’t understand why it wasn’t physically possible to see Steve right now.

“Babe,” you say softly, “I know you miss Daddy, but he’s gonna be back so soon, and he’ll come give you a big hug. I promise.”

The cries that are escaping her quiet a little at your assurance, but she still hiccups out, “Want him now.”

“I know you do,” you coo, trying to validate her feelings while she’s calming down - scooching yourself across the carpet to tentatively brush her hair back.

She lets you, and you somehow coax her to cuddle up to you - sniffles escaping her while your hand runs up and down her back soothingly.

You’re unsure of how much time has passed with her resting in your arms, but a quick glance at the clock makes you wince - realizing it’s way past her bed time.

“It’s time to go to sleep, sweet girl,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek, but unfortunately, she hasn’t forgotten her original mission of seeing Steve.

She worms herself out of your arms and starts yelling again, “No, want Daddy!”

“You and me both,” you grumble under your breath, giving up and leaning against her dresser.

You pull your knees up to your chest, trying to settle your own frustrations with her - willing yourself not to snap because that won’t make the situation any better.

She continues to shriek in protest, sufficiently working herself up to the point where she’s struggling to catch her breath, and you feel your own throat tighten at her refusal of you. You know better than to take it personally, know that kids say things they don’t mean when they’re upset, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear that your child doesn’t want you.

“Are you yelling at my wife?” Steve asks sternly, blessedly appearing in the doorway to her room.

He had come home during the tantrum - could hear his girl’s wails from downstairs, drowning the house in an aggravated cacophony of noise. When he heard her calling for him, he hustled up the stairs - heart twisting at seeing you curled in on yourself, feeling defeated from the useless effort of trying to get her to listen to you.

When she sees Steve, her attitude immediately shifts - picking herself up and running towards him. He hauls her up into his arms, cradling the back of her head while she collects herself in the comfort of his hold.

“You don’t scream at my wife,” he tells her firmly, ducking his head to meet her gaze.

She looks away guiltily, eyes flicking over to you before trying to burrow herself in his chest - not liking the reprimand.

“Look at me,” Steve instructs, gently prompting her head up.

She makes a soft noise of recognition at the command, peering up at him from under her eyelashes that are still wet with her tears.

He raises his eyebrows at his girl before continuing, “Don’t scream at her.”

Her lower lip wobbles at being scolded, but she nods her head, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, babe. It’s okay to miss me. It’s okay to feel sad, but you can’t yell at Mommy like that,” he says calmly, tone of assertiveness mixed in.

Her little fists curl tightly onto his jacket, “Makes Mommy sad too?”

“Yeah, it makes her sad when you do that,” Steve replies, casting a glance your way.

You’d been watching the scene unfold - tears from being overwhelmed streaking down to your chin, and when your girl notices, she squirms in Steve’s arms - trying to get down again. He lets her, and she waddles her way over to you, arms wrapping around your neck in apology.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she whimpers, hiding her face in the crevice of your neck.

You stand up with her still grasping onto you, “Thank you for apologizing, baby.”

Steve comes over to you, arm curling around your lower back to tug you to him, “Hey, honey.”

“Thank god you’re here,” you mumble, leaning into his touch.

He tenderly wipes your tears before tipping his head down to greet you with a kiss - completely forgetting the baseball hat that rests on his head and the rim of it knocks into your cheek.

The action startles your girl, and she lifts her head from you to look at him in confusion. You chuckle at the slight blush that blooms over Steve’s face from being so eager to press his lips to your own that he forgot to slip the hat off.

“Are you laughing at me?” He teases, lifting the cap - raking a hand through his hair to try to tame the wild locks that have been suffocating underneath it.

You grin, raising your own hand to card through the sweaty tendrils that curl at the base of his neck, “You’re so cute.”

“Daddy’s cute,” your girl repeats, a smile finally taking over her features.

Steve pouts at that, hand shooting out to tickle her side and she squeals in laughter - trying to crawl away from him despite the fact that she’s still hanging off of you. When he lets up, she stares at him lovingly - dissolving into giggles again when he holds his hat over her eyes, moving to kiss you properly this time.

His lips are soft against yours, working in slow presses to express his gratitude for you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, honey,” he murmurs quietly, thumb stroking over your jaw.

You hum in content, “It’s okay baby, your job is important.”

His leans down, nose skimming over the column of your throat, “You needing me is more important.”

Steve litters kisses back up your neck before placing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth - pulling away when your girl knocks the hat out of his hands. She beams at him when he makes a face of mock offense, and it’s then that your ten year old boy pads into the room, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Is she done?” He groans tiredly, stomping over to your girl's bed and plopping down on it.

“My bed,” she says, pointing possessively at it.

He yawns in response, “Yeah, well I couldn’t sleep in my bed with you being so loud.”

“Agreed,” his twin sister appears at the door.

“You hear that, baby? You were keeping your siblings up too,” Steve says playfully, pressing a sweet kiss to her hairline.

She scrambles out of your arms, attention now fully on her sister who picks her up easily. Your middle girl carries her over to the rocking chair that resides in the corner of the room- settling herself on it and propping your youngest up in her lap. They’ve formed quite the little bond, and it makes a pleasant ache settle under your ribs.

“Read book,” your toddler demands, and her sister immediately pulls one off the shelf that sits next to the chair to read to her. The sound of her voice carrying throughout the room makes her twin brother pop up on his elbows to listen along.

With your hands free, you slip them around Steve’s waist - melting into him, finally feeling like you can rest for the first time all day. He leans his head against yours, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders.

“Long day, honey?” He questions, keeping his voice hushed - not wanting to interrupt the storytime happening.

“It’s always long without you,” you admit, nestling your head under his chin.

The two of you fall silent as you watch your babes reading together - your middle girl trying to teach her sister some of the words, and your boy interjecting to get her to repeat after him when she says a word incorrectly.

It’s blissfully peaceful for a moment, before another sharp, shrill voice echoes throughout your home.

“Mommy!” It’s your youngest boy, calling from down the hallway.

You take a deep breath, pulling back from Steve to go assess the situation, but he stops you.

“I’ll get him,” Steve asserts, caressing your shoulders fondly.

You shake your head in protest, “No, Steve. You’ve been working all day. Go take care of yourself.”

He cups your face, tilting your head to look at him, “Be honest with me. Was it a hard day?”

You swallow harshly, thinking about how your youngest had spent most of the day acting out, and it’s the cue Steve needs to make his decision.

“No answer is an answer, baby. I’ll take care of it," he captures your lips in a brief kiss before turning to go take care of his boy.

You sigh heavily, tension releasing - in disbelief over how he finds new ways each day to prove to you that he’s the best husband you could ever ask for.

When you look back at your children, you freeze, because they’re already staring back at you.

“What?” You ask suspiciously.

“You love Dad,” your boy says teasingly.

You huff out a breath of laughter, “You love Dad too.”

You move to settle on the bed next to him, and he promptly rests his head in your lap - eyes closing lethargically.

“Yeah, but you’re in love with Daddy,” his twin emphasizes, placing the book back where it belongs.

“That’s how marriage is supposed to work, hun,” you tell her, hand absentmindedly running through your boy's hair.

“Could you,” she trails off, suddenly growing too shy to ask.

You smile encouragingly at her, “You can ask me anything, baby.”

Her confidence grows at that, “Could you tell us the story of how you and Dad fell in love?”

“Gross,” your boy complains, frowning at her.

“It’s not gross,” she snaps back.

“What’s not gross?” Your eldest boy shuffles into the room with a blanket wrapped around him.

A vivid memory of him flashes to the forefront of your mind; him standing in front of you when he was younger - begging for your attention because he was sick and wanted you to take care of him, and a bittersweet feeling of wistfulness settles over you at the sight.

“Don’t you have to wake up early tomorrow, hun?” You ask him, referring to the fact that he’s on the student council - knowing he has a meeting before school starts.

“Um, yeah, but it’s not my fault I’m awake,” he makes a point of looking at your toddler, “Was gonna offer to help, but then I heard Dad come home.”

He takes a seat on the floor by the dresser - assuming the position you were in earlier, and your youngest excitedly maneuvers herself off her sister, clambering over to her oldest brother and settling against his legs.

“Rude,” your girl quips.

“How come I’m the only one she didn’t come to?” Your middle boy complains.

“Maybe because you’re hogging her bed and think that Mom and Dad being in love is gross,” his sister deadpans.

“Just wait until you’re older, dude. You won’t think love is gross then,” your oldest chimes in - heated flush rising to his cheeks once he realizes what he’s let slip.

Your daughter gasps, “Oh my gosh, you’re in love!”

“No, I’m not!” He panics, vehemently denying the accusation, but he doesn’t sound all that convincing.

“Are you sure?” You ask tentatively, not wanting to pressure him too much, but eager to hear his answer.

“Dunno. I’m not sure if I even know what it feels like,” he shrugs, looking down to pick at his nails.

“That’s okay, hun. You’re only seventeen. You don’t need to feel pressured to know if it feels like love yet,” you tell him gingerly.

“Are we talking about how obvious it is that he’s in love with his girlfriend?” Everyone’s attention swings to your eldest girl, who stumbles into the room after tripping over a toy. Her hair is disheveled, and it’s clear that she’s just woken up.

“It’s not obvious,” he argues back.

“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you say,” she replies sarcastically - squeezing her way into the chair next to her little sister.

“Don’t taunt your brother,” you chide her.

“I think it’s obvious too,” your middle girl mumbles to her sister, and they laugh boisterously together.

Your oldest narrows his eyes at them, “Yeah, real funny.”

They continue to lob remarks back and forth like a tennis match, your youngest’s head is swiveling as she tries to keep up with the jeering. You feel a tap on your arm and look down to see your boy observing you worriedly.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask him cautiously.

“I don’t actually think you loving Dad is gross,” he admits, keeping his tone quiet so none of his siblings can hear him.

You give him a small smile, “Don’t worry hun, I wasn’t upset by that.”

He sits up, hand grabbing onto your arm, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod, “Always.”

He gets close to your ear, and you bend to hear him better, “I don’t know if any of my friends' parents are in love.”

“What makes you think that?” You ask curiously.

“None of them act like you and Dad,” he states, like it’s a fact that can’t be refuted.

“You’re father’s not shy about the things he loves. How lucky for us, right?” You murmur, and the conversation is interrupted by the man himself.

“Think I’ve got a new record for the quickest shower of my life,” Steve says, walking in with your four year old gripping onto his back.

He’s changed into sweatpants and a worn Hawkins Middle School Staff t-shirt that he wears to sleep in. His damp hair is pushed off his forehead, making it look slicked back, and your breath hitches when he lifts your boy up - hem of his shirt rising, exposing the sliver of skin that makes your head spin with desire.

God, you still thought he was the prettiest man you’ve ever seen.

Steve laughs at the sight of your children packed into the small room, “I was gone what? Ten minutes? And they’ve multiplied somehow.”

He sets his son down, who hops swiftly onto the bed with you - snuggling into your free side, “Daddy told me I had to wait for him to get ready for bed to see you. He took forever.”

Steve scoffs, “Again, that shower was maybe five minutes.”

You bite your lip in amusement, and Steve crams himself onto the minuscule bed - picking your youngest boy up and tossing him lightly to the other end of it, making him burst into a giddy fit of giggles.

“Needed you to move, I missed my wife,” Steve says jokingly, cuddling up to you instead - relaxing into your hold when you slip an arm around him.

“I want Mommy,” your boy replies, crawling back over to the two of you.

“So do I, buddy,” Steve grabs onto him, battling him for the spot next to you - peals of laughter leaving his lips as his dad fake wrestles with him. Your boy tires after a moment and lets himself stretch out on Steve’s legs.

In the silence that follows, your middle girl adjusts herself - swinging her own legs over her sisters, “So, can you?”

Steve notices her looking at you and him, “Can we what?”

“Tell us how you fell in love,” she repeats her previous question.

“It’s late,” you reply.

“And yet, we’re all awake,” Steve smiles at you, thumb coming up to swipe affectionately along your cheekbone.

“C’mon, Mom. We wanna know,” your oldest straightens up, adjusting your youngest in his arms. Her eyelids are drooping, though you can tell she’s still trying to ward off sleep.

You cave when you see the pleading eyes from the rest of your children, “I knew from the moment I met him that I wanted him to be mine.”

“Mom was obsessed with me,” Steve teases.

“Like you weren’t just as obsessed,” your eldest girl accuses.

“He wasn’t,” you say, and at the dramatic gasp from your girls, you add, “at first. He was going through a break up when I moved here.”

This is news to your kids, and they all start talking over one another with questions. When the most obvious question is asked - with who - you make eye contact with Steve, silently communicating on whether or not to disclose his relationship with Nancy Wheeler.

Steve hates lying to them, but doesn’t particularly feel like going down that specific rabbit hole at the moment, “It doesn’t matter who it was because Mom’s the love of my life.”

Your eldest girl rolls her eyes at the cop out, “Fine, but then how did things change between the two of you?”

“We had the same friend group,” you reply hesitantly. It’s not the full truth, because your children don’t know anything related to the hell you and Steve lived through during your teenage years - still haven’t decided if they ever would know the whole story.

“Like Uncle Dustin and Auntie Robin?” Your four year old inquires.

“Mhm,” Steve hums, “And I started to develop the biggest crush on Mom. I mean, how could I not? Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s got the best heart, doesn’t she?”

He grabs your hand, bringing your palm to his lips sweetly as your kids titter delightedly in agreement.

“But I was too nervous to tell her because her brother didn’t like me very much,” Steve mumbles against your hand, holding onto it firmly.

“Why not?” Your ten year old boy furrows his brows, finding it hard to believe that anyone wouldn’t like his father.

Steve squeezes your hand, giving you the courage to take over.

“Billy,” you take a deep breath, “Billy wasn't a good person. I loved him at one point, but things changed between us.”

“That’s why it’s really important to us that you all take care of each other,” Steve confesses.

It’s silent for a beat, before your oldest smiles and says what the rest of his siblings are all thinking, “We will.”

“What happened after Uncle Billy was gone?” Your middle girl questions meekly, not wanting to upset you.

“I knew she was hurting, and I wanted to help take some of that pain away,” Steve looks at you in adoration.

“He asked me out to Mel’s Diner, and we both knew it was a date but didn’t have the confidence to name it that yet,” you add on.

Steve delicately strokes his fingers along the back of your hand, “Then we grew closer, and one day we went to the local roller rink.”

“That’s when you told him you loved him, right?” Your oldest asks you softly.

“Yeah,” you close your eyes briefly at the memory, “He knocked me off my skates while trying to kiss me, and I knew I was a goner.”

The question that’s asked next - but how did you know it was love - makes you pause, reflecting on the harsh upbringing you had. The way no one had ever cared enough to give you a term of endearment and truly mean it before Steve.

Your mother had called you baby, but she left you to fend for yourself against your father. Neil would sneer sweetheart at you when he was drunk. Tommy Hagan would call you princess in the hallways of Hawkins High with a look of lust on his face. When you worked at the Hideaway, sleazy men would call you sugar to order another beer.

But Steve?

Steve had looked at you in awe when he called you beautiful, and there was never any underlying tone or suggestiveness behind it. It was just raw, unfiltered honestly, simply calling you that because he couldn’t fathom not telling you so.

“Because Dad was the only one who ever called me honey like it meant something to him,” you press a swift kiss to Steve’s cheek.

“That’s because it does mean something, honey,” he emphasizes.

“I don’t understand,” your eldest girl wonders.

“Well, he didn’t actually start calling me honey until we were officially together. I just mean that when he called me anything other than my name, I knew he wasn’t looking down on me or being sarcastic about it. He didn’t say it to intimidate me, or to mock me, but because he wanted me,” you admit, growing a bit shy under the lingering stare your husband is giving you.

Steve swallows thickly, eyes flitting over your features before landing on your lips - and you can feel it, feel the way his love pours out of him for you.

“I’m starting to feel like we’re interrupting something,” your oldest jokes, voice lowering when he realizes your toddler has drifted off into a deep slumber - right along with your youngest boy who’s passed out in Steve’s lap.

You feel a rush of heat course through you, because Steve was looking at you a bit too intimately in front of your children.

“I think we need to leave before they start making out,” your eldest girl chirps, which leads to a combination of grumbling and snickering at the thought.

That snaps Steve out of his stupor, “Hey, cut me some slack here. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, of course I wanna make out with her.”

“Ugh, Dad,” she gripes.

“Aren’t we supposed to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you?” Your oldest tags on.

“You are, but only because you’re a product of my love for her,” Steve grins cheekily.

“Oh god. You two make me sick sometimes. I’m going to bed,” your eldest girl slings her sister's feet off of her in order to stand up.

The motion sets a chain reaction of movement from your children - a flurry of goodnight hugs and teasing about how disgustingly in love their parents are. As you bid them goodbye for the evening, you feel an overwhelming swell of emotion stir within the crevices of your chest, because while Steve was being facetious, it was true. They were a product of your love, each inheriting something from you and from Steve; and you would never tire of admiring how perfect each of them turned out to be.

“You never told me that,” Steve murmurs, head resting against your stomach - arm tightly locked around your sternum as you finally unwind in your own bed.

“Hmm?” You hum drowsily.

He lifts his head to look at you, “What you told the kids, how you feel about me calling you honey.”

“It’s a little embarrassing,” you utter meekly.

His face pinches in concern, “You’re embarrassed that you like me calling you honey?”

“No, of course not. It’s about the fact that no one’s ever been genuine about calling me any sort of pet name before you were mine,” you confide, feeling increasingly ashamed of the fact that you were never worth anyone’s time.

“Oh, honey,” he breathes, rolling over onto his back - dragging you with him so you’re settled on top of him.

“I’m sorry. That sounded pathetic,” you mutter sheepishly.

“Absolutely not,” Steve replies steadily, “you wanting to be shown affection is not pathetic.”

You hide your face in the juncture of his shoulder, index finger tracing lazily along the freckles and moles that line his collarbone.

“It’s not?” You ask timidly.

“I think it’s criminal that you weren’t treated the way you deserved to be,” his tone is laced with fire - anger bubbling up for the people who made you feel less than.

You release a shaky breath, “So, it’s not me?”

“Not in the slightest, gorgeous,” he reassures, hands moving to grasp at your thighs - hiking you closer to him.

The jostled action forces you upwards, and he nudges his nose against yours, “Screw anyone who ever acted like you were an afterthought.”

You incline your head a little, brushing your mouth by his, “You’re the only person who’s ever really seen me, Steve.”

“Biggest honor of my life, honey,” he promises, slotting his lips with yours.

You thaw into his embrace, relishing the benevolence he has for you as he silently reminds you to trust him - to trust that your heart’s always going to be safe when it’s trapped within the confines of his.

Divider credits to @mattflvwr

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