#mutual pining

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."

You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.

You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.

You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.

You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."

Whether it actually would remained to be seen.

You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.

For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk. 

Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over. 

You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.

An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–

The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.

"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that. 

You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.

Far better company than Steve Harrington.

The thought slipped in uninvited.

You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you. 

Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?

Well.

It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it? 

Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.

You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well– 

The cookie paused halfway to your mouth. 

On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.

Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.

Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.

The man couldn't even complain properly.

Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.

Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.

You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past. 

The truly irritating part?

Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.

Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.

You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.  

On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."

Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards. 

If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story. 

Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.

But then there were summers. 

Summers were the worst. 

Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move. 

Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.

It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.

Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.

Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.

However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.

Which was rich.

Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.

You were a grown woman.

A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.

He was the sun.

And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.

God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic. 

Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some. 

The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever. 

With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.

Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.

The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.

Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.

Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered. 

You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that. 

Not the pirate part. Obviously.

But the rest?

The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.

Because that's who Steve was. 

You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.

You remembered the fear first.

Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.

You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.

But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?

You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.

But afterwards?

Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?

Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to. 

Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension. 

You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.

Fuck. Your breath hitched.

Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.

But beautiful?

Beautiful was different.

Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.

Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home. 

Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.

God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.

Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors? 

The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.

Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next. 

The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts. 

Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin. 

Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth. 

But this? 

This was all you. 

Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.

Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once. 

The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–

You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress. 

God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.

Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.

Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long. 

Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were— 

“Henderson?” 

Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.

Nothing.

He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again. 

"Dustin?" he called through the door.

Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"

Still nothing.

The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.

Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.

"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone. 

Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.

Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You.

This had you written all over it.

He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course. 

"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time. 

The smile slowly faded.

Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.

Instead, the house remained strangely silent.

Then he heard it.

The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"

Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.

Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"

The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.

Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest. 

Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.

You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.

"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.

Nothing.

Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.

“Henderson?”

The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear. 

His brain short-circuited. 

So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second. 

Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.  

Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it. 

A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole. 

The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. 

Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good." 

You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down. 

Oh. God. 

Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you? 

But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive. 

You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.  

But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo. 

Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.

Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started? 

No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality. 

Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. 

He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly. 

“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead. 

Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.

The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards.  “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).

Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it. 

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.

His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts. 

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago. 

His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.

Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.

"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"

The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."

And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close. 

He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far. 

He’s not the only one. 

You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?” 

You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead. 

Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons. 

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."

Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.

“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.

"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.

"C’mon, Henderson," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and something darker. "Thought you liked a challenge?"

The man knew you far too well. 

You pout because yes, you enjoyed that, but you wanted more. Quite honestly you wanted him. You’d waited long enough.

Your fingers curl into his shirt once again, tugging him closer; peering up at him with eyes so readable Steve hesitates before his grip tightens on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. "Hey," he says softly, suddenly serious in a way that makes your stomach flip. 

"I wanna do this right," he murmurs, and your brows pinch together—confused, impatient—until he continues, voice rough with sincerity. "The first time—our first time—I want it to be right. For you. For us.” 

He paused, before seeming to get lost in his own thoughts as he rambled, “I want us to go out on a real date first. Dinner-or-or a picnic. Whatever you want–I mean not whatever whatever. Golden dragon with the killer egg rolls and the duck you love. Then we’d go to the drive-in and see The Princess Bride” - you blush even deeper, eyes briefly flickering behind him,“or Sixteen Candles or honestly whatever cheesy rom-com is on because I know those are your favourites even though you never admit it.” 

And he's still going.

"And if it rained, we'd just stay in the car. Bring blankets. Hot chocolate. Maybe sneak in extra snacks because the food at the drive-in sucks. Then I’d drive you home and–"

You wanted him to keep going–forever preferably–but "Steve." You needed him to take a breath. 

He blinks, face screaming that he’d said way more than he ever intended. "...What?"

“You thought about this?” You can’t hide the shock and quite frankly awe in your voice as you stare up at him all starry eyed. 

"I have." His eyes stay locked on yours, impossibly open, impossibly honest. He pauses. Takes a deep, deep breath before adding, "...A lot."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He’d thought about this. Not, just a brief oh that would be nice–no, he’d planned it. Curated it for you. Remembered your favourite food, your favourite movies.  

Steve takes your silence as something else entirely–you can practically see his mind going a hundred miles-per-hour—so, slowly, you reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Then you let your fingers drift through his hair.

You swear your heart does a complete somersault at the look in his eyes–softer than you've ever seen them–and the way he unconsciously leans into your touch. You’d thought about doing this—brushing your fingers through his hair, being this close, kissing him—for years. And now here you are.

You really needed to pinch yourself subtly because there was absolutely no way this was real. 

You think if this was all you could ever have of Steve–a quick fuck because he’d caught you touching yourself–you honestly don’t know if that would be better or worse than having never had him at all.

Better because at least you knew, in some capacity, he felt something for you too; even if that was just base-level attraction.

Worse because you knew what it was like to have him so close. You knew how he kissed. You knew the exact shade of brown his eyes turned when he looked at you from this close.

Before you could pretend. Now you knew. And you knew you’d never be able to forget a moment of it. 

But here he was. Telling you outright that he didn't want this to be all you had. And not just that—he wanted more. Had planned for more. Planned for all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you. 

So, could you wait? 

Yes. Yes you could. 

Especially if you got a free chinese.

"I'd like that," you murmur. The words barely audible–inaudible if his face wasn't inches from yours. 

His eyes widened, looking genuinely shocked, as if the last few minutes had been wiped from memory. Or maybe as though he'd never expected you to want this.

To want more.

“Yeah?” The single word is so hopeful, so achingly sincere, that it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully tight.

“Yeah.” 

The smile that breaks across Steve's face is immediate–the kind that made his nose scrunch slightly at the bridge. For a moment, you just stayed like that. Smiling at each other like the lovesick idiots you were, caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness.

Then the faint buzzing seeps back into it.

Your eyes flicked to it simultaneously, the object still clutched in his hand, then back to each other and then you were laughing, breathless and giddy, foreheads bumping as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

His thumb hovered over the power button of the vibrator, his breath still uneven from laughter. "We can stop—" he started, already moving to switch it off, but your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a boldness that surprised even you.

"Or we could..." Your grip tightened slightly, guiding his hand back toward you. "...not?"

Steve’s throat worked visibly. Frozen in place once again, his eyes locked on yours as your legs parted slightly.

Then he moved. Fast and clumsy and perfect all at once. His free hand cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you again, deeper this time, all heat and barely restrained want. You could feel the shape of his grin against your lips when you arched into him, your thighs bracketing his hips as he leaned over you. 

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts with a reverence that made your breath catch—not tugging, not demanding, just resting there, warm against your skin, waiting. Your hips lifted instinctively and Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging the fabric down inch by torturous inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of your thighs as he went. The air was cool against your newly exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze more than made up for it.

The vibrator buzzed faintly between his fingers as he pressed it against the damp cotton of your underwear, the sensation muffled but still electric.

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers twisting into his hair—soft, always so damn soft—as he kissed you with a focus that bordered on worship. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to the pulse point beneath your ear, to the hollow of your throat—each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat under your skin.

Your hands roamed over him greedily, mapping the familiar slopes of his shoulders through his t-shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin was warm, taut with muscle that flexed under your touch as he adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing harder just to hear you whimper.

"Christ, Henderson," he muttered against your collarbone, his free hand skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "You’re su—" The rest dissolved into a groan when your nails scraped lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, the rough drag of his sweatpants against your inner thighs sending sparks up your spine. “–fuck–good girl.” He scraped out.

The tension coiled tight in your stomach snapped all at once. A sudden, shuddering release that left you gasping against Steve’s shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than your first. 

Distantly, you registered the choked noise he made against your neck, the way his hips stuttered against yours, the tremble in his thighs where they pressed against the mattress. But the haze was too thick, your own satisfaction too consuming, to parse what it meant well until your hand drifted lower.

You hummed dazed, still riding the aftershocks and reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants with clumsy intent. But before you could slip beneath the fabric, Steve’s hand covered yours, peeling it away gently.

You blinked up at him, confused, until you caught the flush creeping down his neck—the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Then you looked down.

Oh.

The realisation hit you like a bucket of cold water. The strained fabric. The damp spot. The way his thighs tensed when he shifted slightly.

Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his grip on your hip tightening reflexively as you couldn't stop the little breathless giggle you let out. 

His cheeks burned brighter at the sound, one hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at his face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ," he muttered, voice rough with embarrassment and lingering arousal. "That's—uh—never happened before." 

The admission made your stomach swoop—equal parts giddy pride and aching tenderness—and you reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Steve's breath hitched when your knuckles brushed his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. And you really couldn't help yourself when you said: 

“Better last longer next time Harrington, or I might regret saying yes.” 

Steve groaned but caught your wrist gently, pressing your palm flat over his thundering heartbeat. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a breathless warmth you wanted to hear everyday for the rest of your life.

His thumb stroked over your pulse point absently before he exhaled and rolled onto his back beside you, staring up at your ceiling. The silence stretched, comfortable yet still charged, until he turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against your pillow. "So. Drive-in next Friday?"

The casualness of it—the normalcy—startled a laugh out of you. As if you hadn’t just—as if he hadn’t—

The laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest—hysterical and breathless—and you nodded, pressing your cheek into your pillow as you turned to face him.  

“Yeah,” you managed between giggles, the word dissolving into another helpless laugh when Steve grinned and kissed you again, his nose bumping yours awkwardly in his haste. It was messy and off-center and somehow still so goddamn perfect—his lips still curved with laughter as they moved against yours, the taste of shared amusement sweeter than any wine.  

Jesus you were down bad. But luckily for you, so was he. 

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka me hehe… had to do some shameless self promo)

P.S. Did not expect the reaction to the teaser... hope whoever interacted with that is not disappointed...

P.P.S. Playing around with paragraph lengths! I always write longer paragraphs, but thought that made it harder to read on here so I've been chopping them up but... I've seen discourse to the opposite so im trialling (what I call) 'mid-length paragraphs'

The realisation hits you mid-sentence, pen freezing against the page as your textbook blurs in front of you.

Photos. Emails. Texts.

Solid proof of an existing relationship that you somehow agreed to provide by the end of the week. Your stomach drops.

"Oh my god," you whisper, your breath hitching in your throat. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

You'd been so laser-focused on the logistics of moving in. Breaking your lease before time (not that your roommate minded), coordinating when to pack, pretending to be casual about having to share a bathroom with Jack. Somehow, catastrophically, this part had slipped straight through the cracks.

Now, you only have four days until they're expecting proof of a relationship spanning months, while it has barely existed for weeks at this point. Oh, and most importantly, it's also a fake relationship.

You're so fucked.

With a harsh screech, you push your chair back from the desk and snatch your phone from the bed, your fingers trembling as you unlock the screen. You frantically scroll through your photos, months passing by. Familiar images blur together in a frantic attempt to find anything that could even be loosely interpreted as evidence of you and Jack together.

The first photo stops you cold. A blurry group snapshot taken at a bar, and yes, you and Jack are both in the frame, but you're seated at opposite ends of the table, half-obscured by someone's elbow in the foreground. You could just be coworkers.

You are just coworkers.

You keep scrolling, a sense of dread creeping in.

Another photo catches your eye. You're sitting next to each other at the park, beers in hand, both locked in conversation. Jack's talking to someone off to the side, while you're laughing at a completely unrelated joke, a solid two feet separating your bodies.

"Fuck," you mutter and scroll on.

Then, the last image draws you in. Jack leaning in, his mouth inches away from your ear, clearly whispering something to you while your face is scrunched up in laughter, eyes closed. It looks intimate. It feels intimate.

But it's also just one photo.

"One," you groan. "I have one usable photo." You drop down on the edge of your bed, hinges squeaking softly. Your chest tightens.

You open your messages next. Your heart hammers as you sift through banal exchanges between you. Coffee runs. Scheduling discussions. It's only your recent texts that could infer anything, and still, it reads as platonic.

There are no hearts. No inside jokes. No late-night rambling that feels so integral to any real relationship. Nothing points to the two of you being more than colleagues.

Emails are even worse. So much worse. There's barely nothing there. Just upcoming schedules. Residency stuff. Nothing again that could suggest you'd been hiding a relationship for months.

You drop your phone onto your lap, staring blankly at the ceiling, the brightness of your screen fading into darkness.

"They're going to know," you whisper to yourself. "They're absolutely going to know. Fuck."

Panic surges, sharp and overwhelming, a cold grip wrapping around your throat. You snatch up your phone again, heart racing, and fire off a desperate message to Olivia without thinking.

YOU: SOS

Almost instantly, your phone rings. "Hey," Olivia’s voice comes through, alert and focused. "What’s going on?"

You let out a shaky laugh that teeters on the verge of hysteria. "I’m completely fucked. Like—capital F. Totally. They’re going to know."

"Know what?" she asks, her tone filled with confusion and concern. You can hear the distant chatter in the background die down as she closes her office door. "Slow down."

"I’m going to lose my job," you rush out. "I’m going to be in debt for nothing. The last few years of my life will have been worthless—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she interrupts firmly. "Pause. Breathe. Talk to me."

You suck in a breath that barely feels like it contains any oxygen and begin to explain everything—how you need proof, the impending deadline, the photos that aren’t really photos, the texts that scream ‘we’re just coworkers', the emails that can't be misconstrued in any way.

There’s a beat of silence on the line, and then Olivia snorts, amusement lacing her voice. "Babe," she says, sounding like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Did you forget what I do for a living?"

"What?" you say weakly.

"I literally work in tech," she continues, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. "I can fix the metadata."

You stand up so fast that you nearly pull your duvet with you. "You—what?"

"I can fix it for you," she says, her voice steady and reassuring. "I’ll handle the timestamps, the locations—everything. "

"Wait," you interrupt, your mind racing. "You can actually do that?"

She laughs. "Please. This is child’s play."

Your shoulders sag as relief crashes through you, heavy and dizzying. You press a hand to your face, laughing breathlessly. "You’ve just saved my life."

"I know," Olivia replies smugly. "Now relax. We’ve got work to do." She exhales thoughtfully on the other end of the line. "Okay. Here’s the thing, though."

Your stomach tightens again. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Because you’re gonna need to give me something to work with," she says. "Different locations. Different outfits. I need variety so I can make this believable. If I have to use Photoshop too much, it’s going to take forever, and we don’t have forever."

You stare at the wall, dread creeping back in. "Different locations," you repeat faintly. "Different outfits."

"Yes," she confirms patiently. "It can’t look like you suddenly decided to document your relationship in one afternoon. That would be suspicious."

"This is insane," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. "This is actually unhinged." A wave of anxiety washes over you as you realise the gravity of your situation. You wince at the thought. "I’m going to have to coordinate this with Jack."

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a moment before Olivia’s voice breaks through. "Oh," she says slowly, as if processing the implications of your words. "You haven't discussed this yet?"

"No," you admit. "I only just realised now."

"Well," she replies, a hint of mischief in her tone, "I'm sure he won't mind. You're moving in with him after all."

You give her a smile that is halfway between panic and giddiness. "We're crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Have I lost my mind?"

"Maybe," Olivia agrees. "But you’ll still be employed."

"Barely," you mutter. "So what about the texts?"

"I’ll handle that," she says. "We’ll grab some of your more recent texts and make them look older, sprinkle in a little romance—"

You swallow as the anxiety begins to die down again. "And emails?"

She bursts into laughter, the sound brightening the heaviness of the conversation. "Come on! No one in a real relationship emails romantically from a work account. Professional emails actually work in your favour—they’ll show that you were trying to keep it discreet."

"Okay, yeah. I see your point." You let out a shaky breath. "I cannot believe this keeps on getting worse."

"Oh, I can," Olivia replies, a mischievous edge creeping into her voice. "You thrive in chaos, remember?"

You shoot her a half-hearted glare. "We need to send the proof by Sunday. Do you think we can do that?"

"Yeah," Olivia says. "We got this!" There's a distant knock, mumbling in the background. "Hey, I really have to go, but send me those texts ASAP, and I'll start on those until you can get me the photos. Love you."

As the call ends, you find yourself staring at the blank screen for a minute. You're about to move in with your attending. Create fraudulent texts and photos to hide a lie.

This is surreal. But you're in this far now. Might as well go all the way.

You take a deep breath. "Okay," you whisper to yourself. "Let's do this."

Jack tries to keep his eyes on the road, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. He can’t help but notice the way your fingers twist together in your lap. The way you've gone quiet in that particular, loaded way he's learned to recognise. It's the same silence when you're worried but trying not to make it a problem. It makes something tight settle behind his ribs, a feeling he can't quite pin down.

The blinker clicks. The engine hums. The radio croons softly. You don't say a word.

He makes it three more blocks before he can't stand it anymore.

"Hey," he says, his tone gentle. He’s already preparing himself for whatever’s weighing on your mind. "You wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?"

You startle slightly, like you didn’t realise you were being watched. Then you look over at him, worry already pulling lines into your forehead as you bite your lip. "We forgot about the photos and texts HR wants by the end of the week," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jack’s stomach drops. He lets his mind rewind—HR’s email, the checklist, the casual way you’d both nodded like it was no big deal. Proof. Documentation. He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. "Oh shit," he mutters.

"I looked through my photos…" you say hesitantly.

"And?" he prompts, steeling himself for the worst as he manoeuvres the steering wheel through the intersection.

"Nothing good. I found maybe one decent shot, but it’s not enough." You wince, then rush to add, "I’ve got it covered. Mostly. But it means we’ll need to take a lot more photos."

Pulling to a stop at a red light, he finally turns to you fully. You look stressed, but he also sees the spark of determination in your eyes—problem-solving mode engaged, already trying to protect both of you. It does something stupidly warm to his chest.

"Won’t they be able to tell they were taken the same day?" he asks.

Your brows lift at his question, a mischievous twitch creeping at the corner of your mouth, despite the situation. "Wow. Aren’t you up with the times, old man?"

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I’m not that old."

You give him a look that says otherwise.

He huffs, shaking his head. "I’m just saying. I know metadata exists."

You glance at him. "...So does Olivia."

He blinks, foot pressing the speeder again as the light turns green. "You told her?"

You pause, then shrug nonchalantly. "She works in tech, Jack. We need her help if we want this to work."

"I thought we promised not to tell anyone," he says, not angry, just careful. Protective.

You tilt your head in his direction, eyebrows raised. "Like you promised not to tell Robby?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers pretending to be confused. Then sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Fair point."

A beat of silence stretches between you, softer now, charged with unspoken thoughts.

"So," he says, glancing at you again, "Olivia can actually help us?"

"She can," you nod, the tension in your shoulders slightly easing. "But we’ll need to give her something to work with."

He pulls into his parking spot, lines it up neatly, lost in thought. "Define ‘something.'"

"Variety," you say. "Different locations. Different vibes. We can’t look like we just took ten photos in one afternoon."

He laughs quietly, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. "This is ridiculous."

"Completely," you agree, a small smile playing on your lips. But Jack notices your shoulders remain tense, hands still clenched.

He shifts in his seat, turning toward you fully now. "When does Olivia need them?"

"As soon as possible," you say. "I’ve already sent her some texts."

He nods slowly, already rearranging his week in his head. He's got the next few days off anyway—to help you move—so he's free. "Okay. We can do coffee after work. Your apartment. My place. Maybe dinner somewhere?"

"Dinner?" you echo, a hint of surprise in your voice as your eyes flick up to meet his.

"For realism," he says easily, even though it stirs in his chest—a warmth he can’t afford to let grow. "People in relationships eat food."

You laugh, and it’s like the tension finally cracks. Your shoulders drop. The sound is quiet but real, and Jack feels absurdly proud of himself for being the reason.

"Right," you say, your voice lighter. "Of course they do."

He glances at the clock on the dashboard. "We should probably head in. We’ll start with coffee."

"Okay," you say, drawing in a steadying breath. "Coffee tomorrow."

He hesitates, then smiles at you—soft, reassuring, the kind of smile he can't help but form around you. "Hey. We’ll figure it out. Moving in is the big thing. This is just… documentation."

"Documentation," you repeat faintly.

"Exactly," he says. "Very romantic."

You laugh again, quieter this time.

And as you reach for the door handle, Jack thinks—not for the first time—that if this is what fake looks like, he’s in deeper than he probably should be.

The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of empty that only exists in the early morning, before the city fully wakes up. A handful of patrons occupy the corners, their fingers wrapped tightly around steaming mugs like lifelines. Their computers switched on, ready for another workday. The soft morning light filtering through the windows is pale and gentle, illuminating the dust motes that float lazily in its glow. Everything in here smells like coffee and warm pastries.

Jack holds the door open with his shoulder, one hand braced against the frame.

"You go find us a table," he says, voice low and rough in that way it always gets after a night shift. "I’ll order for us."

Your mouth opens automatically to give him your order. "I’ll just—"

"Tea. Herbal. A dash of honey," he cuts in, already turning toward the counter. Then he looks back at you, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion, expression unreadable but certain. A look that says I remember. That says let me take care of this. He nods toward the tables. "Go sit."

Your chest tightens for a reason you refuse to examine again.

Nodding, you choose a small corner table by the window, positioned perfectly to view the street outside, which still seems half-asleep. A bus hisses by. Someone walks a dog like they’ve been up forever, too. The place is cosy—soft chairs, warm wooden surfaces, sunlight trying its best to break through the cloud cover. It's exactly the kind of place you might suggest for a date.

Not that this is a date, you remind yourself firmly. It’s not. It’s logistics. Damage control.

You rub at your eyes, suddenly aware of how tired you are. How thin your defences feel after twelve hours of controlled chaos and adrenaline.

Jack comes back a moment later with two cups. He moves carefully, like his body is running on muscle memory now. He sits beside you, not across from you, and the closeness is immediate. His knee brushes yours. His arm shifts against yours as he leans back.

He takes a long sip of his coffee, exhales, then hums, low, pleased, a sound that sends a pleasurable shiver through you, settling warmly in your lower stomach.

You stare at the table because looking at him while he makes that sound would be a mistake. Your brain is already unhelpful, constructing various scenarios of how you, and not a cup of coffee, could recreate it.

Forcing your hands into action, you pick up your phone. "Okay," you say. "Let’s get this over with."

Jack glances at your phone, then back at you, amusement flickering in his gaze. "And they say romance is dead."

"Ha," you respond dryly, a small smile betraying your feigned indifference.

You start with a few safe shots of the cups. His coffee and your tea side by side, steam rising together in the early light. Then there’s one of him alone, leaning back in his chair, dark circles shadowing his eyes, yet somehow still handsome in a way that feels unfair.

He catches you, one eyebrow raised. "You’re not sending that one, are you?"

"I might," you say, with a mischievous shrug. You won't send it, but you also definitely won’t delete it. It'll linger in your gallery.

Finally, after a few steadying breaths, you turn the camera around so it’s facing both of you. You hold it up, arm trembling just slightly.

Jack picks up on your uncertainty instantly. He always does. Without a word, he shifts his chair closer, and your shoulders align, a familiar touch that sends warmth coursing through you. His arm brushes against yours, and he carries the comforting blend of coffee, antiseptic, and that subtle, indescribable scent that is just him.

You share a tentative smile.

When you look at the photo, your heart sinks. It’s nice. Friendly. Comfortable. It looks like coworkers grabbing coffee before collapsing into bed. It doesn’t look like the kind of relationship that convinces an administration you’re stable, supported, settled.

"It’s not good enough," you murmur.

Jack leans in to look. "Too tired?"

"Too… professional," you reply, disheartened.

"Do you want me to take it for you?" The voice comes from a few tables down. A woman with messy hair and a half-drunk latte, clearly post-night shift herself. She’s already rising from her seat.

You hesitate. Then you think about the meeting. The warning. The way your future suddenly hinges on proof you don't have.

"Yes," you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel. "Please."

She takes your phone, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You guys work at the hospital?"

"What gave it away?" you say dryly. "The dead eyes?"

She laughs. "That and the scrubs. Okay—move closer."

Jack doesn’t hesitate. He slips an arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close. The contact is warm, solid, grounding in a way you’re not prepared for. You lean into him without thinking, your head fitting under his chin like muscle memory you never practised. His thumb presses lightly against your arm, hesitating just slightly before settling.

"Perfect, very cute." the woman says. "Hold that."

You try to smile like this means nothing. Like your heart isn’t pounding. Like the early morning light isn’t making everything feel softer, more intimate, more possible.

Snap.

When you see the photo, your throat tightens. It looks real. Not posed. Not forced. Just two exhausted people clinging to each other at the end of a long night. Tired—but real.

You look away quickly, afraid of what will happen if you let yourself believe it. Because it isn’t real. And you really, really hope you’re strong enough to remember that by the end of this thing.

Hours later, as sleep has eased the most stressful edges of the night, Jack finds himself parked again outside your apartment building.

He leaves the engine running, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other draped uselessly in his lap, fingers idly drumming as he watches the building for any sign of you.

His mind keeps replaying the coffeeshop. The way you leaned back into him like it was nothing. The casualness of it, the weight of you resting there, the way his body had gone utterly still because any movement felt like it might mean too much. He tells himself it was friendly. Just pretend. And yet—his arm had remembered you without instruction. His chest had known exactly where you fit. That’s the part that keeps looping in his mind, the part that makes his fingers tighten on the wheel. The ease. The terrifying, quiet ease of it.

The door flies open.

You bounce out like you’ve been shot from a cannon, hair a little wild, energy too big for the quiet afternoon. You’re dragging a massive bag behind you—bigger than necessary, clearly—and Jack lets out a quiet huff of a laugh before he can stop himself.

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath. "Of course you would."

You nearly trip on the steps, catch yourself, laugh at your own near-demise, then wrestle the bag down the sidewalk. When you spot his car, your whole face lights up, and you lift a hand in an enthusiastic wave, like you’re greeting someone you haven’t seen in weeks instead of… earlier today.

A twist of warmth unfurls in Jack's chest.

He's about to get out of the car to help you, but your dramatic gesture makes him stay. He obliges, not too willingly, but he does take some pleasure in watching through the windshield as you struggle with the bag, hitching it up onto your shoulder with melodramatic effort. You strike a brief, victorious pose when you conquer it.

He’s absurdly fond of you for it.

You finally make it to the passenger side and yank the door open. "Okay," you announce, breathless. "Before you say anything—I know."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’re moving in already?"

"It’s called being prepared," you huff, a mock expression of offence crossing your features. "Also, faking months' worth of pictures requires lots of outfit changes."

He snorts despite himself. "Yeah, I can see that."

You shove the bag in the backseat. "Careful. There’s a system in there."

"I’m terrified," he says.

You buckle into the passenger seat, your legs bouncing restlessly with leftover energy.

"Ready?" he asks, carefully casual.

You grin. "Born ready. Exhausted, but ready."

You hum under your breath, something tuneless and happy, and he has to look away so you don’t see how much that affects him.

The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable.

"So," you say, too bright after a few minutes. "I made a list."

Jack exhales through his nose. "I knew it."

"Outfits. Places," you add helpfully. "Oh, and poses."

"I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that."

"You say that now," you reply. "But when HR is convinced we’re soulmates, you’ll thank me."

He hums. "Bold assumption."

"You are welcome," you say, nudging his arm with your elbow.

He parks outside his place and gets out, grabbing the bag before you can beat him to it. It’s heavier than expected.

He winces. "You pack bricks in here?"

"Layers," you correct. "Texture. Narrative depth."

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Inside, there's a soft glow of afternoon sunlight. You kick off your shoes immediately, toeing them into a corner like you’ve done this a hundred times.

Jack watches for half a second too long before clearing his throat. "Uh—kitchen first?"

You’re already halfway there, smoothing your hair into something passable, while Jack leans against the counter, still trying to reconcile the fact that you're here in his kitchen, acting as if you've been here all your life. You're dressed in slouchy clothes, an oversized tee slipping off one shoulder and soft pants, looking far too much like you'd just woken up at his place again.

Jack watches as you mutter something about mugs, opening the cabinet with a careful flick of your wrist. Two clink against each other as you pull them out.

"You got coffee?" you ask, the corners of your mouth twitching up, that bright grin lighting up the kitchen.

Jack shakes his head, stepping past you. "You could just ask me to make you a cup, you know." His voice has that soft huff, the one that makes him sound like he’s trying to sound annoyed but failing.

"Yes, but where’s the fun in that?" you shoot back, holding out the mugs.

He glances at you over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I think it’s just because you still don’t know how to use this beauty." His hand lands on the machine’s top with a gentle pat, like it’s a living thing.

You scoff, tilting your head. "Not my fault, you own the most fancy-pansy machine in the world."

Jack doesn’t argue. He flicks switches, the machine hissing and whirring, and soon enough a rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen. He passes you a mug.

You step back, just enough for your spine to brush against his arm, your weight leaning there casually. Jack freezes, heart stuttering for a split second before settling.

"Okay," you say, lifting your phone. "Casual. Like we’re just… standing here. Used to doing this."

"Yeah," Jack murmurs, the words soft, almost lost under the hum of the coffee machine.

You snap a photo, eyes flicking to the screen. Then back at him. "Maybe one more. But—uh—different angle." You snap it again.

Jack leans a little closer, taking a nonchalant sip of his coffee. Every snap of your phone makes the hair on the back of his neck lift. He doesn’t move away.

You drift toward the hallway without really announcing it, phone in hand, like momentum alone is carrying you forward. Clothes have been changed—yours, his, both of you arguing over the ridiculousness of coordinating outfits like it’s some kind of photo shoot, but ultimately yielding to it.

Stopping in front of the long mirror that stretches across the wall, you take in the reflection before you: the soft lighting and the way your hair frames your face.

Jack trails behind you, moving slower now, more hesitant. He halts a step behind, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

You glance at him in the mirror, your brows furrowing slightly as you draw in a breath. "So... we need something affectionate."

His eyes flicker to your reflection, nodding quietly. "Like a hug?"

"Yes," you huff, letting out a nervous laugh that feels way too loud in the quiet hallway.

His gaze drops again. "I can— I mean, if you want. Only if you’re okay with it."

"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. You wince. "I mean, I think it’s fine. It’s just for the photo, right?"

"Right," he says. "Just the photo."

Neither of you moves. The air feels heavy with the space between, small but charged.

You take a breath and add, quieter, "If it’s weird, we can stop."

"It’s not weird," he says immediately. Then, amends, honest and careful, "I’m just… trying very hard not to do something you wouldn’t like."

That makes your chest tighten. "I’ll tell you," you promise. "If it’s too much."

He nods once, as if steeling himself for what’s to come, and finally steps closer. The warmth radiates from him, enveloping you before you feel anything else. "Okay," he murmurs, his voice steadier now. "I’m going to put my arms around you."

You can’t help but snort despite the situation. "That’s very reassuring."

"Sorry. Bad habit," he replies, a half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, easing some of the tension. "I narrate under pressure."

His arms come around you slowly, settling over your chest—not tight, not possessive. Careful. Like he’s giving you room to pull away if you want to. His body stays angled back, creating space even as he pretends closeness.

You lean back instinctively. Jack freezes for half a second, breath catching, then forces himself to relax.

"Still okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. Then, because you’re also nervous, you add lightly, "You’re doing great. Five stars. Very affectionate."

He lets out a quiet laugh against your hair. "High praise."

You lift your phone, hands shaking just a little. In the mirror, it looks authentic—his arms around you, your back pressed against his chest, the way your shoulders have softened now that you’re leaning into him.

Snap.

For a brief instant, neither of you moves. Jack’s arms remain where they are, as if he’s waiting for your next cue. You hesitate, then gently touch his forearm with just a fingertip. "Okay," you say softly. "We got it."

He releases you immediately, maybe a little too fast, stepping back like he’s afraid he lingered a second too long.

In the mirror, you both look flustered, a little breathless, and undeniably convincing.

Clearing your throat, you glance over your shoulder. "Couch next?"

You disappear for a moment and come back wearing his hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands. The fabric smells faintly like him—warm, faintly coffee-scented—and it hits Jack harder than it should. It’s not the first time he’s seen you in his clothes, yet the sight still hits him with a wave of unexpected intensity. He hides a quiet groan behind a cough, wishing he could unsee how right it looks on you. If he wants to survive this ordeal, he needs to get used to it… fast.

"Sit down," you command, flopping onto the couch.

"Bossy," he says, sliding down beside you, though his voice carries a low note of fondness.

You laugh—a little too sharp, a little too quick—and then, you lean in, head brushing against his chest. Jack stiffens for half a beat, like he’s caught in a trap of wanting to hold you and not wanting to cross a line. Then slowly, painstakingly slowly, he lets himself relax, arm coming around you, careful not to smother, careful not to claim.

"This okay?" he asks, voice quieter than he intends.

"Yeah," you murmur. "Is it okay for you?"

He swallows, the words coming too fast. "Yeah." Then softer, almost under his breath, "Yeah."

All he feels is the faint warmth of you, and the slightly erratic rhythm of his heartbeat beating under your head. He hopes you can't hear it.

Another snap.

The last stop is the bathroom.

Jack shuffles down the hall, reminding himself with each step: breathe, act normal, don’t collapse in your own house. He changes into softer clothes, hoping the cotton fabric will ease the tension curling in his chest and help him feel grounded again.

You emerge from your room in sleepwear that’s nearly indecent—a thin tank top that clings to your form and tiny shorts that leave little to the imagination. Jack feels his thoughts stumble over each other; he nearly trips over his own heart, a rapid beat echoing in his ears. He swears he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.

"Relax," you say, tossing a glance back at him, catching the look he can’t disguise. "It’s just brushing teeth."

"Very dangerous activity," he mutters under his breath, but the truth is that it’s not the brushing he considers risky; it’s the sight of you in that revealing outfit and the intimate space between you two.

You grin, a playful spark igniting your eyes as you grab the toothbrushes, leaning forward into the mirror. To him, it seems almost oblivious, the way you immerse yourself in the task, unaware of the charged atmosphere. You angle your phone, framing the perfect shot, posing with the ease of someone who doesn’t know the effect you have on him.

Snap.

Then, with an effortless leap, you hop onto the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You gesture for Jack to come closer, your inviting smile pulling him in. Suddenly, he finds himself standing between your thighs, a situation that feels both unintended and electrifying. He’s caught—cornered by the proximity, a sense of politeness tugging at him, and the palpable tension that suggests retreating too quickly would feel like letting you know exactly what's going on inside him. He braces his hands on the countertop, knuckles whitening, fighting the urge to move.

"You’re doing great," you whisper, a half-laugh escaping your lips as if to lighten the ridiculousness of the moment. "You look… very normal."

He shoots you a look—sharp, slightly exasperated, trying to mask how aware he is of everything—of the closeness, the heat, the way his body won’t stop reacting.

A small, nervous smile breaks across your face, and it’s infectious.

Another snap.

Neither of you shifts immediately. Jack exhales slowly, trying to convince himself he’s perfectly fine, even as the tightness in his shoulders (and pants) and the fluttering in his stomach suggest otherwise. You adjust slightly on the counter, careful not to bump into him, yet your leg brushes against his—a fleeting contact that sends a jolt through him. Neither of you reacts, neither of you moves away, and somehow that’s exactly the problem.

The photo captures it perfectly— how awkward, flustered and tense he feels—but he has to admit it looks convincingly real.

Jack stands in the hallway outside your apartment, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand, the other hovering nervously near the doorbell. He had meant to just text, like a normal person, but… he can’t. He knows this isn't a real date, but he's old-fashioned. And if this is the only date he'll ever get with you, he's gonna take advantage of it. Make sure he treats you right.

He clears his throat, glances down at the flowers. Bright colours, a little messy, like you. Not too fancy, not too staged. Perfect.

With a deep breath, he presses the doorbell. Immediately, he hears the faint creak of the floors, then the shuffle of footsteps.

You appear, coat wrapped around you, hair tucked loosely behind one ear. For a second, he’s frozen. You look… breathtaking. He swallows, coughs lightly.

"Hey," he manages to say, voice casual but tight. "I brought you these." He holds up the bouquet awkwardly.

You glance at the flowers, then at him, and raise an eyebrow. "You really didn’t have to—"

"I know," he interrupts smoothly, forcing a grin. "But I wanted to. And, uh… figured it's a great mood setter."

You shake your head, laughing softly. You take the flowers and bring them inside quickly before you descend the stairs together. Jack watches your every movement, noting the way your bag swings lightly at your side, the soft fold of your coat, the way your hair catches the light. He keeps his expression easy, teasingly dry.

"Thought I’d give you the thrill of being escorted down," he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the street. "Better than a text, right?"

"Thrill? Really?" you ask, smirking, though there’s a warmth in your voice. "But honestly, you really didn't have to. I can't remember the last time someone I dated picked me up at the door."

"Well, then," he replied, trying not to let the quickening of his heartbeat show. "You haven't been dating real men, then."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He’s smiling now, though he tries to keep it contained, casual, as if he hasn’t been memorising every step you take since the bell rang.

Jack steps aside, holding the car door open. "After you," he murmurs. Allowing himself a moment to watch you slide inside, feeling like a fool for how much longing pulses through him all at once.

He climbs in after you and starts the engine. Quietly, carefully, he steals a glance at you. You’re talking, smiling lightly, and he thinks, God, how did I get stuck pretending this is casual?

The drive is calm, but his chest is not. He’s careful to sound nonchalant, cracking a small, dry joke about the traffic while secretly memorising the way the light hits your hair, the tilt of your head, the easy grace in your movements.

By the time you reach the restaurant, he’s still holding back, trying to keep the pining tucked under humour, casual commentary, teasing banter. But it’s there. Every glance, every pause in his voice, every stiff swallow betrays it.

Jack guides the car up to the curb in front of the restaurant, engine ticking down. You slide the door open, coat wrapped around you, and he follows behind with that calculated calm he’s been practising all evening—but the second you step inside, all pretence cracks.

The coat comes off, revealing the dress he hadn’t been able to see before. God. The colour, the cut—it’s perfect. It flatters you in all the subtle, infuriating ways he hadn’t thought imaginable. His chest tightens as his jaw clenches. He clears his throat subtly.

You catch him staring. "You look stunned," you say lightly, teasing him. "But I guess you haven't seen me in a dress before."

"Stunned? Me? No. I—I mean, yes. You look… good," he says quickly, fumbling with the words. "Very… good. Not too good. Perfectly good."

You laugh at him, the sound soft and familiar, and he feels the tension in his chest ease slightly, replaced by that quiet, warm ache he always tries to hide. He leans back, trying to act like he’s relaxed, though his eyes keep flicking to you.

Conversation flows easily, laughter coming naturally. You joke about work disasters, late-night shifts, and ridiculous coworkers. He teases you about something small—a clumsy gesture, the way you sip your water—and your laugh makes him grin so wide he worries he’s being too obvious. He’s careful not to let it show, but every glance, every brush of your hand against the table, every tilt of your head pulls him in closer.

Halfway through dessert, you remember the photos. "Right. HR," you mutter, pulling out your phone.

Jack leans back, trying to look nonchalant, but he’s tense, every muscle alert. You angle the phone and ask him to smile. He grins, but his eyes flick to yours instead of the camera. His chest tightens again—God, you look… stunning.

The waiter notices you struggling to get a decent photo with both of you in the frame. "Want me to take one for you both?" he asks.

You hand over the phone with a pleased smile.

The waiter snaps the photo. Jack’s hand brushes yours just slightly on the table enough to feel the warmth of you next to him, careful to act like it’s a casual touch. But inside, his chest is hammering, heart betraying what he’s been trying to hide all night.

He watches you eat, drink, laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair. The more he observes, the more aware he becomes: every smile, every glance, every little motion pulls him in, and pretending it’s all just for HR, just for photos, is getting harder by the second.

The car ride home is enveloped in a comfortable silence, the only sound the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of your fingers flicking through your phone. After a few minutes of focused tapping, you send off all the staged photos to Olivia, feeling a rush of relief wash over you. Finally, it’s done.

Jack glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, calm and steady, and somehow that makes your pulse tighten again.

As you pull up outside your apartment, streetlights stretch shadows across the pavement.

"I’ll walk you up," he says, breaking the silence.

You shake your head immediately. "I can—"

"I'll walk you up." His voice is soft but firm. It carries a sense of protection that you can’t quite shake, so you relent and follow him inside.

Once in your apartment, the sound of your shoes soft against the floor fills the space. Jack stands at the threshold.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a third time. You groan, feeling your skin crawl. "No," you mutter, exasperated. "No more. I’m done."

Jack shifts beside you, brow furrowing in concern. "…Everything okay?"

You glance at the screen, which is lighting up with messages. "Yep," you chirp, a little too brightly. "Everything's good. Totally fine."

Suspicion narrows his eyes. "What did Olivia say?"

"I don’t want to talk about it."

"Trouble," he says your nickname with a weight that makes you pause.

Cautiously, you meet his gaze. "She wants—" You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "…more."

Jack nods, his expression unfaltering. "Another hug? Another—"

"No." You grimace. "Not that kind of more."

He waits, his patience both maddening and comforting. You finally choke it out, "She said HR wants a kiss."

The silence that follows feels electric, almost explosive. Jack freezes, processing the weight of your words. "…A kiss," he finally repeats, as if testing the sound on his tongue.

"Barely a kiss," you rush to clarify. "Microscopic. Blink-and-miss-it. We can fake it—angles, illusions, movie magic—"

He steps closer, measured, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. "Breathe," he instructs softly, his voice steady.

You do. Or try to. His gaze stays steady on yours, grounded in a way that almost makes it worse.

"We don’t do anything you don’t want," he murmurs, low and even.

Swallowing hard, you nod, a tiny gesture that feels monumental. "It’s fine. We have to... for HR."

"Right," he replies, a beat of silence stretching between you. "HR."

You don’t back out. Pride wins. Or stupidity. Probably both. "Uh—come in. We can do it in my room."

Jack follows dutifully, hands clasped loosely behind his back. You place your phone in the corner, angle it just so, and hit play on the recording. Olivia can screenshot the part she wants, you're not gonna attempt to even pretend you can have a steady enough hand for this photo.

Jack steps in front of you, drawing close. There’s still room, too much of it, yet the tension is palpable, almost electric.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter, attempting to defuse the situation with humour.

"Extremely," he agrees immediately, a flicker of understanding passing between you. It helps, just a little.

You move closer before your thoughts can twist into doubt, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you.

"Do you want me to just…?" He gestures vaguely toward your face, fingers hovering at an awkward distance.

You let out a quiet laugh, the nerves bubbling over. "I’ve never staged a kiss before. Missed that elective in med school."

His laugh is soft and unguarded, slipping out before he can catch it. He exhales deeply, then raises his hand slowly, giving you ample time to back out.

Instead, you freeze.

His palm gently cups your cheek, warm and tender, his thumb grazing just below your eye. Your heart lurches, pounding so violently that you fear it might be captured on the recording.

"This okay?" he murmurs, voice careful again.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in and brushes your lips—just a whisper of contact. So light it almost doesn’t count. Almost.

Your chest jolts anyway.

Instinct kicks in before logic does. You lean in, closing the distance entirely. The kiss deepens—not rushed, not hungry, just… there. Real. His thumb strokes your cheekbone without thinking. One hand settles at your waist, light enough you could step away.

You don’t.

Your knees wobble. Your fingers curl, brushing the front of his shirt like you’re checking that he’s real. His breath stutters once before he steadies it again.

A sudden crash outside jolts you both back to reality.

He pulls away just enough so that your foreheads almost touch, breaths mingling in the charged air. "…That should probably satisfy the committee," he murmurs, his voice low and slightly breathless.

"Probably," you manage, voice embarrassingly unsteady.

Silence hangs thick and heavy, and neither of you moves.

His eyes flicker helplessly to your lips before he catches himself, swallowing hard. Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back. "Okay," he says, his tone rougher than before. "We should… send it to Olivia."

"Right. For HR." You hit send, hands trembling slightly.

Jack just stands there, hands on his hips, ears faintly pink, chest rising a little too fast like he’s still catching up to his body.

Your phone buzzes again. You flinch. He doesn’t move.

"Relieved?" you ask lightly, because joking is easier than thinking.

"Relieved to be done changing clothes for the hundredth time," he says.

You grin, still slighlty shaky. "Okay, no more roleplaying… unless you wanna go to that medieval fair next month?"

That finally elicits a genuine snort from him—thin, tired, and undeniably real. "Count me out," he grins, a hint of warmth creeping back into his demeanour.

"Hmm, too bad," you laugh.

Silence settles in, heavy with the ghost of the kiss. The warmth. The fact that neither of you is quite looking at the other.

"Crisis averted. Photos done. Kiss completed. Bureaucracy satisfied. We did it."

Jack glances at you, pulse still racing, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then he nods once. "Yeah," he says. "We did."

And it always sits crooked. Always. Just a few degrees off-kilter, tilted like an afterthought.

But you know better. It's not an accident.

It's a choice. A statement.

A big-ole fuck you in cotton-polyester blend.

And Steve Harrington? He wears that thing like a goddamn crown.

Former high school royalty, alleged lady-killer, owner of the most absurdly perfect hair in a hundred-mile radius.

Once king of the Hawkins High food chain, now demoted to ice cream court jester.

He stands exactly two feet away from you, day after day, under headache-bright fluorescents and a scratched-up sneeze guard, slinging overpriced sludge to sticky-fingered kids and dead-eyed parents.

Six days a week. Eight hours a day.  

And Steve Harrington doesn’t flinch.

Not once.

It’s like your brain commits arson every time you see that sailor hat bobbing around your periphery. Every time you clock the V-dip of the red neckerchief. Those shorts that show way more thigh than any job should legally require.

And god, the way he says "Ahoy."

Announced about a dozen times an hour. Delivered with the kind of forced enthusiasm that sounds like a cry for help, like it physically wounds him every time it leaves his mouth.

It’s not fair. It’s not normal.

But Steve?

He owns it. Every time.

The fake smiles. The playful eyebrow raises. The casual lean over the counter when a herd of teenage girls comes flocking to the register, pretending they came for ice cream and not to gawk at Hawkins’ former prom king doing time in nautical hell. 

And still—still—he doesn’t flinch.

You hate that.

You hate him.  

You hate that he makes it work. That you’re here at all. How this dumbass job in this fluorescent ice cream prison has become your entire summer. How you're trapped here with him, two matching cartoon characters in sailor suits, mopping up toddler puke for minimum wage and the occasional broken cookie.

This is your life now: Scoops Ahoy, where dignity goes to die and all roads lead right back to Steve-motherfucking-Harrington.

But mostly?

You hate that it’s been a month, and you still haven’t figured out a way to stop thinking about him.   ᥫ᭡ He’s late. Again.   

You’ve taken to counting the seconds now, one elbow propped on the register, the other draped across a stack of napkins you were supposed to restock when you clocked in. But no one cares. Certainly not—

Clunk.

The employee door swings open in the back room.

You don’t look up.

“Late again, Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—sorry—”

He’s not sorry.

“—but, hey! Look what I brought.”

You glance up just in time to see him bound through the doorway like a Labrador that just discovered a tennis ball. Hair a little damp, polo shirt untucked. And in his hand, held like it’s Excalibur?

A coffee cup.

You narrow your eyes at it, then at him.

“I told you I was quitting caffeine.”

He rolls his eyes, gives you the bitchiest little really? look you’ve ever seen in your life, and sets the cup down on the counter. Slowly rotates it so the logo faces you.

There’s a tea bag string dangling out the side.

He beams. “It’s chamomile! No caffeine. Look at me, being a good coworker.”

You hate that he remembered.

You hate it more that your stomach does a traitorous little flip, and you have to look down at the register to keep from smiling like a loser.

He hums, tapping at the display case. “Strawberry’s low.”

“Wow, look at that. You do work here.”

“Oh excuse me for trying.”

He grins, ducking behind the counter to grab his apron before heading to the back. But then he pauses, just a second too long, one hand on the swinging door.

When you glance over, he’s looking at you.

Staring, more like.

“…What?”

“Nothing, just—” He shrugs. “You replacing it? I gotta change.”

You scoff. “Harrington, the day I replace your precious Strawberry Sailor or whatever the hell it’s called is the day I let you drive my car.”

“Ok, first of all? It’s the S.S. Strawberry.”

“Christ.”

“And second—really? You’d let me drive the Wagoneer?”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon—”

“It was a metaphor.”

He pouts. Actually pouts. Full lower lip, eyes big and tragic.

“So… that’s a no?”

“Hard no. Stick to your Beemer, pretty boy.”

He grins like it wasn’t the scathing insult you meant it to be. “Oh you think I’m pretty, huh?”     

You freeze, catching his smirk full on, and shove past him so fast you almost send him stumbling. You retreat to the back room before your tongue can betray you with something embarrassing.

The hum of the freezer is loud in the absence of your dignity.

You stare at it, hands braced on cold steel, forehead pressed to the door, trying to ice the thoughts out of your skull.

It takes way too long for your face to stop burning.

Because here’s the thing: 

Steve Harrington is not supposed to be funny. Or sweet. Or thoughtful.

He’s not supposed to remember stupid shit you said two weeks ago while wrestling with a whipped cream canister. He’s not supposed to make you laugh while five-year-olds scream “NO. BLUE. NOW.” in your face.    

He’s not supposed to see you.

He’s supposed to be—

Worse.

He’s supposed to be worse. ᥫ᭡ The thing about working with Steve Harrington is that you learn him faster than the Scoops Ahoy menu.

Which is unfortunate, because the menu is aggressively simple: sixteen flavors, seven toppings, three cone types. One cursed novelty ice cream cake that looks like a Titanic reenactment.

But Steve? Steve’s not simple.

Steve is a mess.

The worst kind. The kind that worms its way under your skin and sticks.

Like glitter. Or day-old gum in your hair.

He grunts when he scoops. Gives himself pep talks under his breath like he’s training for the Dairy Olympics. He gets brain freeze, rubs his forehead like a cartoon character, then immediately does it again like he’s got something to prove.

And also? He hums.

Not good songs. Not cool songs.

The Scoops Ahoy playlist is curated for maximum cheese, and somehow Steve Harrington thinks it’s banger after banger.

Today, it’s “Take On Me.”  

He’s all in: swaying his hips, twirling the scooper like a mic. You’re in the back, elbow-deep in the freezer, pretending not to sneak glances using the pass-through. 

The shorts are still shorting. You’ve made your peace with that.

What you haven’t made peace with is The Straw.

Because Steve has this habit, this thing, where he chews on the end of a plastic straw when he’s bored. Which, in this hellhole, is basically always. He barely drinks the lemonade attached to it. Just chews. Works it between his teeth like it owes him money.

Lips all slick and lazy—he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing better to do but ruin your life one casual jaw flex at a time. There’s frankly an obscene amount of tongue involved for something that’s allegedly absentminded.

You catch him mid-pop, mouth glossy, eyes wandering, like he’s deep in thought about world peace. Or maybe just the words to “Africa.”

You’re three seconds away from swan-diving into the fountain outside.

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, dragging out a tub of rock-solid Vanilla Voyage. “You gonna make out with that thing or what?”

Straw dangling from his lips, he leans in through the window.

“Why, you jealous?”

You slam the tub down like a threat.

“Yeah. Totally. I’ve always dreamed of being tongue-fucked by a guy in a sailor costume.”

Well.

Shit.

Steve blinks. His mouth opens then closes again like his brain short-circuited halfway through a comeback.

Then he lets out a soft snort, shakes his head, and turns back to the register.

You close your eyes. Maybe you could fit inside the deep freezer. Just curl up next to the Ocean Breeze Sherbet and fade into oblivion.

If only you didn’t catch his face right before he turned.

That tiny patch of color, right under his cheekbones:

S.S. Strawberry-pink. ᥫ᭡ Sundays are hell.

By noon, the store turns into a warzone: a hellish cocktail of crying toddlers, sleep-deprived parents, and preteens on sugar benders demanding triple scoops like it’s a constitutional right. Somewhere in the corner, a baby starts wailing. The floor is already a minefield of sticky napkins and waffle cone shrapnel.

And then it happens.

The worst sound in the Scoops Ahoy auditory catalog:

Velcro sneakers slapping tile.

A sea of neon tie-dye floods through the entrance. Tiny gremlins shrieking and giggling like they’ve just escaped captivity, herded by a single, dead-eyed camp counselor trailing behind them.

Steve sighs like he’s being drafted. “Incoming.”

“You take the loud ones,” you mutter, already retreating toward the toppings station.

“They’re all loud.”

“Exactly.”

The first kid beelines straight for the display case and smushes her entire face to the glass, fogging it up. You’re going to have to clean that. Again.

The questions start before anyone’s even picked a flavor.

“Do you have anything that tastes like watermelon but not pink?”

“Can I get a cup inside a cone?”

“My cousin says if I eat too much sugar I’ll explode. Is that true?”

You shoot a glance at Steve.  

He’s already crouched down, eye-level with a kid who’s just slapped a crumpled dollar on the counter with the swagger of a high-stakes gambler.

“I want the biggest ice cream you have.”

Steve raises a brow. “Biggest? You sure, dude? That’s a pretty serious request.”

“I’m eight.”

“Oh, well if that’s the case.” He nods solemnly, then stands, tossing you a grin. “Well? You heard the man. Triple Decker Extravaganza.”

You sigh, reaching for the scooper. “If he pukes, it’s your turn to mop.” ᥫ᭡ The rhythm is second nature now.

He scoops, you top. He wipes down, you ring up. A weird little dance born from too many shifts with someone you pretended not to like for way too long.

It’s seamless. Unspoken. Stupidly easy.

And maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s the way he’s crouched down again, high-fiving a kid who just declared “Mint chip is for teachers” like it’s the most brilliant thing he’s heard all week.  

But really, it’s this:

The crowd’s changed.

The giggling teen girls that used to swarm the counter? They don’t come around anymore. Novelty burned off like mist.

Turns out, even teenage ridicule has a shelf life.

What’s left now are the kids. The regulars.

The ones who sprint up to the counter asking for Steve. Not you. Not even the ice cream.

Steve.

They beg for tricks—scooper flips, upside-down cones, dumb games where he dares them to pick a mystery flavor. They want him to guess their favorite color, their favorite animal. He almost always gets it right.

Sometimes he’ll be on break, slumped on a milk crate with a half‑eaten banana and a look that says ten more minutes or I quit, and a kid will march up to you and ask, “Can Steve do mine instead?”

You brace for the eye-roll. The groan. The Are you kidding me?

But Steve?

Steve lights up.

He doesn’t just tolerate the chaos, he lives for it. The noise, the mess, the full-sprint joy of it all. Like it feeds something he doesn’t get anywhere else.

And maybe, you think, it’s something a little more than that. More than the hyperactive kids and the excuse to act silly in a cartoonish sailor hat.

Maybe it’s the being needed.

Being seen.

Knowing that someone tiny and honest looks up at him and thinks:

He’ll get it right. He’ll make it better.

You’re watching them now—the summer campers, clawing their way over the vinyl booths, sticky with glitter and sugar and god knows what else—when one of the smallest kids toddles up to the counter.

She’s tiny, maybe six.

She holds something out to Steve.

A drawing.

Crayon-smudged. Sloppy. Wonderful.

It's an ice cream cone wearing a cape and a tiny sailor hat.

“It’s you,” she says. “But like, a superhero.”

And Steve...

Steve just stares. Eyes gone achingly soft in that wide, blinking way.

Then, slowly, he crouches down.      

“Hey,” he says. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. You made this?”

She nods, twisting her lanyard between nervous fingers.

“Can I keep it?”

She nods again, shy smile blooming.

“I’m gonna hang it up in the back. So I see it every shift.”

He takes the paper like it’s made of glass. Holds it with both hands, cradles it.

And you watch.

You watch him stand there long after she’s gone, tracing his thumb over the crayon lines. Like if he lets go too soon, it might disappear.

And it’s in that moment—somewhere between his smile and the way his fingers linger on every scribble like it matters—that something just… snaps into focus.

It’s like you’ve been squinting at him through a funhouse mirror this whole time. Sailor hat, dorky shorts, dumb jokes.

But now?

Now all of that falls away.

And all you see is him.

Steve.

This dumbass you’ve worked with all summer. The one you swore you wouldn’t like. The one you promised yourself you’d hate.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

The worst part of this job isn’t the sticky counters or the screeching toddlers.  

It’s that you can’t hate Steve Harrington the way you’re supposed to.

Not since he quietly slipped a crumpled five into the tip jar after a family of seven stiffed you. Not since he wrapped your hand with the first-aid kit after that milkshake blender incident, called you a “klutz” but refused to let you near the machine for a month.

Not since that gaggle of overgrown teens—his, even if he’ll never admit it—first showed up demanding free scoops. He always gives in. Even when it comes out of his paycheck. Even when he grumbles the whole time.

You watched him clean chocolate syrup off the curly-haired one’s shirt, muttering, “Dude, c’mon,” while using the hem of his own uniform to wipe the stain away.

You’re not supposed to notice things like that.

You’re not supposed to care.

But summer has teeth.  

And you let it bite you the day you walked into Scoops, saw the guy in the sailor suit with the unfairly pretty eyes, and—instead of turning around—stayed.

Now, here you are. Standing behind the toppings station, plastic spoon in hand, watching him hold that kid’s drawing like it’s proof of life.

It’s there that you feel it.

The shift.

Because when you look back on this summer—when the mall’s gone dark, when the smell of freezer burn fades from your hair, when Scoops Ahoy is just another entry on a long list of bad jobs—

This is what you’ll remember.

This exact second.

The one where you stopped pretending.

The one where you realized you’re screwed.

Utterly and irreversibly fucked. ᥫ᭡ Eventually, the mob clears.

Kids wander off in clumps, half-finished cones dripping down their arms. They wave enthusiastically at Steve, who beams and waves back.

You lean against the counter with a groan. “Pretty sure I pulled something scooping for that last one.”

Steve rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck.

“Worth it.” ᥫ᭡ You’re on break.

Well, technically, you’re not. But Steve scribbled a “Back in 10!” sign on a napkin (complete with a smiley face and what you think is supposed to be an anchor) and slapped it to the glass.

So yeah. Good enough.

Now you're sitting by the mall fountain. The bench is too hot from the sun pouring through the atrium glass, and your legs stick to the plastic like the worst kind of summer betrayal. A tray of lukewarm fries sits between you, salt soggy from condensation. The last of a melting Coke sweats in a cup you’re both too lazy to toss.

Steve’s already stolen most of the good fries.

You’re watching a group of kids toss pennies into the fountain, their faces scrunched with the kind of hope only eight-year-olds can get away with. Like their wishes would end up as anything more than glorified litter headed straight for a clogged drainpipe.

Wordlessly, Steve reaches over and plucks the last decent fry right out of your hand.

You stare at him. “That’s theft, you know.”

He grins mid-chew, a smear of ketchup bright on his bottom lip. “Sharing’s caring.”

"Give me one good reason not to shove you into that fountain.”

He leans back, all long limbs and smugness. “I’d drag you in with me.”

You sigh like he’s the greatest burden you’ve ever endured. He smirks like it’s his greatest achievement.

The midafternoon light pours through the glass ceiling, painting the ends of his hair honey-gold. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

And that’s when you notice it.

His fingers, drumming lightly against the bench. Barely audible over the mall noise, but you notice. You notice everything about him these days.

“You okay?” you ask, before you even mean to.

His eyes flick to you, sharp, then soften.   

“Yeah,” he nods. “Just… tired.”

You nod back. Because same. 

The mall hums around you. The whir of the Orange Julius blender dying a slow death. Kids’ laughter. The chatter of bored shoppers. The AC kicking on like distant thunder.

Steve slurps the last of the Coke and tosses the straw into the cup. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the fountain.

After a minute, he says it. Almost too quietly to hear:

"You ever think about just… leaving?"

You blink over at him, surprised.  

His neckerchief’s askew. There’s a smear of chocolate syrup on his sleeve. His sailor hat is crumpled and sitting upside down in his lap.

But out here, outside the awful white fluorescents of Scoops, in this strange afternoon stillness, he looks tired. Older, somehow.    

“Like... Bonnie-and-Clyde it?”   

He snorts, quiet. “No, just like—get in the car. Take off for a bit. Get out of Hawkins.” He shrugs, eyes on the floor as he nudges a scuff mark with his shoe. “Go somewhere where not everyone’s known you since kindergarten, you know? Just… figure out what else is out there.”

You watch him for a long moment. Then you say, voice quiet:

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

He nods, like he’s been holding his breath for your answer.

And because silence makes you squirm, because you’re not brave enough for whatever this is becoming, you flick a soggy fry at his face.

Hard.

It hits him square on the nose.

“Jesus—what the hell?” He scrubs his face, bewildered.

You shrug. “For being corny.”

Steve laughs. A real one. The kind that starts low in his chest and rolls out of him until he’s leaning back, hair flopping into his eyes, grinning like an idiot.

“So much for honesty, huh?”

“It’s overrated.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you’ve always kind of liked.

Then he flicks the fry back.

It misses by a mile. ᥫ᭡ You’re five minutes to closing when it happens.

You’re wiping down the counter, Steve’s putting away the cones. And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. A swagger that doesn’t belong in a mall ice cream shop.

You both look up.

The guy’s around your age. Gold chain. Gum snap. Letterman jacket even though it’s ninety degrees outside. You clock it immediately: The Type. 

Steve sees it too, shoulders pulling back, jaw set. That customer-service smile is already plastered on.

The guy saunters up like he owns the place. “Yo, can I—”

Then his eyes land on Steve.

Double-take.

“No way,” he says, grinning wide. “You’re Harrington, right?”

Steve’s voice is completely neutral. “Yeah.”

“Dude!” The guy laughs like they’re best friends. They’re not. “Man. Steve Harrington. Didn’t you used to be, like, varsity everything? Basketball? Baseball?”

Steve nods, noncommittal. “Yup. Bit of everything.”

The guy whistles low. “Damn. You were the guy in high school. And now you’re, uh…”

He glances around the store. “…here.”

Subtle.

But Steve doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. Summer job, you know? Ice cream’s not gonna scoop itself.”

The guy snorts, gives the uniform a little once-over. “Yeah, no, I get it, man. Hustle and grind or whatever.” 

Then he leans in, like he’s letting Steve in on some great cosmic joke. “Still. Wild, seeing you like this. With the hat and everything.”

Steve doesn’t respond. But you do. 

“Sorry,” you say, syrupy-sweet. “We’re fresh out of Pathetic Dickhead Swirl today.”

Eh, not your sharpest. But it lands.

The guy blinks, regards you for the first time. “What?”

You lean over the display, palms pressed against the icy top. “I said: we don’t serve entitled assholes here. But if you’re hungry, there’s a perfectly good dumpster out back.”

Better.

The jock bristles, forcing out a laugh that’s more teeth than humor. Then he turns to Steve, eyes narrowing like he’s expecting backup. “What, is this your little sidekick?”

Steve’s jaw ticks at that.  

He looks the guy dead in the eye, voice low and even, colder than you’ve ever heard it.

“Hey man. I’m just here to scoop ice cream. You want something or not?”

There’s a pause. The guy blinks, brain clearly working overtime, though you doubt it’s capable of much more than remembering his gym locker combo.

Then he mutters something under his breath and slinks off.

The moment he’s gone, it’s like the pressure in the room drops.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

Steve stands rigid, eyes locked on the spot where the guy disappeared.

You glance at him, waiting. Then give his arm a soft nudge. “Want me to go after him? Dump some hot fudge down his pants?”

He blinks, then huffs out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but something close.

“Don’t bother. Waste of good fudge.” ᥫ᭡ Steve Harrington has this way of taking up space.

Not just physically—though, with the way he sprawls across the chair in the break room, you’d think he pays rent on it.

Not just with noise—god knows there’s plenty of that, too: bad puns, worse singing, yawns so dramatic you’d swear he’s suffering more than anyone else alive.

But more like… emotionally. Energetically. Existentially.

He hums when he thinks. Taps when he’s nervous. His presence is a constant, like the freezer fan that never shuts up or the mall Muzak playing ABBA on an infinite loop.

And somehow, people just gravitate to him. To that offbeat, magnetic kind of ease.

Not because he’s smooth or cool or whatever he used to be. He’s not, really. Half the time, he’s fumbling with the register or forgetting where he left the sprinkles tub.

But the way he does it—like it matters, like he’s trying—makes all the difference.

He doesn’t chase the attention. Doesn’t even seem to notice when it’s there.

It just finds him. Rolls on and sticks, like lint on a sweater.

And sure, yeah, maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you’ve more than noticed.

But you're not supposed to fall for a guy like that.

A guy who wears knee-high socks with tragic levels of pride. Who says things like, “You can’t triple-scoop a double cone” like he’s defending a moral law.

A guy who, despite all that, is still good at the job. Fast on register. Patient with customers. He’s even sharp with inventory, which you’d previously believed to be physically impossible for someone with that much hair and that little visible brain activity.

And if you’re being honest—not that you ever plan to be—the whole Scoops gig would be hell of a lot worse without him. For all his boyish charm and tragic hairspray addiction, he makes the days suck a little less.

Still.

Does he have to look at you like that?

Like today. Like now.

You’re wiping down the display case ten minutes before open, gearing up for another thrilling shift in dairy-based retail hell, when you catch him behind the counter, just… staring.

“What?” you mutter, not looking up.

He blinks, then nods toward the sneeze guard. “Missed a spot.”

You reward him with a face-full of damp rag.

“Hey!”

“You said I missed a spot.”

He tosses it back.

Misses. Again.   ᥫ᭡   Some days, you wonder whether homicide by ice cream scoop would legally count as self-defense.

Today is one of those days.

“Thank you! Now, was that so hard?”

Middle-aged. Over-tanned into leather territory. Wearing sunglasses indoors and radiating that special brand of entitlement reserved for people who’ve never worked a service job a day in their lives.

You bite back a sigh and pass her demon spawn, who’s changed his order four times in under two minute, his cursed request: "The blue one, but no sharks, but also sprinkles, but not touching."

You had the audacity to pause—to make sure the sprinkles weren’t, god forbid, touching—and she’d glared at you like you’d slapped her child.

“Anything else I can do for you?” you smile, teeth grinding.  

“No, just your job,” she hums, then flounces off like she’s solved world hunger with that zinger.

Your left eye twitches. You fantasize about hurling the nearest waffle cone like a ninja star.

That’s when Steve appears at your side, bumping your arm with his elbow.

“Come on. Back hallway. Five minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He plucks the service bell off the window and sets it in front of the register.

Then, before you can argue, he takes your hand.

Threads his fingers through yours. Easy, like it’s no big deal.

And just like that, you follow. ᥫ᭡ The service corridor behind Scoops Ahoy isn’t made for moments.

The walls are an uninspired shade of off-white. The linoleum is scuffed to hell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering like they’re one bad day from giving up entirely.

You lean back against the door with a dull thunk, scrubbing a hand down your face.

“I hate people.”

Steve settles in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he nods quietly. “They suck.”

The silence that follows stretches. Thick, but not uncomfortable. Just the kind that says more than any rant ever could.

His hand is still wrapped around yours.

You glance down, then up at him. “Why do you even work here?”

You’re aiming for light. For a distraction.

He shrugs. “I like the hat.”

You snort.  

Then, softly:

“...You.”

You blink, eyes snapping over. “What?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. Just stares down at his sneaker like they’ve got answers he hasn’t worked out yet.

“I mean… yeah, I needed a job. But you’re kinda the reason I stuck with it.”

You go still.

He’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt now, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact.

And he looks... god, he looks nervous. You’ve never seen Steve nervous. 

“Steve…” you murmur, unsure.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You just—you make it feel less dumb. This job. The hat. Like I don’t hate showing up when I know I’ll see you. It’s stupid, right?”

You turn to face him fully.

Your smile wobbles, caught somewhere between amusement and something else entirely.

“You could’ve just told me you like me, Harrington.”

He finally meets your eyes.

There’s no smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet breath, and a nod.

“Okay,” he says. “I like you.”   

It hits you like a warm wave. Simple. Honest. Inevitable.

Your smile breaks wider as he steps in.

His hand lifts to your jaw, slow and feather-light, still giving you space to pull away.

You don’t.

You lean in. ᥫ᭡ It starts soft.

A breath. A heartbeat. A question asked with the press of his lips against yours.  

You answer by pulling him close.

One hand slips into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. The other stays laced tight with his. You can feel the heat pouring off him, his whole body thrumming with tension like he’s been holding this in for weeks.

You exhale softly into his mouth, and something in him gives way.

He presses you back against the metal door, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The chill bites through your shirt, but all you feel is him—his shape, his weight, the low groan vibrating against your lips when you tug at his hair. Cherry syrup and that half-faded cologne he only remembers to wear on good days.

He lifts your joined hands, pinning them gently beside your head. The back of his hand flexes as he adjusts his grip, anchoring you there. His mouth trails lower, brushing along your jaw, down the curve of your throat, each kiss slow enough to make you shiver. Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut.  

“Jesus,” you breathe, half-laughing, half-dazed. “Y-you must really like me, huh?”

He smiles against your skin, breath hot. “What gave it away?"

You laugh as he kisses you again, deeper this time, thumb dragging slow, dizzying circles along the sliver of bare skin above your waistband. Your free hand slips up under his shirt, palm grazing warm skin, lean muscle. He sucks in a sharp breath, teeth catching gently on your bottom lip.

He pulls back, breath ragged, lips barely leaving yours. "God, I've been—been thinking about this for weeks."

Your stomach jolts. Your knees threaten collapse. You’re halfway to climbing him like a tree when—

Ding!

You both freeze.

He falters for half a second. Then, stubbornly, he leans back in. Kisses you again. Softer this time, like punctuation.  

“Steve,” you murmur, dazed. “The bell.”

He noses at your cheek, still pressed close, still not letting go. “Hm? What bell?”

“Hellooo? Anyone working here?”

You flinch. Steve groans and drops his head to your shoulder.

Still, he pulls back, peeling off your body like molasses, gaze lingering on your face the whole time. His thumb brushes your cheek, once, before he lets his fingers slip free from yours.

Then he’s gone. Back through the door. Back to the register and the endless drone of summer crowds.

You stay behind.

Spine against the wall, lips tingling, chest heaving like you just ran a mile.

It takes five whole minutes for your legs to stop shaking.

You can still taste him.

It’s barely July.

But for the first time all summer, two more months doesn’t feel like nearly enough time.

a/n: this fic will likely have one more part! pt.2 will be a lot angstier 🥲

“—and technically, jellyfish don’t even have brains,” he said, waving a half-full beer can for emphasis. “Which is kind of terrifying if you think about it, because they still function perfectly fine. They sting, they float, they hunt. No brain required! Meanwhile, we have brains, and I can’t even cook rice without ruining it. What does that say about evolution? Nothing good.”

You giggled, clutching your drink. “You’re like obsessed with the weirdest facts.”

“They’re not weird, they’re practical! Like, if we ever have to fight an alien that looks like a jellyfish, guess who’s going to save all your lives? This guy.” He pointed to himself proudly. “Because I’ll know not to aim for the brain. Jellyfish don’t have brains!”

“Christ, Chase,” Harcourt muttered, taking a swig from her beer. “You’re exhausting.”

Adrian grinned, unbothered. “Exhaustingly prepared.”

You’d noticed it before, but it hit you sharper in the haze of beer and rooftop lights. The way Adrian never seemed to flinch when people tossed jabs at him. Harcourt could cut him down with a single sentence, Chris could roll his eyes, Economos could groan every time he opened his mouth (but you did notice that he would still humor him), and Adrian just…took it. Not even took it, just shrugged it off. Grinning, bouncing right back, like their words couldn’t touch him.

Maybe he didn’t even notice. Or maybe he noticed and genuinely didn’t care. Either way, it was kind of incredible.

You, who could spiral for days over one offhand comment, couldn’t wrap your head around it. And maybe that was why you always made a point to be nice to him. To laugh at his stupid jokes, to actually listen when he rambled on about owl facts, to see him. Because underneath the quirks and tangents, he deserved someone who did.

You leaned your head against the back of your chair, warmth bubbling in your chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

And then, your bladder reminded you of the three drinks past your limit.

You groaned softly, sitting up too fast. The world tilted. “Uh oh.”

Adrian leaned forward, alarmed. “Uh oh? What kind of uh oh? Vomit uh oh or…like, existential uh oh?”

“I need to pee,” you whispered like it was a state secret.

“Oh! Pee, uh oh. Got it. That’s manageable. I can handle that.” He hopped up so fast his chair toppled over. “Come on, I’ll escort you. Bathroom mission, let’s go.”

You tried to stand on your own, but your knees buckled immediately. Adrian darted in, catching you by the elbow.

“Whoa there! Okay, you’re like…a baby giraffe right now. Very majestic, very wobbly.”

You snorted, leaning into him. “You’re so loud.”

“Better than you face-planting into the concrete,” he said seriously, guiding you across the rooftop. Adebayo and Harcourt were deep in some hushed conversation, too distracted to notice your clumsy escape.

Adrian muttered to himself as you stumbled down the stairs. “Okay, left foot, then right foot. Yes, exactly, nailed it. You’re like ninety percent sober in my eyes right now. World record.”

You couldn’t stop giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He helped you to the bathroom door, bracing you with both hands on your shoulders. “You good from here? Do you need like…a spotter? Because I don’t think I’m allowed inside unless it’s a medical emergency. And even then, questionable.”

You waved him off, still laughing. “I got it.”

“Okay. But yell if you fall in. I’ll heroically rescue you.” And honestly, you don’t even think he’s joking. 

When you emerged a few minutes later, he was waiting against the wall, humming to himself, arms folded like he’d just been guarding a priceless artifact instead of a bathroom door.

“Success?” he asked brightly, straightening the second he saw you.

His grin spread wide and unselfconscious, crooked at one corner, the kind of smile that looked like it belonged on a kid who just got picked first for kickball. It was goofy, earnest, and so Adrian, and yet, it hit you right in the chest.

“Success,” you confirmed, trying not to melt under the weight of how proud he looked just because you managed to pee without catastrophe.

He beamed even harder, like you’d just aced a final exam. “I knew you could do it. I never doubted you for a second. Well, okay, maybe for a second, but that was only because you walked into the doorframe before opening it. But after that, total confidence.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe not, but you blurted: “You’re so nice. Like—so nice. Do you know that? You take care of me, and I don’t even deserve it.”

His face went crimson immediately. “What? No! Of course, you deserve it. You deserve, like, Olympic-level care. The highest quality care known to mankind.”

You swayed toward him, poking his chest clumsily. “You’re the best, Adrian Chase. The best.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting around like he was looking for backup. “Okay, uh, you’re super drunk. Which means it’s hydration time!” He darted into the kitchen, returned with a glass of water, and pressed it into your hands. “Drink this. Doctor’s orders. And by doctor, I mean me, and I am definitely not a doctor, but still. It’s medically sound.”

You obediently sipped the water, lips puckering at the bland taste. “Boring,” you muttered, but drank anyway because his expectant look told you he wouldn’t let you off the hook.

When you handed the glass back, Adrian hovered for a second like he wasn’t sure if you’d actually done it, then nodded with exaggerated approval. “Good. Hydration levels restored. Now, rooftop adventure awaits.”

Back upstairs, the party was still going, Chris yelling about how beer tasted better from a boot (he didn’t own a boot, but was determined to find one), and Harcourt had taken permanent refuge on her phone. You dropped into your chair again, a fresh drink already in your hand before Adrian could stop it.

You plopped down in your chair, fumbling for your phone. “Okay,” you slurred, swiping until the screen blurred a little less. “I’m gonna quiz you.”

Adrian perked up instantly, practically bouncing. “Quiz me? Hell yeah. This is my moment.”

“It’s… owl facts. Or spider facts. If you’re wrong, you take a shot. If you’re right, I do.” You held up your phone like it was a sacred text.

Adrian hesitated. You’re drunk. You’re really drunk. But then your smile tugged at him, wide and conspiratorial, and the little (well, huge) part of him that always wanted to impress you whispered to play along and make you laugh.

“Deal.”

The first round was easy. “How far can an owl turn its head?” you asked, trying to sound stern.

“Two-hundred and seventy degrees!” he blurted instantly, and the confidence in his voice made you laugh out loud.

“Dammit,” you said, tipping back your drink.

Adrian’s chest tightened at the sound of your laugh, wild and unrestrained, bubbling out of you like champagne fizz. He wanted to bottle it, keep it, make it last forever.

Next question, spiders.  “Which spider… um…” You leaned forward, nearly tipping your phone into your lap. Adrian caught it for you, steadying your hand. Your skin brushed his, and he froze.

You barely noticed. “Which spider can jump, like… a lot?”

“Easy! Jumping spiders. It’s literally in its name.” He said, a grin plastered on his face.

You groaned again and drank. “You’re cheating.”

Adrian gasped, hand flying to his chest. “Cheating? No. I would never cheat at owl-and-spider trivia. That would be a crime against nature. That’d be like, like faking a high score in Pac-Man. It cheapens the experience. And trust me, I respect owls and spiders far too much to betray them like that. They deserve integrity.”

You blinked at him for a beat, then burst out laughing so hard you nearly spilled your drink.

The next one tripped him. “Owls… can smell really well?” he guessed.

Your jaw dropped. “WRONG. They can’t smell at all.” You shoved a shot glass at him like you were handing down a sentence.

He tossed it back, grimacing, but secretly relieved it was him instead of you.

By the time you’d run through half your list, you were a mess of giggles, phone slipping from your fingers. Adrian snatched it before it hit the ground.

“Whoa, careful!” He cradled the phone like it was a fragile treasure, holding it up out of your reach for a second. “This thing’s basically your lifeline. What if you drop it and it shatters? Then you’ll have no maps, no music, no emergency spider facts. And then what? Total societal collapse. I’d have to personally escort you everywhere like your human GPS.”

“Wouldn’t be so bad,” you teased, reaching lazily for the phone.

His ears went red. “Well, uh, yeah, I mean—directions are kind of my thing. Left, right, up, down. North, south, spider, owl.”

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth. God, everything he said was ridiculous. But it was the way he said it, so earnestly, like he wasn’t even trying to be funny. You leaned against him fully now, cheek brushing his shoulder, because your body felt like it was made of lead and warmth, and Adrian Chase was comfortable. Way too comfortable.

He stilled.  The warmth of you against him almost short-circuited his brain.

He glanced at your empty glass, then at your flushed face, and decided before his nerves could talk him out of it. “Okay, I think the quizmaster is officially cut off. Hydration round two.”

You groaned but didn’t resist as he swapped your cup for the one filled with juice. You were too busy giggling into your sleeve to notice the difference, sipping happily like it was the best drink you’d ever had.

“See?” Adrian said, eyes sparkling with relief. “Still fun, zero percent liver damage. It’s what the pros call a win-win.”

And even as the rooftop noise swirled around you, his focus never left your face. Flushed, bright-eyed, smiling at him like he was the only one worth looking at.

The night air nipped at your skin, sharper now that the buzz from the drinks was settling in. You rubbed at your arms, trying to shake it off, but the thin straps of your cami didn’t offer much help.

“You’re cold,” Adrian said suddenly, already tugging at the hem of his sweater like he’d been waiting for an excuse to strip.

Your head snapped up. “What? No, I’m fine. Seriously, don’t—”

Too late. He was already halfway out of it, wrestling the knit over his head in a tangle of arms and curls.

“Adrian, stop,” you hissed, reaching out like you could shove it back down onto him, but he popped out of the neck hole with a triumphant grin and held the sweater out to you.

“Here. Put it on before you, like, get hypothermia, and I have to fashion a makeshift blanket out of beer boxes.”

You stared. Not at the sweater. At him. Bare skin glowing in the rooftop light, muscles more defined than they had any right to be, chest rising and falling like he wasn’t even aware you were staring.

He blinked at you, puzzled. “What? Do you not like sweaters? Is it, like, a texture thing? Because I totally get it, some fabrics feel like sandpaper, and it’s the worst.”

“Dude. You’re shirtless.”

“Yeah, duh.” He shoved the sweater at you again, determined. “I’m giving you my sweater so you’re not cold. That’s how clothing works. One person takes it off, the other person puts it on. Trade economy.”

You spluttered, “Well—what about you?”

Adrian just shrugged, unconcerned. “I run hot. Plus, worst-case scenario, I start doing push-ups until I’m warm again. Or sit-ups. Or interpretive dance. Point is, you’re cold and I’m not, so the sweater goes to you.”

You finally tugged it over your head, drowning in the oversized knit. It smelled like detergent and beer and something faintly metallic that was just him. And you couldn’t stop staring at him, even as he turned back to the group, laughing like nothing was different, like he hadn’t just stripped half-naked in the cold without a second thought because he noticed you shivering.

For some reason, every time your eyes flicked to Adrian, your stomach twisted into knots. You’d seen plenty of shirtless people before; it usually didn’t do much, but him? Him, right now? Your pulse picked up, your cheeks flamed, and suddenly your hands felt clammy.

So you tried to distract yourself. You leaned toward Harcourt. “You always this quiet at parties?”

Emilia glanced at you, sharp as ever. “You always this jumpy?”

Your mouth opened, ready to protest, but before you could, Adebayo’s voice cut through the night, high and gleeful. Economos shouted something back. You turned for what felt like a second, and suddenly Adrian wasn’t in his jeans anymore.

Just underwear. Standing on the rooftop with his arms spread like a victorious wrestler, while beer was poured over him like some ridiculous ritual, sliding in golden rivulets across the ridges of his chest and stomach.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes locked on him, tracing the curve of his chest, the line of his abs, the way the liquid clung to his skin, highlighting every curve, every flex, which made your stomach flutter and your heart beat like a drum. You should probably look away. Look at literally anything else. A bird, the sky, your own hands—just not him.

But you couldn’t. You can’t stop staring at the way the beer slicked across his skin, catching in the dip of his collarbone, tracing down the planes of his stomach. Your face burned hotter than the alcohol in your veins. Your eyes, despite your best efforts, drifted lower. Just far enough to take in the curve of his hips and the obvious outline of his crotch in those snug boxers. Your face burned hotter than the alcohol in your veins, and your stomach knotted with a cocktail of embarrassment and… something else entirely.

Next to you, Emilia smirked. “Wow. Subtle.”

Your head snapped toward her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she said, too casually. “You’re really enjoying the view huh?”

Your face burned. “I—I wasn’t—look, I need to—uh—pee.”

You scrambled to your feet, desperate for escape. But the universe wasn’t letting you off easy. Between the alcohol buzzing in your veins, the oversized sweater sleeves, and your stupid platform boots, you barely made it two steps before your toe caught on a chair.

You flailed, arms windmilling as you stumbled forward, and a warm, solid weight caught you before you could topple completely.

“Whoa—gotcha,” Adrian said, his voice calm but firm, hands landing on your waist to steady you. Your own hands instinctively pressed against his chest to keep your balance, and the heat radiating from him through the thin fabric of the sweater made your brain short-circuit.

You froze, heart hammering. His fingers lingered a second too long, brushing along your sides, steadying you in a way that made your pulse spike. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms, and suddenly every rational thought fled.

Do you like Adrian Chase? The thought hit like a jolt of electricity, and your cheeks flamed hotter than before.

Adrian, for all his usual awkwardness and rambling, didn’t seem to notice the shift. He tilted his head, eyes scanning yours, maybe thinking you were just off-balance, not realizing your hands were still pressed against him. “You okay?” he asked, voice soft, almost conspiratorial.

You nodded, though your stomach twisted.

You finally eased down onto the edge of a chair, letting out a shaky sigh. Your eyes flicked across the rooftop, and that’s when you caught Adebayo’s gaze, one of those looks that said I see exactly what’s happening here. You froze, cheeks heating all over again. You quirked your eyebrows, suddenly aware that maybe you were the object of a little harmless teasing.

Before you could dwell on it, a warm voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. 

“Uh… you know, you should really take these off,”he said, crouching down, hands resting lightly on your knees, “these boots? Absolute hazard. Let’s take them off before you need to get stitches from the ER.” 

You glanced down at your boots, about to try to unstrap them yourself. “Oh… yeah, okay.”

Before your fingers could fumble with the straps, his hands were already there, gentle but firm. “Nah, I’ve got this. Trust me.” His touch was careful, deliberate, and your pulse spiked as he slid the boot off.

“Okay, much safer,” he said finally, pulling back just enough to give you space, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You can now navigate the treacherous rooftop without fear of platform-boot calamities. Consider me your… personal safety officer.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, heart hammering, though your thoughts were in turmoil. Do you really like him? or is it the alcohol in your system? The combination of his charm, his warmth, and the simple intimacy of him helping you was dizzying.

Adrian, blissfully oblivious to your mental chaos, leaned back on his heels and grinned. “Alright, hazard mitigated. You’re welcome. I’ll be expecting a formal thank-you card, or at least a handshake. Preferably both.”

The party had died down, and everyone had retreated to Emilia’s apartment. Economos and Adebayo’s voices were faint in the other room, bickering about UNO rules with the kind of energy that could last all night. In here, though, it was just you, the toilet, and Adrian kneeling on the tile beside you.

You gagged miserably, clutching the edge of the bowl like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

“Easy, easy,” Adrian murmured, sweeping your hair back with one hand, palm warm and steady against your crown. He didn’t even flinch when you retched again, just kept rubbing slow, grounding circles on your back. His jeans had to be soaking up whatever cold lingered on the tile, but he didn’t budge.

You slumped forward with a groan, chest heaving. “Ugh. Kill me.”

“No way,” he said instantly, voice bright but soft. “You’re like… top-tier. One of my favorite people ever.”

That made your heart skip, a strange little stutter that had no business happening in the middle of you throwing up in Harcourt’s bathroom. You would’ve dwelled on it, replayed those words over and over, tried to figure out if he meant them the way you wanted him to, but your stomach lurched again, cruel and untimely, and you bent over the bowl.

Adrian didn’t flinch. He just tightened his hold on your hair, murmuring quiet encouragements between his usual rambling. “Okay, good, just get it all out. Not that throwing up is good, but, like, sometimes it’s part of the process. You’re basically detoxing. People pay hundreds of dollars for juice cleanses when this is way more effective. Not that I recommend it, because it sucks, obviously.”

You coughed weakly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “How are you okay, dude? I’m pretty sure you drank way more than me.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s ‘cause of my healing factor. My body burns through alcohol faster than normal, so it takes a lot more to get me sick. It’s like—uh, like my liver’s got a cheat code.” He tapped his chest with two fingers, almost proud. “Infinite lives. Well, liver lives.”

You rolled your eyes, rinsing your mouth out at the sink. “Lucky.”

The mirror fogged faintly from the hot tap you’d just run, and you braced your hands against the edge of the sink, catching your breath. When you finally turned, he was hovering a few feet away, like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer or give you space.

The bathroom wasn’t tiny, but the fluorescent light and tiled walls made it feel smaller, more intimate than it really was. Adrian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, eyes darting everywhere but yours. His glasses had slid a fraction down his nose, and he pushed them back up with his finger in that nervous, familiar way.

Your gaze traveled over him. His curls were messy from the rooftop wind, falling in uneven tufts across his forehead, soft in a way that made your fingers ache to touch them. The robe he’d thrown on hung loosely off his shoulders, the collar gaping just enough to reveal a strip of bare skin and the defined lines of his chest. 

You tugged at the oversized sweater you were wearing, which was Adrian’s sweater, trying to pull it tighter around yourself, half for warmth, half because it felt like a flimsy shield against the heat rising in your cheeks.

And even though you practically saw him naked earlier, seeing him this close, like this, knocked the breath out of you. Heat crept up your neck before you could fight it, your body betraying you with the sudden rush of fluster.

Adrian’s cheeks were flushed too, a soft pink climbing high across his face. Whether it was from the leftover alcohol, the heat trapped in the tiny bathroom, or the fact that you were staring at him like you’d never seen him before, you couldn’t tell.

You thought about how he’d just spent the last half hour holding your hair, rubbing your back, taking care of you without a single complaint. You thought about the ridiculous, earnest things he’d said tonight that had made you laugh even when your stomach was twisting.

And now here he was. Just you and him, close enough that if you leaned forward an inch, your shoulder would brush his chest. Close enough that you could hear the way his breath hitched when your eyes lingered on him too long.

“Adrian,” you whispered, your voice lower than you meant it to be.

That finally made him look at you. Really look. His eyes found yours, and for once, he didn’t fidget or ramble to fill the space. He just stood there, pressed back against the door like it was the only thing holding him up, breath shallow like yours had stolen it away.

Something pulled tight in your chest. You swallowed hard, pulse skipping, and before you could talk yourself out of it, the words tumbled out.

“You’re my favorite person, too.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than they should’ve been, and Adrian’s lips parted like he wanted to say something back. But nothing came.

Your gaze slipped lower, unbidden, catching on his mouth. Just a second too long. You dragged your eyes back up, but not before he noticed. His throat bobbed with a swallow, and then, true to form, he panicked.

“Oh, uh—yeah? I mean, you’re great. Really great. Like, top-tier great. Honestly, if there was like a ranking system for people, you’d be way up there. S-tier. God-tier, even. Like, sometimes you even beat Peacemaker, and he's like my BEST friend. It's not just 'cause you’re funny and badass, but you're like so nice. To me. So nice to me. And sometimes I think maybe you don’t even realize it, but—yeah, it’s like… you’re just really, really good to me. And–”

“Adrian.”

Your voice cut through his rambling, sharper than you meant it to be, but he froze instantly. His eyes widened behind the faint flush on his cheeks, mouth still half-open like he’d been about to tumble into another tangent.

His rambling pressed warm against your chest, a soft, steady presence that had been with you all night as he took care of you, made you laugh, and somehow made the chaos of the party feel safe. After everything tonight, you didn’t just question it anymore. You knew. You liked him. Really liked him. And yeah, maybe it was the alcohol in your system, burning courage through your veins and making you reckless, but the truth was there, undeniable. Your chest was tight, your palms sweaty against the cool porcelain of the sink, but you leaned in just enough that he’d feel the shift in the air between you.

“I like you.”

His brain short-circuited. Full stop. Whatever words had been lining up in his head scattered like startled birds. “You—what?” His voice cracked embarrassingly on the single syllable, and he blinked, rapid and uneven, like maybe he’d misheard.

You nodded, throat thick. “I like you, Adrian. Like… a lot”

His face lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to the Batmobile. His grin was crooked, wide, and almost disbelieving. “Oh my god. That’s—that’s amazing. That’s like the best thing anyone’s ever said to me in the history of forever. Are you—are you sure? Like, you’re not just drunk-nice, right? ‘Cause sometimes people are drunk-nice and then they wake up and it’s like, ‘oops, didn’t mean it.’”

But you didn’t let him finish. Your body moved before your brain could catch up, leaning in, eyes fluttering shut. And for one wild second, he leaned in too. His breath ghosted over yours, the world tilting dangerously close to perfect—

Then he jerked back like he’d just remembered where he was. “Wait—no, nope—hold on!”

Your eyes snapped open, confusion stabbing through your haze. “What?”

His hands flailed uselessly, his robe slipping down his shoulder as he scrambled for words. “You’re, uh—you’re super drunk. Like, very drunk. And I don’t—”

The pit in your stomach dropped lower than any hangover could reach. “Oh.” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, brittle at the edges. “Do you not…do you not like me?”

“What?!” He almost shouted it, panicked, arms waving like he was trying to physically swat the idea out of the air. “No! God, no, are you kidding? I—of course I like you. I’ve liked you forever. Like, you’re—” He cut himself off, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I just don’t want our first kiss to be in Harcourt’s bathroom while you’re drunk and still tasting like, y’know, tequila and stomach acid.”

Your cheeks burned hot, and you tried to laugh it off, even though the sound wobbled. “Fair. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna kiss me either, considering I just—”

“No!” He crouched slightly to meet your eyes, frantic. “That’s not it at all. You could puke on my shoes and I’d still wanna kiss you, okay? But not like this. You deserve better than this. Better than me screwing it up in a gross bathroom.”

“Okay,” you whispered, trying for casual but failing, the words trembling out. “So… you’ll kiss me tomorrow?”

Adrian blinked, then gave a short, nervous laugh. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Unless tomorrow you decide you hate me, which—uh, fingers crossed you don’t. Then maybe the next day.”

Your lips twitched despite the heat in your cheeks. “Idiot.”

He smiled, softer than you’d ever seen, and leaned down, brushing a quick, careful kiss against your forehead. 

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, almost like a vow.

And even with the tequila fog still in your veins, your heart steadied at the sound.