#modern!steve

To call something real - something happening directly to you - a plot twist, seems horribly wrong though. Is there another word for it? Those moments that manage to catch you off guard, that come without warning or a build up. Moments that hit you repeatedly like a knife to a chest in a slasher flick. Or feel like the instant demise of oxygen leaving your lungs as a door opens to space. That sucker-punch from a red glove to the jaw when you think you’ve just won the big fight. 

What do you call that shit?

Robin’s voice is an echo, muffled and distorted as if you’re deep underwater. “Oh my god, hi! Wow, you are so much prettier than Steve mentioned.”

Who is with Steve?

Robin keeps going, putting her entire foot in her mouth, oblivious to the way Steve’s eyes haven’t left yours. You only stop staring yourself, after what feels like hours, to finally take in their intertwined hands as Robin babbles. “Wait, I mean…no, see…alright, he told us you were pretty is what I’m trying to say, but like you’re even prettier…”

Who the hell is with Steve?

Her laugh cuts through the fog and your eyes finally focus on the woman attached to the sound. 

She’s pretty, just like Robin keeps saying over and over again.

Dark, shiny hair, piercing eyes that you can see - even from this distance - are a hazel to almost match his. A hypnotizing smile, curves and a confidence radiating off of her… everything you wish you were but aren’t.  

She laughs again, assuring Robin she gets it (in an infuriatingly humble way), introducing herself as Leigh Kensington.

Nancy perks up at the name when Robin gasps and shouts, “Oh my god! Nance!” Robin looks back, waving her over, “Just like Legally Blonde!” Her voice attempts to lower as she sighs to Leigh, “She loves Reese Witherspoon. It is Vivian Kensington right?” The question louder and directed at Nancy again. Robin doesn’t even take a breath to let her answer though, “Which is hilarious because Steve’s mom’s name is Vivian and you’re dating Steve and you work in legal, right? And-“

Emerald glass shatters around your feet as the bottle of beer falls from your hand, the sharp shards scatter quickly, too broken to ever be put back together. Your legs turn to lead and muscles are no longer in communication with your brain as it finally makes the connection to what you’re seeing and hearing and what that means for you. 

“Shit! Jesus, woman-“ Eddie jumps back from you as the glass skirts across the pavement further. 

Robin finally turns in your direction at the commotion, her brows knit together in worry. Face progressively getting more concerned as it tightens. Her hand lets a bean bag fall to the board with an echoing thump. “Hey, you look-“

Not waiting to hear the end of her sentence, you will your legs to work and spin, taking off in search of literally any place that isn’t there. Your feet pound against the pavement, thuds that vibrate through the rubber of your soles all the way up to your eardrums.

It’s seconds, less than a minute, and it’s as if the entire stadium - hell, your entire world - has spun upside down. Roars to your left, the rumbling of fan’s excitement from the nosebleeds down to the field mingle and harmonize with the rapid beating in your chest. As you keep running with no real destination other than away, your shoulders bump stranger’s, meeting their frowns and scoffs with whispered and rushed apologies. The familiar sting behind your eyes forms, eyelashes growing damp as you suck in a sharp breath. No more running, you need somewhere to hide. 

You’re not going to cry about this. You’re not. How could you be so stupid? How could you let this happen?

The familiar long line all women are accustomed to grabs your attention and you’re off again. Disgruntled and shouted annoyance from everyone in line echoes across the dull gray tile as you rush past them, yelling something about an emergency. You slam a turquoise door, sliding the silver latch with shaking fingers as your forehead rests on the cold material of the stall. You focus on breathing through your nose and out your mouth, this is fine. You’re fine. 

A buzz in your pocket once, twice, and then a third time, and you don’t have to pull your phone out to know they’re texts from him. Despite your better judgment, you look:

It buzzes a fourth time and you lock the phone, debating just chucking it into the toilet. 

The sleeve of your sweatshirt presses to your mouth as you clear your throat. No tears are falling for him, not today, not ever. 

You hate Steve Harrington. 

This was always the plan.

You hate Steve Harrington. 

It’s not like you were in love with the guy. 

Even as you think it, the panic turns to defense inside of yourself - scrounging around for rocks and bricks, reinforcing the wall around your heart you had started to let crumble for a boy you thought was worth it. 

“Girl, what the hell?”

A familiar pair of red converse with writing and doodles covering any space they can, mirror your feet at the base of the stall. You step back, fingers hovering over the latch, ready to tell her it’s fine. Robin isn’t an idiot though, and you’re certain that despite your denial, she’ll take one look at you and make you spill your guts. 

Her feet move closer, the familiar clink of rings meeting metal hits your ears, letting you know she’s pressing her palms to the door. Robin’s voice is softer and for one brief, horrible moment, you think she knows. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

The guilt that’s hovered over you for months like a storm cloud, releases, engulfing you completely, the promise of sunlight no longer on the horizon. Funny how just hours ago, you were thinking about Robin finally knowing, about how she couldn’t be mad, not when you were both so happy. Your gut twists. You’ve lied to your friend for so long, and for what? 

“Just, um, cramps.” The lies keep on building, pushing at the dam you’ve created to keep it all from her. You’re just buying time now, the pressure is going to reach its breaking point soon and you’re worried your friendship with Robin will be washed away when it does. 

At the mention of cramps, the disgruntled voices of those in line turn to understanding - muted solidarity in the form of tampon and painkiller offerings. 

“Robin, why don’t you grab her some food or something? Maybe a ginger ale? I’ve got stuff in my bag and we’ll meet you all out there,” another familiar voice suggests. 

“But I can-“

“That would be really great, Robs,” you interrupt her protest, pushing out the words to sound as eager as you can. 

A pair of white tennis shoes sneak between Robin’s and the stall door - like Nancy is trying to put space between the two of you, shielding her girlfriend from any more of your lies. 

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Robin starts hesitantly, “I saw this gourmet grilled cheese stand thing and-“

“No!” Fingers curling over your mouth at the severity of your interruption, you take a beat before quietly continuing, “Uh, um, actually, just some chips please?”

Your eyes close, willing the memory of your last grilled cheese away. Now is not the time to remember the man you shared it with.

How he looked at you.

How he asked you to open up, how it made you feel when he said he knew you.

How he kissed you.

You hate Steve Harrington.

The initial shock has stopped sizzling and is now a full burn, anger releasing over your frazzled nerves. What else has Steve claimed, what other things could be ruined when all you can do is relate them to him? But as quickly as the anger for him forms, you have to glance down and realize there are three fingers pointing back at yourself.

Why did you give him the opening?

“Roger that, kitten!”

You’re sure she gives a salute to your closed stall door, the red sneakers turning on their heels, her footsteps fading away. The pristine white of Nancy’s twist slightly towards the door. Her voice is quiet as she asks, “Can I come in there?”

Clearing your throat once more, you try to brush her off, “Nancy, really, I’m fi-“

“Bullshit.”

Maybe it’s the way she says the word - that a girl you don’t know all that well can see through your lies, be so sure you’re not fine. Maybe it’s because you desperately wish that you could have opened the door for Robin, to leave the football game and go drown in margaritas and dissect every little thing that led to this moment and let her tell you it was all going to be okay and boys are stupid. Or maybe, it’s the fact that you’ll never get to do that, never allowed to tell Robin, that makes you slide the latch unlocked for Nancy Wheeler.

She slips in quickly, her brown curls that are clipped in a half up-do bounce as she tilts her head quizzically at you. Her arms cross over the embroidered team logo on her sweatshirt, her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She’s got this way about looking at you that, without saying anything, makes you want to tell her everything. An energy radiates off of Nancy, a quiet curiosity bubbling under the surface - or perhaps it’s frustration. You’re being studied, a puzzle she can’t crack. 

Her lips twist as she clearly debates her words before she finally settles on a simple, “You didn’t know?”

Nancy’s question makes your stomach drop, solidifying that she not only knows about you and Steve, but that Leigh is not a new or unknown development. Your mind swirls to their argument on the beach, Nancy finding you in the bathroom - how long has Steve been seeing Leigh? 

“No,” your response comes out in a half laugh, trying to cover up any feelings that attempt to sneak out and reveal too much. The toe of your sneaker scuffs at a knick in the tile as you avoid her eyes. 

She tucks a curl behind her ear and sighs. Her face pinches into that quizzical look again, huffing, “He’s an idiot.”

Rolling your eyes, you shake your head. You don’t want to dwell on how she connected the dots about you and Steve or how you’ve all been lying to Robin, and you especially don’t want her pity. “Nancy, I really don’t need you to comfort me. I’m fine. Can we just go?”

At the clamp of Nancy’s mouth shutting and the purse of her lips, you regret the icy tone almost immediately. Squeezing your eyes closed, you try again. “I’m sorry, I’m just…” trailing off because where do you even start? You’re mad, hurt, confused, blind-sided, the list could go on and on and you don’t care to reach the end at this moment. You force a smile, changing the subject all together, “Don’t you want to get out there and hear how incredibly little Robin truly knows about sports?”

Nancy’s lips twitch and her arms drop to her sides with a sigh. “Right, well, if you change your mind, I like to think I’m a pretty good listener if you ever want to talk about anything.”

Sometimes, people say things to say things - like they feel as if they’re supposed to say a certain thing when a certain situation calls for it. One look at the kindness in Nancy’s eyes, the small smile on her lips, and you know that is not the case right now. She genuinely, truly means she’s there to listen if you need it. Despite lying to all of them, despite barely knowing her, and the realization has tears forming behind your eyes for an entirely different reason than earlier. 

“Thanks,” the word leaves you quietly. It feels small and inconsequential in return for a gesture you’re not even sure Nancy realizes the weight of. 

That is, until she turns from the door, her hand hovering over the latch as she faces you again. “I should mention though, that one of you is going to have to tell Robin. Sooner rather than later. And I make no promises it won’t be me, but she should hear it from one of you.”  Her tone is adamant with absolutely no room for arguing.  

Your guilt tugs you down harder now, only able to nod in response. 

Nancy’s head bobs once in return, silently agreeing to drop the subject unless you bring it up again, and she leads the way out of the bathroom. 

You hear Robin before you see them. She’s passionately arguing her case about a new musical group that Eddie is scoffing at. Leigh holds her hand up at Eddie’s argument and begins agreeing with Robin, who beams before sticking her tongue out at him. 

“Hey.”

The word freezes you and Nancy clears her throat as she makes her way towards the others. Steve pushes off from the brick wall as you turn to face him. 

You’ve seen many looks in his eyes before now. When they glint with mischief and charm as he flirts, how they soften as you tell a story. When they’ve turned darker as clothes are shed and they get to roam freely over your body, taking you in like an artwork. How they seem to melt like honey all over you when you’ve found them staring and they don’t care to appear ashamed he’s been caught. 

Now, they’re looking at you with far too much pain behind them that doesn’t seem fair. He shouldn’t get to look at you like that, he shouldn’t get to look sad. 

Steve extends his hand, a green can with beads of condensation running down the sides of it in his palm. You ignore how your fingers touch and they way his try to linger as you take the soda from him.

When you don’t say anything, he pulls the sleeves of his maroon sweater over his fingers, the toe of his boot scuffing the pavement as his brows meet in the middle. Several pieces of hair fall over his forehead that’s wrinkled with concern, letting you know he’s run his hands through it too many times to have already broken whatever products he’s put in it. 

“Can we go somewhere and talk for a sec?”

A sec. 

A quick conversation, one he just wants to get over with. To tell you what? Things you’ve already concluded from his surprise today? That he’s with someone. He wants to stay friends. He never felt the way you were starting to feel for him. This was always the plan. 

You’re not interested in anything Steve has to say any more. 

“Game’s about to start, Harrington, maybe later.” Your tone is clipped and short, smile forced. 

His brows pinch closer together as he tilts his head, the harsh line of his jaw flexing. “Really? Cause the way you ran off and that tone could have fooled me.” 

“I’m fine, I don’t know exactly what you’re hearing, but if you have something you’d like to say, by all means Steve, let’s hear it.” 

Steve closes his eyes and a long breath leaves his nose, “Please-“ his plea is cut off by her. 

“Hi, I’m Leigh. It’s so nice to meet you, Steven’s told me so much about you! I hope everything is okay? Everyone was so worried…”

She reaches forward, arms wrapping around you and your stiffening body. 

She’s fucking hugging you. 

“Uh, yeah, you…too. And yes, thanks, I’m fine. This will help.” Untangling yourself from her, you hold up the can and force another smile. “Thanks Steven.”

Leigh beams at him, grabbing his hand and you just can’t help yourself, turning to him again. “Actually, Steven was just letting me know he had something to tell me, what was so important, buddy?”

Eddie coughs as Steve narrows his eyes. Nancy claps her hands, interrupting the tension filled moment, “Alright, ready guys?”

Robin points towards the bleachers. “I’m ready for tip off! To our seats!”

Nancy gives you a look, some sort of attempt at bringing light to the moment in front of her, before she wraps her hand around Robin’s arm and starts to walk away. “It’s kick off, hun.”

Leigh laughs as Robin lets out a long ‘Oh’, Steve and her following. When Steve glances back over his shoulder at you, the full can of soda meets the trash as you turn towards Eddie. Stealing the fresh beer from his hands, the plastic cup tips to your lips, foam slowing you down as you chug. 

“Woah, woah, woah! Easy killer.” Eddie tugs on the cup, pulling it from your mouth. “From my understanding, football games are long and we need to pace ourselves. Stevie is not worth a two in the afternoon black out.”

Your mouth opens to protest and he waves his hand in front of your face, “Ah, ah, ah, you can squeeze my fingers or something whenever you feel like punching him instead.”

“Ed-“ you begin, adamant you need another drink (or twenty) to deal with the day you’re about to have. 

He begins to walk away, waving his hand dismissively, “No really, I’m a secret masochist, I’ll love it.”

Your eyes narrow, hating the way your lips fight a smile that wants to meet his mood. Despite everything, you’re grateful for him and Nancy. Unsure of how to even attempt to show them how much you appreciate them. Especially after Nancy’s reminder that someone was going to have to tell Robin eventually, and these two had been lying for the both of you, keeping your secret when they didn’t need to.  

Up ahead, you hear Leigh laugh, catching her head thrown back and his smile, the squeeze of her fingers on his bicep and you gulp. Your feet plant to the ground harder and you tug on Eddie’s wrist. As the group rounds the corner, heading to their seats, he turns to look at you with his eyebrows raised. 

Eddie must see something in your expression because he mumbles, “Such a fucking idiot,” before he turns to the nearest vendor. “Yeah, hi, I need four very large beers. And I’m talking take your idea of large and triple it.”

This time the smile wins just a little. It’s quick to fall though, when Eddie taps his cup to one he hands you and proclaims, “If you can’t date ‘em, drink about ‘em. To the losers who break our hearts.”

“I-“ ready to tell him that’s not it at all, but his look makes your mouth close. 

You don’t say it out loud, you don’t dare to speak it into existence - Eddie is wrong. You’re not broken hearted, you’re just mad Steve didn’t tell you. You’re mad that clearly they all knew, so why not you? That’s all. 

Your cup taps Eddie’s again and you let the beer wash away the bitter taste in your mouth. 

Screw Steve Harrington. 

As the third cup of cheap beer hits your lips, you risk a glance down the line of your row again. Immediately regretting it like you have every other time. Leigh pushes the loose strand of hair on his forehead back and your eyes return to the field quickly.  You’re sure your skin is turning just as green as the artificial turf, the beer making it a little easier to admit to yourself that you are jealous of the intimate moment. Your gut twinges slightly at the remembrance of only a few short weeks ago when you purposely tried to make him feel what you are now. You have no right to be mad at him. 

The players blur as they move in an intricate dance only they know before anyone else. You’ve always liked sports, but today has been a good reminder as to why. Players and teams practice and memorize skills and plays that work - but there’s no guarantees. They need intuition to know when to use certain moves, to have a good defense and follow their gut and deviate from the plan when they think the other team is pulling a new play. 

It’s all predictable, but not at the same time. Risks and playing with the odds, yet revolving around something incredibly low stakes like a ball in a net or getting past a painted line on fake grass. It’s also realistic. Sure, there are once in a lifetime passes like the Minnesota Miracle or a ball sinking into the net from a distance unfathomable as the final buzzer sounds - but most of the time, it’s just about who’s the best that day. Who ran faster, who slipped through someone else’s mistake. You like that the players can pour themselves into it and it’s still not going to be a win every time, because it’s just not sometimes, and that’s okay. They lose and they get up and they do it all over again. They also know that if they win, it doesn’t mean they’ll keep doing so without hard work and dedication. 

Poetic to your circumstances, really. Steve was just better at the game, and you knew the eventual outcome of your deal with each other. So really, is there anyone to be mad at here other than yourself?

Steve’s laugh echoes down the line and your jaw clenches, because maybe Steve was better at the game, but he certainly wasn’t playing fair. 

Yeah, you can still be mad at him. 

Your eye twitches as Robin and Leigh gush over horror movies they both love, a breath you didn’t know you were holding leaving you when they head off together for a bathroom break. 

His eyes actually burn your cheek from the way they stare down the row in your direction now that he doesn’t have her to focus on. Clear to you now that all you are - all you ever were - is an afterthought, something to pass the time. 

Refusing to look his way, you try not to feel bad about the sigh you hear all the way from five seats away. 

Oh, I’m sorry Steve, are you mildly upset that I don’t want to talk to you after you got me to open up just to blindside me?

You’re not surprised when a dark denim leg presses against your shoulder, his large brown boots landing on the open seat next to you as he climbs over. As he sits, you stand, quickly making your way down the row, occupying Robin’s empty seat on the other side of Nancy. 

Steve stands, hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you being fucking serious right now?”

Turning your attention back to the field, your knees bounce with restless energy, anticipating his next move. An intricate dance just like the players below you. 

Steve climbs back over, and you can’t help but relish a little in his groan and mumbled comment about being twelve under his breath as you shimmy between Eddie and Nancy, shoving Eddie into your old seat, ignoring his grunted protests. Unable to help yourself, you smirk into your beer, watching out of the corner of your eye as Steve’s jaw clenches. Making him irritated seems only fair under the circumstances. 

You’re ready for his next attempt, sure he’s going to make Nancy swap with him or come up behind you. So when he puts his foot on the chair, you move to the edge of your seat. Steve pounces, tumbling over the back of the row in front of you instead. He’s breathless, cheeks flushed pink as his hands land on the armrests of your spot. His arms cage you in as he leans over the back of the blue metal chairs, ignoring the grumbled complaints of those he bumped out of the way in his pursuit. 

His face fills your vision, freckles that dot the sharp slope of his nose, the light scruff he’s let grow more highlight’s the angle of his jaw and the curve of his cupid’s bow. For a second you forget you’re supposed to be mad when you finally meet his eyes. They steal all of your attention and you hate that you can’t look away. 

You hate him. 

“We’re gonna talk,” he huffs, catching his breath.

“You should hit the gym.” A sad attempt to change the subject, to hurt him a little. Your eyes flit down to his lips in a mistake. You can’t look at his eyes again so you settle on his cheek, trying your best to ignore the endearing pair of freckles. 

“I know you’re mad, and if you just let me explain, I-“

“You’ve had plenty of chances to explain before today Steve!”

The hush of the people around you makes your eyes close, taking a moment for a calming breath. Eddie coughs into his fist on your left and squints at the field, Nancy scratches the denim on her thigh and clears her throat on your right. 

Steve’s eyes narrow, his top lip pulls in, tongue licking over it before he lets out a cold laugh, “Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to do, tell you while we’re fucking? Or how about after you told me about your parents? I-“

The beer in your hand splashes across his face as he coughs and sputters. His fingers wipe over his eyes and you stand, pushing past the gawking crowd and down the stairs. 

Nancy and Eddie were right.

Steve Harrington is a fucking idiot. 

You’d rode the train past your stop twice, both your airpods in and a look about you that dared anyone to even glance at you the wrong way. At the sight of the sun sinking past the horizon, you bite down on your cheek, willing your gut to stop twisting as it attaches a thing you love to him. Steve Harrington was not going to ruin sunsets for you, you draw the line at fucking grilled cheese and football. 

The flick of your entryway lamp illuminates your place, the lyrics “You call me strawberry wine…” drift out of your airpod as you remove it from your ear. You’ve had enough of the universe’s poetic irony today. Tossing the case and your keys into their dish as you turn the lock on your door. 

The sunset is the least of your worries, what didn’t he touch here? Your door, the coffee mugs he proclaimed as his favorites, the counter, the fire escape. You reach for the bottle of wine on top of your fridge as you click on the Instagram notification. 

A caption reading ‘We just hope both teams had fun🏈 ’ below her photos. A selfie first, Robin’s bashful face filling the screen, getting her cheek kissed by Nancy. Another, this one with you - she must have caught it during bags - a shot of Eddie and you mid-laugh. The last one clearly taken after you left, the group in the stands, Steve’s sweater gone, replaced by a dry light blue t-shirt. You click your phone locked again and drink straight out of the bottle as you walk down the dark hallway. Old wood floors creak underneath your feet as you make your way to your room. 

Fuck, your room.

It’s a moment that perhaps you should be crying during, do normal people cry when boys like Steve Harrington blindside them? When a man you start to break down for was spooning you fully clothed at the start of the day and getting a beer tossed in his face by the end, shouldn’t some sort of despair come out in the form of dramatic tears? Nothing leaves your eyes though as you strip the sheets off of your bed. Steve’s not worth any. No guy is. 

Tugging harshly at the last corner of the fitted sheet with a frustrated grunt, you throw all of your bedding out into the hallway and slam the door. The flutter of paper on your desk as the door swings closed catches your eye, your chest tightens at the realization of what you left there. 

The glow from the setting sun outside washes over the photobooth strip as you walk towards it, lit up in a perfect square of tangerine. Your thumb brushes the last photo as you pick it up, wondering how it all went so wrong, so fast.

It rips easier than maybe it should have, diminished to something small and as broken as you can make it before you toss it in the trash in your bathroom. Your eyes linger on the shower curtain and then your shampoo. The wine bottle presses to your lips again as you make a mental note, adding those to your list of things to replace tomorrow as well. 

Your phone pings again, the group chat you’ve just been recently added to: 

Your thumb presses the lock after turning it to silent, the dots from Robin appearing letting you know you don’t want to keep reading all of them talk. Your bare mattress stares at you as you drink more wine. They’re home. Together? In his apartment? In his bed?

It doesn’t matter, good for Steve, hope he’s happy. Good fucking riddance, right? 

Opening your bedroom door, you sigh at the pile of bedding, stepping over it and making your way to your couch. Your protective wall is still standing, your armor dusted off and polished once more. It’s time to pick up the pieces, replace what’s broken, and move on from what others like Eddie may want to tell you is heartbreak, but you would argue is just called life. 

And life is pain, and anyone who tells you differently is selling something, right?

Halloween season used to be one of your favorite times of the year. Parties and opportunities to dress up like someone you’re not. Evenings to be a character in a story far different than the one you were living, with lines already planned for you to say, an ending meticulously thought out. Now, however, the red fabric that clings to your body serves only as a reminder of how your life is the furthest thing from picture perfect. 

Originally, when you found the dress thrifting with Robin, it had felt a little like fate. A tiny and gentle nudge from the universe in the right direction - a sign. Now, you’re sure it was actually some twisted joke. Someone, somewhere out there, is laughing it up as they play with you like a plastic doll. Because even meeting Robin, a thing you were positive was divine intervention, is now wrapped around him. Some evil force at work as they had you meet her, then him, while they cackled and said ‘Ha! Watch this! This one’ll be good.’

Your costume now a cruel oxymoron - a girl who resents love dressed as someone who cherishes it. Pretending to be a girl who loved a boy endlessly, so devoted, she claimed to die the day he supposedly did. A girl who-

“You know,” a finger pokes your cheek, “For a princess, your sour look is not very princessey.”

Robin raises her eyebrows at you, hands on her hips, orange fabric of her skirt swishing around her thighs as she turns. Her sparkly red turtleneck and shine of her black mary jane’s glint in the strobe lights that are making sweeps over the room. 

You try to smile, if only for the fact that Nancy actually got her to wear the costume. Crossing your arms, your eyebrows raise as you respond, “Well, you must be a detective or something, Miss Dinkley.”

Robin rolls her eyes, but fights a smile, fiddling with the magnifying glass in her hands. When you don’t say anything more though, her big blue eyes soften as they glance up at you through fake glasses, and she reaches out and squeezes your shoulder. “Seriously, is everything okay? I feel like…” she trails off, shaking her head, at a loss for words it seems - an unusual thing for her. 

The line for the bar shifts forward and you nod, that terrible feeling still sits heavy in your stomach like a bag of rocks - you’re weighed down, to be left at the bottom of your guilt to drown. “I’m fine, Robin,” it slips out when you repeat the words quieter, because maybe if you say it enough times it’ll come true, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aha!” She points a finger in your face, “You just said be fine, implying something is in fact not fine currently and-“

“Robin,” your laugh is unconvincing even to yourself. You rub your temples as you face the bar. “Quit being a meddling kid.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes out with a little more bite than you intend and her mouth shuts quickly. It’s silent for only a few seconds though, before her shoulder bumps yours. Her question quiet, “How long were you waiting to use that one?”

Your head rests against her shoulder in a silent ‘I’m sorry’, hers against yours in an equally unspoken ‘You’re forgiven’ as you sigh. “Oh, just since you put on the costume.”

She hums and then lifts her head and faces you. “Last thing, and then I’ll drop it, I swear.”

Facing her, you swallow harshly as she stares at you with eyes that feel like they can see everything. Even more so when she says, “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but you’re important to me. And if there’s something going on…” she trails off before smiling sadly and continuing, “You can tell me, okay? You can open up and I’ll probably talk too much and offer too much advice, but comes from a place of love and-“

You hug her tightly, Robin wraps her arms around you just as fiercely as her sentence breaks off. Your response sticks in your throat, an alarming hope of ‘what if I told her?’ rising in you that you need to squash down quickly. She can’t know, despite Nancy’s warning that she should. If she did find out, you’re not certain she’d be on your side anyways. It was all your idea to lie to her, it’s selfish of you to ask her to comfort you in this situation. 

Especially after you made her practically drag you to the party tonight. Eventually giving into her puppy dog pout (for a girl who easily falls for it, she has a pretty convincing one herself), your guilt all but consuming you at this point. You could put on a smile, a brave face - you could pretend to be someone you’re not, just tonight, and just for her. 

You haven’t seen Steve since the football game, ignoring any sort of notification related to him in your phone. But in the process of trying to remove anything Steve from your life, you’ve removed Robin from it as well - a packaged deal. Each ignored message, each call you watched ring and left unanswered, every dodged lunch, were just more punches to your gut, pieces of your heart ripped off and stepped on. You missed Robin so much, one night out, forced to make small talk with him, was a fair price to pay for the deceit and lies - if it meant you got to see her again. 

When you break away from the hug, it’s your turn for the bar finally. Both of your eyes widen at the sight of the specialty drink menu. ‘Bootini’s’ and things like a cocktail called ‘Vampire Kiss’ making both of you frown at the dollar signs next to each. You’re suddenly grateful for the tequila that’s still filling your stomach with warmth and Eddie’s insistence on taking the shots before leaving Nancy’s. 

“They do have like, a regular bar, right? Cause your girl is on a budget and…” your sentence trails off as Robin smiles at something, someone, over your shoulder. 

“Well, there isn’t much money in revenge.” 

His voice alone is enough to make your shoulders go up, to cause your stomach to twist, but when you spin to see him, you know it’s not the tequila making the room feel fuzzy and your stomach heave.  

He can’t be serious. 

He is not wearing that. He’s not.

“Come up with that all by yourself, did ya?” Robin pats Steve’s shoulder and before he can reply she’s holding up a hand in front of his face, letting out a low whistle. “Hoolly cooww.” She motions for Leigh to spin who blushes and laughs, but obliges as Robin keeps going, “Miss Morticia Addams, if you wanna ditch Dingus here…”

Steve puts his hands on his hips, an edge to his tone you may have found amusing if it wasn’t because of his best friend hitting on his girlfriend. “Seriously, Robin? Are you being serious right now? Where’s Nancy?”

Robin rolls her eyes at him and Leigh laughs more, squeezing his shoulder. “I should be the one saying holy cow! Look at you two! Y/N, where did you find that dress?”

God, you hate that she’s nice. 

Her dress is phenomenal. The low cut, black fabric that hugs her curves and drapes over her flattering in a way it simply wouldn’t be on you. She’s got the perfect gauzy sleeves, the rings and red lips and nails, she’s even got a rose and scissors in her hand. 

You hate that you want to like this girl. 

Your smile is tense, “I, uh-“

The bartender clears her throat and you point, saved by the bell, turning your back on the group. A name of one of the drinks leaves your lips and you’re vaguely aware of Robin saying something about finding the others and to not order her something with whiskey in it because he remembers what happened last time.  

The deep breathing through your nose is a sad attempt for composure when you get a longer chance to take Steve in. Even with the dim bar lighting, the mirror behind the shelf of various liquors gives you a perfect view. You’re not sure whether you want to kiss him or punch him. 

Steve’s dressed in all black, head to toe, the v-cut of the flowy top revealing quite a bit of his dark chest hair and you swallow, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter. You always hated how Buttercup couldn’t tell it was Westley, in fact, you hate it in any movie when a character has a mask over their eyes and suddenly everyone is unable to tell who they’re dancing with, hell who’s kissing them. If anything, the black band of fabric across his face only makes the lips below and the eyes underneath it stand out more  - the curve of his top lip you can still feel under your tongue. The colors of his iris’ so distinctly Steve that you’d recognize anywhere - instead of a sea after a storm, a forest. He really went all out, even his scruff shaved to have a thin mustache, he’s wearing the black cap pushing down his normally styled and perfectly messy hair, and when you glance down, you’re not surprised to find matching pirate boots standing next to you. 

His hand reaches across your chest with a matte black card - that kind that isn’t glossy like a normal one and you quickly hand the bartender crumpled bills instead, earning a sigh from Steve. 

“You’re not seriously wearing that.” Weeks of no contact, and you hate that your voice doesn’t come out strong and confident when that’s all you can think to say. 

Risking a glance his way, you find his eyes are already on you, his jaw clenching before he asks, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Your inhale is sharp - how can he be this cruel? How can he act like that costume means nothing, or like the last few weeks weren’t awful? Weren’t they awful for him? To go from talking almost every day to nothing?

“Are you fucking kidding me Steve? After everything, after what you said at the game, you’re really gonna stick to not admitting what this is?” Gesturing up and down his body as you ask. He truly can’t be this much of an asshole, he can’t-

Steve shrugs. “I’m just a pirate. I don’t know what your problem is.”

Turns out, he can be. 

Before you can even start to formulate something nasty to respond with, a person walking by shouts out, “Oh nice! As you wish, dudes!” Clapping Steve’s shoulder as they waltz past like it’s the 90’s and people still say ‘dudes’ to strangers. 

Dude did just make your point for you at least, though. 

You hold your hands out to the retreating body in a show of ‘see?’ and then childishly flip Steve off. “The case rests, your honor.”

“It was last minute and I didn’t-”

His weak and pathetic attempts at excuses fall on deaf ears as you push your way through the crowd towards the beacon of red neon announcing an exit for this god forsaken bar. 

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, but you don’t think it is - screw Steve Harrington for ruining a fucking bar, for ruining the word dude, for ruining The Princess Bride, for ruining everything. 

Screw everything.

The sting of rejection and the quiet anger that’s been sitting at a simmer since the game rests over an open flame now. Your insides quickly grow to a rapid boil. Apathy and anger rage for the top spot as everything you’ve tried to keep under a lid steams, ready to overflow and burn. 

Ignoring the calls of your name, something still makes it past your seeing red rampage of an exit, connecting the voices, aware of Steve saying something to someone, but you can’t really find it in yourself to care who or what. The cool air hits your body as you push outside, stinging against the damp skin under your eyes. 

A hand on your shoulder makes you jump, his voice quiet, “Y/N-“

“Don’t touch me, Steve,” you warn, taking a step backwards after yanking your shoulder from under his fingers. Your hands balled into fists as you spin to look at him. 

He runs a hand through his now uncovered hair, face fully revealed without a mask too. He watches you closely, his voice gentle, as he raises his hands up, “Look, I just want to make sure you’re okay. You can-“

“You don’t get to check on me anymore, or worry about if I’m okay, you’re not my boyfriend,” your tone scathing. 

Steve’s gaze bounces over your face, his jaw hardens as the vein in his forehead dances. Somehow his voice is soft despite the bite to it, “Yeah, I know. You’ve made that perfectly clear. But I am your friend, and I -“

Your laugh causes him to break off. You gesture inside and then to his outfit. “Friends don’t treat each other this way, Steve.”

He drags his palms down his face, his own disbelieving laugh echoes against the brick of the bar. “Are you kidding me? I have been nothing but your friend! I am sorry about what I said at the game, but really, when was I supposed to tell you? And this costume…I…” He shakes his head, licking his lips as he takes a step closer to you. “Look. I should have told you about Leigh sooner, but if you would have given me five minutes to-“

“Five minutes. A sec.” Your hands move in quotation marks as you recall the conversation he wanted to have at the game too. Your face pinches into an irritated scowl as your hands drop in front of you, palms open. Exasperation laced around your words, “What the fuck is there to explain anymore, Harrington? You’re dating her and you didn’t tell me - the story is over.”

Steve stands just in front of you now, that gravitational pull at silent work again, even weeks apart unable to switch it off. Your bodies move with each other, your voices rise in sync, your chests fall with shared breaths. A different sidewalk, that same feeling of flight or fight, but you know that it’s too late this time. Even turning the heat off isn’t going to fix the damage that’s been done. 

Another laugh huffs out of him, “You’d like that, right? That’s it, case closed. Y/N calls the shots and decides everything.” He shakes his head and points to his chest, towering over you, “This is all such total bullshit. You’re mad at me for something that was your idea, because you didn’t get to decide when it was over.” He shrugs, waves of nonchalance carrying his words through the air to hit you hard like a slap across the face. “You’re a spoiled brat who’s mad because you’ve lost a toy.”

Any maturity you attempted to have towards the situation has evaporated. 

“Me? The spoiled brat? Excuse me, Mr. 50th floor and Daddy’s Credit Card. Take a look in the fucking mirror, Steve!”

Your chests almost touch with each ragged breath as his hands run through his hair and he pulls. A frustrated groan at your words, while the volume at which his come out becomes louder, “I’ve got plenty of fucking mirrors, why don’t you take your own advice! You’re a hypocrite. You can’t even admit it to yourself, can you? Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me you didn’t ask me for this arrangement. Tell me that the words ‘no feelings’ and ‘just sex’ didn’t leave your mouth. Tell me what you have to be upset with me for then!”

Your chin quivers at his words, the truth of them daring the tears behind your eyes to fall. 

Steve gulps, his fingers dance on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His eyes shine with his own held back tears, like he regrets how he said it but not that he did. His voice quiets as he pleads, “Tell me.”

He doesn’t get to look at you like that. He doesn’t get to say those things to you and then look at you like that.

What happened last time Steve Harrington asked you to open up and tell him something?

Tequila lingers on your tongue, aiding in the formation of words that are meant to sting - you want to hurt him like he’s hurting you. You bite down on your jaw, the anger and pain ready to fall down your cheeks as you remove yourself from him. 

Your hands press against his chest, “You’re bullshit. This is bullshit.” A small shove as you practically growl the next words, “I’m a hypocrite? How about the fucking bathroom at that party where you told me I couldn’t have it both ways, but then you’re dating someone while getting all jealous?” Another shove, this time his fingers brush your wrists, a halfhearted attempt to get you to stop. “Begging me to open up to you? For fucking what, Steve? This costume? You…” you close your eyes and let your hands drop, letting the words do all the work now, “You’re a liar. You’re an asshole.”

Steve’s head ducks down, his fingers brushing his nose before he rolls his shoulders back. When his mouth opens, you step backwards, shaking your head. 

“Lose my number, Steve.”

His eyes roam over your face, waiting, searching. He only nods once and takes his own step back. 

“As you wish.”

Your breath sucks in sharply, a sob you’ve been holding in since the moment he said the words ‘Sorry we’re late’ threatens to finally crack out of your chest. You wish you had another beer to toss in his face for using those words at this moment. 

It’s not said with the kind of reverence of the movie. There isn’t a narrator to let you know what he actually means by the phrase. But you know. It’s not an ‘I love you’, not like this. No, it’s merely a promise to do as you asked. 

All you can do is turn away from him, hold your chin up and roll your shoulders back as you walk down the sidewalk.

There is no hopeful glance back over your shoulder, no loud smacks against the pavement made by his feet chasing after you like in the movies. 

Like you said, your story is over. 

'One New Voicemail':

“Hey, just thought I’d try ya, I know you’ve been busy. Um, well, Steve and I are heading to the Rocky Horror show tonight and I know he’d love someone to aid in his teasing of how totally into it I get. Right Steve?” 

[muffled sounds of movement and whispers]

“Hm…yeah, I uh-” 

[a clear smack to his shoulder]

“It feels like forever since I’ve seen you or we’ve done something just the three of us! Anyways, call me back, text me…beep me if you wanna reach me…ugh, sorry that was so lame, okay bye. Love you!”

If you were surviving before them, you could survive without them. It seemed simple enough. 

You’ve never stayed in one place for long, friendships like Robin, Eddie, and Nancy had been left before. Friendships that were never given a chance to really even start before you were gone. The promise of any relationships packed into boxes and off to the next city. Addresses and phone numbers and notes of ‘Keep in touch’ left to collect dust until forgotten about completely. 

So, it should have been easy to continue to ignore their messages. To ignore the holes in your chest, to ignore the want to call or text one of them when something happened as mundane as a stranger calling another stranger ‘toots’ in your mailroom. If Steve touched things in your life and now caused them to wilt in your memories and sights, the other three made things bloom. They breathed life into you again. 

You weren’t going to let Steve Harrington take something like that away from you. 

Which is why you found yourself curled into your father’s sweater for courage, walking down the sidewalk towards the cemetery with a promise to meet them there.

Orange and brown leaves crinkle underfoot before they blow across the pavement. The moon is full, the sky that deep indigo it seems to only get this time of year. Both a perfect backdrop for the bare trees that dance in the wind and the blocks lined with homes with glowing porch lights. Orange buckets overflowing with candy rush past in a blur, laughter and squeals of children echoing down the street past you. 

As you make it to the black iron fence, your eyes roam the blankets and patrons occupying them in the park next to the cemetery. Apple and brown sugar meet your nose and you take special note of the mini donut booth attached to the scent. Which is where you see Eddie, shoving two in his mouth and rolling his eyes at Nancy. He spots you and grins around the sugary dough, nudging the shoulder to his right and nodding in your direction. 

Robin spins and you see her shoulders visibly fall and a grin spread across her face. She says something to the other two who head in the direction of the blankets and she races through the crowd. Muffled oofs and sorry’s meet your ears as she dodges and spins around people balancing concessions.

You reach the front of the line, a sandwich board proudly displaying the original ‘The Evil Dead’ poster sits next to an older woman on a stool at the gate. She smiles at you, holding a flashlight towards the ground. “Ticket, dear?”

“Rose! Rose, she's my girl!” Robin shouts, breathless as she makes it to the gate. 

“Oh!” The elderly woman smiles wider, ushering you through, “Have fun ladies! Tell Edward I’m still waiting for my hot chocolate.”

“Yes ma’am.” Robin salutes with two fingers and then grabs you in a hug. “Jesus Christ I missed you!” Her voice is loud and she shrinks in your arms as the lights of the booths go out and the crowd surrounding you turns and shushes. Her voice shifts to a whisper, “Whoops. Come on, we’re towards the back and we still have all the commercials to chat without too many nasty looks.”

Robin holds your arm in a death grip, a silent promise to not let you out of her sights and clutches so long as she can help it again it seems. When you reach the blanket, Nancy and Eddie’s conversation stops abruptly and their smiles seem painted on as they look up at you. 

It’s one of those moments, those silences that are too stilted and too abrupt, letting you know exactly what was being discussed just seconds before. You wave a little, ears burning since you have no doubt about who the subject of their interrupted conversation was. 

“Eddie,” Robin begins, huffing as she falls to their cushy spot with extra blankets, trays of drinks, and several bags of sweets littered around them, “Rose is fiending.”

“Oh shit!” Ducking and wincing when someone turns around and glares at him. He grabs one of the cups with a big R on top and squeezes your shoulder as he stands, “Be right back! Glad you came!”

Sitting as Robin pats his now empty spot next to her. “Can I get you anything? We have cocoa and cider, donuts, popcorn, candy corn, caramel corn, basically any kind of corn and-“

“Robin,” Nancy hums, almost singing, as she sips from a cup. She squeezes her fingers. “You have to actually take a breath to let her respond.” 

“I’ll never say no to a cider or donut,” you point to the items with a laugh. 

Robin grabs them and hands it to you. She whacks pillows and squishes around, rolling and frowning and readjusting. 

Eventually, she sighs, content, and grabs Nancy’s hand and then a donut from your bag and knocks it against one in your fingers before taking a bite. 

“Happy?” Nancy asks as Robin hums around the sugar she licks off of her lips. 

“You know it. Only thing that would make tonight better is…” she trails off with a grin.

You take her words as a warning to look around, wondering where he is and mentally preparing yourself. 

Nothing could have prepared you though. 

It happens quickly and yet not at the same time. 

Your head turns to see them walking hand in hand. A swing of fingers as they walk past twinkling lights, the breeze blowing her hair perfectly.  

Nancy says “Shit,” under her breath as she sits up. When you turn to look at her with a frown, she opens her mouth but no words come out. 

The movie starts.

Eddie slows down as he makes his way back towards the blanket, looking at Nancy then over his shoulder then back at you. 

Robin waves her arm too much and you turn to look again, trying to figure out what you’re not getting.

Steve’s eyes meet yours and he stops, tripping over his own shoe.

Leigh waves and something sparkles on her hand in the moonlight.

Robin beams and squeezes your wrist. “Oh my gosh I can’t believe they actually came! I figured with the whole engagement thing they wouldn’t. Now it’s all officially perfect. All my favorite people together on my favorite day.”

Plot twist: Steve Harrington is engaged. 

WCIL taglist:

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with reading the text from him asking if you’d like to come over and tell him more about it when you’ve already started driving there. 

It’s not like you’re wanting the comfort this sort of gesture implies. No, it’s just a distraction, an attempt to salvage this horrible day with one thing - sex. Just ‘turn your brain off and let him help you forget the day’ sex. That’s all. 

And it’s not like it’s a crime that the sight of Steve at the end of his hallway holding a very full glass of wine out for you makes your chest ache a little - you’ve had a bad fucking day, of course something like that makes you a little mushy. It doesn’t mean anything when your mouth splits into a grin to mirror his when he sees you. 

Steve leans against his doorframe, his perfectly gelled and sprayed caramel locks set free from their styled position they’ve been trapped in all day. One hand scratches at his jaw, the dark scruff underneath at the length you won’t admit to him is your favorite. A navy dress shirt stretches across his shoulders, sleeves cuffed and rolled up his forearms. A few of the buttons are already undone, revealing a black undershirt, all tucked into his belt and gray slacks with perfect ironed creases. His feet cross as he leans back, the gold line across the black fabric reminding you that most likely, just his socks cost more than your whole outfit combined. 

“So, rough day?” He extends the glass further towards you, the silver metal of his watch glinting in the soft hallway lighting. Taking the glass from him, you gulp down half of it far too quickly for what you’re sure is an expensive bottle of wine, brushing past him into the apartment. 

“You have no idea,” swallowing another large gulp before answering. A sigh meeting a groan leaves you as your bag drops to the ground loudly. You kick off the heels you really should just throw out - well past their worn in phase and still giving you trouble. 

“Actually,” Steve laughs as he locks the door behind him, “I do. You sort of texted me a live play-by-play all day.”

Your hand waves off the statement, ignoring the truth of it with a hum around another sip of wine. Steve starts to walk around you, his hand brushing your lower back. Blunt ends of his fingernails scratch softly through the thin fabric of your blouse as your senses tune into the altered state of his apartment. The lighting more dim than usual, overhead lights turned down to a muted glow, aided by the warmth of candles flickering on his island and in the living room. Music drifts quietly and lazily out of speakers and through the air - music you like - mingling with something that smells so good your mouth waters a little. 

The glass of wine pauses before meeting your lips again as you watch Steve pick up a knife. He chops the last part of something green and leafy, brushing the food off the wood cutting board with the back of his knife into a pan that sizzles. Garlic and onion and something herby meet your nose, drawing your bottom lip to pull under your teeth. Or maybe it’s the way Steve stares at the pan with concentration, humming along to the music you only just introduced him to. He stirs the ingredients, forearm flexing as he turns the handle of the pan to the side, knocking the wooden spoon against the lip of metal a few times. 

“You cook?” Questioning him quietly from your spot by the door. 

Steve looks over his shoulder, a fake frown pulling his lips down that a smile tries to fight. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Not surprised,” you hedge, padding over towards him slowly, “Just…impressed. I don’t know if anyone has cooked for me before.”

He looks up at you, eyebrows bunching together, whatever thoughts swirling inside his brain cut off when you kiss his cheek. Steve blinks at the gesture as you wave your hand over his apartment and ask, “You did all this ‘cause I had a bad day, Harrington?”

Steve’s cheeks turn rosy despite his eye roll and laugh around a mumbled, “It’s just spaghetti.”

“Well,” you smile, noting the simple kiss and its effects for future use. Eager and curious to find out what else you can do and say to get him to blush so you can use it to your advantage, “Big fan of just spaghetti here. Thank you.”

Your wine glass hits the counter with a soft clink as your hand wraps around his bicep and squeezes, smirking as his cheeks turn a deeper pink. 

When you face him fully, Steve is already watching you, eyes tracing over your face when his lips twitch up on one side - you pushed it too far and now he’s onto you. This sort of teasing and battle for who can make the other squirm more has been the fire that’s fueled your last few nights together. 

Steve leans in slowly, his hand reaching up and cupping your jaw as he does. His thumb traces over the apple of your cheek, his warm breath hits your lips as your eyelashes flutter. Steve’s voice turns gruff and deeper because he knows it works you up as he asks, “You sleeping over tonight?”

Your head shakes despite wanting to nod as his other hand finds your waist. The smell of dinner and Steve’s spice and woodsy cologne making you dizzy as you try to stay steady in your response, “Can’t. Didn’t bring any clothes.”

Steve hums, the sound buzzing into your skin as his nose brushes up yours slowly. His hand on your waist pulls you in closer, wrapping around and pressing his palm to your lower back. His breath out mixes with yours in as your hands move on their own accord, climbing up his chest and to the collar of his shirt. His eyes a dark forest and liquid gold, smoldering as his gaze meets yours. 

“I’ll order you clothes for tomorrow.”

The ease and confidence of his promise is enough to make your stomach flip with excitement, but your eyes roll from the absurdity. Your laugh, a mixture of disbelieving and amused, is cut off though when his top lip parts yours. A soft kiss pressed to them that he quickly deepens when he feels you sigh, giving in easily. 

Sweet and tender kisses, his thumb and fingers tilt your jaw for him, making butterflies flutter alive inside of you. Steve and you haven’t kissed like this before, you can feel each shift of his fingers on your jaw and back, how his forehead furrows against yours. Mouths that mold to the others easily, slotted together like gears that work with each other instead of against now. You move with the other like second nature, almost lazy, not worried about the end goal for once, enjoying the taste of his whiskey hitting your wine with each pass of tongues and lips meeting. Until his bottom lip catches your top one in a different way, tongue rolling against yours a little dirty, making your thighs push together. 

Steve’s breath through his nose hits your cheek and your fingers grip at his collar, tugging him closer to you while his hand on your back pushes you against him harder. Soft kisses no longer, now you’re just desperate. His tongue traces your bottom lip, nipping at it gently before sucking on it. Your hands push up his neck and into his hair, fingers combing through the strands and tugging lightly as he takes a breath. It’s all so easy, the push and pull with each other, learning and using what the other likes. A whimper escapes you as his hands move to cup your face, slowing you both down, until he’s pulling away completely. 

Your eyes blink rapidly as you come back to the room, forgetting where you were for a brief moment. As his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, the sight of his eyes taken over by his pupils makes your spine radiate with heat. His fingers curl under your jaw with a firm grip on your chin as he gives you one more chaste peck. 

“Stay.”

The word is one you can’t help but chase, turning towards his lips again in search for more. Your kiss meets the corner of his mouth that threatens to smile - you hate that he’s winning. 

“Fine. But only because this wine is really good and I intend to drink the whole bottle.”

Steve’s smile kisses your skin, mouth brushing down your neck in a tantalizing graze, the scruff on his face tickling as he moves lower. “Of course. No other reason, I understand.”

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, just below your ear and your eyes practically roll all the way back, toes scrunching against the tile of his kitchen floor as your breath gets caught in your chest. Steve clocks the spot and your reaction, a low rumble from deep in his own chest as he mouths at your neck, returning to his new toy he’s found when you gasp. Wet lips and warm breath pull goosebumps to the surface of your skin, and his nose nudging behind your ear has your entire body on fire. 

Your hands push at his shoulders with a nervous laugh, forcing it all to slow down so you can regain some sort of composure and  have a chance at beating him at this game. 

“Okay, okay, I need a shower. How long till dinner is ready?”

Steve blinks at your words, hand in his hair roughing it up more as he clears his throat and stares down at your body still pressed to his, pretending not to be just as worked up as you are. “Uh, yeah, yes. Like twenty minutes.”

Pressing a quick teasing kiss to his mouth, you start to back away and he follows, hands wrapping around and clasping behind your back with a grin that says nice try.  

“Steve,” his name a laugh on your lips as he dips down to your neck again, attacking it with frantic kisses.

“Hmm?” His teeth drag on your earlobe and he smiles against your jaw as you shiver. 

“Just…” your words trail off as he starts to suck a bruise into the spot he just found, causing your eyelashes to flutter. His mouth presses another hot and wet kiss to your skin, tongue swirling and soothing the darkening mark. His hands roam up your back as you arch for him. 

It’s your turn to blink again as he stops abruptly, giving you a kiss on your nose before spinning you towards his room. “Go shower already, you stink.” He gives your ass a light pat and nudge forward.  

Your eye roll is hidden, but your hands press to your cheeks in an effort to calm down as you walk away. You did come here for sex, maybe you can let him win tonight. 

Steve’s shower is far nicer than your own. The rain head allows the warm water to flow down your entire body smoothly, and as you let your head fall back into the stream, you wonder about the detachable nozzle and how easily you could convince him to come in here and try something. The steam and calming scent of Steve’s cedar and mint shampoo is enough to unfurl your muscles and soothe your frazzled nerves that his kissing had already started to ease. Because it was the kissing and this game you play that relieved the tension inside of you, not just the company. 

The same music in his living room plays from small speakers in his bathroom too, your favorite song coming on not too long after you’ve started the shower, echoing off the dark blue tiles, the ping of water harmonizing with it. A smile twitches on your lips when you hear the added sound of the door creaking open. 

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Your palm swipes over the glass door, clearing condensation enough to see Steve. His back is to you as he sets a new glass of wine and a fluffy gray towel on his counter. 

“Actually,” he spins, eyes roaming over your naked form he can still catch a glimpse of through the foggy glass. His eyes sparkle as his tongue licks over his top lip, “Just getting your clothes in the washing machine.”

Your shoulders lift to your ears, stomach doing some sort of seesaw thing at the domestic and far too intimate of an act. Your voice is soft and hesitant, almost drowned out by the water, “Steve, you don’t-”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you,” he backs out the open door, pulling it closed as he gestures around the air, “The music. So loud.”

Your eyes roll again, a smile teasing at your lips as the door shuts with a soft click. A furrow forms between your brows though, deepening as you finish your shower. Your lip gnawed between your teeth as you turn the handle off, worrying that maybe you’re getting too comfortable here. 

When you step out of the shower and wrap the still warm from the dryer towel - a sweet touch from Steve - around yourself, the smile you were fighting earlier wins. The sight of Steve’s ‘Hi’ and smiley face in the fog on the mirror is too cute of a distraction to listen to any sort of logic. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, wine in hand, the smell of garlic now mixes with tomato, slipping in through the cracked bedroom door. Steve’s voice trails in quietly with it, “Hi, mom.”

You freeze, eyes widening in horror as this doesn’t seem like the greatest way to meet a Harrington parent - not that you thought about that, or want to, but as a friend of Steve’s you should probably have more clothes on. Your shoulders relax when you don’t hear a new voice responding, but Steve’s sigh and his voice again, only far less enthusiastic, “Oh, hey dad.”

Evidence of your eavesdropping forms in water dripping down your body and darkening his carpet, so, you pad into Steve’s closet, flicking the light on as you go. It’s not the first time you’ve seen the walk-in, but the sight of it still manages to steal the air out of your lungs a little. 

An overwhelming amount of the dark clothing Steve so often wears hangs meticulously in order of style and color. Blues and grays, a few deeper greens you wish he’d wear more, creams, browns, and white, then black. T-shirts then polos then button-downs - simple and nothing that would make anyone take a second glance, but you know from your own fingers that the quality of the material of each item is better than your sheets. 

Your fingertips drift lazily over the garments as you take the opportunity to linger in the space a little longer. They meet the hard edge of a dark wood dresser, a suede, gray box sitting atop. It’s compartments holding ties that are perfectly rolled and tucked into their homes. A matching organizer that holds a high school class ring, two watches - one gold and one with a dark and worn, brown leather band - along with a missing spot for the one he’s wearing. You’re certain that if you opened the drawers of this dresser you’d find his underwear and socks of the softest thread count folded and organized just as nicely - not thrown in haphazardly like your own. 

As you turn to head back for a plain t-shirt, the bright color tucked into the back corner catches your eye. It’s so different from anything in the room, from anything you’ve seen him wear. Your bare feet sink into the plush rug as you make your way to the part of the closet that looks like it doesn’t belong. 

Another small dresser, almost a nightstand, sits over here. You check over your shoulder, Steve’s voice still drifting through the door quietly and you continue inspecting. On top of the dark wood, two CD’s with Robin’s familiar hand-writing listing the songs adorning each disk. A diploma and tassel hanging from the dark frame holding it. Next to that, another framed item, an image of Steve that makes your chest tighten. You don’t think he’s too much younger than he is now in it, a dark blue graduation gown open to reveal jeans and a white button down and black tie, his grad cap squishes down his hair. Steve is shrinking in the picture, cheeks pink and biting his mouth to hide a smile, as Robin and a curly haired boy are both exploding bottles of champagne on opposite sides of him. 

Above the nightstand, the clothes are even more unfamiliar. Jeans that, though folded just as nicely as others in the closet, are a lighter wash and look well loved and worn, not like the dark denim with creases you’re used to seeing him in. Several t-shirts with various concert and event logos now fading and peeling, hang in color order again. A few sweatshirts, one with the same green and orange you know matches Robin’s band sweatshirt she says she’ll die in, sit folded next to the jeans. There’s several sweaters hung, but the culprit of your detour stands out the most. Your fingers rest on it, and as you remove it from the hanger, you’re sure something he must not wear anymore fits your needs tonight more than any of his nicer items. 

It’s not until you walk back out to the kitchen in the bright yellow sweater and a pair of his sweatpants that you think you potentially overstepped. 

Steve stands at the stove, phone pressed to his ear still, the other hovers over the pot, spoon dripping sauce as his mouth falls open. The tips of his ears turn red, matching his cheeks as you fiddle with the hem. His voice faltering into the phone, “Ye-yeah. Yes. I am dad, tonight just wasn’t gonna work.”

He smiles sadly at you, shrugging as he turns his back from the stove, maroon turning to pink on his cheeks. His hand reaches up and runs through his hair as he starts pacing. 

“Uh-huh, yeah, but-” Steve’s mouth clamps shut when he’s obviously interrupted on the other end. 

You begin stirring the sauce when you see it’s bubbling, Steve squeezes your shoulder as he passes, moving his pacing to the living room. He’s changed as well, down to just the black undershirt and dark gray sweats, the orange and yellow candle light flickers across his jaw as it tightens. He picks up a baseball from the wood buffet, fingers curling around it as his thumb spins it in his palm. 

When you glance up, his eyes travel over your body until they meet yours, sighing into the phone as he switches ears again, “Dad, I have to go, can we talk about it a different night?”

His shoulders slump, the baseball returning to the console, rolling across the top until it hits a framed photo. This one of Robin on Steve’s shoulders, pushing his hat down over his face as she tries to climb higher for an apple in a tree. 

Steve stares out the balcony glass doors, his voice strained, “I am, dad, I promise, okay? I just need a little time.” He nods once, “Mhm, bye.”

The phone lands on the counter harshly as he returns, his hand reaching for the wine glass you’re already offering to him. He gulps half of it down, not unsimilar to how you did when you first arrived. 

“So, that was your dad?” Your eyebrows raise as your gaze remains on the sauce. 

“Uh-huh,” he draws it out, sighing again as his forehead falls to your shoulder. 

“Can I ask what all that was about?” You question softly.

Steve’s head lifts, suddenly focused on pouring a second glass of wine and refilling the other as he speaks, “You could,” he turns to one of the cabinets, searching for plates, “But it’s complicated and in my opinion, a waste of one of your questions.”

“Oh really?” 

Steve spins, wincing as he faces you again and holds up two fingers, “Ooh, that’s two.” He pulls at his collar and raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. 

“Nice try,” you steal a plate from him and begin dishing up, “Not eating spaghetti topless for you tonight, Harrington.”

“Oh, but you will some other night?” He smirks, standing next to you. 

“In your dreams,” you laugh, turning to the stove again.

He sighs, long and big, “Only every night,” your snort is cut off as he keeps going, “But actually, speaking of clothes,” he spoons his own pasta onto his plate, “Went into the depths of mine I see.”

Your fingers fiddle with the hem again, recalling his face when you first came out, mood sobering. “The color caught my eye, I’ve never seen you wear this. I can take if off though, if-”

“No,” he says quickly, with a harsh swallow he adds on quietly, “Looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” dipping your head from the way he looks at you when he says it. Like he really means it and wants to see you in it more than tonight. 

Steve leans in, his hands full, so he nudges your temple with his nose until you look up at him. He presses a slower kiss than earlier to your lips, lingering for a moment before clearing his throat and pulling away. He nods his head towards the glass doors “Wanna eat on the balcony? Sunset is soon, and I thought it might be a good ending to the bad day?”

Your chest floods with warmth, something sticky and heavy that makes your mouth unable to work, holding all of your words hostage so all you can do is nod. Steve smiles and heads outside. 

“Mint chocolate chip,” he answers immediately, taking a sip of wine. 

You’re done with dinner, tucked into his small  balcony couch, the sunset has now faded from that early golden glow, tinges of orange and bursts of pink starting to break through the clouds and paint the buildings around you. Steve's legs extend to the small ottoman, yours against his thigh so you can really watch the sky. More than ten questions have been asked, but your clothes are still on, and part of you wants to admit that maybe this is actually what you needed tonight instead of sex. Maybe you just needed to have dinner, talk to a friend, enjoy the sunset. It doesn’t matter that it happened with Steve - the whole point of this was to be friends with benefits, right?

You laugh into your wine glass, “Wow, I so did not peg you as a mint chocolate chip ice cream guy.”

He grabs your ankle, tugging it lightly, “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Your shoulders lift in an innocent shrug, “I dunno, you seem kind of vanilla, Steve.”

His eyes narrow and he scoffs, grumbling into his wine glass, “Vanilla. I’ll show you vanilla.”

“What was that?” You grin. 

He rolls his eyes and stands, grabbing your empty plates. “I said, more wine?”

“Sure you did,” you nod, faux belief on your face as you hand up your glass as he passes. 

After the door latches, you pull the sleeves of his sweater down over your palms, standing and moving closer to the ledge. You’ll always love sunsets, but this view has changed them forever for you. The orange and pinks bleed together now, like two tubes of paint exploded across the sky, a perfect summer sunset. Its shimmering reflections in the lake, river, and buildings around you try to steal your breath too - almost as beautiful as the real thing. 

The city below you buzzes with summer nightlife, horns honking and bass thumping as people drive by. One of those Chicago tour boats drifts lazily by and you smirk, remembering the unfortunate yet hilarious story Robin told you about the Dave Matthews bus - so opposite of the moment you’re witnessing now. As the tour passes under the bridge you notice the couple standing in the middle, holding hands. One of them drops lower, and from the way they jump back up and spin around, holding each other, you’re certain you just witnessed a proposal. 

Steve’s shoulder presses against yours and you jump, hand over your chest. 

“Sorry,” he motions behind him, “Thought you heard the door.”

Your heartbeat rapidly pounding in your chest, you glance back to the bridge, but the happy couple is already gone. Shaking your head, you close your eyes, “No, uh, was distracted I guess.”

He eyes you curiously, fingers brushing down your arm, with a smile, “Alright, you asked me the ice cream question, so my turn.”

He spins, finger in the air when the question comes to him, “Favorite superhero?”

“Spiderman,” your answer just as confident and quick as his ice cream response. 

“Interesting,” he rubs at his jaw, “Why?”

Your shoulders shrug as you watch another boat tour go by. The words on the tip of your tongue before your brain fully catches up to them. “Um, I’m not really sure. I guess I always loved that he was kind of alone, but not really. Spiderman was lonely, protecting people he loved who didn’t know he did, but Peter was almost the opposite? He wasn’t ever fully alone despite thinking he was. He was always loved, he was just the one who didn’t see it.”

You don’t realize the power of your answer until it leaves your lips. A small piece of weight you carry lifting easily for Steve like it’s nothing. It’s almost immediate that you wish you hadn’t answered. 

Steve smiles sadly at you, his fingers pushing against the railing and bumping yours as he speaks softly, “That’s a good reason, sounds like you relate to it?”

Your cheek pulls in and you shrug again, clearing your throat and ignoring his prodding. “What about you? Got a favorite superhero?”

Lately, whatever question either of you had come up with ended up being answered by both of you, the conversation flowing that way naturally, so your sidestep of his followup questions isn’t completely out of the ordinary. 

Steve’s hazel eyes bounce between yours, and you know he wants to push it further, to get you talking more, but he doesn’t. He stands up straighter and nods, “Definitely Batman.”

You groan and laugh, shaking your head as he puts his hands on his hips and asks, “What?”

“You would like Batman. He’s not even a real superhero, he’s just rich. He has no powers.”

He points his finger in the air, “First of all, you’re wrong. Second, pretty sure some of the Spiderman comics it’s like the exact same fucking thing, so. And third, I have a good reason why I like him so,” he sticks out his tongue at you.

Your hands fall out, palms facing upward expectantly and he rolls his eyes, ripping at the skin on thumb. “I, well. I think him being an orphan is interesting. I like that he’s seen as a guardian. I don’t know, a lot of reasons…” his voice trails off as a furrow forms between his brows. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” You nudge his shoulder, grabbing the wine from him and taking a sip. Both of you touching a sensitive spot in each other with something as simple as superheroes. 

He smiles and nods, eyes focused on the House of Blues lighting up below you. 

Your own eyes watch the pink take over the orange in the sky as you drum your hands on the railing, risking a more serious question despite the mood. “I saw that picture, in your closet? Was that a college graduation? It seemed recent?”

Steve blows his breath out, sipping the wine he takes back from you, sharing the same glass as he nods. He clasps his hands together after you steal it back and stares out at the lake. “Yeah, uh, I didn’t get in, back when Robs went. But,” he licks his lips and squints, “I dunno, got this job from my dad’s connections and I just…wanted to see if I could do it alone? So I did. Sports management. Not a big deal.”

Your hand reaches out to his forearm and squeezes gently. “Steve, that is a big deal. That’s really great.”

He hums and shrugs and you press it even further, “So your parents don’t know? And your job now, that’s not-”

He laughs and drags his hands down his face, “Really, it’s not a big deal, I shouldn’t have even printed that photo. And, and the job, I don’t know. There’s this opportunity this one guy at work told me about, but my parents…” he sighs and his shoulders drop. “No, they don’t know. And my job is great. I don’t need to do anything else.”

You turn and set the wine down, your fingers wrap around his wrist. “Steve, you should have a job you love. Screw your parents or anyone who tells you differently. There’s always a way to figure it out if you want it badly enough. And, it is a big deal. I didn’t finish college. It’s a really cool and amazing thing, you should be really proud about it.”

Steve smiles, tapping the railing, speaking softly, “Thank you.” He turns to face you, hand brushing up your arm to your shoulder. “I didn’t know that about you. The college stuff I mean.”

Stepping closer to him, you shrug. “It’s not like I introduce myself and tell people that, Steve.”

“Well, thanks for telling me.” He takes a step closer too, closing the distance completely so your bodies press together. He smiles, tone lightening the mood, “I’d take off my pants in honor of the information, but I don’t have underwear on and we’re sort of exposed out here.”

Your eyes roll again as your lips fight a smile. He leans in closer, nose bumping yours as you whisper, “Wow. What a slut.”

He smirks. “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.”

Your breath catches in your chest at the quote, his lips pressing to yours softly before you ask, “Wh-what did you say?”

His cheeks turn pink like earlier and he clears his throat, “Uh, I meant like, takes one to know one. Like a slut.” His eyes close and he holds up his hands, “Not that you’re a slut, what I meant was that, see…like in a good way.”

Your heartbeat starts to return to normal and you shake your head, ignoring the connection the quote made inside of you. Interrupting his Robin-like rambling and hoping to get the original plan for the evening back on track with a kiss.

Steves reciprocates quickly, tongue licking at the seam of your lips as you open up for him. Something about the gestures he’s made to fix your bad day tonight, the conversation you just had, has you more desperate than you were originally when you came over tonight. It’s all too complicated and jumbled now, and you just need your brain to turn off, and sex is the way to do that. 

His hand cups your jaw, opening you wider for him as he presses you back into the stone barrier between apartments. He rolls his hips against you, pushing harder when your hands wrap around his neck. Your clasped hands hold yourself up as his hand reaches for your thigh, pulling it up and around his waist, fingernails dragging back up and cupping your ass. Your hands move down his back as he slows his kissing again, teasing his tongue against your top lip. Nails scratch through his shirt as he moves his assault to your neck. Your body pulses around him as the sun sinks lower behind you. Steve holds your chin with his fingers as he says, “Turn around, pretty girl, you’re missing the sunset.”

Your eyes blink wide and slow at his words as he removes your leg from his waist, spinning you towards the railing. The rapid beat of your heart returns as his hands rest on either side of your body and he presses his easily felt erection into your backside. 

Steve’s nose brushes up the back of your neck, his mouth kissing across your skin till he meets your ear. His fingers glide across the band of the sweats, curling around your hip until he pushes under the fabric. 

He huffs into your skin, kissing that spot on your jaw again as two of his fingers push past your clit, slipping over it easily. “Who’s the slut for not wearing underwear, again?”

“Steve,” you whine, not patient for this sort of teasing anymore. 

He kisses down your neck, fingers parting through your slick as he glides up then lower again, the faintest graze to your clit and barely a nudge to your entrance. He tuts into your shoulder, mocking pity in his tone, the cocky man returning easily when he knows you’re this turned on, “Oh, I know. You just had such a bad day. Really need this, yeah?”

You can’t argue with him, fingers curling on the lip of the ledge, stepping closer to it. You’re sure he can feel you gushing around his fingers from just his words, how much his kissing worked you up, but you don’t care. You don’t want to fight it anymore, maybe Steve is worth just giving into. 

“Ye-yes,” you gasp out as he rewards you with figure eights pressed into your clit, your eyelashes fluttering as your knees start to buckle. “Oh, fuck.”

Steve’s breath hitches at your affirmation, kissing over your neck as he increases the strength of each press. A slow, generous circle with the pads of his fingers, rolling over the bead of vibrating nerves with an agonizing and precise pressure and pace.

“Tell me,” he kisses down your jaw, groaning at the roll of your hips back into him. Another press of his lips to your temple as his fingers circle your entrance, “Tell me what you want.”

Your head turns, chasing his kiss, catching his bottom lip with another gasp as he pushes one finger inside of you and curls, “Y-you. I need you. Please.”

Steve and your lips push and pull against each other in a battle now, harsh breaths shared as he nods, agreeing to give you what you want. He slides a second digit inside of you and curls to the spot he finds every time and you shake your head no against his mouth - that’s not what you meant.  

He moans, pressing his body up behind yours harder, back to kissing over your jaw and neck before he’s breathing in your ear. Voice raspy - dirty and filthy and everything you want as he asks, “Oh, not good enough? Jus-Just need me to fuck the bad day out of you?”

“Please,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed at the loss of his fingers slipping out of you, “Fuck me.”

Steve’s forehead hits between your shoulder blades, wide hands pushing at fabric, and you stand on your toes, anticipation radiating throughout your body when you feel his bare length against your folds - sure you have your rules, but breaking them for one night is at the bottom of your list of thing to think about currently. He moves one of your hands to the front of your sweatpants in a silent command to hold them up. Steve nudges at your entrance, your lip tugged between your teeth unable to suppress another whine as he pushes inside slowly. His voice barely audible even in your ear, his breath too fast and too hard, overtaking his words, “Need you to be quiet, honey.”

Your head falls forward, mouth opening in a gasp as he thrusts into you. He stops, a shaky breath leaving him as you both adjust to him filling you up, relishing in the missed feeling of your bodies being connected like this. Patience wears thin though, and you push back against him, your hand gripping the balcony barrier as your eyelashes flutter when he twitches from the movement inside of you. Steve’s hands rest on your waist, holding you steady as he draws out of you, thrusting back up. 

He sets a slow pace, a dirty roll of his hips every few thrusts in and your toes curl against the balcony floor, head falling forward as you struggle not to make a sound. Steve’s mouth drags on your skin, from under one ear to the other, one hand caressing over your curves, shirt rising slightly as he ventures higher. Wide palm cupping one breast as his other holds your hip in a bruising grip. 

“Steve, harder.” Your hand reaches back behind you, yanking on his hair with a whine. Steve pushes you both into the ledge, a growl slipping past his lips. 

Steve’s thrusts pick up their pace and he breathes into your ear, a desperate and primal sound that’s more intimate and better than any sort of moan a man has ever made for you before, your name mingling with quick and short gasps for air. 

Your head falls back against his shoulder as his hand moves from your chest down your stomach, pushing his way past your hand roughly, sweatpants dropping and neither of you caring. Your cry is muffled into his sweat slicked neck as he goes even faster, feeling like he’s so deep you’ll feel it the rest of your life, his fingers press frantic circles to your swollen clit. 

“Fu-fuck, fuck, fuck,” you bite at his shirt collar, both of your hands above you in his hair, stretching onto your toes again, chasing and running away from the feeling about to bubble over.

Every nerve ending inside of you is coiled, at its breaking point - ready to crack. Steve’s hand that’s on your waist lifts, grabbing at your chin, and pulling you towards his mouth as he snaps his hips faster, stuttering their movements as he keeps working at your clit.

Warmth floods your stomach, eyes pressed tight, oranges and pinks from the sunset bursting behind your closed lids as you bite down on his lip, everything inside of you exploding as you release around him.  

“St-Steve!” 

His lips press to yours harsher, trying to silent you as he doesn’t stop his movements. Steve grunts into your mouth, cursing under his breath as his hips go even faster before they falter. His teeth drag across your bottom lip as he finally lets go, his release sending another wave of your orgasm crashing over your body. Stars blink behind your eyelids, breathless as you come back to earth. 

Both of you gasp around each other’s lips as your body tightens then relaxes around him, his hand finally stops its circles to your overwhelmed nerves when you push him away. Sounds of the city return to your ears as your head falls back against his shoulder. Steve’s hands on your waist squeeze as he breathes heavily against your shoulder before kissing it. Both of you wince as he slips out of you. 

He clears his throat as each of you pull your sweats up, his cheeks pink and yours hot. Turning to face him, your back hits the ledge as his hands fall to your sides and cage you in again.  

Steve’s face is lit up orange and gold, eyes shimmering. They’re the color of honey and brown sugar in this fading sunlight, looking at you with a gaze that’s just as gooey as he leans in with a smile. Whispering as he hovers above your lips, “Still having a bad day?”

That same sticky feeling coats your chest as you shake your head no, both of you still breathing heavily. His top lip just skims your bottom one when loudly, from a nearby balcony, the clip from ‘When Harry Met Sally’ plays: 

“I’ll have what she’s having!”

Your hand slaps over your mouth and Steve snorts, both of you dissolving into laughter as you rush back inside.

Your body heats with embarrassment, hands on your cheeks, “Oh my god.”

Steve doesn’t seem as phased, walking further into the apartment. “Hey, that’s a good movie, wanna watch it?” He laughs, running his hand through his hair. 

Any mortification forgotten at his suggestion. You spin, finger in his face, “Aha! Bad 90s romcom, told you I could smell it on you.”

He waves you off, heading toward his bedroom, “Yeah, yeah, go make some popcorn miss can’t keep her mouth shut!”

“Me!” You scoff, following him, “Um, what was all that grunting! And breathing and-”

He cuts you off with a slow and deep kiss. Tongue flicking over yours dirty and rough, pulling away with a sharp inhale. “Tell me you didn’t like it.”

His words freeze you, and you stand together in his apartment, lit only by candlelight and the sunset that’s dipped below your eye line. Breaths mixing, bodies pressed together and Steve kisses the spot below your ear - one slow, sweet kiss that lingers before he pulls away. 

He smirks at your dazed expression, calling over his shoulder, “Your favorite movie snack is in the cupboard!” Disappearing into his bathroom. 

It’s just sex, that’s all this is. 

That’s what you tell yourself as your legs turn from jelly to some sort of working limb as you make the popcorn. 

That’s what you tell yourself as he settles in next to you on his couch, tossing the yellow knit blanket from Robin over your laps. 

That’s what you tell yourself in the morning, when he’s in the shower and a delivery comes with clothes that fit you perfectly. 

It’s just sex. Fun. That’s all this is. 

That’s what you tell yourself as you slip on a brand new pair of heels and he kisses your forehead, reminding you with a wink that his balcony is always open after a bad day.