#skeltnwrites

You take a few steps. Then another few when he doesn’t react. “Johnny,” you call again, stood gawky in the center of his room. Nothing. You bridge the rest of the gap, hovering over his bedside, hand stretching for his shoulder. 

But he shifts then, just before your fingers brush him. His lips smack, and he inhales hard, nose crushed to his pillow. One eye cracks, just a slit, his lashes crusted with sleep. 

“Sorry,” you whisper automatically. 

Johnny squints up at you like you’re aiming a flashlight at his face. He looks terribly tired, sounds it even more. “Hmm,” he whines. 

“Can I sleep in here?”

He stares at you blankly for a long time before he nods. His cheek drops back down to the mattress in defeat as he kneads his eye with a fist. You climb in on the other side and slip under cool covers. It’s still for a beat before the springs creak under his weight. He rolls onto his hip to face you. 

The curtains are parted enough for a slice of the city, washing the whole room in a deep blue, Johnny's face no exception. His eyes are like glaciers in the moonlight.

“What’s wrong?” he rasps. 

“Cold.” 

An understatement from what his ears tell him. He can hear the rattle of your teeth chattering and the shaky little breaths through your mouth. His hand sneaks across the sheets, knuckles laying across your cheek, skipping up to your forehead. 

You feel normal to him, maybe slightly warm. But that’s alarming, considering Johnny runs hot. His body regulates itself a few degrees warmer than the average man. Any other day, your skin’s like porcelain to his. 

“Sick?” he asks. 

“Guess so.”

“Mm. Come here.” 

You fall into his open arms, no hesitation, no room for embarrassment. He’s not your boyfriend, but he’s not nothing either. He couldn’t be, not with this being so easy. His chest is a furnace, bare skin hot under your hotter cheek. You nose your way up his neck. Even stuffy, you can smell yesterday's cologne. 

His hand smooths up your spine. “Take anything?”

“Yeah. Just did.”

Johnny could crank up the heat if he wanted to, soak some more warmth into your poor body using his. But not without risk. He’d rather not have to throw you in an ice bath to get your temperature back down. 

He tucks the blanket around your neck. You’ve stopped shivering, at least. “Better?” he asks. 

You don’t know her as well as he does, but you aren’t strangers by any means. 

“And Mike, well, he’s not old enough to watch her for that long. But he’ll be staying over at Joyce’s so you don’t have to worry about him,” she pauses to sip her drink. “I’d pay you, of course. I don’t know what your schedules look like— I know you’re probably busy with the new job, Steve— but I figured since it’s a few days, I’d offer it to you both.” 

Steve flashes an honest smile and leans forward. “Are you kidding? I’d hang with this squirt for free. I’m actually off this weekend so it works out.” 

Mrs. Wheeler beams, eyes springing to yours. 

“Yeah, I could help too,” you shrug. You also happen to be free this weekend and the extra cash would be nice. 

“Great! You both are so lovely. Oh, I was so worried, I kept telling Ted– well, it doesn’t matter now.” Her bracelets clink and clash as she reaches across the table to cover your hand with hers. “You’ll have to keep an eye on these two. She becomes quite the riot when her Stevie comes over.” 

Steve chuckles and raises his hands in defense. “She owes me a rematch at Candyland so I can’t promise anything.” 

Mrs. Wheeler’s fingers retract from yours, landing on the end of Holly’s pigtail. “She’s really missed having you over. Asks about you still.” 

Holly ducks her nose into her paper, pink traveling up her ears. 

“Is that right?” Steve teases. “I’ll have to swing by more often.” 

“Please. You’re welcome anytime, Steve. Whether Nancy’s here or not.” Her attention drifts to you. “And the same goes for you. Mike won’t stop talking about that comic book you gave him.” 

A smug grin surfaces. Out of all of the kids, Mike is a tough one to please. 

“I’ve never been away from Holly for so long. But I trust you guys.” Mrs. Wheeler pecks Holly’s crown to hide a wobbly smile, her sentence spilling out in a breathy string of words.

She really does trust you both. It would take another set of hands to count the number of times either you or Steve had driven her kids home safely. This is just different. She loves all of her kids equally, but Holly’s her baby. 

Holly’s eyes cast up at her mention, bright as a sunlit gem. 

Mrs. Wheeler smooths her daughter’s sleeves down her shoulders. “But Holly’s a good girl. Right, Hollybear?” 

She turns to bury a toothy smile in her mother’s shirt. 

Mrs. Wheeler is meticulous as she presents each and every detail of Holly’s routine. From car seat safety to emergency contacts to allergies, she covers every question you might have before you have it. 

Steve’s a good listener but he’s cursed with a very short attention span. Mrs. Wheeler lost him somewhere around Holly’s sudden aversion to mac and cheese, but she doesn’t seem to notice. You’ll fill in the gaps for him later. 

This won’t be the first time you’ve babysat with Steve. Dustin roped you both into hunting his pet lizard-turned-alien which very quickly escalated to protecting four children from not one, but several, vicious aliens. Safe to say you two are experienced enough to handle one kid for a couple of nights. 

You haven’t seen Steve much since then. It’s summer now. The demodogs and sentient tunnel vines feel much more like a dream than something that actually happened to you these days. Steve works at the Scoops in Starcourt, or so you’ve heard several times– Dustin only reminds you about every time you see him. But despite being as close to death as you’ve ever been beside Steve, visiting him at work feels strangely wrong. Like crossing a line that neither of you ever drew. 

You would not consider Steve Harrington your friend. You’re friendly, as you might be with a neighbor or coworker, but you don’t talk much outside of ​​world-ending, portal-to-another-dimension kind of events. He’s family in a weird sort of way, bound by the shared trauma and unspoken loyalty— like someone you only see at family reunions, familiar enough to care about but still a stranger in most ways. High school was a long blur and your circle of friends couldn’t have been farther from his. So you don’t know Steve, not really. But of what little pieces of him you have come to know in the last year, he’s not half bad at babysitting.

ᯓ★

On Friday afternoon, you park your car beside Steve’s shiny BMW in the Wheeler’s driveway. You take the house key that had been slipped from Mrs. Wheeler’s key ring to yours and unlock the front door. And you find that inside, it’s completely silent. Holly’s quiet as a mouse but she’s still a kid and kids make noise. 

Your bag drops onto the floor beside Steve’s shoes as you toe off your own. When the kitchen and living room turn up empty you jog upstairs. Alarm sinks in on the last step where you still hear nothing. No shouting, no laughing, no crying, no nothing. 

There’s a large window in the hall upstairs, dividing Nancy’s room from Mike's and Holly’s. In your panic, you miss the suspicious lumps in the drapes that frame it. 

As you brush by, Steve rips the curtain across the rod and shouts, “Ha! Gotch– Oh.” 

Your entire body jerks, fear cinching every nerve. “Christ! Steve!”

“Sorry, sorry!” 

Your nostrils flare with hot air as you shove him, “You scared me!” 

His open palms hover in between your chests, unsure how to help. “I thought you were Holly. Sorry.” He gives you an apologetic once-over before a breathy chuckle escapes. 

“It’s not funny. All the shit we’ve been through. God.” He’s lucky you didn’t punch him. A part of you still wants to. 

“Mommy says that’s not a nice word,” Holly says from behind you. 

You turn, shoulders sagging in relief. “I didn’t mean to say that. Sorry.” 

“Stevie, I was supposed to find you,” she whines incredulously, hands planted on her hips. 

“We can go again. I’ll find a new spot.” 

Her frown mends as quickly as it appeared and she skips back to her room to count. 

“Sorry,” Steve reminds you. “Help me find a spot to hide?” 

Soft eyes, a softer smile. It’s hard to stay mad when he looks at you like that. “Okay.” 

Twenty seconds isn’t very long to hide. Especially when Holly counts as fast as she does and when you spend half of your time standing in the hall. So you end up crouched in the corner of Mike’s closet, Steve arched over you, trying his hardest not to crush your toes. 

“Jesus. Does this kid even wash his clothes?” Steve whisper-shouts. “It smells like something died in here.” His palm snaps to the wall behind your head, the flesh of his arm warming your ear.

“You actually couldn’t have picked a worse place. Oh my God.” You press the neckline of your shirt over your nose. Steve’s wearing enough cologne to drown out the stench of dirty socks, though it’s choking you all the same. 

“We had like three seconds. I panicked!” 

You’re glaring at him but only a fraction of light filters in from underneath the door so you’d guess he doesn't see. 

The closet is the first place Holly checks when she barges into Mike’s room, but you’ve never been happier to be caught so fast. 

“My turn!” She glows in victory, pigtails swishing like yellow ribbons as she shouts. 

Steve huffs. “Let’s take a break. We’ve been playing for like an hour.” 

“Can we play tag?”

“In a little while. I’m tired.” He pinches her neck playfully until she squirms out of reach. “How’d you have all that energy?”

She shrugs with her whole body. “I dunno. I’m a kid.” 

A laugh bubbles out of your throat. When your eyes flit to Steve you find him already smiling at you. 

“What about something a little more chill,” you suggest. “We could color?” 

“Bracelets?” 

“You want to make some?” 

She nods, “I can’t reach them. The beads are on top of my closet.”  

“I’ll get ‘em,” Steve offers. “Come show me where.” 

You fan out her multitude of craft containers across the kitchen table. Beads, charms, strings, all neatly filed away. She pops open a lid and plunks down across from you. Steve takes the seat at the end in between. 

“What color bracelet are you gonna make?” you ask, raking through the rainbow of options. 

“Umm, yellow. No– green!” 

“Nice. Here’s a cute little frog charm. Want that?” 

“Mmmm. No, thank you.” 

“I’ll take it,” Steve says, stretching his hand toward you. 

You drop it in the center of his palm where it clinks against a handful of blue beads. They’re pretty and vibrant like the sea. A flicker of an idea pulls you to grab your own handful. 

Holly slides four beads onto a string, two lime green and two baby pink. She drags the other end up and they all slip off, bouncing in separate directions across the table. You smack one before it dives onto the floor and Steve catches another two mid-air. 

“Can you help me tie it?” Holly asks from under her chair, searching for the fourth. 

“Sure.” Steve swaps his bracelet for hers, triple knotting one end. “I like these colors.”

She resurfaces with a grin, voice lilting as she speaks, “Do you like purple?”

“Yeah, purple’s okay. Do you?” 

She nods, pinching a lilac gem and examining it. 

You slip into a peaceful rhythm. The bead bin rattles as Steve digs his fingers in. He murmurs something about sparkles as he shuffles. Every now and then, you peek up at him. And each time, you find that he’s fully absorbed in this, rubbing his chin or poking his tongue out in concentration. You’d even bet he’s having fun. 

“Can you tie it on me,” Holly asks when she finishes. 

Steve takes her hand gently, fingers engulfing her tinier ones. “This good?” He tugs the strings across each other at her permission, sealing it with an extra knot for good measure.  

Holly starts a second one as you finish your first. You hold it up triumphantly for them to see– red and blue beads between every white pearl. 

“Very patriotic,” Steve teases. 

“It’s for you. For scoops. These are the colors right?” 

He softens, eyes rounding like brown buttons. “Wait, really? Thank you. Wow.” He inspects it fondly where you release it in his palm. “Will you tie it?” His arm shoots over to your side of the table. 

You feel his gaze shift from the bracelet to your face as you lace it. And you pretend that it doesn’t make your cheeks burn. 

“You don’t have to wear it to Scoops if you don’t want to,” you mumble, releasing his wrist. 

“What? Of course, I’m wearing it. No one’s ever made me a bracelet before.” 

Your lips bend up into your cheeks as he leans back in his seat. He twists and turns his arm, looking it over again with a similar expression. “Now, it was supposed to be a surprise, but since I’m almost done, I actually made this for you.” He scoops up the piece he’s been working on and waves it in front of you. 

You cock an eyebrow and smirk. “You sure you didn’t just decide that since I gave you one.” 

“I didn’t! I was planning this the whole time! Right Holly, didn’t I say that?”

“No?” 

“Holly, come on now.” He elbows her arm. “Supposed to back me up.” 

“But you didn’t,” she giggles. 

“Holly doesn’t lie, Steve.” 

“Okay, I didn’t say it. But I thought it. I was gonna give it to you I swear.” He jams another couple of beads on his string. “See! Look, it has your favorite color on there.” 

“It has every color on there.” 

“One of which is your favorite.” 

You roll your eyes as he takes your wrist. His hands are warmer than yours, softer than you expect too. He stills as your palm flips face up. A jagged, fleshy ridge runs from the bottom of your pinky to the meat of your thumb. Steve was there when you got the scar. He’s never said it, but you know he blames himself for it. A demodog had you pinned in that damned junkyard school bus so Steve pushed you out of the way but you caught yourself on a broken window. 

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

His head dips in a silent nod. He isn’t sure whether to believe you or not. Either way, he feels sorry still.

His bracelet is a statement piece for sure. It truly has every color under the sun and a random assortment of charms and shells. But it’s sweet that he gave it to you. Even if he totally did not plan to do so at first. 

He makes a second bracelet for Holly with purple string and butterfly pendants. Holly gives her next one to him as thanks, then begins on a third for you. 

Steve stands from the table. “I’m hungry. Grilled cheese okay for dinner Holly?” She nods as do you when he asks you the same. 

Your focus drifts between him and the necklace you’re starting for Holly. He coasts around the kitchen naturally, like you imagine he would in his own house. But it’s a bizarre sight. Steve Harrington cooking you food, in the Wheeler’s kitchen out of all places. 

And he’s about as good as a chef as you expect him to be. He’s clumsy and uncertain, even dropping a spatula on the floor with an, “Oh, shi–ugar…” But he kindly refuses to accept any help or advice when you offer. 

He eventually swings around the kitchen island, brimming with pride, one plate in each hand. They’re set in the space you’ve cleared and you quickly see that the sandwiches have been cut adorably into stars. You just as quickly see– and smell– how burnt they are. They aren’t black, they’re edible for sure. But Holly’s five, and polite as she is, most kids would never willingly eat this. 

So you aren’t surprised when she looks at it in disgust, borderline horror. 

“Look, it’s a star,” Steve beams, oblivious. 

Your chest aches with the desire to laugh and an equal pang of sympathy. 

Holly shakes her head, visibly toning down her expression for his sake. “Can I have something else?” 

“It’s good! I promise, just try it.” 

She slowly shakes no again. 

“Steve,” a peel of laughter escapes your lips. “It’s burnt.” 

He scoffs. “It’s not that burnt.” 

Your mouth twitches in a funny little line and your eyes leap between him and the plate. “It’s pretty burnt, Steve.” 

After a moment of silence, he sighs and picks both plates back up. 

“Wait,” you shout, “I’ll still eat mine! Mine isn’t that bad. You did a good job!” 

He sulks at you. “You’re just saying that. I’ll make new ones.” 

“No, it’s okay, really. I’ll eat this one. I don’t mind.” 

He plants the plate in your grabby hands and spins back toward the stove. 

Round two is much better, still star-shaped, and a few shades lighter. Holly thanks him more than once while eating it without you even asking her to. If only Nancy and Mike were as precious as her. And Steve eats the first attempt, now cold, and admits that it tastes, “slightly burnt.” 

You take the empty plates to the sink to wash while Steve and Holly lug the jewelry kits back upstairs. You meet them in Holly’s room after. They’re playing house, Steve the dad, and Holly the mom, with four babydolls for children. She appoints you to be the neighbor when you join. 

You knock on her bedpost, pretending it’s her front door. “Holly, in one hour you’re gonna take a bath.”

Her head pops out from under the blanket. “Can we watch a movie before bed?” 

“Sure, but we have to do bath now if you wanna watch the whole thing.” 

“Okay!” She kicks the sheets away, jumping off the bed in a race to the bathroom. Steve winces as she steps on his hand. 

“Do you need help?” he asks, sprawled across the bed, socked feet hanging over the edge. 

“No, I got it. You can rest in peace now,” you joke, halfway through the door. 

Holly is self-sufficient enough to bathe herself so all you have to do is supervise. You find a matching polka dot set of pajamas in her dresser and a towel under the bathroom sink. And she gets dry and dressed all by herself, Miss Independent. 

“So there’s The Little Mermaid, E.T., Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory…” Steve trails off, kneeling in front of the entertainment center. 

Holly hands him a VHS tape, “This one?” 

“Ooh, good pick.” Steve feeds the tape into the player and rewinds it. 

You pat the couch cushion beside yours as Holly skips over. Steve hits the light before flopping into the recliner with a satisfied groan. The Jungle Book glows to life on the TV, casting an indigo wash over each of your faces. Holly curls into herself, knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them.

“Here,” Steve chucks a blanket from the basket at his side. 

“Thanks.” You scoop it off the floor where it missed the couch and billow it out over you and Holly. “Don’t fall asleep, Harrington.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve folds one leg over the other and crosses his arms, eyes glued to the screen. He reminds you of Mr. Wheeler sitting in his recliner like that. It’s alarming how attractive you find it. He’s not even doing anything worth staring at. You force your eyes back on the TV. 

The credits scroll up the screen for a whole minute before you realize the movie has ended. You aren’t asleep but you aren’t totally awake either. Steve’s not far off by the looks of it and Holly, on the other hand, was out like a light halfway through. Her head presses into your upper arm, her hand scrunched in the blanket on your thigh. The weight is nice, making it all the harder to pick yourself up and get her to bed. 

But thankfully Steve’s there to help. He twists in his chair until his back clicks, smiling when he catches sight of you and Holly. “I’ll carry her up,” he whispers. 

You gently work Holly’s stubborn fingers from the blanket as Steve stands. He pushes the rest of the fabric into your lap before bending to scoop Holly up. 

“Be right back,” he says, starting toward the stairs. 

You tug the blanket higher, seeking lost comfort in its folds, though it doesn’t compare to the warmth Holly provided. 

Steve pads back down not a minute later. He stops on the last step, hanging over the railing. “You awake?” 

“Barely,” you mumble. 

Steve plods up to the front door to check the locks. He orbits into the kitchen and then back around to the living room to turn the TV off. He’s being the responsible one. You aren’t sure why this surprises you. 

“Come on,” he opens his hand toward you. 

Your arm snakes out from under the blanket, and he lifts you effortlessly. You’ve seen how strong he is, how he fights, but it still surprises you. 

“I was gonna suggest another movie but I don’t think either of us’ll make it.” 

You catch a yawn from Steve. “I know. I’m so tired. It’s not even late.” 

He hums from behind you on the stairs. “Yeah. Who knew this’d be so exhausting.” He’s only being slightly sarcastic. There’s an obvious truth to what he implied, but at the same time, it is so much harder than you realized it would be. 

You stop at the landing, sluggishly turning to face Steve. “Well, goodnight, I guess.” 

“Goodnight.” 

You splinter into opposite ends of the hall. Steve let you have Nancy’s room for obvious reasons, though he wasn’t thrilled about crashing in Mike’s bed. He’s probably better off on the couch after seeing the kid’s closet. 

You change into cozier clothes and untuck Nancy’s quilt. Like with Steve, you and Nancy aren’t really friends. It’s strange being in her room, settling into her bed. And it’s almost stranger that Steve is sleeping across the hall. Yet, there’s an odd comfort in it— being surrounded by people who went through the same thing you did. 

ᯓ★

There’s thumping in the hall– footsteps, too light to be Steve’s. You fight the urge to go back to sleep. Holly needs a babysitter. But it’s not an easy feat, not when you’re swaddled like a baby in blankets much softer than the ones you have at home. You’re warm and it’s so quiet it feels like a gift; that is, until you remind yourself that kids and quiet don’t usually go hand and hand. She could be answering the door to a stranger, scaling the counters, setting the kitchen on fire, the possibilities are endless. 

You force your heavy eyes open and flinch as a much brighter pair come into focus. 

Holly bends over you with this innocent endearment you cannot possibly be mad to be woken by. “Told you, Stevie,” she says. 

“No, you woke ‘em up, goofball.” Steve lingers at the foot of the bed in a pair of striped pajama pants and a faded Olympics tee. You’ve never seen him in pajamas before, or anything quite like it. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows and rub your eyes for a better look. 

“Sorry,” he supplies. His voice is still raspy with sleep and his oh-so-perfect hair shoots up in wild peaks. The sight makes your chest buzz. “She said you had to get up to.” 

You redirect your attention to Holly, pinching the neckline of your shirt back over your shoulder as you sit up. 

“Can we have eggs?” she asks you. 

“Sure.” 

She traps her lip between her two frontmost baby teeth. “Five?” 

“Five eggs!” Steve chides. “Just for you?” 

She turns to nod at him, smile blooming. 

He wears the same joy, ruffling her already unruly bed-head. “What are you a linebacker?” 

She giggles, clueless as to what he’s talking about. 

“Let’s start with two and if you’re still hungry you can have more,” you compromise. 

You are undeniably a better cook than Steve, but the bar is low after yesterday. You serve scrambled eggs and unburnt toast. Holly looks at her plate like she hasn’t been fed a day in her life and she shovels spoonfuls of it in her mouth like it’s her last meal. 

Steve watches her with an anxious frown. “Smaller bites, Holl.” 

She nods but doesn’t exactly slow her pace. Steve chases your eyes, knocking your ankle with his when you don’t look. He gives you that funny face parents make. Help me out. 

You shrug. “It’s just eggs. Babies eat eggs.” 

He cycles through several emotions—frustration that you won’t back him up, disbelief that babies eat eggs, and a lingering fear that she might choke. But he stops himself from asking all the what-ifs, he trusts you. 

Holly swallows half of her glass of chocolate milk in one go. Steve looks mildly horrified. 

“My God. She’s like a little human vacuum,” he mumbles through a mouthful of toast. 

You snort into your glass. If Holly heard him, she’s too preoccupied to care. 

After breakfast, Steve sets her up in front of the TV to watch cartoons while you clear the table. He disappears into the basement in search of a board game but comes back with some deflated, plastic thing. 

“What happened to the board game?” you ask. “What even is that?” 

“It’s a kiddie pool. Let’s go outside. It’s nice out.” 

“I didn’t bring a bathing suit.” 

“Me neither. Just wear that.” 

You wrinkle your nose down at your pajamas. “Go see if she wants to.” 

He smiles, retreating back into the living room. Shortly after, he shouts, “She said yes!” Footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by a second shout, “Don’t run!” 

Mrs. Wheeler calls the house phone and is pleased to hear your good report. She reminds you several times to apply sunscreen to Holly’s ears and that there’s an extra can in the upstairs bathroom. You wrangle Holly over to put her on and promise to call back before bedtime when she refuses to hang up. 

You sift through your bag, changing into the closest thing to swimwear. Steve takes forever in the bathroom, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. He comes out in a crisp white tee, way too expensive-looking for a pool day, and a pair of red gym shorts. 

“What are you, the lifeguard?” you joke. 

His hands snap to his hips. “Uhh, I’ll have you know I’ve been a certified lifeguard for two years, so yeah, actually.” 

You roll your eyes, brushing past him for the extra can of sunscreen. “Are you ready? Holly’s waiting.” 

“Yeah. Let me go blow up the pool. I’ll be outside.” 

You fix your hair in the mirror and tuck a few towels under your arm before heading downstairs. Holly’s already outside, criss-crossed in a big lawn chair and watching Steve with incredible boredom. He stands barefoot in the grass, the deflated pool pressed against his chest. He pulls away from the air valve when he notices you, quickly capping it with his thumb. 

“You okay?” you ask, laughing lightly. 

He nods, red-cheeked and breathless. “Think there’s a hole in it. Been blowin’ for like five minutes.” 

“Huh,” you drop the towels and take one end of the limp plastic. “Try again.” 

He funnels more air inside, it dispurses evenly underneath your palm. You don’t hear any air wheezing out so you turn it over for further inspection. 

“Oh, Steve. Here, look.” 

He pops his mouth off and follows your pointer finger. A second valve at the bottom, unhinged and releasing his hard work steadily. 

“Oh, you’re kidding me. Why’d they put one under there?”

You shrug, plugging it back up. “Holly, let’s get some sunscreen on so your mom doesn’t kill us.” 

Holly hops off the chair and skips to your side. You mist her skin in several layers, lathering a generous amount over her ears. When you move onto yourself, she grabs her basket of toys and climbs into the dry inflatable. Steve retrieves the hose and releases a cool stream into the pool, splashing Holly’s feet.

She squeals and scoots back. “Cold!” 

Steve’s thumb eclipses the opening so the water bursts out in wide a fan. He trains it at Holly, spraying her until she’s soaked and screaming. 

He’s giggling in a way you’ve never heard. Genuine, open-mouthed reels of laughter. You hate to admit it, but it’s really cute. So infectious you can’t help but join. 

He glances back for your reaction, pleasantly satisfied. And your smile incites a great idea. He swings the hose around, aiming it straight at you. 

“Steve!” Your arms shoot out to block the attack but it’s no use. 

“What?” he says, the epitome of innocence. 

Your eyes narrow but a smirk prevails. “Oh, you–” 

Holly tackles the back of his thigh with a scream. Steve stumbles forward and the hose slips from his grasp. 

You lunge for it before he even realizes what happened. And by the time he does, he’s already drenched. “Payback!” You laugh maniacally as he combs his hair out of his eyes. 

He’s laughing too, bent at the waist, still shaking his surprise. But only until he catches your gaze– then comes the glint of something playful, almost daring.

Steve barrels straight through the spray like a bull. He chokes your fingers over the nozzle, bending and bending the line until the water pours straight down your head. 

Holly dashes behind you to wrangle the wiggly tail of the hose, squealing at every layer of mist she catches. 

You and Steve wrestle with it, his hand on your hip, yours pushing his shoulder. He’s gentle but still strong. And his touch sears through the cold water, your skin tingling in his wake. 

The second he sticks the end down the back of your shirt you scream. “Okay, okay! I surrender!” 

He crimps the hose with one hand, smirking deviously. 

“I surrender,” you repeat, heaving through your laughter. 

Holly drops her end of the hose, backing up one slow step at a time. 

“Truce?” 

“Truce,” you nod, stepping up cautiously to shake his hand. 

He accepts your hand, using it to yank you closer and blast you again. You chase and dodge and tackle each other under the blazing sun until your legs feel like jelly. But the game eventually slows as exhaustion creeps in. 

You and Steve collapse in the lawn chairs while Holly lays belly-down in the pool. Water sloshes over the rim onto your toes as she kicks, a brief reprieve from the sticky heat. You're relaxed, but your mind wanders. You keep hoping the Wheelers won’t notice the sudden increase in their water bill. 

“Dustin talks about you all the time.”

You tear your eyes away from Holly, blinking back into reality as you face Steve. “What?”

“Dustin, he talks about you all the time. Kid loves you.” 

“Oh. He’s a sweet kid. Talks about you too. Keeps telling me to come see you at Scoops.”

Steve chuckles, more of a half-hearted puff of amusement than a real one. 

“Which, I’m sorry I haven’t, by the way,” you confess. 

His eyebrows jump, lips parting in soft surprise. “Oh, no. Don’t worry about it. He’s just being Dustin.” 

You press a blade of grass flat under your heel, as if the right words might sprout from the dirt. “I dunno. I mean, don’t you think it’s kinda weird that we don’t like talk? After everything?” 

The words bounce around Steve’s head for a minute. He fixates on your choice of weird. Weird, like bad? Weird like you want to talk? He can’t decide. And he’s afraid if he opens his mouth, the wrong words will tumble out. 

But he tries anyway, “Honestly, I thought you didn’t want to be friends. You were just so… distant after.” 

You rub the length of your arm, lips creasing into a frown. “Sorry, I was just. I don’t even know. Rattled, I guess.” 

“Yeah, rabid dogs with faces that split open and try to eat you tend to have that effect.” 

Your frown melts, little by little. 

“But we should’ve been there for you more. It was a hard time for everybody.” 

His apology echoes in your mind, the ache like a weight on your chest. 

“You could visit if you wanted to. At scoops. I could get you ice cream for free.” 

But the ache doesn’t stand a chance against the way he makes you feel. 

“Okay.” Your cheeks round with a sincere smile. “I’d like that.” 

He turns his head, as if to hide, but you still catch an echo of your own expression. Your eyes flicker across the contours of his profile, following the graceful line from his ear to his collar, before drifting over the sculpted shape of his arms and the long expanse of his thighs. Steve Harrington is objectively attractive. This isn’t the first time you’ve thought so. But it is the first time that fact makes your head spin. 

Maybe it’s the heat. The sun feels like it's roasting you alive, and Steve’s attractiveness certainly isn't helping. You’re feeling strange, thinking crazy things– the kind of thoughts that only come when you’re on the verge of heat stroke certainly. 

You stand abruptly and the grass sways underneath your feet. But you get your bearings before anyone notices. “Holly, can I come sit in the pool?”

Her eyes pop up, grin distorted underneath the water. She props her elbow up and rests her cheek in the palm of her hand. “What’s the password?”

“Umm, can you give me a hint?” 

A high-pitched hum. “Okay. She’s my favorite character.” 

“Uhh, Barbie?” 

“Nooo.” 

“Strawberry Shortcake?”

“Nooo.” 

“Hello Kitty?” 

“You’re really bad at this,” she giggles. It would be really cute if you weren’t possibly dying right now. 

“It’s Care Bears,” Steve interjects, snapping his fingers. “Uhh, the yellow one. Umm, Funshine!” 

“Yes!” Holly glows like the sun on Funshine herself. “Stevie can come in.”

Steve stands but he doesn’t get in. “Come on, Holl. It’s hot.”

“There’s a new password.”

“Okay, okay. Can I have another hint?” you ask. 

Her tongue curls out to lick the sweat off her lip. “My favorite color.” 

“Purple?” 

“Yes,” she nods and sits up. “But I really like yellow and blue and pink too.” 

You sink into the water, unsure if there was ever a wrong answer. It’s shallow and lukewarm, barely grazing the tops of your thighs, but it’s enough to cool the sun off your skin. Steve follows, and the space tightens awkwardly— the inflatable wasn’t built for three. His knee brushes yours while Holly’s toes nudge your foot, but neither of them seems to mind. 

You cup water up to your cheeks and pour it down your arms. 

“Better?” Steve asks, a droll little pinch to his features. 

He’s staring at you which is definitely not helping but you nod anyway. 

“Why don’t we move to the shade?” He stands before you or Holly agrees, offering his hand to pull you up. 

She races Steve to the nearest tree, though he doesn't stand much of a chance dragging the pool behind him. He refills it with fresh water and encourages Holly to splash you gently while he runs inside to make lunch. By the time he returns, you’re feeling much more yourself. 

“Bon Appétit,” Steve announces, lowering himself slowly onto a towel. He carries three animal-shaped plates stocked with fruit and PB&Js, one in each hand, another balanced on his forearm. 

Holly scrambles out of the water, plopping onto the other end of his towel. You get out too, shaking a second one out to lay beside theirs. 

“Lion or hippo?” he asks Holly. 

She hums for a long time, inspecting each plate meticulously before pointing to the lion.

“Good choice.” He sets the plate in front of her crossed legs and passes you the hippo. Steve takes the polar bear for himself, which notably only has half a sandwich. 

“Where’s the other half?” you ask. 

He takes a large bite, pressing his hand to his mouth to reply, “Ran out of bread.” 

“Here.” You rip one of your halves in half. 

“Thanks,” he says, syllables tangling as he chews. 

Holly watches the interaction fondly before pulling apart her own sandwich. It splits in a jagged line, mostly crust on one half. But happily, she thrusts the bigger piece toward Steve, jelly dribbling down her little fist. 

He tilts his head, a growing smile mirroring yours. “You eat it. I have enough now.” 

She crinkles her nose. “You eat it!” 

“No, you!” He squeezes her slim bicep. “You need to get big and strong.” 

“What about you?” 

“I’m already big and strong.” 

She considers this, giving him an obvious once-over that makes you laugh. “Trade?” 

“Okay, trade.” Steve chuckles, exchanging one of his halves for hers. He licks a stripe across his knuckle where her sticky fingers brushed his. It’s as innocent as the gesture can be but something about it has your cheeks burning in a way the sun couldn’t. 

Conversation tapers off, replaced with an easy quiet. Your stomach is satisfied with the food, but it’s your heart that feels the most nourished, steeped in the comfort of good company. You hadn’t expected to enjoy hanging out with Steve or Holly this much. 

Holly slouches into your arm, stretching her legs across the grass like a bridge between the towels. Her heels push into the pudge of Steve’s thigh, the faintest smirk crossing her lips. 

He squeezes her ankle until it darts away. 

Gradually, she presses again and in turn, he squeezes, but this time he doesn’t let go. She squeals as he drags her down your side. But all hell breaks loose when he starts tickling the bottom of her foot. 

She shrieks, thrashing and squirming against his hold, giggling in between gasps. “Ste–vie!” she cries.

Her laugh is too pure of a sound to be real, Steve thinks. His resolve crumbles, grip faltering. And Holly’s heel slams smack into his jaw. Steve winces, bending away to cradle his cheek. 

You straighten up. “You okay? Let me see.” 

Holly’s legs go limp in the grass, her shoulders tense in your lap. 

Steve’s hand slackens unveiling a red splotch not much darker than his sunburnt cheeks. He meets your eyes with a dismissive shake, “It’s okay.” 

You believe him. It doesn’t look nearly awful enough to make your concern stick. And his face has been through worse. Billy Hargrove painting his fists red with Steve’s blood is one of the things you remember most about that night. 

His attention dips down to Holly. She sniffles, eyes glistening in the sunlight with a frown nearly reaching her chin. 

“It’s okay. I’m okay, Holl.” 

Holly putters, whimpers drowning the edges of her words. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay! I promise! It doesn’t even hurt,” he reassures, cupping her kneecap. 

You tug her off the ground and she sinks into your arms naturally. Hot tears pave a path down your neck only to dissolve in the fabric of your shirt. You coax her sobs out, one back rub at a time. 

Steve waits until she settles with this pitiful look on his face. “I know you didn’t mean to Hollybear. Just an accident. Hmm?” 

She nods against your chin. 

He strokes the back of her arm, fingers grazing yours where they work. “Please don’t cry.” 

Holly sniffles. 

“You know what might help me feel better?” She lifts a sweaty cheek off your chest as Steve opens his arms. “A hug.” 

She pushes out of your hands into his. He holds her tight, providing one loving squeeze after another. 

This is not how you pictured Steve to be under normal babysitting circumstances. A voice like sweet honey, eyes warm like the sun. He’s very soft, and so undeniably kind. And not just to Holly, but also you. 

Steve hooks the spare towel closer, draping it across her back. “Lean back,” he tells her. 

She avoids his gaze as she does, tears melting away under his touch. 

“You know what I think?” He cinches the towel at her collar like a cloak. 

She hums. 

“I think we should have popsicles for dessert.” 

Holly meets his eyes then, excitement glimmering underneath the droop of lingering guilt. 

“How does that sound?”

“Good,” she admits meekly. 

A smirk thins his lips. “I dunno though. What if we get a tummy ache?” He pokes her belly through the towel. “Maybe it’s not–”

“No– I want one!”

“I dunnooo,” he sings.

“Please, Stevie! You already said.”

“How bad do you want it? Like this much?” He pinches his fingers together, leaving the slightest gap between them. 

“No, no!” She shakes her head, casting her arms out as far as they’ll go. “This much!” 

He sighs loudly, shoulders sagging for the dramatic touch. “Okay.” 

Holly’s arms curl around his neck as he stands. He’s more than happy to carry her, but the added weight makes him groan. 

You trail behind automatically, half enjoying the show and just as excited for a treat. Steve pins the back door open with his foot, returning a smile you hadn’t realized you were sharing. Your cheeks are starting to protest, sore with overwhelming happiness. 

“What color do you want?” 

“Pink! Pink!” Holly shouts in his ear, loud enough to make you wince. But Steve doesn’t react in the slightest to her volume. You’d all taken a piece of the Upside Down with you after El sealed it up. And just when you seemed to forget it, you’d be reminded in the form of scars, nightmares, headaches, and in Steve’s case, hearing loss. 

He opens the freezer, Holly propped on his hip. She’s far too big to be carried like that comfortably but he does it anyway. 

“Pink for Holly. Red for Steve.” He leans back to find your face. “For you?” 

You purse your lips, “Surprise me.” 

Steve stows Holly on the countertop so he can snip the plastic tips. She receives her popsicle first, then you, and finally Steve. 

“Matching,” Holly observes as you sit beside them on the couch. 

Steve crosses his popsicle over your identically red one when you raise an eyebrow. “Look at that,” he says. 

She hums, gnawing on the plastic wrapper. Steve pushes the ice up for her and thumbs away the dribble at the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t seem to notice, but it catches you off guard. Steve’s such a natural at this you almost can’t believe he’s an only child. 

You turn the TV on to an episode of Care Bears as Holly slumps into Steve’s chest, slurping the last of her slush loudly. 

“Sleepy?” you ask when she kneads her eyes. 

“No.”

You chuckle, combing her frizz back. “Okay.” 

“You know, it’s okay if you are sleepy,” Steve mentions, equally amused. 

“I know. I’m not.” Her tone is casual, a portrait of nonchalance, despite the yawn that slips out afterward. 

You and Steve exchange a look of mutual fondness. 

“I’m pretty tired,” Steve declares, reclining into the cushions with a fake yawn. “I think I’ll take a nap.” 

Holly twists against him to watch. It doesn’t take long for her little fingers to poke and prod his lashline.

He peels one eye open, playfully cocking an eyebrow. 

She giggles and pinches the skin closed. 

You’re trapped between nervously supervising she doesn’t poke his eye out and leaving to get a baby wipe for her hands which you imagine are very sticky with popsicle juice. Either way, you’ll be surprised if Steve doesn’t have pink eye by morning. 

“I’m sleeping,” he whines and headbutts her palm gently. 

“Nooo,” she whines back, wedging her hand across his mouth. Delirium is setting in, a nap is imminent. 

Steve opens his eyes, giddy just the same. “Okay. You got me.” 

Holly frees his mouth to swipe a streak of red from his chin. Her tongue pokes out in prime concentration. 

A staggered laugh of disbelief is shaken from Steve’s chest. He hadn’t expected Holly to be difficult, but she’s been nothing short of delightful. She’s sweeter than Mike and Nancy combined and smarter than he thought kids her age could be. For a self-indulgent second, he hopes that his kids will turn out something like her. 

Holly reels back around to lay on her side, eyelids sagging with an inevitable heaviness. Steve draws the towel up to her chin, fixing his palm to her back. You watch her drift off, eyes slipping up every so often. 

When you’re positive she’s out, you cautiously dislodge the popsicle wrapper from her fingers. Steve passes his as you stand. 

One of the many hard things about kids is all the cleaning. Holly’s as neat as a five-year-old gets, and still, every moment of peace is an opportunity spent putting things back where they belong. You head outside to tip the pool over and collect stray towels and toys that didn’t make it back in. 

By the time you return, Steve’s passed out, mouth ajar, head craned back against the couch. It’s not a particularly attractive expression– he’d probably be embarrassed to wake to your staring– but you can’t find anything other than endearment in yourself.  

You shower and change into fresh clothes and end up on the opposite couch to watch TV. But Care Bears isn’t all that entertaining anymore so you rest your eyes for just a second. 

A second turns to several and when you reopen your eyes you discover the clock is two hours ahead of where it was before. 

The silence is only comforting for a fleeting moment before anxiety creeps in. Your eyes flick from the TV, now powered off, to the other couch where Steve and Holly are not where you left them. Nor are they in the dining room, kitchen, basement, or backyard. You take the stairs two steps at a time and nearly trip over a blanket strewn across the banister when Holly screams. 

You’d have kicked her door off the hinges if it came to it but are thankful it’s already open. Holly is perfectly safe, bent over the remnants of what you assume was a pillow fort. 

You release a breath caught in your throat and sag against the doorframe. Steve offers an apologetic smile when he notices. 

Holly glances over but quickly returns to their game. “You’ve destroyed my kingdom!” she shouts, drilling a finger into Steve’s chest. “Off with your head!” 

You’re too stunned to laugh, but a noise of confusion skips out. Steve gawks at Holly in pretend despair, scrubbing any seeping amusement off his lips with the back of his hand. He’s dressed in sweats, Holly in a princess dress. But more importantly, his face has been caked in makeup and his hair twisted into two fluffy knots. 

“You!” Holly yells with a scowl aimed at you. “Hold him down!” 

Steve pleads at your ankles, pressing his forehead to the carpet in prayer. It takes every ounce of you not to break character and laugh. There’s something so surreal about Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, in sparkly eyeshadow, kneeling before a little girl to beg for his life. It’s hilarious as it is heartwarming. 

“If I may propose a suggestion!” You counter, equally dramatic. “A trade! For this silly man’s life, we will help rebuild your kingdom twice as big! Princess I–” 

“Queen!”

Steve snorts but she must miss it. 

“My apologies. Queen Holly, I can assure you this new Kingdom will have all of the finest luxuries that royalty like yourself might desire.” 

She takes a second to process the big words. “Fine!” She sneers, diving onto her mattress which is absent of all its sheets and blankets. “Chop! Chop!”

You bite your lip, chasing the fervent smile away. Steve gets right to work, sorting pillows from most to least sturdy. You steal another chair from Nancy’s desk and help Steve double-knot the roof to it. It’s no mansion, but it is long enough for Steve to lie down in, which is a job well done in your book. Especially when you’re under strict supervision and listening to a thread of loud critiques. 

You lift the door flap for Holly to crawl through. “Your quarters, Your Grace.” 

She glances over her shoulder with a wicked, but mostly adorable, expression. “My name is not Grace! It’s Holly! Queen Holly to you!” 

The explanation dies on your tongue because how can you possibly argue with that? You’re just grateful to still have your head. 

After the grand tour, Queen Holly disappears into one of the tent’s offshoots with a handful of stuffed animals she's referring to as her royal guards. 

Steve scoots closer, whispering behind his hand, “I think we need to stage a coup.” 

You lean into his good ear, affection spilling off your tone, “I didn’t know she could be so mean.” 

“Me neither! She must be hanging out with Mike.” 

“Must be.” You grin for what feels like the millionth time today. 

You’re sitting knee to knee, close enough to catch the heat of Steve’s breath on your cheek. You drag the pad of your finger across his cheekbone where teal eyeshadow has been caked on in several layers. “I like this,” you compliment. 

I kinda forgot she put that on.” He ducks his head bashfully, peeking up through his eyelashes. “Do I look pretty?” 

“The prettiest.” 

He receives it as teasing, but it’s true, you do think Steve is pretty. A strong nose, kind eyes, and sure, maybe the hair. But now that you’re inches apart, you notice twin smile lines, a series of freckles down his cheek, and a faded scar across his forehead. You linger there more than anywhere else, under the guise of judging Holly’s makeup job, of course. 

But the silence twists into something less comfortable with each passing second. A brief twitch of emotion flickers across Steve’s face, gone before you can name it. “So… pizza for dinner?” he blurts out. 

Before you’ve processed what happened, Holly shouts, “Cheese please!” 

Steve splinters from your gaze, calling back, “Yes, My Queen.” 

Dinner is pleasantly easy. The pizza’s delivered and paper plates save you from the hassle of dishes after. You eat at the kitchen table, sharing stories and smiles, strangely like a family. 

And after dinner, Holly has a bath; and after bath, Steve whisks her off to bed. You’re left to your own devices for once, a benevolent bout of peace, but still, you can’t seem to relax. 

The spray of the bathroom light paves the hall leading to Holly’s room. You tiptoe up to the door and peek inside. 

Steve’s on the floor, slouched against the side of the bed cradling Holly to his chest. He flinches as your shadow veers across the moonlit wall.  

“Sorry,” you whisper, dropping onto your knees beside them. 

Holly picks her head up, tear tracks shimmering as she turns. Her lip wobbles through a whimper. 

You soften like wax near a flame, eyes flitting to Steve who looks equally at a loss. 

She curls her knees into his tummy in a way that probably hurts. The poor thing dissolves into fresh tears, spilling out faster than Steve can chase away. 

“Holls, it’s okay, honey. Me and Stevie are here, okay?” 

She strains to speak through a chain of gasps, “I want my Mommy!” 

“I know, I know. She’ll be back before you know it, I promise,” you steer sweat-slick hair behind her ear. 

“I want her now.” 

“We’ve got ya, Holl,” Steve chimes in. 

“We’re right here.” 

“No– Mommy!” 

It goes like this for a while, soothing reassurances met with unyielding resolve. Holly’s not one to be stubborn for no reason. She’s so exhausted and upset it breaks your heart. You try reading and music and back rubs but there seems to be no end to her sobbing. 

Steve strokes her ankle where it’s now tucked underneath her in your lap. He looks exhausted– hair draped over his forehead like a claw, extra weight embedded in each of his eyelids. You’re both at your breaking point. “You wanna sleep with me tonight Hollybear?” he says in a tone gentler than you’ve ever heard. 

“No. Mommy,” she persists. 

“You can sleep with her when she gets back. But tonight you get to have a sleepover with Steve. Or you can even sleep with me in Nancy’s bed, okay?” 

Red-rimmed eyes flick between you and Steve. Neither option is as good as Mom. 

“Both,” Holly whines. 

“Wanna lay with both of us?” 

She nods. “In the middle.” 

“Okay,” you turn to Steve. “We can do that.” Your words are colored like a question but he’s already nodding his answer. 

He shovels Holly from your lap, cheek pressing into hers in an unspoken exchange of relief. “Alright, munchkin. Let’s go steal Nancy’s big bed. Sound good?” 

She hums her approval into his ear. 

Steve pokes Nancy’s door open with his foot, swinging around to the tucked side of the bed. You crawl across your end as Holly slides off his chest. She molds herself against your shoulder, tugging Steve closer when he settles. 

“Goodnight, Hollybear,” he says. 

She steals your hand from underneath the comforter, then his where it lies on the sheet. Your knuckles brush Steve’s where they are stapled to her chest. “Goodnight,” she sighs. 

Steve strokes up and down the back of her hand, his touch a quiet catalyst. She’s asleep in mere minutes, snoring softly, fingers limp against yours. 

Steve nudges your hand where it’s already pressed to his, whispering when you turn, “Am I crazy that I find all of this kinda fun?” 

You shake your head, a smile working its way across your lips. “Guess that would make me crazy too.” 

“I know I always complain about driving those little shits around but Holly’s actually really fun to babysit.” 

“Yeah, she is. At least it’s not the end of the world this time, right?”

“Yeah, that probably helps, huh?” Amusement ebbs into a sigh. “I’m kinda dreading going home, to be honest.”

“Why don’t we put Mike in a wig? Kidnap Holly for ourselves.” 

He snorts into his pillow. “Oh, yeah. That’ll work. ‘Yeah, I dunno Mrs. Wheeler, she had a crazy growth spurt while you were gone.’”

“We’d take good care of her.”

“We would,” he nods. “You’re really good with her.” 

“So are you. Kinda surprised me actually.”

“Really? Cause Dustin tells me weekly I’d make a good mother.” 

“Yeah, but they’re different. Older. And don’t get me wrong, you’re great with them and they love hanging out with you. Holly’s just little. You’re so much gentler with her, and like, you always seem to know what to do.” 

“For the record, I have no clue what I’m doing.”

“Me neither. I don't know what Mrs. Wheeler was thinking asking us to do this.”

Intertwined laughter fades, but something else— something similar— lingers. An almost tangible buzz of energy, as if the silence itself is alive with unspoken words. You entertain the idea that the feeling’s not exclusive to just you. That Steve hears the same jitter in his pulse and feels the same flutter against his ribs. That you aren’t alone to be feeling such a way.    

“Is it–” 

“Are we–”

“Sorry, you go,” he jabbers out. 

The words trickle back down your throat, too thick to cross your tongue again. “You can probably go now,” you decide. 

His gaze jumps to Holly’s chest where his hand is still coupled with one of hers. 

“If you want,” you amend. “You don’t have to.” 

“You don't mind? If I stayed?”

You shake your head.

“Just worried she’ll wake up if I move.” 

You try to flatten your excitement as you reply, “You can stay.” 

His gaze swims with yours across Nancy's room, skimming over the cluttered dresser, the desk strewn with books and pens, to the shuttered closet doors.

“Sorry about– you know– I heard Nancy… dumped you,” you say, immediately regretting the awkward phrasing.

“Harsh,” he squints and casts you a bittersweet grin. “But true.”

“Is it… weird? To be in here?” 

“A little. But not as much as I thought it would be. Hell of a lot better than Mike’s room.” 

You hum, watching the gentle shift in his brows. 

“Is it weird for you?” 

“Me?” you ask. “In what way?” 

“You and Nance. You don’t always see eye to eye.” 

“I mean, yeah. When our decisions involve risking our lives– or the kids– she’s pretty damn impulsive. And she can be real stubborn and selfish sometimes too. But I dunno, I still love her. She’s been sort of like a sister since everything started. I think that’s why we argue.” 

“What does that make me? Your brother?” 

You roll your eyes. “No, you’re the stray dog we adopted.” 

“Okay. That’s just mean.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Your laugh laps out louder than you intend, but Holly remains still. “I dunno who you’d be. The love interest?”

“I can work with that, sexy love interest–”

You scoff. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Harrington.” 

“Okay, okay. But love interest because…”

“Cause you dated Nance.”

“Oh,” he exhales. 

“You don’t agree? Should we go back to stray dog?” 

“Oh, shut up. I’m going to bed.” Steve rolls onto his side with a sigh. 

“Keep your snoring to a minimum, please.” 

He grumbles, narrowing his eyes at your smirk. “I don’t snore.”

“You do. I could hear it from here last night.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did,” you argue. “It definitely wasn’t Holly.” 

“Whatever. Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

Only when your eyes are closed does his smile finally emerge. It’s silly how quickly you can pull it out of him. It throws him for a loop every time. But with you at his side, maybe he’ll dream of happier things for once. Either way, it’s easier to fall asleep, just knowing you’re there falling asleep too. 

ᯓ★

“Shhhh!” 

“No, you shhhh,” a lighter voice giggles. 

“Holly,” Steve scolds, mirth buttering his tone. You know he’s smiling by the sound alone. 

Holly’s laughter triples in volume but then is abruptly muffled. 

“Ew– did you just lick me?” 

And this all just sounds way too cute to miss out on. You pry your lashes apart, still sticky with sleep, and flip on your side to face them. 

They freeze, eyes widening adorably in sync. Steve is reclined against the headboard, an arm bent behind his neck. Holly is sprawled halfway across his tummy, toes tickling your side. 

“Sorry,” he offers like you’d be mad. But how could you possibly be anything but enamored waking up to their giggly little voices? If you could be woken up like this every day, you would. 

You shake your head, scratching underneath your eyes. The walls are bathed in muted colors, waiting to be warmed by the sunrise. It’s still early. 

Holly rolls off of Steve onto the floor and barrels out of the room. 

“Where are you going?” he shouts. 

“Potty!” 

Steve turns to you, eyes roving across your bedhead for an embarrassingly long amount of time. “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“Did she kick you last night?” 

You rake your fingers through your hair, quickly moving them to your lips to stifle a yawn. “Not that I remember.” 

“Oh, you’d remember. Trust me. She was on top of me the whole night.” He’s smiling like an idiot. He couldn’t sound annoyed about it if he tried. 

“Aww, she loves you,” you coo. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, pink dusting his cheeks, “I can’t wait to do this.”

“Hmm?”

“Settle down. Have a family. I wasn’t, like, a hundred percent sure before, but I am now.” 

“You’ll be a good dad.”

He beams at you like he’s just won the lottery. “You think?” 

“For sure.” And he really would. You’re sure of it after last night. 

He opens his mouth to speak but your stomach cuts him off with an obnoxious growl. “Hungry?” Steve chuckles. 

“Shut up.” You swipe your pillow and smack him. 

He smacks you back, pulling it to his chest before you can steal it. “Wanna go out for breakfast?” 

Your brain short circuits. You forget you’re babysitting and not just laying in bed with Steve Harrington for fun. He is not asking you on a date like your heart assumes. 

“Oh, yeah. Sure. For sure,” you sputter out, heat licking up the back of your neck. 

“I’ll go see what she wants,” he slides onto the floor and shakes his legs awake. 

Steve’s tall, even sluggishly slumped over. But even more so as he stretches– arms rising with his shirt, revealing a fraction of golden skin above his waistband. A long, lazy moan climbs out of his chest. 

You push the comforter off before you burst into flames. 

Holly determines she wants IHOP because they put chocolate chips and sprinkles on the pancakes. Steve supplies her with an outfit and wrestles her hair into pigtails with bows to match her skirt. It’s surprisingly coordinated and admittedly cute, but maybe you’re wrong to be so surprised– he knows his way around a comb and a closet. 

“Can I get pancakes?” she asks Steve, perched on the bottom step of the stairs. 

He’s cross-legged on the floor, hunched over to lace her sneakers. “I already told you yes, silly goose.”

“Can I get extra sprinkles?”

“Uhh, does your mom let you?”

She thinks about it before answering. “Yes, I think so.” 

“Sure, then.” He grins, clapping her tied shoes together before standing. 

You shoulder Holly’s bag, stuffed with books and toys and a jacket in case it rains, courtesy of Steve who insisted she might need it. “Ready?” you ask him.

Steve races Holly to the car while you lock up. Mrs. Wheeler installed Holly’s car seat in Steve’s beamer before she left but you’ve yet to use it. 

“It’s too tight,” Holly whines from the car, loud enough to hear from the top of the driveway. 

“I know, ‘m working on it,” Steve assures, working his fingers under the straps. “Just gotta figure it out.”

“Hurry!” 

“I’m hurrying, Holl. Give me a sec’.” 

You open the passenger door and peek around the headrest to view her. The belts are buckled but not tight enough to spark concern. “He’s going as fast as he can, Holly. Be patient.” 

She squirms under his hands, exhaling sharply. And like her, Steve’s frustration mounts, jaw tightening, brow furrowing. His fingers keep slipping and he’s not totally sure which button or strap is for loosening. 

You swing around to Holly’s door and cup Steve’s shoulder. “Let me try.”

He knocks his head on the roof as he pulls out. 

You wince, “Okay?” 

He softens as you reach for his neck, though your fingers never land. Still, the tender look you offer is enough to cure any bumps or bruises he might’ve gotten. 

It’s an unfortunate amount of trial and error before Holly is fastened in properly. Steve cranks the AC on full blast when you finally settle into your seats and circles through radio stations after he backs out. He finds the kid’s station, playing a Muppet’s song that Steve apparently knows every word to. He sings unapologetically loud, a stupid grin sewn to his face. 

When you arrive, Holly happily holds your hand through the parking lot, still clutching tightly as you wait to be seated. She climbs onto your lap to make room on the waiting bench for a woman looking ready to pop out a baby any minute. Steve stands at your other side, arm braced behind your neck. 

“How old is she?” the woman asks you fondly. 

“She’s five,” you return her smile, bouncing your knee. “Right, Holly?”

Holly twists to hide in your neck, nodding. 

“She’s very cute,” she says with such love you already believe her baby is in good hands. “Your sister?” Her eyes flick from yours to Steve who is mostly oblivious to the conversation. 

“No, just babysitting.” 

“Oh, well, you’ll make good parents one day.” 

The comment renders you speechless. It’s not that you hadn’t considered children before, but you hadn’t pictured them with Steve. With his smile, his eyes, his nose. It’s that this woman who doesn’t even know you imagined it before you had. You blink at her stupidly through a forced smile.

Steve squeezes your shoulder, ripping you from your thoughts. “You okay? Table’s ready.” 

You get seated in a booth overlooking the parking lot. 

Holly bends across Steve’s lap to point through the window. “I see our car!” 

“Yeah, that’s her.” 

Holly’s face contorts with confusion. “Her? Your car’s a girl?” 

“Yep–”

The waitress swings over with a handful of menus and a hasty introduction. Steve already knows what he wants and he places Holly’s order after his, making sure to clarify the extra sprinkles when she calls his name repeatedly to remind him. As soon as you decide, the waitress bustles off with the pair of menus to another table. 

Holly slides her paper menu closer, examining each activity. 

Steve picks open the box of crayons, revealing a stingy three– red, green, and blue. “You know, for a multi-million dollar company, you’d think they could afford more than three crayons.”

“And more staff,” you add, eyes tailing another waitress zipping from one table to another. 

Holly points at herself, Steve, and then you, counting, “One, two three. Three crayons for three people.” 

“Yeah, good point,” Steve pats her thigh. “Always the optimist.” 

“Op-ta-nist?”

“Op-ta-mist,” he clarifies. 

She snags the green crayon and presses it to the paper. “What’s that?”

Steve opens and closes his mouth. “Well, it’s like– it’s when you– you’re happy a lot. Grass is always greener on the other side, you know?” 

Steve lost her at the metaphor but she’s too focused on staying inside the lines to care about the definition of optimist anymore. 

“You got there eventually. Sort of,” you tease. 

His foot stabs your ankle under the table. “Shut up.” 

Steve lets Holly win every single round of tic-tac-toe while showering her with praise, convincing her she's a tactical mastermind. You can’t quite tell if she’s onto him, but she’s too busy grinning to say otherwise.

The waitress plants your and Steve’s plates on the table first, reaching behind to scoop Holly’s off her tray next. “And, chocolate chip pancakes with extra sprinkles for the little one.” 

“Thank you,” you manage to say before she leaves to tend to another table flagging her down. “Holly, want syrup?”

“Yes, please.” 

You pour a spiral of maple syrup over Holly’s pancakes. The amount of sugar on her plate might qualify it more as candy than breakfast. And she’s ogling the food like it’ll grow legs and run away. 

“Steve, will you cut them up for her?”

He nods, swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs and trading his fork for a knife. As soon as he slides her meal back over, Holly ravages the pancakes, spooning another bite in her mouth before she’s swallowed the last.

The waitress whisks by with drink refills, joy driving her to a smile at the sight of Holly and her half-empty plate. 

“I swear we feed her at home,” Steve chuckles through his own joke. What a dad thing to say. “Can we get some more napkins?” 

And it’s like he knows what’s going to happen. Holly stretches across the table for the syrup bottle, drawing back with an open-mouthed grimace. 

“Uh-oh.” She presses her chin to her chest. There’s a patch of syrup turning the hem of her pink shirt brown. 

“What?” Steve throws a pigtail behind her shoulder so he can see. “Oh. It’s okay.” 

“It was an accident,” Holly explains. 

“I know. It’s okay.” 

“It’s sticky.”

“It’ll wash off.” Steve dunks a clean napkin in his cup of water and dabs it across the stain. 

“It’s too cold,” she complains, pinching the fabric away from her skin. 

“Sorry. It’ll dry. Have to get the syrup out, though.” 

You deliver another wad of napkins to Steve’s hand. He pushes them against her belly, soaking up any excess water. His patience never frays.

Holly looks up, worry etched into her voice, “Will it stain?” 

“I dunno,” you supply truthfully. “We’ll throw it in the wash when we get home.” 

Steve pays the bill with the cash the Wheelers left and scrapes his wallet for change, stacking two quarters on the table when he finds them. “Since you’ve been such a good listener. There’s a sticker machine up front,” he tells Holly. 

Steve might as well have slapped a ticket to Disney World on the table. Holly literally jumps for joy, right out of her seat. She buys a random Lisa Frank sticker and pockets the second coin for her piggy bank. 

It’s Steve’s idea to go to the playground afterward. The park is teeming with life, the kind of chaos that only a weekend morning can bring. Swings creak under the weight of eager kids, and the monkey bars have their own traffic jam. Parents wrap the playground like a barricade, their chatter drowned out by laughter and shouts. But the heat presses down ruthlessly, making every step feel like you’re wading through a sauna.

Holly tears away from Steve’s hand as soon as her shoes hit the mulch, rejoicing in her newfound freedom with a little skip. She races up a set of stairs to wait for a turn on the tallest slide. 

“Should’ve brought sunscreen,” Steve says, eyes following Holly down the slide. She flashes you both a prideful smile from the bottom. 

“She’ll survive. We won’t stay long. It’s too hot.” You pull your shirt out to fan your chest, dabbing the sweat beading at your sternum. 

“Careful!” he shouts as she hops from one platform to the next. She continues to bounce along the path, one wobbly leap at a time. A particularly long jump has Steve cringing. He’s trying really hard not to be overanxious and it’s as sweet as it is amusing. 

He side-eyes your grin with an opposing frown. You don’t even have to say anything for him to know you’re teasing him. “What?” 

You shrug, smile doubling. “You.”

“What about me?” 

“You’re just funny.” 

“My concern is funny to you?” he accuses. 

“She’s fine, Steve.” 

He makes a noise of disagreement, arms crossed and a hip popped out dramatically far. You see why Dustin teases him for being motherly. 

Holly struggles with the monkey bars. She makes it halfway across before her arms start to shake and her hands slip. Steve lunges forward as he watches her plummet to the ground. But before he can swoop in, Holly pops up, dusts the dirt from her skirt with a nonchalant shrug, and marches on, completely unfazed. 

“See. She’s fine,” you reassure.

“Whatever,” Steve grumbles, strolling away to sulk in private. 

He makes a slow lap around the playground, hands planted firmly on his hips, casting a critical eye over the chaos. Meanwhile, you snag a spot on a bench, where most parents are engrossed in magazines or gossip, blissfully detached. You watch Steve get roped into playing a monster, though you can tell he secretly loves it. 

It doesn’t take long for him to start stomping around, roaring and growling, chasing the kids as they shriek and scatter. And when they finally tire him out, he collapses beside you, his shirt clinging to his sweaty back, and his breath coming in ragged bursts. 

“I told her five more minutes,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the bench behind you. His curls shine honeycomb gold in the spray of sunlight and his skin echoes the warmth of desert sand, softened pink like the blush of sunset. He looks strikingly gorgeous sprawled out beside you. 

Holly trots over not much later, alarmingly upset. 

You sit up, urgently shaking Steve’s thigh to grab his attention. “What happened, honey?” 

“I– I was,” she sucks in a staggered breath, “I was climbing the stairs and– and a boy, he pushed me.” Twin rivulets of tears are unleashed with a blink, converging at the curve of her chin. 

You scan her from head to toe. Nothing looks broken or bloody. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” she strains. 

You drag her into your chest, pressing a loving cheek to her ear. “Did it scare you?” 

She nods, hiccuping into your neck. 

“I’m sorry, Holly. That wasn’t nice at all.” 

Steve’s gaze shifts between Holly and the playground to search for guilty suspects. He finds none, thankfully, though he’s still itching to wring out whatever parent it is not watching their kid– which is unfortunately most of them.

“Let me see,” he coaxes Holly over for his own checkup. He picks a piece of mulch from her hair and flicks off another stamped into her calf. “Think you’ll make it? Should we call an ambulance?” 

She doesn’t smile at his joke like you hope. 

“Ready to go home?” you ask.

She sniffs into her sleeve. “Yeah.” 

“Alright.” Steve hoists her up as he stands. Holly's long legs wrap around his waist, feet swaying against his thighs as he walks. 

Holly naps on the way home, not by choice but by sheer exhaustion. She convinces herself she didn’t actually fall asleep when she wakes up in the driveway, swearing, “I just closed my eyes.” 

But it’s quickly apparent that twenty minutes was not enough. She cries because her leftover pizza for lunch is cold in the middle and again when she rubs the sauce in her eye. You turn on a movie, hoping to induce another nap, but The Aristocats is just too good to sleep through. Thankfully, her grumpiness wanes into a more manageable pout, her arms uncrossing to snuggle closer to you on the couch.

When the movie ends, she slinks up, her departure leaving your lap cold. After a long-winded debate about what to do, you all finally agree on playing a board game. Steve steers Holly downstairs to pick one out and she returns with a rekindled excitement, dropping the game Twister at your feet. 

There’s nothing inherently wrong with Twister, but you were expecting something easier. Candy Land or Chutes and Ladders. So you let Steve and Holly go first. The round ends in a heap of tangled limbs and giggles, a winner unclear. But Holly wins the match against you, admittedly fair and square. And it’s all fun and games until she insists you and Steve must compete. 

“Ehh, Holly. My arms are tired,” you reason. 

“But I wanna be the referee too,” she whines. “Pleaseee!” 

Steve shrugs at you, a playful little curve to his lips. If you say no, that makes only you the bad guy. And you just can’t bring yourself to break Holly’s heart over something so simple. 

“Okay,” you sigh, ignoring the nervous tick in your chest. 

Holly pushes you by the hips onto the mat to stand opposite Steve. She gets situated on the floor and excitedly flicks the spinner, calling, “Left foot. Blue!” 

You each step toward a blue dot. Easy. 

“Right foot on green.” 

Right foot, green. You’re shoulder to shoulder now, hips angled toward his. 

“Right hand… yellow!” 

“Here we go,” you mumble, bending down to reach yellow. “Okay.” 

Steve chuckles and follows suit, free hand hovering awkwardly behind your shoulder. 

You twist your head until you can’t, just to see the stupid look on his face. “You know, your long legs really give you an unfair advantage here.” 

“Don’t be a sore loser,” he chides, hot breath fanning the back of your already hot neck. 

“Don’t speak so soon, Harrington. You’re the one who’s gonna lose.” 

“Right hand, red,” Holly announces. 

You lean back toward red, headbutting Steve’s side so you don’t fall. He curls into position next, swaying until his back pocket is inches from your nose. 

“Oh my God, Steve. Get your butt out of my face!” You’d shove him if you had an extra hand. 

Holly giggles in that contagious way kids laugh, automatically pulling one from Steve. 

“Don’t make me laugh. If I go down, so are you,” he reminds you. 

“Umm, left foot green,” Holly says. 

Steve groans dramatically, whining. “What! Holly, that’s impossible. Spin again.” 

She cackles, reminiscent of Queen Holly. “Nope, you have to! That’s the rules!”

And somehow, you both make it to green without knocking each other over. But you’re getting distracted– Steve’s hand has brushed your calf three times now and his shirt is loose, hanging off his chest in a way that gives you a clear view of his tummy. This might as well be sabotage. You tear your eyes away. You must focus. You didn’t care much for winning before, but something about Steve brings out your competitive side. 

“Right hand, green.” 

You bow your knee until it’s wedged uncomfortably into your ribcage so you can reach the green. Your thighs quickly begin to ache. You won’t last much longer in this position. Especially not when Steve arches over you like a human bridge, the zipper of his jeans tickling your back where your shirt has scrunched up. 

He shakes his hair out of the way so he can see you, albeit upside down. His smile stretches wide, radiating pure, unfiltered joy. He’s having the time of his life, and admittedly, so are you. 

Your elbow juts out, nearly giving under the weight of his gaze alone. But you snap it back in place and practically beg Holly, “Spin.” 

“Left foot blue!”

You and Steve lunge for the same blue circle. His sock slides against the tarp, leg extending much farther than he’s prepared for. His arm buckles, chest slamming down against your back. Your elbows give out immediately under the force of his weight, jaw slamming into the floor. 

“Shit, sorry! You okay?” 

A burst of laughter tumbles out of your mouth before you can answer. But maybe it’s an answer in itself. Your chin stings but you're fine. Better than fine, even. 

As soon as Steve scrambles off of you, you flip onto your back. His eyes trickle down you in assessment, eyebrows knitting together, mouth twitching like it can’t decide whether to frown or smile. 

“I’m okay,” you manage, smiley and breathless. 

“Did you hit your face?”

“Just my chin.” 

He reaches for your face with hesitant fingers. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, bolstering his wrist as he cups your chin. “I definitely won.” 

And just like that, all his worry washes away. He pries your hand from his wrist, wrenching you up to sit. “Technically, you hit the floor first.” 

You glance over to Holly for her professional referee’s opinion but find she’s no longer there. “Where’s–”

“I found it!” she yells from the upstairs. What exactly she found, you’ve no idea. But she comes stomping down the stairs not a minute later with a little box in her hands. Bandaids, you realize, as she dumps the contents on the twister mat beside you. “They’re Hello Kitty,” she says, stripping the paper backing off of one. 

You let her little fingers stamp it to the curve of your chin. It’s not bleeding, nor does it really hurt that bad, but the gesture is sweet enough to melt your heart. “Thank you, Holly. You’re so gentle. You should be a candy striper.” 

“I don’t think I’m old enough.”

“When you’re older then.”

Steve decides Twister is far too dangerous to keep playing, but Holly demands a game of Mouse Trap so it works out. Steve wins, despite you and Holly’s strategic alliance halfway through. And by then, she’s asked about dinner twice so you shelve the rest of the games and head up to the kitchen to decide together. 

Holly hums into the freezer, “Chicken nuggets… pizza rolls– oh! Eggos, can we have Eggos?” 

Steve bites the inside of his cheek, peering over her, “Why don’t we cook something? We could have a fancy dinner. Like a dinner party.”

“Can we dress up?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, flipping a pack of ground beef over. 

“Pasta?” you call from the pantry.

“Ooh, yeah. Let’s do that.”

Holly sprints upstairs for a costume, much more interested in the party than the dinner. You pull a box of noodles and an unopened jar of sauce from the shelf while Steve grabs a pot from the cabinet and sticks it under the faucet. 

“Careful. Stove’s on,” you announce, flicking the dial on high. 

Steve backs up from the sink slowly, water sloshing over the side of the pot when he bumps the table. 

“Steve,” you chuckle, pulling a dish towel from the oven handle, “It doesn’t need to be that full.” 

“No?” 

“No, dump like, half of that out.” 

He nods, pouring some out and depositing the rest over the stove. “I’m gonna be honest, I’ve never made pasta before.”

“Yeah, I could’ve guessed,” you quip, elbowing his side with the box of noodles in hand. “Pour these in?”

He takes the box and gives it a good shake. “How much?” 

“Maybe half? Little more?” 

He tips it over the water, snapping it back up when much more than half slides out. “Oops.” 

“It’s okay.” You chuck a few stray pieces from the counter into the pot. “Everyone’s getting seconds tonight. What do you like in your pasta?” 

“Sauce?” 

The laugh fizzles out in your throat as you realize he’s not making a joke. “Besides sauce. Cheese? Meat? Spices?” 

“Oh, uhh, I’m not sure.” Steve scratches the back of his neck, hand retracting to fidget with the hem of his shirt. He’s antsy, clearly nervous. Maybe embarrassed of his cooking knowledge, or rather, lack of it. Or perhaps afraid the pasta will end up something like the first set of grilled cheeses. 

“We’ll keep it simple then. Holly probably won’t like it too fancy anyway.” 

Steve nervously watches the water bubble, foam climbing up the sides. “Do you like garlic bread? Saw some in the freezer.” 

You fish the box out and line a pan with three pieces. And with bread in the oven and the pasta starting to boil, you hop on the counter to wait.  

“How long does it take?” Steve asks.

“Not long.” 

You open the drawer beside your legs and find a big wooden spoon. Lucky guess. “Here. Stir.” 

His eyes follow the ladle, stirring with steady hands. It’s a peaceful quiet, his focus unusually soft. Not the urgent, fate of his life kind of determination you’re used to seeing. 

When it’s ready, you pinch the spoon’s neck, fingertips sweeping his for the half a second before he lets go. “Now we strain the water. Then we can add the sauce.” 

You find a strainer and plant it in the sink while Steve carries the pot over and pours. He sets it back on the stove, per your orders, and offers a hand when you struggle with the sauce lid. 

He pins the jar against his chest, knuckles straining white in several attempts to twist the cap. But it pops off after a good shake, spraying sauce across your cheek, and spinning to the floor like a frisbee. 

Steve freezes, gawking at your face with a stupid smile. 

“Steve!” You scoop up a dish towel and smack his arm. 

He throws his hands up and turns a shoulder to you. “I didn’t mean to,” he snickers. 

“Don’t laugh! I’ll pour that whole jar over your head.” 

He doesn’t buy your threat one bit, still laughing as he sets the jar down and steals the towel from your hands. “I’ll get it. Sit still.” 

You summon the most menacing glare you can manage while suppressing a smile. He presses the towel to your cheek, thumb gliding across your skin as he wipes the sauce in one languid motion. His eyes flick down to your lips and you’re positive you aren’t imagining it. 

But you’re sweating and your stomach is churning and– “The pasta!” You ram into Steve’s shoulder trying to get by, rushing to turn the stove temperature down. 

Steve whisks up behind you to see the food. “Is it burnt?” 

“No, no. It should be fine.” You scrape the ladle under the bottom layer of noodles. “Pass me the sauce?”

You avoid his eyes as you take it. Was he going to kiss you? Maybe just thinking about it? Or perhaps there was just sauce near your mouth and you’re spiraling over absolutely nothing. 

You toss the food in sauce and divide it into three plates silently. 

“Holly! Food’s ready,” Steve shouts as he fixes the table with napkins and silverware. 

She clambers down the steps in a tutu and a cardigan that you’re pretty sure is Nancy’s. Her smile drops. “Where are your clothes?” 

Steve looks down at his sweats. “Holly, I think we’ll just–”

“Please, Stevie. It’s a dinner party, remember?” 

His eyes dart to you, though you still can’t bring yourself to look at him. “One sec.”

He swings back into the kitchen wearing a tweed suit jacket, a silky, black one draped over his arm. His is a few sizes too big, shoulder pads drooping down his biceps, and the sleeves swallowing his hands. He pushes the fabric up his elbows to hand you the other jacket. “For you.” 

“Thanks,” you deadpan. It comes off less sarcastic than you aim for. 

Holly and Steve adopt similar grins as you slip the jacket on. “You look dashing,” she compliments. 

“Very,” Steve agrees, taking a seat beside you. 

You spend the rest of dinner internally debating whether he’s flirting or just indulging in Holly’s playful antics. The uncertainty makes your stomach flip, and suddenly you aren’t so hungry anymore. 

After the dinner party concludes, it’s Holly’s suggestion to go for a walk. She wheels her bike out of the garage, fitted with a set of training wheels and a handlebar bursting with tinsel. A yawn rolls off her tongue as she launches down the driveway. It raises your hopes for a smoother bedtime tonight. 

Even as the horizon melts into the Earth, the summer heat clings like a heavy hand. Trees project long shadows along the road, eating what’s left of the sunlight. Bugs buzz and birds chirp, but a sleepy stillness is ubiquitous. 

“What?” you ask suddenly, whipping your head to face Steve. He’s drenched in gold, pale wisps of hair riding the breeze as he strolls. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re staring at me. I feel it.” 

“I wasn’t,” he assures. 

You blink at him. You can’t decide whether to be annoyed at such an obvious lie or embarrassed by the truth. 

He jogs ahead before you’ve come up with something to say. Halfway to Holly, he shouts, “Come on, slowpoke!” 

It only takes one loop around the block for the heat to catch up. Holly complains incessantly about her helmet strap being too tight even after Steve fixes it and you’re itchy from sweat and mosquito bites. Steve’s, well, he might be the only content one. Happy even, guiding you home with a subtle bend to his lips and a soft glow tinting his cheeks. 

Holly whines about having to take a bath, and while you might negotiate it another night, you can see the damp line down her back. But like you suspect, all grievances are forgotten the second she gets in. She likes playing in the bath, even if she forgets it. It’s where she keeps her mermaid Barbie and her collection of rubber ducks, coincidentally all named Bob. 

And while bath time might tend to feel like more of a chore as a babysitter, tonight is different. It’s your last night at the Wheelers, and while that’s not new information, it is startlingly sad. You aren’t irritated when she splashes water in your eye or when she leaves a trail of it down the hall for you to clean. You can’t be, not when you know you’ll miss it. 

Steve helps you tuck Holly into Nancy’s bed. After pinky swearing that you’ll both return at your own bedtime, she drifts off easily. You’re thankful, of course, but a piece of you secretly hoped to be needed longer.  

“Must’ve been tired,” Steve whispers, pushing slowly off the bed. “You okay?” 

You nod, tearing your eyes from Holly to meet Steve’s. “Kinda sad.” You shrug, murmuring, “Stupid.” 

“It’s not.” He cups your shoulder and runs a warm hand up and down your arm. “Come on.” 

You take his hand and let him lead you across the hall and down the stairs. He pulls you onto the couch so you land pressed into the same cushion he’s on. “Y’know, babysitting Holly’s a breeze compared to the usual shitheads. We don’t have to worry about her taking my car keys or fighting interdimensional monsters or summoning a gate to hell,” he says. 

A soft laugh parts your lips. “Think Holly will put in a good word for us with her parents?” 

“You kidding? She loves us. Especially me,” he jokes. “Hate to break it to you but I’m definitely her favorite.” 

“No, you are not. Shut up.” 

He catches your fist mid-punch, cradling your hand like it’s made of wet sand. His thumb crosses each divot between your fingers, stroking up and down your knuckle slowly. “I’m sure they’ll ask us to babysit her again at some point.”

You hum in agreement. 

“Besides, we could expand our horizons. There’s like a million other children in Hawkins that need babysitting.” 

Your smile spills into your cheeks. “We?” 

“Yeah, I think we make a pretty damn good team. Don’t you?” 

“I do, but… we don’t have to limit our interactions to just babysitting, you know?” 

“What are you thinking? Dinner and a movie? Next weekend?” His eyes flick from your fingers to your face– to each eye, sweeping down the center of your nose, stopping right at your lips. 

You turn away in an attempt to soothe your heart as it pounds up to your ears. “Smooth, Harrington.” 

He reels you back in gently by the arm, confidence shining through his smile.“What? Did I read this wrong?” He knows he didn’t, he’s teasing you. 

“No,” you mumble, “You didn’t.” 

He leans in to whisper, “Can I kiss you then?” 

You nod, pushing into the soft press of his lips with your own. He’s not hesitant, nor is he harsh. Steve knows how to kiss, that much is clear. He trades your hand for your cheek, gently tilting your face to the side as he pulls away. 

Your eyes flutter open to a doting gaze. One that travels down the lines and slopes of your neck like they’re made of candy. Steve plants a second kiss on your lips, though fleeting in comparison to the first. But he plants several more to make up for it, working his way in a Z down your cheek, across your jaw, and back down your neck. They’re quick, ticklish little pecks of affection. A sweetness if you ever knew it. 

“Steve,” you admonish, though giggles betray your tone. The hands that frame his face glide gently down to his throat, your thumbs meeting at his Adam's apple. “We’re babysitting.” 

“I know,” he says, kissing your lips for a third time. “Just had to get a few extra in there. For all the times I thought about kissing you this weekend.” 

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?” He laughs, bubbly like you’ve surprised him. “It’s true. I thought about it all weekend.” 

You don’t know why you ask– why you even thought of it at a time like this– but you question him, “What about Nance?” 

“What about her?” 

“You don’t…” you trail off, afraid to even speak the possibility into existence. 

“We’re done. We have been. For a lot longer than I was willing to admit,” he admits honestly. 

“Yeah, but do you–”

“I don’t. Still have feelings for her. Not like that, anyway.” 

You meet his eyes, feeling a strange blend of emotions you can’t quite name.

“If you don’t believe me, you’ll just have to let me prove it to you,” he holds your gaze, warm with a sincerity that makes it hard to doubt him. 

“I believe you.” 

You let Steve kiss you several more times on that couch. He’s patient, deliberate, and more kind than you ever imagined he’d be. It’s hard to understand why Nancy would ever let someone like that go. 

ᯓ★

On Monday morning, you blink awake first, the comforting weight of a hand that’s not yours across your hip and another, much lighter one, at your belly. You turn over slowly, finding Steve and Holly wrapped around each other like ivy on trellis. You don’t imagine many people look this pretty asleep. The comb of long lashes kissing the soft flush in his cheeks. The golden lather of sunrise in each wild swoop of hair. The way his lips part for a sigh cuter than you knew one could be. 

He mumbles something unintelligible, sleep talk perhaps. 

You whisper back anyway, “What?” 

Steve sighs, smearing his cheek against the pillow. “Being a creeper.” 

“Me?” 

“Mhmm.” One eye slowly unbinds itself from sleep. Steve adores the tight-lipped smile on your face, broad with an infatuation he forgot could be aimed at him. His hand twitches at your side. 

“You just look so pretty when you sleep,” you admit. Is it too soon to say such things? 

His eye closes as he smiles, nosing into Holly’s hair, selfishly keeping it to himself. You reach across her body to find it, swiping a loving finger across his lips when you do. 

You stay in bed for as long as Holly will allow– which is not very long after she wakes up– but you don’t mind. You watch fondly as Steve helps her brush her teeth and as she helps Steve toast and butter the Eggos. Like Steve, Holly’s a good kid. They’re both helpers at heart. 

And you’re sure to remind Mrs. Wheeler of that when she rings the house to let you know they’re almost home. Holly’s excitement quickly dwindles into sadness the moment she realizes you won’t be staying. But she uses it to bargain one final game of hide and seek before you go. 

“Come on.” Steve drags you by the wrist, bustling upstairs to the bathroom. He throws the shower curtain aside and jumps in, offering his hand to help you after. You sit scrunched together, knee to knee on the porcelain floor, giggling like children. 

“Shhh,” you squeeze his kneecap. “You’re gonna get us found.” 

He jostles your shoulder, mouth agape. “You’re the one who’s laughing!” 

“No,” you insist, though the light in your eyes suggests otherwise. Curiosity sparks and the irrepressible urge to act on it wins. You lean in for a kiss, confirming that’s all it takes to shut Steve up. 

He tastes like maple syrup, loving with his lips as much as his hands. He pulls back for breath and returns for another peck, pressing into the corner of your mouth where your smile keeps drawing higher and higher. 

“Hard to kiss you when you're smiling.” 

“Can’t help it,” you defend. “Never been so happy.” 

He softens like warm icing, a sweet and gooey mess in your arms. But the shake of the front door closing stiffens him. 

“Mommy!” you hear quickly after. 

Steve scrambles up and over the lip of the tub, tugging you out with him. You follow him downstairs where Mrs. Wheeler swings Holly in her arms like she’s much smaller than she really is. Mr. Wheeler steers a suitcase silently through the entryway. 

“Did you have so much fun?” she asks Holly, peppering kisses across her temple. “Ohh, I missed you!” 

Holly revels in the affection overload, bending backward to giggle at you and Steve. 

Mrs. Wheeler grins. “How was she?” 

“Great, as always,” Steve assures. His cheeks are flushed, his hair mussed— though you could chalk that up to bedhead, not the aftermath of your short-lived makeout session.

You nod, adding, “We went swimming and to the park and–”

“IHOP!” Holly yells. “I got pancakes with chocolate chips and extra sprinkles!” 

“Did you? Sounds like you had a lot of fun.” Mrs. Wheeler plants Holly on her feet. “Can you give hugs? Say thank you for being such good babysitters?” 

Holly launches herself at Steve. He sends you a smirk over her shoulder, rocking her side to side in his embrace. You can just hear him say, I told you so. 

But she offers the same enthusiasm and more for you, dragging you onto the floor for a proper goodbye hug. “I don’t want you to go,” she pouts in your ear. 

“We’ll come back. We can have playdates?” 

“Can’t you just live in Nancy’s room? She’s never here anyway.” 

You can’t help but laugh. “I wish I could,” you admit honestly. 

She reluctantly loosens her grip on your shirt when you peel away. 

Mrs. Wheeler sees you and Steve off with a warm smile. Holly darts through her mother’s legs for one final hug on the porch. You wave goodbye, the moment slipping into something bittersweet before Steve bumps his shoulder into yours, a playful grin softening the farewell.

You dawdle up to your car, wringing your hands together when you reach the door. “So.”

“So,” he parrots. 

“This weekend, right?” 

His smirk blooms into a full smile. “Friday? Pick you up at seven?” 

“Okay,” you nod. 

“Okay,” he chuckles, clipping a hand around your jaw and leaning in. 

You turn away so the kiss skips across the softest stretch of your cheek. “Steve.” 

His eyes never leave your face as he assures you, “They’re not looking.” 

“Don’t be so sure.” 

Holly waves at you through the living room window, a smile as wide as her face. Steve’s hand falls down to his side and he takes a platonic step back. You both return her goodbye, but Holly stays, her little hand pressed to the glass. 

“Think she’ll tell?” Steve asks, not an ounce of worry in his tone. 

The cough you’d been swallowing trips out of your mouth, unforgiving and dry as sand in your throat. Clark pulls you back by the shoulders. 

“I’m good,” you promise.

“You’re not hurt?” 

You shake your head. Your words are too itchy, voice too unreliable. You’d trade an arm for a bottle of water right about now, but lucky for you, Clark is soft. He’d find you one for nothing more than a kiss, if you asked. 

“You’re sure?” he asks. 

You nod, but he takes your promises lightly. His hands comb down the length of your arms, thumbs turning your palms face up when they reach them. Your skin is torn, stippled with dirt and flecks of gravel. Your knees aren’t much better. 

Clark squares away his softness. He trades his dimples for a frown, though the crease between his brows never quite hardens. He’s never been very good at playing stern. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he scolds. 

You can’t help but grin. “I wish you wouldn’t either, you know.” 

“It’s different. You know it’s different. I have—”

“I know,” you interrupt. Your hand drifts up to dust the soot around his emblem. “I know it is. I’m sorry.” 

He squeezes your words for all their truth. His sigh tickles your cheek as his forehead tips down to yours. “Will you just… wait for me next time?” 

You nod, nose to nose, your lips sealing his. “I’ll wait.” 

He kisses you, clumsy, a little rough. He hasn’t fully clocked out of hero mode, his hands half a second away from ready to catch a car, but he’s been forgiven for it before he even pulls away. 

“I have to—”

“Go,” you finish, not even the slightest twinge of acrimony in your tone. He appreciates that about you— your understanding, for him, for his work. He appreciates it more than you’ll probably ever know. 

But he’ll try to show you— make it known in the tilt of your chin under his thumb, in the way his pupils swallow your reflection. 

You let out a chalky little laugh, bashful more than anything else. “Go.” 

His jaw doesn’t budge under your attempt to press him away. He steals your hand for his lips, kiss after kiss down your knuckles. “You’ll go home?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. Promise." 

“If I find you out here, I’ll—”

You snort. “You’ll what?”

He catches the smirk off your lips, his head shaking in time with yours. “I dunno what. I’ll figure it out— but you won’t like it,” he threatens. 

“Yeah, okay, honey.” You pat his greasy cheek. “Go save the city. Be home for dinner.” 

He rolls his eyes, a weak rebellion to the warmth he wears on the rest of his face. His hand lingers in yours for as long as it can before he’s turned too far to keep it. And then he’s off, rocketing up into the sky with a brightness that rivals the sun. 

You stamp your lips into his skin in good morning, and again because it’s a satisfying warmth on your mouth. He smells sweet, like your new body wash since he couldn’t find his last night. You decide you like the scent on his skin better than yours. 

The quiet is strange but the farthest thing from unwelcome. No neighbors or roommates or parents to wake to. Just the soft hush of rain against the roof and the swish of your ankles underneath the blankets. 

Your fingers chase the hair from Steve’s eye socket, your thumb perching behind his ear. His pupils shift under his eyelids and he sighs the softest little sound you’ve ever heard. 

It’s cruel to wake him, certainly. He did most of the heavy lifting yesterday and was up organizing later than you were. But you’re feeling especially selfish this morning, tickling him awake with a swarm of several more arm kisses. 

There are worse things to wake up to, you reason with yourself as Steve hums, his fingers curling against the sheet. He’s quiet for a long beat and you decide maybe it's better to let him rest. 

But his lips part and he rasps out, “Mornin’.” 

“Mornin’,” you parrot. Your grin is immediate, spanning ear to ear with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

He smushes your face to his bare collar, the heel of his free hand climbing up his cheek. 

You turn to watch his eyes unstick themselves of sleep and continue to wonder how you got so lucky. You press another kiss to his chin. Another to the coarse thatch of hair on his chest. Another to his shoulder. You just can’t help yourself today. 

“It’s so quiet,” he murmurs, hand crawling under your shirt in a long splay up your spine. 

You beam, weaving a leg under his heavy one. “I know.” 

“We have a house.” 

“I know.” You sound as excited as you can be without yelling. 

He hums, the corners of his smile creeping wider, a hand steady on your back. 

Your finger twists a curl at his nape idly. “What’re you thinking?” 

Steve’s gaze flickers from the ceiling to you, eyes like old pennies under the clouds coloring your room a gloomy shade of gray. “Nothin’,” he whispers, lips skimming the corner crease of your eye. “Just happy.” 

You hum, one part agreement, two parts delight. “Can we get a dog now?” 

He huffs out a chuckle, vibrating the place where your chests kiss. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.” 

“‘Cause you always say no.” 

“‘Cause it didn’t make sense before.”

“So, we can?” 

He has a hard time pretending to hate the look you show him. Your jutted lip and raised brows show no mercy. He wants to say yes, of course he does, but he’s not as impulsive as he used to be. He’s a homeowner. His responsibilities extend beyond just himself now. 

“Can we unpack the house first? Then we’ll talk about it.”

You flick his collarbone. “Excuses. Excuses.” 

If there’s a fond way to roll your eyes at someone, he’s figured out how to do it. Steve knows you’re all drama. And he knows you’re over the moon with or without the promise of a dog. 

You bend out of his embrace and regret sitting the second you’re up. Your back aches twice its weight, muscles sore with yesterday's labor. 

But Steve relishes his view. You're in nothing but underwear and one of his shirts, the dip of your lower back exposed where the hem has scrunched up. He might buy you new pajamas if he thought you’d actually wear them or if he didn’t adore just how lovely his clothes look on you. 

And he doesn’t give you a chance to ask, his fingers automatically massaging a path up your aching shoulder. You squirm but you love it. You kiss his hand in thank you and carry it around your waist to play with. 

“Don’t get up,” he says. Pleads, practically.

You face him. “But we have sooo much to unpack.” 

“It can wait,” he argues. He steals your entwined hands for a persuasive set of kisses. One to each knuckle and then a flurry up your arm. And his hands are an equally convincing force, coercing you right back onto his chest. 

You’re putty, melting into his hot hands like candle wax. You throw a leg over his waist and settle down in a more comfortable straddle. The possibility of you falling back asleep jumps an alarming percentage. 

You bolster your chin on his sternum and meet his eyes. “But I really want that dog.” 

“More than me?” 

You hum debatably into his puckered lips.

He smiles hard and forgets about kissing you, pinching your side until you yelp. Your giggles spill through twin smiles, overlapping each other in layers. “Might have to put the house back on the market if you keep being so mean to me," he says.

“I’ll be nicer if we go look at the shelter today.” 

“Mm. Not letting this go are we?” 

You shake your head.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. “We’ll go–”

You see the shift in his expression before he even says anything. Your eyebrows jump in excitement. 

“If,” he tacks on quickly, “we finish downstairs today. Hmm?” 

“Mhmm. Easy.” 

“Easy,” he repeats. But not one lick of him believes you. It wasn’t easy carrying so many of your boxes yesterday and it certainly wasn’t easy getting you to pack everything up in the first place. 

But ultimately he’s amused. And he thinks you’re especially pretty when you’re confident. So Steve kisses you like he has something to prove. 

He gropes the swell of your ass mid-kiss and while it’s not unusual for him to do so playfully, you can’t perceive it in any way innocent when you’re pressed up against his morning wood. 

“Steve,” you scold lightly. 

He hums against your mouth, a faux sound of innocence. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

You break apart with a wet smack. “Gotta unpack.”

“Have all day,” he says, words all smushed together so he can sew his lips right back to yours. 

“Mm-mmm.” You turn your cheek, but the hands on your waist don’t let you go far. “‘S, like, ten-thirty already.” 

He works a slow line past your jaw, spending extra time on the sensitive skin around your throat. Devious. 

“Steve.” 

“Hmm?” 

You push off his chest until you're sitting upright on his thighs.

His heart tick tick ticks under the flat of your palm. His pupils are wide, mouth kiss-bruised a bright shade of red. He’s so, so dreamy, all flushed and starry-eyed like this. He’s got you wrapped around his finger just as much as you’ve strung him with yours.  

You sigh. “Why do I let you win?” 

He smirks that stupid victorious smirk you love so much. “‘Cause you love me.”

“You’re so annoying.” 

“Me?” he laughs. 

“Mhmm. And a hypocrite.” 

The hand clasping your hip pressures you back down, the other cradling one side of your jaw. “A hypocrite?” he whispers. 

“Mhmm.” 

He fills the tiny space between you, half-lidded and heavy-handed in a fervent kiss. He’s not rough but he is eager. Open-mouthed and persistent like he’s trying to weld his face to yours. 

You meet him with the same intensity. It’s instinctual. The push-pull of your bodies, like you’re more one entity than two. You’ve been dating Steve long enough to know what he likes and what he doesn’t. You’ve made out more times than you can count. And he’s a simple man. You’ve got him hard, properly hard, in a matter of minutes. 

His bottom lip is pinned between your teeth, your chests rising and falling in sync. You grind back on his crotch and his breath hitches. 

“Ahh,” he pants. “Can I…” 

You don’t know what he’s trying to ask but you nod anyway. It’s not hard to piece together, though; not when he’s fisting the fabric of your shirt like it’s causing him physical pain to see you wear it. 

You help him hitch it up your back and down your arms to be tossed out of the way. Steve quickly stops you from lying back down. His large palms spread wide against your tummy, thumbs kneading either side of your belly button. He roves up your ribs attentively, studying how your skin pulls and dips beneath his fingers. 

You swear you feel him down to the divots in his fingerprints, the slow speed of his hands tantalizing. 

His thumbs pause at your breastbone, sweeping up and around your nipples as if he’s never played with them before. They perk up easily, to Steve's obvious enjoyment. 

He’s told you a thousand times how pretty you are, naked and not. And he doesn’t have to say it now for you to know he’s thinking it. 

He stares at your chest, your tummy, the soft stretch of your thighs, each like they’ve been carved from marble, destined to end up behind a glass at some museum he’s never been to. 

You get shy eventually, needling past his hold to hide in the slope of his neck. Your mouth peppers lazy kisses where it can reach. Soft ones, not nearly as greedy as before. You work your way up, suckling long enough to leave a couple of red rings in your wake. 

Steve's hips shift under yours as you arrive back at his mouth. He’s getting antsy, the finger fidgeting with the hem of your panties no longer satisfied. So maybe you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when he holds your hips down and bucks up into your clothed cunt. 

Your jaw slackens, a broken moan dampened against his mouth. 

“Can be loud ‘s you want now,” he assures. His hands roam, around your ass and back up your sides. Soothing, but so feather-light you shudder. 

“Still have neighbors.” 

He hums in half agreement. Yes, you have neighbors, but their bedroom wall isn’t attached to yours. He imagines you’d have to scream bloody murder for the neighbors to hear you here. 

You slink back up to sit and Steve’s fingers fall to your hips. Your pelvis rolls into his. Again when he shudders. 

“Shit,” he sighs. 

“Feel good?”

His eyes disappear behind his lashes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Mhmm.” 

You continue to work him through his briefs, a slow back and forth forming a hot puddle between your own legs. With one hand propped against his sternum, you force your eyes over to the stacks upon stacks of moving boxes in the room. 

“Condoms… condoms.” 

Steve almost misses your mumbling– and to his credit, you’re talking more to yourself than him– but he blinks out of his daze and sighs vaguely at the nearest box. “Fuck. Bathroom, maybe.” 

Not ideal. 

“Think I have one in my purse,” you remember, swaying heavily to the side to scan the floor beside the mattress. 

Steve’s hands fly to your waist to balance you as he huffs. “You mean your bottomless pit?” 

“Don’t shame me. It comes in handy.” The bottomless pit in question is spotted, half buried under yesterday’s clothes across the room. “One sec’.”

Steve grumbles as you climb off of him. But his heart turns in his chest as you saunter off. His love for you is always there. It’s the shape of you as you crouch, how you tip your purse upside down and fan the contents out across the floor with a hum. 

“Aha.” You pop up, waving a glossy, square packet as you skip your way back. “My trusty bottomless pit saves the day.”

You clamber back on top of him clumsily, planting yourself in his lap like he’s no more fragile than the kitchen barstool. 

Steve groans under his breath. You’ve got him really wound up and his patience is thinning. 

Your hips roll into his again, the curve of his cock a strong silhouette through two sticky layers of fabric. You scoot back on his thighs and palm him with modest pressure. 

“Babe,” he shudders, thumbs pawing the sides of your underwear again. “Please.” 

“So impatient,” you tease. 

You watch him intently. How his nostrils flare the second you break the seal between his hot skin and the band of his underwear. How his eyebrows crinkle together as you push the cotton down his thighs. 

His cock bobs free before you take it gently by the base. Steve’s not just a pretty face, and he’s not cocky for no reason. He’s well-endowed, a dusty shade of pink blended tan into the dark curls at his hilt. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

He shifts his gaze past you because he’s certain if you make eye contact with him this’ll be the shortest sex of his life. And even the half-blurry blob of you in his peripherals is still too fucking enticing. He forces his eyes up at the popcorn ceiling and traces the shapes in his mind. 

You spread the pearl of precum down a vein on the side of his cock, using the slip to tug him a handful of times. The slick dissolves, and your hand catches twice before you’re getting ready to spit in it.  

But Steve whines, “Need to feel you.” 

Your hand stops but the pad of your pinky trails a sneaky line from tip to base. “My hands not enough for you, Stevie?” 

“Not gonna– mm– last.” 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” 

You mean it rhetorically but he quickly shakes his head no. You forget how much you enjoy being in charge until you have Steve squirming under you. 

You stabilize yourself on his chest, hiking one leg up at a time until you’re underwear have been flung to the floor. The slick between your folds is more palpable as you sit back on his thighs, hot skin to hot skin. 

His eyelids flutter closed as you roll the condom on. He’s flushed up to his ears, breath nimble off his open mouth. 

“Ready?” 

He nods like you’ve asked something outrageously silly. 

You guide the head of his cock up to your folds, sinking down in one tedious stride. It’s a good kind of ache, scratching the deepest part of your tummy. 

His hips jerk involuntarily as you release your full weight onto them, his nails leaving crescents on your skin. “‘M not gonna last,” he warns again. 

“I’ll go slow.” 

It’s not much consolation. No matter what you do to him, he’s not gonna last. You’re too damn irresistible for your own good. 

You rock your hips forward and back in a continuous cycle. The pace is indulgent, just slow enough to make things last. Your eyes unfocus, your head tipping back. Every drag squeezes the coil in your stomach tighter. 

Steve’s eyes flick to yours, his voice wavering as he mumbles, “Tease me too much.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.”

You smile softly at him and his eyes jump away. He’s drawing loopy patterns into the meat of your thigh to distract himself. And it doesn’t help when you cover his hand and sweep your thumb across every digit. He’s so focused on not blowing his load that he can’t even speak. 

You pause your rhythm and hum to yourself before continuing. “Know what I just realized.”

“Hmm?”

“Forgot the shower curtain.”

Steve exhales hard, words sticking to his teeth.“We’ll get a new one.” 

“I really liked that one.”

He can’t think straight long enough to tell if you’re purposely trying to distract him or not and he doesn’t care all that much either way. He just needs you to be the same level of fucked that he is. 

His hand trembles over to your pubic bone, thumb snaking right up to your clit. 

You nod as he presses. Right there. 

He rubs slow circles, a spark of pleasure each time he closes a loop. 

“Fuck,” you drawl simultaneously. 

You laugh, blissfully unaware as your muscles clamp around his cock. 

But Steve’s fingers pause on your clit, his other hand tense at your hip. “Don’t,” he shudders out. 

You close your mouth, a soft little apology grin that sends Steve’s stomach flipping. He’s so fucking in love it’s not even funny. 

“Sit on my face.”

You hum, so high on cloud nine you’re sure you’ve misheard him. 

“Let me taste you.”

Your breath stutters. He’s serious. 

“Come here,” he’s pushing you up and off him before you have much of a chance to process it. “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Your cheeks burn a hot shade of embarrassment, your tongue suddenly too heavy in your mouth. You wriggle up his body, guided by the relentless hands on the backs of your thighs. Steve’s eaten you out, but not like this. 

“Steve,” you manage. 

“What?” He knows you better than he’s known anyone in his life. He feels your shaking and he hears the rampant doubts coursing your mind. “I want to,” he promises, pressing a long, love-packed kiss to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. 

You’re unconvinced. You’re certain you’ll break his face the second you sit down. You’ll be so mortified you’ll have to break up with him if he doesn’t first. You’ll have to sell the house before you’ve even unpacked–

“Please?”

He’s not trying to be pushy or even funny as he bats his eyes. He just so genuinely craves to see you unravel in the same way you’ve spun him around. And yeah, he has a sweet set of brown eyes. Sue him. He loves you too much to look at you with any less adoration. 

You nod emphatically. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve been this nervous about sex with Steve, but you’ve learned just about everything there is to know about him since. You trust him in every capacity, especially in bed.   

He nips his way up your thigh, pulling you lower and lower until his breath is hot on your cunt. Steve licks a wide stripe up to your clit, sucking before swirling his tongue around the sensitive hood. And then his mouth starts lapping you like you’re his last meal. 

Your fist jerks, fingers knotted through the hair on his scalp, and he moans. You don’t hear it over the wet smacking as much as you feel it, the vibrations sending pleasure through you like a pulse. 

His tongue drives you to a mess. He’d push you completely over the edge if you didn’t stop him.

“Okay, okay,” you gasp, pushing up onto your knees. “We’re even.” 

He smirks and strokes down the backs of your calves. “Are we competing?” 

“You seem to think so.” 

He shimmies to a sit with an arm around your waist and bestows you with a fleeting kiss, lips washed with the taste of your juices. “Lay down.”

How the fuck could you say no to such a pretty face? 

You scooch down, face up on the sheets. Steve parts you by the ankles and crawls up your body, planting kisses like seeds. His teeth graze the inside of your wrist before he stretches it up and flat against the mattress above your head. 

Your fingers thread through his, his other hand steadying his cock at your entrance. He swipes the head up and down your wet folds before sliding in with a groan. There’s less resistance this time, a fluid in and out to his hips. 

His thrusts are languid. He indulges more closely in the taste of your mouth and the balmy feel of your waist. 

The winding in your tummy resumes, your fingers naturally finding your clit while Steve rocks into you. A heavier thrust and your lips detach, Steve’s rehoming to the skin beneath your jaw. He picks up his pace, puffing and panting into your neck in short bursts. 

Your legs wrap around his, the heel of your foot digging into his lower back. “Mm– Steve.”

“Yeah?” he huffs. 

“Mhmm.”

If the sounds you’re making are anything to go by, Steve thinks he’s doing a pretty good job. And you know he’s just as close to cumming. You know his little sounds and twisty little expressions like the back of your hand. How his stomach tenses and his breath catches. 

You burn the entirety of this to your brain, rubbing yourself faster, more in time with his movements. 

“‘M close,” he says, desperate and hopeful that you are too. 

You nod, focused on the high climbing higher each second. 

His hips stutter when you clench around him. The coil releases and you come undone simultaneously. 

“Fuck, ah– fuck,” he whines, sharp but breathy in your ear.  

Your fingers slow and his thrusts wane and the pleasure softens. Steve wobbles down onto you as gently as he can, taking your interlaced hand between your bodies. Your hearts kiss with each rise and fall of your chests. Steve mouths over the most accessible bit of skin under your ear, thumb sweeping the gentlest curves around your face. 

You exhale into his crown, raking a hand through the dark mop of curls damp at his nape. Your other eases down his back, savoring the contraction of his muscles as he breathes. You travel down the curve of his ass and give him a firm squeeze. “How’s your ass? Still sore?” 

He huffs at you, nose crushed to your neck. “I fall down one flight of stairs and I never hear the end of it.” 

“I told you to be careful.” 

“I was being– whatever.” His thumb continues to caress your jaw, his lips idle on your neck. 

This is Steve’s favorite part of sex. To hold and to be held, easing off a high that’s miles better than a good smoke. There’s nothing greater. 

“Should I check for bruises?” 

“If you kiss ‘em better.” 

Your chest aches with the sweet swell of laughter. Steve’s your person. You realize it time and time again. 

He peels himself off like you're double-sided tape. His hair’s still crazy despite your finger-combing and his eyes are just as heavy as they were when he woke up. He slides out of you with a hiss, sitting back to knot the condom and toss it toward a pile of bubble wrap. 

He looks back at you fondly. “Shower?” 

You shake your head. “Just lay with me.” 

“Downstairs isn’t gonna unpack itself, you know.”

“Shut up.” You palm his chest until he lays and you throw an arm across his middle. “This was your evil plan all along.” 

His eyes go wide, his gaze slingshotting from your head to your toes. “You what?” 

“Stabbed,” you repeat, clutching your side tighter as you spin. It really hurts to turn, just to move. It’s like someone unplugged all of the organs in your abdomen and shook you up like a snow globe. “Now, will you just, please help me. I can’t reach it.” 

“Reach what?” The quick swish of Bob’s socks is the only other sound apart from his voice. “Hey, wait a second. Where are you going? Can you sit down?” 

You push the bathroom door open and flick on the light. There’s a vacant glaze in the eyes of your reflection that you pretend not to see. “Do you know how to sew?” 

Bob idles in the doorway, mouth faltering like you’re speaking another language. “What?” 

“Sew, you know, needle and thread.” 

He shrugs. “Well, kind of, but it wasn’t– I don’t think it was very good. I’m not very good at it.” 

“But you’ve done it before?” 

“Yeah, but– I mean, it was just a sock, it’s not like– it wasn’t a stab wound.” 

You bend for the cabinet's bottom drawer, a whimper slipping through gritted teeth. “It’s the same thing,” you rasp, swiping the roll of gauze off the top. 

“No, I’m not– I can’t.”

“You can.” You tug at your jacket zipper and shrug out of the heavy sleeves. Your arms are slick with sweat, but stippled with goosebumps. Not a reassuring combination. “I’ll teach you.” 

“No, no, I don’t really–.” 

“It’s not hard. Promise.”

Your focus flutters up to his face. He’s looking at you funny, brows heavy with worry. “You’ve done this before?” 

Even a weak little laugh pinches every nerve in your lower back. You tug the hem of your shirt up, gloating, “Once or twice.”

Bob ogles the graveyard of scars across your stomach, each raised line a farewell from a fight you survived. They’re trophies in a fucked up sort of way. His hands shoot up to yours, bracketing your wrist in one and the roll of gauze you're holding in the other. “I should call an ambulance.” 

“Don’t you know how expensive those are?” 

“Then I’ll drive you.” 

Your snort collapses with a strangled wince. “You don’t even have a license, Bob.”

“I don’t think the cops will care when they see that you’re bleeding out.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a scratch. You’ll see. It’ll be much easier to just stitch it here, trust me.” 

Bob does tend to trust you. You’ve saved his life more times than he can count at this point. But you’ve been stabbed. You must be delirious with blood loss or shock or something. He shakes his head vehemently at you, your wrist and the gauze slipping from his clammy hold. “No, no, no. I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s easy. I’ll walk you through it.” 

“Wouldn’t Yelena, or Ava, or literally any of the others, be better for this? I’ve never– I don’t know how to do this.” 

“Walker’s the only one home and I’d rather bleed out for real than inflate that asshole’s ego even more. Can you imagine what he’ll say?” You fold your arms and grumble, “Oh, remember that time I saved your life like a real hero.” 

Your impersonation does nothing to fix the pitiful look Bob’s sending you. You even muster up a smile, a pretty damn good one having been stabbed half an hour ago, but his frown only worsens. “Don’t be scared,” you say gently. “I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll tell you what to do.” 

“What if I make it worse?”

“You’re not gonna stab me, too, are you?” Your teasing grin snaps under the weight of a new wave of crushing pain. “I’d really like to just get this over with so I can go lie down.” 

Any last hope of changing your mind trickles out of Bob as you start to pull your shirt off. He looks away, burning up to his ears. 

The fabric sticks to the hot pool on your back, blood oozing like magma from a volcano. Lifting your arms isn’t as simple as you hoped it would be. You shimmy and struggle like a fish in a net before Bob takes you by the wrists and guides your arms free himself. His eyes catch yours for a split second before he snaps them shut, blindly tossing your shirt to the floor. 

“You can’t sew my back shut with your eyes closed, you know. You can look at me.” 

Bob swallows, opening one eyelid at a time. You’re still there in your cargos and bra, busy unrolling a wad of gauze. 

You cork the blood flow with the cotton, pressing and pressing until your eyes sting with tears. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to stop. “Grab that towel.” You exhale sharply, easing onto the toilet lid, your chest facing the tank. “Put it under me. On the floor.” 

Bob packs the towel around the toilet leg, eye to eye with your weeping back. His mouth gapes as you peel the gauze back, stringy webs of it detaching from your skin. 

“Is it still bleeding?” you ask, voice trembling. 

“Fuck, yeah, oh fuck. Put it back.” 

“Okay. Just relax, Bob. Go wash your hands.” 

He’s got lead feet all of a sudden. And his tongue’s stopped working too. Because how the fuck is he supposed to fix that? He’s going to screw it up, he can feel it. You’ll get an infection, end up in the hospital with sepsis, you’ll probably die, and it’ll be his doing, and he’ll never be able to forgive himself. You’re doomed. 

“I will bleed out, like, eventually, by the way.”

Your voice snaps Bob from his thoughts. He rams a hip into the counter as he spins toward the sink. He flips the tap on and pumps enough soap on his hands to disinfect an entire preschool, scrubbing like he’s trying to shave a layer of skin off. 

“Okay,” you grunt as he finishes, “from the drawer. Get a water bottle, and uh, a bandage, one of the bigger ones. Find the needles, should be little white packets, and then thread, there’s a whole roll of it. Oh, and this, um, big orange bottle, it’s called Betadine. 

Bob nods as every item is set on the counter. His lips are cinched shut in fear. The fear of failure, of failing you. He’s hunched over in his nice sweats, a pair you also have, from some brand collaboration, courtesy of the public relations team. Being an Avenger has its perks, including but not limited to the complimentary loungewear and nice-looking roommates. 

“Got it all?” 

His hands are trembling so badly that you can hear the antiseptic solution sloshing around the bottle in his hold. “I really don’t think I should do this.” 

“You got this.” You twist around, eyes reaching only a slice of your achy back. Your fingers curl under the gauze. “Still bleeding?”

Bob wrinkles his nose, looking, but not wanting to. “A little, it’s– it’s slow, like slower, it’s not–”

“Okay, that’s good.” You peel back the rest of the wet gauze, a heavy sponge in your hand. “You’re gonna flush the wound with water. Slowly. You’ll just tip the bottle a little bit. ‘Kay?” 

He kneels on the tile behind you, unscrewing the cap off the water bottle. “You’re sure?”

“Done it a million times.”

His hand inches slowly toward your back. He tips the bottle, and a heavy surge of water slops out. “Sorry,” he cries, straightening the bottle out. 

“It’s okay.” Your heel slides back to bump his knee. As far as encouraging gestures go, it can’t be very high on the list, but it’s the best you can do right now. The wound hurts like hell already, and flushing it is the easiest part. “Try again,” you say. 

He bolsters his wrist with his free hand, tipping the bottle at a snail’s pace, and watching the steady stream run down your back. You shiver as it soaks through your pants, then the thermals, and the underwear underneath. 

“Good?” he asks. 

You flash him a thumbs up, chin down, arms crossed over the tank of the toilet. The porcelain bears your entire weight now, your attention tied solely to your breath. 

Bob sighs as he drains the last bit of the bottle. “Okay.” 

“Get the Betadine… and pour some on a cotton pad.”

He works quietly behind you. Quiet, even by Bob standards. Or perhaps you’re fading in and out a little, it’s hard to tell. You blink hard. It feels like you’ve got sandbags for eyelashes. But if you pass out, Bob will probably have a panic attack and call an ambulance. You’ll end up neighbors in the hospital, and you’d prefer to just be neighbors in the tower. 

You can’t go to sleep. Not yet. You redirect your focus to your senses. There’s the click of caps and the familiar tear of sterile packaging. The chemical scent of disinfectant. 

Bob calls your name when you don’t answer his question. You didn’t even hear it. “Now what?” he repeats. 

“Wipe around the wound gently. Not in it.” 

Bob crouches behind you. His fingers land on your hip and quickly fly away. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

In any other circumstance, you’d tell him to touch you however he pleases. But all you can do now is shake your head dismissively. 

“You okay? Ready?” 

You stop nodding when it makes you dizzy. 

Bob presses the cold cotton to your skin. It stings so bad your back muscles visibly clench, but his hands are a nice consolation prize, much kinder than when you do it. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“‘S okay,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

He takes a breath. His hands continue in short strokes, apologies falling off his tongue like a reflex. But the pain levels out, his ministrations become more soothing than not. The pads of his fingers dance nicely down your back, his wrist a pleasant weight on your skin. 

“Okay, that’s good,” you huff. “Open up the needle packet.” You listen to him fumble with the plastic. It feels sort of like you’re about to get a tattoo the way you’re sitting. A very botched tattoo from a very unlicensed artist. 

Bob spends what feels like an hour trying to thread the needle before your anticipation boils over. “Let me try,” you finally say. 

His tongue slips back into his mouth as he passes the needle. You bring it eye level, the end of the thread pinched between your thumb and pointer, and the spool balanced on the top of the toilet. You're shaking just as badly as he was. 

Bob wrings out his hands. “I can–”

“No, I got it.” 

You do get it, eventually. You tie it off, and Bob gets all set with the supplies on the floor behind you. 

You might be nervous about his face being two inches from your ass if it weren’t for all of the anxiety coupled with the reason he’s there in the first place. Bob’s a good guy. He has morals, priorities. He’s probably not thinking about it like you are. 

“Start a quarter of an inch from the edge. You’ll press through the skin, but not too deep, just the skin. Go across and then back, like a shoelace. And you’re gonna wanna pull it tight, just not too tight, okay?” 

Bob tries to hum, but his voice dies in his throat. 

“You can do it,” you assure. You’re sort of hyping yourself up at this point, too. This felt like a much better idea when the adrenaline came from being stabbed– less so now that it’s coming from knowing you’re about to be stabbed again.

He exhales hot air through his nose, squaring the side of his hand against your spine. 

You swallow the sound that makes its way up your throat as the needle sinks in. The pain sizzles like a firework, hot and bright and overwhelming. Your eyes well, and you shudder helplessly. 

“Sorry,” he promises. The needle quivers, his fingers slipping as it punches through you once more. He loops the thread back down like a bridge made of fire, the burn coming and going in lapses. Your skin pulls angrily, the string taut in his hand. “Is that too tight?” 

“I dunno,” you groan, “I don’t think so.” 

He groans back. “Shit."

“What?”

He pulls his lip between his teeth. “It’s– you’re bleeding again.” 

“Dab it. Carefully.” He stretches up for the roll of gauze on the counter. “Is it a lot?” 

“Mmm...” He watches a lone line of crimson drip down your back, brow twitching. “No. I don’t think so.” 

Your fist contracts as he swipes at the blood. “Fuck.” 

“Sorry, I’m trying…” He takes the needle and hooks you again. 

You shake your head, squirming against the toilet tank. “Can you– mmm– can you keep talking– please.”  

He hums. “About what?” 

“Anything.”

He pauses to think, voice low as his hand resumes. “I went for a walk today.” 

“Yeah?” you whine. 

“Mhmm. Down to Bryant Park. Saw a cute dog, a Saint Bernard. Thought it was a bear at first,” he chuckles. “What was his name? It was cute, it was… oh, Einstein, yeah.” 

“Einstein?”

“Yeah, Einstein. He was nice. Let me pet ‘em and everything. Big dog.” 

You squeeze your eyes as he tugs the thread. It's a different kind of pain when someone else does it to you. Pain, nonetheless.

“Think Bucky would let me have one? Like, here?” he asks.

“A Saint Bernard?”

“Any kind.” 

“I dunno,” you squeal, “ask for forgiveness, not permission or whatever.”

You hear him smile. It brings half of one to your own lips. He’s good at doing that. 

“I think I’m done,” he says after a while. 

You pick your head up. “Did you knot it?” 

“No.”

“Tie it. Three or four times. Tight.” 

He spends triple the time you would doing it, and his knots are only about half as good as your own when you inspect them in the mirror. The stitches are looser than you’d like, and terribly uneven, but you’re pretty sure they’ll hold. And if you don’t crawl into bed soon, you might just pass out in the tub. 

Bob takes your elbow as you sway on your feet. His worry has waned, but it’s not entirely gone. He still thinks you’ll keel over any second, and realistically, you might. 

He takes the bandage off the counter and unsticks the backing. He’s so gentle, smoothing it over your skin like he’s just glued you back together. He kind of has. 

You pull him off the floor, though it’s more of an excuse to hold his hand. “Thanks. Sorry for making you do surgery in the middle of the night.” 

“Yeah, you know it’s like four AM,” he laughs. His head shakes, his smile softening. “Do you get stabbed, like, a lot?” 

“What? Think I can’t handle myself?”

His brows jump. “No, oh no, I just– I just meant that–”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m teasing you.” 

“Oh,” he breathes, a shaky smile returning. “Well, I’m– I’m glad you came and woke me up. You can again next time– even if you can do it, or if it’s not that bad. I want you to.” 

“Okay,” you nod, grinning up to your ears. “Doctor Bob has a nice ring to it.” 

“No,” he laughs, spinning your finger between his. “I just want to make sure you’re not bleeding out in the tub while I’m asleep.” 

You hum. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Walker spits from the doorway. His hair is spiked with sleep, eyes just as heavy with it. “Is that my towel?”

You tear your hand from Bob's to flip Walker off. “Fuck off, dude.” 

“I have to piss.” 

“There’s, like, five other bathrooms on this floor.” 

He tuts, “Whatever. Better bleach the hell out of this bathroom when you’re done playing Operation or whatever the hell you’re doing.” 

You roll your eyes at Bob as he leaves. “Such a dick.”

“I heard that!” 

“Good!” you shout back. 

You press the switchhook before it beeps. You’re turned and only two steps away when it rings back. “Hey,” you grin into the receiver. 

“Sorry, hi, I just– I think I've flooded Nell’s bathroom and–”

“You think?”

“Alright, fine, I definitely flooded Nell’s bathroom. Look, there was food in the oven, I told her to start the bath, and then— boom— suddenly it’s the goddamn Titanic in here. I’ve been stomping on towels for like ten minutes, and it’s not helping.”

You snicker down at your pajamas. “Do you want me to come over?” 

“No, no, I’ve got it. The house will probably just smell like wet dog for eternity.” 

“Better put it on the market now before it really sets in.” 

“Yeah, I–” Steve pulls the phone away to shout, “Penelope Anne! No, thank you!– I might have to call you back, she's–” There’s a thump and a crumbly static sound like the phone was dropped, and then– “I wanna talk! Hi, Y/N!” 

Hijacking the phone isn’t uncommon in the Harrington household. Steve would scold you for letting Penelope hear you laughing about it. But he’d be just as guilty, smiling through something like you’re supposed to be on my side, you know.

“Hi, Miss Penelope Anne.” You tug the phone’s rubber cord to your heart, your voice sticky with affection. “Are we being a good listener for Dad?”

She giggles. You’ve never used her full name– didn't even know it until two seconds ago– and you’re pretty sure it’s reserved for when she’s in trouble. “Yes!” 

“Are you sureee?”

“Yesss,” she promises. Steve’s voice is too muffled to make out in the background, but Penelope fills in the gaps, “I’m not lying, Dad!” 

Your hum drags suspiciously. “Did you help him clean the bathroom?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t even my mess.”

“Oh, well, it’s still nice to help, yeah?”

“Will you come to my game tomorrow?”

You are unfazed by her master deflection skills at this point. If Penelope is finished talking about something, she will make that clear. “I thought it was over the weekend, babe.”

“Oh– dad says it’s just pra-tiss.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Daddy! Tomorrow?” A long beat, Steve’s voice barely crackling through the speaker. “Yeah. He said you don’t have to go, but I think you should ‘cause it would be really fun if you did.” 

“Sounds super fun. What time tomorrow?” 

“Six? Yeah, six,” she confirms. 

“Okay, I’ll try to go. But only if you’re a super-duper good listener for the rest of the night. ‘M gonna call Dad later to check, ‘kay?” 

“‘Kay.” 

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now. Tell him I said I’ll call back. And go stomp on some more towels with him.” 

“Okay, bye-bye.”

“Bye, Pen. Goodnight.” 

You hang up the phone with aching cheeks. You’re still smiling as you set out tomorrow's clothes and even as you slip into bed. It’s always like this with them, this perpetual, overwhelming sense of joy. 

Work isn’t quite as boring when you have tee-ball to look forward to. But still, each passing hour feels like a hurdle between you and the best part of your day.

You arrive at practice a little late, more than a little worried that Steve will think you’re making his daughter empty promises. But he’s waving at you from the top of the bleachers with a huge grin, and all the worry disappears. 

“You made it,” he beams as you climb up past other parents. 

“‘Course,” his warm fingers slip across your pulse point as you take his hand. “You doubt me?” 

“A little. You are like twenty minutes late.” 

You sit, hip to hip, your smile aimed up at his. “There was a bad accident. Had all of Pine Ridge blocked off. Oh, and then I missed the turn and I couldn’t find the entrance. This place is like a maze, they should have more signs.”

He hums agreeably. The sun spills across his front like a can of gold paint was dropped on his lap. One eye’s clamped shut and the other’s narrowed, glinting like a shard of amber. “Nell wanted to get ice cream after this if you wanna go.” 

“You buying?” 

“Maybe. If  you’re nice to me.” 

“I’m always nice to you.” You swipe the sunglasses off your head and turn the arms toward his face. He lets you push them up his nose without complaint. You’re much gentler than when Penelope tries to do it. And they look as silly on him as you hoped they would, pulling a bubbly laugh from the bottom of your chest. “See? I’m nice. What number is she?”

His eyes roll behind the tinted lenses. “She’s four.”

You scan the field. There’s a ring of girls in teal at the pitcher's mound, tip-toed with their hands in the sky. Penelope stretches beside the coach in the cutest jersey, HARRINGTON stamped proudly across her back. “Why? ‘Cause she’s four?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She lucked out. I guess three other kids had the same logic. ” 

“Aww, look,” you elbow Steve, leaving your arm against his side where it’s warm. 

He feels you sit up straighter to wave at Penelope, who’s literally jumping for you now that you’re here. A few girls turn their heads to see what the big deal is, and you feel a little shy when the parent in front of you does the same. 

Steve would never tell Robin this, but she has officially been knocked to number two on Penelope’s list of favorite people. Penelope adores you more than anyone he’s ever met. She talks about you more than all of her classmates combined. And most of her crafts from school end up on your fridge instead of theirs. He even had to put the phone up where she couldn’t reach after she memorized your number and started harassing you after work.

The girls stretch and run laps around the field's perimeter before taking turns swinging foam balls off the tee. Penelope’s got a pink glove to match the cleats you helped them pick out. And her helmet’s already decked out in stickers from the Lisa Frank book you gave her. You forget how intertwined you’ve become in their lives until it’s so apparent you can’t even try to deny it. 

Baseball fields are quite noisy. Moms trade gossip with other moms, whining siblings are entertained by other even whinier siblings. There’s the consistent knock of a ball against a bat, cheering and chanting from an adjacent field, and the occasional “heads up” to listen out for. You and Steve watch the team, but you slip into the comfort of each other’s company, the outside world fading away as you trade stories. But then someone gasps, and it’s like the whole park stills, the silence hanging just long enough for an awful scream to break it. 

“Oh, shit. What happened?” 

“It’s one of the girls. She fell I think.”

“Is she okay? Whose kid is that?” 

You get up from your seat as Steve pushes past you. Your heart becomes a woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking you in the ribs like it wants out. And your eyes snap between Steve and the field in a desperate search for Penelope. 

Steve cuts through the dugout as the girls start to huddle around third base. It’s impossible to tell them apart when they’re all wearing the same shirt. But there’s number six, number thirteen, number two– fuck where is she? 

The crowd parts for Steve to get by, and then, finally, you see her. Poor Penelope’s curled up on her side in the clay. Something about it puts your brain on autopilot and your feet start moving on their own volition. 

It’s a blur how you end up on the other side of the fence but you’re there, kneeling in the dirt beside Steve with a big audience of onlookers. Penelope squeals out a pitiful little sound and it’s like an anchor drops right on your chest. 

“I’m here. I’m right here,” Steve’s promising her. His hands hover near her face. They’re shaking so hard he’s afraid to do anything with them. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” 

Penelope’s whole body trembles with the force of her breath, one gasp tripping over the next. Her face is scrunched bright red, leaking snot and tears like a faucet. And she’s trying so hard to speak but all she’s babbling out are broken sounds. 

Steve attempts to move her hand out of the way, but she screams at him loudly. 

“I know it hurts, I know– I have to see, baby.” 

You pin her ankles to the ground so she stops kicking him for one second. He quickly pries her fingers loose, his voice straining through apologies as she squirms. Her left arm lies limp across her tummy, swollen twice its size, a shade of plum blooming from her elbow out. It’s really an awful sight. 

You feel your arms prickle and your face goes cold. You want to turn away, but you can’t. 

Someone behind you says, “It’s really swollen.”

A smaller voice goes, “Will she be okay?” 

And a third, “Is she gonna die?” 

Your neck cracks with the speed at which you turn around. You glare daggers at the kid you’re pretty sure that came out of. Admittedly, not one of your proudest moments. 

“Here,” someone shoves a grocery bag full of ice into Steve’s hands, “ice it.” 

Steve molds it to her arm and her other hand grasps for something to squeeze. You scoop her fingers up from the dirt, letting her nails bite the meat of your palm. 

You miss whatever the coach says to Steve, but it doesn't appear to be good. Steve gears to stand up but falters with wobbly legs. There’s a great distance in his eyes like he’s seeing right through Penelope. 

You press up off your shins and squeeze his arm until he nods. 

You think her screaming can’t possibly get any worse, but it does the moment he lifts her off the ground. You’re trying really hard to turn your ears off, to trigger whatever dissociative state Steve has gone into, but nothing will stop the hurricane that is your heart. 

Steve speedwalks across the pitcher's mound. There are a few dozen sets of eyes on him, but he barely notices. His mind is running a mile a minute. All he keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t watching when it happened. 

What if she hit her head? Is she in shock? Should I be helping her in some other way? Which hospital is closest? And where the fuck did I park the car? 

You catch up to him and cover the back of his bicep with your hand. He glances at you and exhales a shaky breath he'd been keeping. He doesn’t smile like he usually would. But he’s more grateful for your presence than he can put into words right now.

You shove the chainlink gate open and easily spot the beamer, parked in the very first row of cars. Steve almost eats shit in the dip from pavement to gravel but he rights himself with the help of your hands. 

You try the backseat door handle and find it locked. “The keys?” 

He takes one hand off of Penelope and quickly returns it when she shrieks. And she nearly launches herself out of his arms when he tries to shift her to his hip. He looks at you miserably and says, “Front pocket.” 

You might’ve felt weird about reaching into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans in any other circumstance, but there was no time for hesitation here. You unlock the doors and start the car while Steve fights to get Penelope in her seat. 

“Nooo,” she yells, gripping the back of his shirt so hard the neckline chokes him. 

You turn in the driver's chair, finding Steve with his teeth gritted, knelt on the edge of the backseat, and Penelope holding onto him for dear life. Her back arches under his hand, her feet pushing the passenger seat forward a notch. She’s relentless. Steve pulls her back out of the car and swings to the other side. He climbs in behind you and slams the door hard. His eyes find yours in the rearview as he urges you to, “Just drive.” 

You wrench the gear shifter into reverse and reach behind the passenger seat so you can see. While you are focused on not running anyone over, it’s hard not to notice the battle going on in the backseat. Steve’s wedged up against the car seat, in the middle of the row, and Penelope's crushing his nose with her good hand. 

By the time you’re turning onto the main road, Steve has given up forcing her to sit in her own seat. It’s doing her arm more harm than good at this point. 

His head slumps hard into the headrest, his arms keeping her tight to his chest. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “You’re okay,” he promises, but the words do nothing to relieve her tears. 

Your fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently. The cars in front of you aren’t moving nearly fast enough, and you’re already pushing the speed limit. You check the rearview for the umpteenth time. “Almost there, Pen. Promise.” 

She warbles something too quiet for even Steve to make out. 

“What?” he asks her. 

“Don’t want my– my arm– ‘r gonna,” she gasps, “take my arm.” 

Steve blinks at her sorely until it clicks. “No, baby. No one’s taking your arm. They’re gonna help it feel better. No one’s gonna hurt you.” 

“It hurts,” she sobs. 

Steve wipes his eyes. “I know.” 

This is simultaneously the longest and shortest drive of your life. You park under the emergency room’s overhang behind an ambulance. Steve tests the child lock on his door until you can get out and open it. 

You’re rushing in behind them when an EMT stops you. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you can’t park here.” 

You’re ready to argue but Steve doesn’t give you the chance. “Just go park,” he barks, halfway through the automatic doors. 

The car’s parked in the first spot you see, and the jog back up to the building is achingly long. From the sidewalk, you can already hear Penelope wailing inside. And the sound only worsens as the entrance doors open. Steve’s not hard to find, shifting impatiently at the front desk. 

The receptionist slides a clipboard across the counter like he has room in his arms for paperwork. But you appear at his side as you always seem to, reaching for the pen and paper before he even has to ask. 

Steve hoists Penelope back up where she’s slipped and turns around without a word. He’s expressionless, near mechanical in his movements. You’ve seen him have bad days at work and you’ve seen Penelope scare the shit out of him a good handful of times, but you’ve never seen him like this. You follow him to a vacant pair of chairs, hugging the ream of paperwork to your chest as you sit. 

Penelope still doesn’t settle. Steve encourages her sweaty cheek off his chest and she looks up at him in this terrible way that splits your heart right in half. Her eyes are glossy, and so swollen, her lashes dampened into dark points. Her ponytails have loosened, frizz bunching up at each hair tie. And she looks like she needs an inhaler the way her chest keeps distending for air. 

Steve flattens a hand down the short breadth of her spine, the other wiping snot bubbles from her nose. “Penelope,” he pleads, “take a breath, baby. Take a breath.”

She sucks in air so hard she chokes on it. It’s scary from your position, you can’t imagine how Steve feels. 

“You’re okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.” 

“No,” she shakes her head and hiccups, “hurts.” 

“I know.” He brings her head to his lips, nostrils flaring against her bangs. He’s blinking like tears will fall any second. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.” 

You feel so bad. Anxious and useless most of all. You stop clicking the pen in your hand and flip through the intake forms on the clipboard. It's standard stuff– name, date of birth, allergies. You fill in what you know, which isn't much, but it keeps your brain occupied and saves Steve a few questions. 

Penelope’s crying subsides to a steady whine. The tears stop, but her back spasms with every handful of breaths. She’s gotten as comfortable as she can be in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his hand stapling her face to his bicep. 

“Pen,” you start softly. 

Shiny brown eyes flick up to yours. 

“Help me out here. Do you know your birthday? You remember?” 

She shakes her head as much as she can manage with her head laying like that. 

Steve frowns at her. Or maybe he’s just looking at her, and the frown’s a permanent new addition to his face. “Come on, you know it,” he whispers. “Tell me."

“Ju–une,” she shudders.

You wiggle your eyebrows excitedly. “June… first?”

“No.” 

“June second?” 

“No.” 

“June one hundred and sixty-fourth?”

Not even a millimeter of a smile. You might be poking the bear the way her brows twist at you angrily but you continue to tease her regardless. “Do I have to say every number in June?” 

She kneads her eye with a closed fist and grumbles, “Se–even.” 

“June seventh?” You look at Steve, and his eyes flick to yours. “Eighty-nine?”

He nods. Penelope looks severely unhappy with you, but at least she’s distracted. 

You run down the long list of questions together. You fill in his information for the emergency contact, then Robin’s as a secondary, and then Steve asks, “Can I add you?” 

“Add me?”

“As another contact.”

You blink at the page and then raise your eyebrows at Steve. The idea would’ve never crossed your mind.

“Only if you want to. It’s fine if not.” 

“No,” your brows sink and furrow, “I mean, yeah– I want to. I'd love to.” You grin, and he grins poorly back. 

A nurse calls Peneleope’s name from the other side of the room. You’re guided down to triage– less a room and more a section of the hallway, tucked behind a frosted glass partition and cramped with a cabinet full of supplies. 

Steve sits in the patient chair with Penelope on his lap. He explains what happened, and that no, she has no allergies, no nausea, no fever, just a very obviously broken arm. The nurse sticks a thermometer under her tongue anyway, cuffs her working arm with a blood pressure monitor, and counts the beats of her pulse. He fits her with a sling tinier than you’ve ever seen and administers cherry-flavored children’s Tylenol, which sparks a whole new well of tears because Penelope clearly stated she wanted strawberry. The nurse isn’t as apologetic as you think he should be, he just straps a bracelet to her wrist and you’re walked right back to the havoc that is the waiting room. 

And so you wait. When you’re not people-watching, you watch the clock because there’s nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five minutes pass. At an hour, you peel your legs off the vinyl chair to take a lap around the room. You skim a pamphlet about heart disease and a second about stress management. 

You present Penelope with a wrinkled Highlights magazine you found, and she’s not thrilled, but she’s calm at least. Stuffy and tired, but in much less pain than she was. Steve coaxed her down for a nap, but she insisted that it’s too loud. And between the constant sirens and people rushing in and out and the fluorescent lights, you can’t blame her, you wouldn’t be able to nap either. 

Steve’s sneaker is a riot under his chair. You cup his knee to stop it from bouncing, though it doesn’t do much. He places the front of his hand across the back of yours. It’s noticeably clammy but it could be drenched in sweat and you probably still wouldn’t move it.

You feel his fingers flex every time a nurse returns with a clipboard and a new name to call. But each time, all the anticipation deflates when it’s not Penelope’s. 

Another hour passes, and you’ve had enough when, for the second time in a row, someone who arrived after you gets called back first. You stand quickly and inform Steve, “I’m gonna ask how much longer.” 

He nods, gratefully, you think. 

The receptionist offers the same rehearsed answer they probably give everyone else– “The doctor will be with you as soon as they’re able.” 

You stare at her bland face. You know she has nothing to do with the number of patients here or the order in which the nurses decide to call people back, but it’s no less frustrating. 

“Soon,” is what you tell Steve when you return. 

He knows you well enough to tell that you don’t actually know how long it’ll be. But he pretends like you’ve told him the truth anyway. He finds it’s much easier to be optimistic when you’re around. 

You drop back in your seat, arms crossed, feet tapping away on the linoleum. Steve can’t sit still either. You’d think his hands would get tired, but they’re tenacious when it comes to back rubs. His hips shift, and Penelope whines. You chalk his squirming up to an anxiety similar to your own, but he’s starting to act like he sat on an ant hill or something. 

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head, eyes drilled on the floor. 

“You okay?” 

He funnels air slowly out of his mouth and nods. 

“Steve, what?”

“Just have to pee,” he mumbles, his hand kicking back into gear where it paused on Penelope’s shoulder. “‘S fine.” 

“Go,” you say. “I’ll sit with her.”

He looks from the floor to you, back down to Penelope. She’s comfortable, finally, and moving her is a risk he doesn’t want to take. But he really fucking has to pee. He nods at you, straightening out in his chair and pushing Penelope forward. 

She protests the movement with a great big groan. It’s like when she wakes up from a long nap, always so grumpy, but with the cutest little pout. Though this time, you’re foreseeing a meltdown, and you can’t imagine it’ll be cute at all. 

“I have to go potty. I need you to stay here,” Steve explains. 

Her face crumples instantly, her lip jutting as her eyes fill with fresh tears. She clings to Steve’s arm like a buoy, blubbering into his sleeve, “Go with you.”

“I can’t hold you in there, baby.” 

Her voice rises, earning a few turned heads. “But I want you to!” 

“Please, baby. I’ll be so quick, promise.” 

“Pen, let’s look at that magazine again,” you try. “I think I saw Tic-Tac-Toe somewhere.” 

Steve dumps her in your lap and books it. He feels terrible but he’ll feel much worse if he pisses himself in the ER lobby. He prays Penelope isn’t as rough with you as she is with him, but she’s still shouting for him by the time he reaches the bathrooms. Not a good sign at all. 

You press the back of your hands to her cheeks with the utmost care. They’re so warm and slick with tears falling too fast to chase away. She’s gone ballistic, bawling helplessly at you like you’ve done something truly terrible to her. And you sort of have. You urged Steve to go, that you could handle it, but a little part of you is starting to regret that. 

There are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, filling you to the brim with embarrassment. Generally, you think you’re pretty good at talking Penelope down from a tantrum. You make up silly songs and do weird little dances, but none of it is coming even close to working right now. She’s crying so loud you almost miss her name being called. 

“Penelope Harrington,” the voice says again. 

You lock eyes with the nurse across the room. Fuck. 

“Pen, hey, Penelope, listen,” you tip her face toward yours, “we have to get up, okay?” 

“I want Daddy.” 

“I know. He’s coming. He’ll be right back.” 

“No– we, we can’t–” her voice cracks into another heaving sob. 

“We won’t leave without him, we just have to get up.”

She continues to cry as you struggle to your feet. Penelope’s not what you’d consider heavy but her lack of cooperation is making her very difficult to carry. 

The nurse meets you halfway and confirms, “Penelope?”

“Yes, she’s– can we just wait one second, her dad’s still– he’ll be right back, he just ran to the restroom.” 

The nurse follows your gaze to the empty hall. Her mouth opens and closes like no is on the very tip of her tongue. 

“He’ll be just one second,” you plead.

Penelope must gather what’s going on and she’s not a fan at all. Her fit escalates even more, one hand cinching your collar, tugging your shirt so far down you fear you've just flashed the nurse. She nearly flails herself onto the floor, then headbutts your chin hard enough for your eyes to water. The reactionary tears worsen into real ones because you have absolutely no idea what to do. Steve steps away for all of two seconds, and you’re already screwing it up.

“Look,” the woman says in a way that makes the back of your throat burn even worse, “I’ll come back–” 

“No, wait, he’s–” You blink until the restroom sign unblurs and find that Steve’s actually there at the end of the hall this time.  “He’s right there, see– Steve!” 

Steve's jogging life his life depends on it. Nearly knocks someone over trying to pass them. And when he gets close enough to see your matching wet eyes his stomach kinks itself like a hose. 

Your arms are burning, nearly trembling by the time Steve takes her. Never in your life have you been so grateful to give up your Penelope. 

But Steve is just so good at being a dad. He calms her with practiced ease, cradling her like she’s no bigger than she was the day she was born. The walk to her room gives her a chance to catch her breath and for you to wipe your eyes. Steve asks if you’re okay and if you’re sure when you swear that you are. He’s a great dad but an even greater friend. 

Steve situates himself on the edge of the hospital bed with Penelope balanced on his thighs while you stand restless near the foot. You can’t shake the goosebumps from your skin, and your headache thrums like a second heartbeat behind your eyes.

“Alrighty, Miss Penelope,” the nurse reads sternly off her clipboard, “can you tell me what happened?” 

Steve reiterates the play-by-play. They discuss her pain levels, medical history, changes in symptoms– it’s deja vu. The woman is as curt as just about everyone else in this place, jotting his answers down like she already knows them. And she’s halfway out the door before you or Steve even have a chance to ask any questions. 

Steve shakes his head at you. How he’s not snapped at anyone by now, you have no idea. But you think his last nerve is starting to fray, and yet, his voice still softens when he tells you to, “Sit.” 

There’s only one chair in the room, the same peeling vinyl type from the waiting room. You steer it over to the side of the bed and sit. 

Penelope mumbles into Steve’s chest, her words buried in the fabric of his shirt. 

Steve’s gaze falls to her. “What, baby?” 

“‘M hungry.” 

“You’re hungry?”

She hiccups, nodding with the tiniest sweep of her chin. 

“Want me to go stick my hand up the vending machine?” 

No, her head shakes. “Stay.” 

You’re already standing when Steve looks at you. He digs around in his jeans for his wallet, but the second you see it, you wave him off.

“I got it,” you press.

He opens it one-handed across his thigh, but you flip it closed.

“Watcha want, Pen?” 

You think she shrugs, but your eyes are sewn to Steve’s. He fights the worn leather back open and pulls a crisp twenty out. “Please?” 

The magic words don’t work on you at his big age. Not for this at least. You tear the wallet from his hand and slide the bill back inside. 

If Steve didn’t have Penelope in his lap and his brain didn’t feel like it had been diced up on a hibachi grill, he’d put up a much better fight.

You swing the door open with an, “I’ll be back!” 

Steve frowns at your gloating smile, but his lips catch something similar the second you’re through the door. 

You’re thrilled to have something to do. Watching Penelope be miserable is at the very bottom of your list of least favorite pastimes. Your chest squeezes as you remember her poor little face. You’ll never forget that first scream at the field. Or how when she fell, she just laid there. You’d thought so many awful things might’ve happened. 

The gift shop is hard to miss with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. And right there on a shelf in one of them is a teddy bear with its arm in a sling. Jackpot. 

The door jingles as it opens and an employee greets you from across the room. You browse the get-well cards and bouquets of balloons, but nothing is as good as a new teddy when you’re a kid. You take it to the counter quickly. You’ve been sent out on a very important mission and you’d guess Penelope’s mood is souring with every grumble of her empty stomach.

The first vending machine you find is fully stocked– snacks, candy, soda– a hangry little girl’s dream. You have a pretty good idea of what she likes at this point, but a much safer way to ensure you get the right is to just buy all of it. Maybe not all of it, but you do feed a twenty in the mouth of the machine and buy as much as you can. Pack after pack of candy drops into the well and a few healthier options in the rare chance that Steve vetoes. You shove them all in the gift shop bag and hustle back to the room. 

The snacks are dumped across the foot of Penelope’s hospital bed, much to Steve’s horror and Penelope’s great surprise. It’s like Christmas the way her eyes light up.

“Wow,” Steve says. “Bought the whole machine out, huh? Whadya say?” 

“Thanks,” Penelope sniffles. Her lovely voice is so congested from all the crying. 

“You’re very welcome. Which one you want?” 

“M’s.” 

“Yeah, M’s,” you laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say. 

Your eyes flick to Steve’s as you lift the pack of M&Ms. He nods as you tear them open. 

You hold out your hand to ask for Penelope’s, but she opens her mouth instead. 

“What! You need me to feed you?” you play along. 

She stifles a giggle, her open mouth twitching to smile. 

“Last I checked, you still have one working arm.” 

“No, feed me,” she implores. 

Steve squeezes her thigh. “Come on, you’re a big girl.” 

Penelope shakes her head, still tilted up at the ceiling. 

“Alright, alright, here’s one. You can do the rest, silly girl.” You drop an M&M on her tongue and let Steve steal the bag from you. 

“Yummy?” you ask. 

She nods and pops another few in her mouth. 

Your eyes return to Steve’s. “For you? There’s a Snickers and a Hershey’s and…”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair back before it falls over his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths. 

Your lashes mesh together when you smile at him, but your eyes pop back open as fast as they closed. “Oh– Pen, guess what?” 

She blinks at you with a mouthful, chocolate already painting the underside of her chin. 

“I gotcha something else.”

Her eyes go impossibly wider, and they have a much happier sheen to them. “What?” 

She springs up with a newfound energy as you unveil the teddy bear. You press it into her lap and her fingers curl around its tiny ear to keep it upright.

“Like it?”

“Yeah,” she coos, “can I keep it?”

“Of course, it’s for you.”

“We match.”

“Yeah, isn’t that cool?” 

She beams, her hand roving all across its fur, her smile blooming full force. 

Sometimes, it feels like all the love you could ever need is right here— woven into every grin, every word, every look Penelope gifts you. Her smile truly is like a weight off your shoulders. 

The intensity of Steve’s gaze pulls your eyes away from Penelope. He’s looking at you with enough warmth to set your face on fire. And if he’s not careful he really might have to call the fire department. Or maybe just a nurse in case your heart gives out. You turn away, but your smile is no secret. 

You end up with a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. They get blown up with air and each a set of eyes with a pen you found, and now Penelope’s got two turkeys to play with. You’re so creative, Steve really doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He’s done this whole parent gig by himself for the majority of Penelope’s life, but he’s starting to rely on you like you're the other half of her. Had you not already been at practice, he’s sure he would’ve called you from the hospital. 

It’s during difficult times like these that Steve yearns for validation of his parenting choices from his own mom and dad. He knows they’re no example setters and he has far better people to seek that from, but it’s an urge he can’t put away sometimes. But then there’s you, laughing and making his daughter laugh even harder, and he realizes he just doesn’t need it anymore. He knows he must be doing something right when you’re around. 

Penelope gets another snack, and Steve gets his very own balloon turkey. You cycle between lots of games as you wait. You think Charades might be Penelope’s new favorite after you end up in a pretzel on the floor trying to get her to guess that you’re an octopus. Steve gets a kick out of it too, though you are adding it to your book of embarrassing things you did to make Penelope laugh. 

Thankfully, you’ve finished making a fool of yourself when the doctor knocks. She’s got a pep in her step and a wide, pearly smile. If only this type of attitude were more universal among the hospital staff. 

“Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Dr. Ruthman, I’ll be your–” A hand clamps across her gaping mouth. “Woah! Wait a second,” her eyes flick between her clipboard and Penelope, she flips a page theatrically, “they didn’t tell me I’m taking care of the Penelope Harrington today.

A Cheez-It slides out of Penelope’s hand onto the floor. Her blank stare is comical and says I’ve never met this woman in my life. 

Steve appears to be similarly confused– his brain really is fried– but you catch on quickly. “Pen, you famous around here or something?” 

Dr. Ruthamn scoffs. “Are you kidding me! Only the coolest, bravest athletes get to see me.” She shoves her hand out in front of Penelope. “It’s an honor.” 

Penelope has next to no clue what is happening, but she giggles because it seems like it’s something silly. She takes Dr. Ruthman’s hand and shakes it gently. 

“You’ll let me get your autograph, later, won’t you?” 

Penelope smiles funny, her voice lilting up an octave. “I guess?”

“You must be a busy woman.” Dr. Ruthman sticks her hands in the sink and flips the faucet handle. “What number are you again?”

Penelope’s gaze falls to her aching arm, snug in the sling. You can just see the gears turning as she realizes her counting hand is out of commission. Her other hand raises slowly, and four fingers unfurl stiffly. She double-checks that she’s got the right amount up before saying it out loud. 

“Four! No way! You know, I used to play basketball when I was in school, and you’ll never guess what number I was.” 

Penelope tips her head. “Four?” 

Dr. Ruthman gawks as she crouches in front of Penelope. “Ugh, you are just the smartest little smartie-pants, huh? How’d you know that? ”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I just did.” 

“You just did,” the doctor laughs, “Well, don’t you worry, I’m gonna get this arm back in swinging shape. Get’cha back on the field in no time.” 

Her freshly gloved hands run gingerly down Penelope’s arm, two fingers poking and prodding the inflated muscle. Steve cradles Penelope’s knee to keep her still, his other hand working lots of love into her shoulder. 

“Score any home runs today?” the doctor asks. 

Penelope’s mouth opens and snaps shut. How can she possibly focus on the conversation when this woman is kneading her arm like a cat? 

“Being so brave, honey. Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Yeah, good. Your thumb?” 

You wince as Penelope does. Fresh tears start in her waterline and she writhes uncomfortably back into Steve’s chest. 

“Good!” Dr. Ruthman beams genuinely. She pokes Penelope’s palm with her fingertip. “Can you turn this side to the floor? Perfect, now to the ceiling?” 

Penelope’s lip quivers as she tries. She can’t even get it halfway before her hand starts to bobble. 

“That’s okay. Doing so good.” 

“So good,” Steve echoes. He thumbs a little tear off her cheek.

Dr. Ruthman sheds her gloves and looks from Steve to you as she stands. “Your girl’s a trooper. I’ll go ahead and order an X-ray. A tech should be by to pick her up soon.” Her focus returns eagerly to Penelope. “And I’m coming back for that autograph, number four.” 

Penelope doesn’t cry like you expect she will. She really is a trooper. Steve tells her so several more times and promises they’ll get two ice cream cones since she’s been so brave. 

There’s not much to entertain yourself with, let alone a four-year-old. Steve keeps Penelope busy with Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a diabetes brochure, then I Spy when she gets bored. But unfortunately, the majority of the room is white so that doesn’t last very long either. 

Meanwhile, you flip over the only magazine on the side table and skim the all-caps headline about sex health. There’s no shot Steve can read it without his glasses from where he’s sitting, but still, you feel self-conscious for not putting it down. You’re both adults, and you’re close friends, yeah, but you don’t exactly discuss your sex lives with each other. The thought of Steve having partners you aren’t aware of crosses your mind. He’s entitled to his secrets, you suppose. And it's probably best for your own sake that he doesn’t tell you anyway.  

You read an article praising abstinence for being the safest sex practice but feel weirdly worse about your own case. When Steve asks what you’re reading about, you lie, foot fungus. He takes you for a comedian and doesn’t press for details. 

The x-ray technician pops in sooner than you expect. He escorts you three turns down the hall to a room packed with lots of expensive-looking machines. A wall divides it into two, the first section smaller with a long counter and enough computer monitors to track a space launch. 

The tech stops you from following him and Steve into the second half. “Only one of you can come with her in the examination area,” he says as he jams a stopper under the door. 

You nod and hang back in the doorway. Penelope whines about how dark the room is, and Steve tries, but she still refuses to be put down. The tech fits them both in heavy-looking aprons and wheels a table up to the chair they’re sharing. 

Penelope peeks up at you with a deep frown that screams get me out of here! Her brows twist together like she’s trying very hard to telepathically forward her escape plan to your brain. It tears you apart, but the best you can do for her is two big you got this thumbs-up. 

The technician removes the sling, taking Penelope’s arm and gently pushing it in a way it just does not want to go. The tears are immediate, like silver streamers unraveling down her cheeks, shimmering under the machine's lights. Steve watches the tech helplessly as he straightens out Penelope’s arm. 

You backtrack out of the doorway, and the tech kicks the stopper out on his way in. The door slams, and Penelope’s hysterics muffle, though you can still see her struggling through the thick pane of glass. 

The tech types and clicks away at the desk. You know there’s no use in rushing him, but the urge is there. It’s any other day for him, but probably the worst of Penelope’s whole life. 

Eventually, he clicks his tongue, stands, and marches back through the door. He repositions Penelope’s arm– not without protest– and circles back to the desk. It’s a terribly long and painful deal of rinse and repeat. And Penelope doesn’t give poor Steve’s ears a break. 

You count eight photos on the monitor by the end, all from different angles and proximity. You’re no doctor, but there’s a distinct line through the white of her bone in nearly all of them. 

The tech pins the door back open and flicks the examination room lights on. 

“All done,” Steve shushes into Penelope’s hair. “That’s it, no more. You’re all done.” 

His knuckles have turned white where she’s squeezing them. Her whole body turns towards his, and she collapses with a big, open-mouthed sob. 

The tech fixes her sling back on while you lean over Steve’s shoulder, your hand rooted gently on his spine. “You did so good, Pen. Always so brave.”

“So so brave,” Steve affirms. “‘M so proud. Think about that ice cream we’re gonna get.” 

She couldn’t be less interested in praise or even ice cream at the moment. Steve tugs the apron up her back, you help thread her arms through the holes and pass it to the tech. Steve struggles to slip his off one-handed, so you guide one weighty end of it over his head, your fingertips skimming the fluffy ends of his hair. 

With Penelope still glued to his front, the four of you trek back to her room. She cries the entire way but panicked tears ebb into sleepier ones. You realize how many hours past her bedtime it is. 

“The doctor will be in with the results soon,” the technician explains on his way out. 

Steve resumes his position on the hospital bed, scooting back to the headboard and crossing his legs over the sheets. Penelope slumps down in his arms, boneless with the heavy weight of defeat. Her hiccups peter out under Steve’s hand, her breaths turning thick and congested with sleep.

“Coffee?” you ask, not because you want any, but solely because you’re anxiety swells again and you'd love something to do. 

Steve looks up with heavy-set eyes. He feels terrible, suddenly, looking at your own. “You don’t have to stay. I can– I’ll call you a cab.” 

You hadn’t considered that to even be an option, and honestly, you still don’t. “I want to stay.” 

He sighs but he decides he won’t fight you further because he really, really wants you to stay too. 

“Large coffee, three cups of sugar?”

He cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “I’m not that insane,” he defends, carefully maneuvering his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans. 

You take it without argument this time. He might throw it at you if you avoid it any longer. And you’re not made of money either, the gesture is always appreciated. 

The cafeteria is closed, which, maybe you should’ve guessed. But you do some exploring and eventually find a pot of coffee in some sort of lounge you aren’t totally sure if you’re allowed to be in. It’s for a good cause, you tell yourself as you steal a styrofoam cup. The coffee is lukewarm at best and questionable in color, but Steve takes enough sugar in his you expect he won’t know the difference. 

There’s a pen lying there and a pail of extra sugar packets. You draw a smiley face on one and stick it inside the flap of his wallet for him to find later. And while it’s open, you can’t help but snoop. Cash and cards with his full name, a thick stack of pictures of Penelope, and a folded photo booth print of the three of you, your face plain as pavement in the clear pocket on the side. 

You keep the other half tucked in the sun visor of your car but it hadn’t occurred to you that Steve would treasure his copy just the same. Your heart tumbles, your thumb roving across the plastic divider. You’ve held your version long enough to sear those images into your brain forever. But these two you haven't seen since the day they were taken. You look at them for a long while before heading back. 

When you return, Penelope’s still snoozing, and Steve’s mid-conversation with her doctor. 

She pivots when his eyes veer to yours. “Oh, Mom, you’re back! Perfect timing!” 

Mentally, the caffeine heist is still underway. Her words don’t process until she’s well into her next sentence. She talks so damn fast that Steve didn’t have much of an opportunity to correct her either. Though maybe he wouldn’t have. He looked at you after she said it, oddly calm for something that cranked your pulse up a few notches. 

The doctor clasps her hands together. “Okay, so, do we want the good news or the bad news first?” 

Steve winces. “Bad?”

“Tee-ball is off limits for a couple months, give or take. But good news, it’s a clean break, should heal good as new in no time.” 

As far as bad news goes, he was expecting a lot worse, but this will still devastate Penelope when he has to tell her. She hadn’t even made it through a week of practice, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t getting her registration fees back. 

Dr. Ruthman explains lots of medical mumbo jumbo as you hand Steve his coffee. She leaves and you end up back in your chair, sleepy enough to think that maybe you should’ve gotten something with caffeine too. Your back aches against the sturdy armrest but you’re trying to pretend it’s a lot more comfortable than it is. You must not be doing a very good job, though, because Steve shuffles to one side of the hospital bed and pats the sheets. 

Your gaze floats up to him. “I’m okay.”  

“You look tired.”

You are tired, but you hoped it wasn’t that obvious. 

Steve pats the sheets again when you don’t answer. 

You push yourself onto your feet and trip over to the empty half of the bed. There’s an obvious lack of space between your bodies– this bed was clearly not built for two adults– but neither of you minds. It’s not the first time you’ve sat like this, and you’d bet it won’t be the last. 

Like Penelope’s Barbies, you both sit upright with legs straight out across the sheets. Both of your guys’ knees are smudged brown with clay. You wonder if it’ll come out of your work pants and Steve’s nice jeans. Yours aren’t anything expensive, you can always buy more if it doesn’t. 

You let the side of your shoe tip into his, just to see how they look beside each other. His sneakers are well-loved with lots of creases and a hole or two, not so far off from your own pair. You zone out pretty quickly thinking about shoes. Your eyes start to burn, but you refuse to let the exhaustion catch up. 

“I stepped on your foot earlier.”

You blink the weight off of your lashes and turn your face toward Steve’s. “What?”

“I stepped on your foot. On the bleachers, when I was getting off. I just remembered.” 

“When?”

“When she fell.”

“You did?” You struggle to talk through a big yawn. “I don’t– I don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know, I just… felt bad.” 

You sigh deeply and let your ear drop to his shoulder. There’s a gentle curve to your lips, a happiness bubbling inside and out. “Better call the nurse back so I can get it x-rayed.” 

He huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.” 

“Don’t be sorry, then.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. Steve’s a good pillow, though maybe that’s the delirium setting in. 

He takes your hand to the tiny sliver of his thigh that Penelope isn’t using. His fingers bunch yours up, then unfurl them one by one. You’ve seen him fidget with Penelope’s hands countless times, though this is the first time the nervous habit’s been extended to you.  

A little nap won’t be the end of the world, you decide. 

You wake to voices, Steve’s and a less familiar one. You gather from the short conversation and Steve’s sudden sitting up that she must be the casting technician. 

Steve slides off the bed onto his feet. Penelope’s still passed out on his chest, her open mouth coating his sleeve in drool. He hears you elbowing up off the sheets. 

“You can stay. It won’t take long,” he says quietly. 

You swipe the crust out of your eyes and shake your legs awake on the floor. “Mm-mm. I’ll go.” 

You follow him and the casting tech to a room so small you could’ve mistaken it for a storage closet. 

Penelope’s still in Steve’s arms when she rouses, but she’s in an entirely new room. There’s someone she doesn’t remember meeting, a girl with a boy’s haircut, wearing the same boxy clothes that everyone who works there has. 

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Steve rubs her thigh, “gotta pick a color for your cast.”

Penelope scrunches her eyes real tight at Steve. It is not time to wake up. 

The casting tech clears her throat, “We have pink, purple, red, blue, black…”

Steve sits Penelope upright on his lap as her head lolls to his shoulder. “Baby, look, see these pretty colors?” 

“Pink,” she groans into his shirt, her lashes fanned across her cheeks. 

“Pink?” the tech calls. 

Steve nods and the woman begins to prep on the countertop. You stand beside the bed Steve’s perched on, your head heavy as a dumbbell. 

“Don’t fall over," Steve says.

You grab his shoulder for balance. “‘M not.” 

The technician rolls a side table up to Steve and pops the brake. She has him scoot forward and maneuver Penelope’s broken arm flat. His stomach knots itself in a guilty pretzel when her eyes open full of tears. Casts are all the rage when you’re that young, but they’re not so fun to put on and take off. 

She’s so spent she barely puts up a fight. Steve holds her good hand more for his sake, sprinkling sorry kisses all across her head as the tech works.

Penelope’s arm is wiped, padded, and all plastered up in no time. The amount of minutes it takes to harden is the same amount it takes Penelope to calm back down. She’s awake, but zombie-like; moaning and groaning like she might really bite someone’s head off. 

Back in her hospital room, she tests the weight of her cast, complains that it’s so itchy and too heavy. But the mention of signatures adds a little shot of excitement to her cup. You track down a Sharpie and are begged to sign it first. After, she insists you must draw Cinderella too. And now you're no artist, but you try your absolute best.

“I’m the only boy who’s gonna sign this, right?” Steve asks as he colors in a heart by DAD. 

Penelope nods with her lip between her teeth so she doesn’t laugh. Every boy on the block is about to sign it, that’s for damn sure. 

A nurse steps in with discharge paperwork and a speech about cast care and referrals and payment plans and it all goes in one ear and out the other. But finally, Penelope is free to go. 

It takes ten minutes of wandering the parking lot to find the car because you’ve completely forgotten where you left it. Penelope treats it like a game of hide and seek and Steve genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, though he does tease you about your awful parking job when he sees it. You’re just glad it’s in an actual spot and not halfway to some impound lot. 

Penelope fusses as Steve eases her into her car seat. He threads her casted arm carefully through the seatbelt strap, her new bear crushed to her chest with the other. She looks more asleep than awake the way she’s blinking at him. 

It’s late enough to wonder if he’ll keep her home from school tomorrow. Or if maybe he’ll stay home from work himself. You could call off too, make a special day out of it. 

Steve adjusts the rearview so he has a slice of Penelope when he checks it. She’s an absolute goner before the car’s even left the parking lot, her head swaying like a ragdoll with every turn. 

The drive back to the field is peaceful. The hum of the engine pushes you dangerously close to a second nap. And Steve patting your thigh certainly doesn’t help. 

When he parks you’re crestfallen with the realization that the night is coming to a close. It’s been the most stressful part of your week and yet undeniably your favorite. You hang out in the heat of the car while Steve goes to search for Penelope’s missing cleat. He searched all up under the car seats for it, but you’re almost positive she kicked it off on the field. 

You watch Steve retrace his steps up to the dugout. Your mind, for whatever reason, jumps to earlier, smushed in that little twin bed, using his arm like a pillow. He was so gentle with your hands. He always is. And you were close enough to kiss him as you have been so many times in the last couple of months. You’ve had every opportunity to do it, but so has he. If it’s something he wanted to do, surely he would’ve done it by now. But it is nice to consider that maybe one of these days your delusions won’t be so delusional.

The passenger door clicks, and a swell of cold air hits your side. You’re stunned for a split second before Steve’s face slides into view. His eyes swing from Penelope’s over to yours. “Ready?” 

His fingers are icicles, slipping between yours to pull you up. You stand toe to toe, more than happy to encroach on his body heat in the residual spring chill. There’s a streetlamp behind him, his face is shadowed but still clear, his head fringed in white like a halo. 

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he says, “but I did find your sunglasses.” 

“Oh,” you pat the top of your head, “I didn’t even realize.”

He cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt before folding them into your hand. “Sorry, I must’ve dropped ‘em.” 

You shake your head. He could have snapped them in two and you still wouldn’t care. “Her cleat– one of the moms? Or her coach, maybe?” 

“Yeah, probably. Her bag’s gone too.” 

You hum. Your chest aches fiercely with the gauntlet of emotions you’ve bounced between all night. You aren’t sure what to say apart from, “Sorry.” 

He wrinkles his nose, a laugh of disbelief shaking his shoulders. “Why on earth are you sorry?” 

You squeeze your hands together, grasping for the right words. You're running on empty, though, and your thoughts just feel so heavy right now. “Today… it was all just so scary,” your voice goes paper-thin. “I just can’t imagine.” 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s quiet for a while, staring at you like you’ve said the wrong thing. And maybe you have, it’s so late you can’t tell up from down anymore. But his face screws itself tighter, he looks away and then quickly back with even more severity. And then his arms are pulling you roughly against his chest, squeezing you gently. “God, Y/N. I should be the sorry one, you– she’s not even your fucking kid and you– you don’t need to be sorry.” 

“No,” you push off his chest until you can see his face again. He’s frowned enough times today to last him a lifetime. “I am. I care so much about her and it was all so awful. I just can’t even imagine how you must’ve felt.” 

Steve’s eyes sting like fire ants have made a nest in his waterline. He’s using every last drop of energy he has not to break in half right now. The last thing he wants is for you to feel even more sorry for him.  

He puts you back where you won’t see if he does cry, a big hand holding the side of your head to his chest. Your arms loop around his waist, hands latching onto his shirt like he’ll turn to dust and blow away. 

“I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight without you,” he murmurs. 

“You would’ve figured it out. Always have.” 

“No, I–” he exhales hot air down the back of your neck, his chin anchored to the slope of your shoulder. “Honestly, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” he admits. 

“Yeah, it was scary. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream like that.” 

“I’m gonna have nightmares, I think.” 

He says it like a joke, but neither of you laughs. It feels too true to be funny. 

“I thought it would get easier as she got older… but I– I still have no idea what I’m doing.” 

Your lashes tickle his collar every time you blink. And your hand crawls up and over his shoulder, but a light squeeze does nothing for all the tension packed in there.  “I don’t think anyone does, Steve,” you say. 

A sigh whistles through his nose. 

“But I do know you’re doing a good job. A really good job.” Your sincerity colors every bit of your tone with warmth. “I think it all the time.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m astronomically fucking this whole raising a decent human thing up?” 

“Now I know you’re just fishing for compliments,” you pull back to flick his chest. The bud of a small smile appears on his face. “You know what I think.” 

He catches your wrist before it drops, bringing his other hand up to heat yours in both of his. “You know, I know she’s not yours, but I’m really grateful that she has you in her life.”

“I’m just–” 

“You’re here,” he cuts you off. “You’re not her mom, but I mean, you’re here. You’re always here for her– and for me.” 

“Steve.”

“It’s so fucking selfish of me, but God, I just wish sometimes you were her mom, like her actual mom, even if we weren’t–” he looks away, his eyes somewhere else before he turns back, “she’s just so fucking lucky to have you is all.” 

You swallow the giant rock in your throat. You hope he’s squeezing your hand tight enough not to notice how it’s shaking. “I wouldn't be as good at it as you think. You’d get sick of me.” 

“Are you kidding? You’d make a great mom.” 

You turn your face away. “Don’t play with me, Steve.”

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. He speaks with such conviction it’s hard not to. But after tonight, you do know that parenthood scares the hell out of you, so much more than it already had. 

And every moment with Steve leaves your heart more exposed like it’s blistering itself raw under the weight of all these hidden feelings. You can’t kid yourself, you love Steve, maybe more than anyone you’ve ever loved in your life. And for a while, it seemed like hiding it was the best option, hoping it’d just go away seemed like it would work. But you’re still here, being tortured by every little stupidly kind thing that comes out of his mouth. 

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline, but suddenly this moment feels like your opportunity. You’re both being vulnerable, clinging to each other like you’re years past friendship. You know Steve. He’s considerate and patient and empathetic, he would never end things completely over this. 

Your lips part, then smush back together. It’s like you’ve swallowed a pint of glue, the words stuck swirling in the pit of your aching tummy. 

“I–” You clear your throat, “I think… I’ve been, um–” Your eyes close so hard you see colors. You laugh strangely, much more of a breath than sound, shaking your head, then his hands off of yours. “It’s freezing out. I’m– I’m gonna go.”

He nods fiercely. 

You don’t allow yourself to look at him, spinning on your heels before the words have left your mouth. “Night, Steve.” 

“Goodnight,” he tells the back of your head. 

The wind doesn’t help your stinging eyes. But you don’t wipe the wetness away until you reach your car on the other side of the parking lot. Inside you take a big desperate breath. You feel like you’ll be sick all over the steering wheel. 

He probably thinks you're such an idiot stumbling over yourself and then just leaving like that. The whole thing was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive, not at all how you’ve dreamt about doing it. You couldn’t even do it. You should have just saved yourself the embarrassment and kept it to yourself like you have been. 

You take your half of the photo booth pictures from the sun visor, your finger sliding across the torn ridge gently. You and Steve are friends! He’s said so himself dozens of times. And tonight, while it was absolutely awful in just about every way, it’s still a memory you’ll cherish because of Steve. You are so afraid to lose that. 

Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the way things are he goes and does something that sends you right back to square one.  Half of you is endlessly grateful for what you and Steve have. But the other half mourns the idea that this is all you’ll ever be. 

On Saturday, you arrive at the softball field early this time, nerves chipping at the soft smile on your face. Things with Steve have been… off since the last time you were here. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make your stomach turn when the beamer pulls in beside you. Though he’s grinning at you through the window like you’re a pile of gold, you decide that maybe you’ve just been overthinking things. 

Steve rolls Penelope’s window down with his. She’s loads happier than when you last saw her, sticking both hands out of the car to wave at you. 

You're beaming instantly, stupidly so, as you turn your car off and step out. It’s relieving to see her smile again. 

“Oh my goodness, look at you! Look at these fancy bows!” you fawn, pulling her door open for a full view of her uniform. She’s got knee-high socks over her pants, two big bows securing her braids, and streaks of sparkly face paint on her cheeks. “Are you so excited?” 

“I have pom-poms!” She nearly smacks herself with the speed she brings them up to show you. “I’m just cheering today.” 

“Did you practice your chants?”

She nods, still smiling but chin pointed down with an atypical bashfulness. 

“Saving them for the game?” you nod back agreeably. Your eyes flick over to Steve’s, where he’s elbowed into the center console to watch. He’s observing with that familiar softness, but there’s something else attached to that look. Tension, maybe, whether a good or a bad kind, is yet to be determined. 

You help Penelope with her seatbelt. With two hands, unbuckling is a breeze for this smarty-pants. But a bulky cast over one of them makes it quite a bit more challenging for her little fingers. 

“You’ve got so many new signatures I see,” you point as she springs out of her seat. 

“My whole entire class signed it! There was barely even room!” 

“Wow,” you squint at her wrist, “someone even squeezed a smiley face in there!” 

“Yeah, that was Shell. She's like my bestest friend in the world.” 

“Oh, Shelly with the short hair?” 

“No,” she squawks like you’re crazy to have even thought so, “It’s Michelle. Sometimes I call her Shell ‘cause it’s for short.” 

“Ohh,” you chuckle, a tight hold on her arm as she jumps out onto the gravel. “Michelle, of course.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Silly me.” 

Steve laughs from the back end of the car where he unloads all her gear from the trunk. He helps her arms through the hefty straps on her bag. It’s heavy with a bat, helmet, and glove she won’t need today, but she insisted on bringing, just in case someone forgets theirs.

For the next six weeks, Penelope is the team’s very own part-time cheerleader and part-time dugouts assistant. This was abysmal news at first, she cried for an hour when Steve broke the news. It’s more than half of the season she won’t get to play. But you’ve spun it like it’s a real special job– and it is. You don’t know anyone who can cheer you up faster than Pen can. 

The three of you trek up to the field. Steve’s got a cooler full of juice boxes and a grocery bag of snacks for Penelope to hand out. You’ve teased him about being the team's best mom before, but this couldn’t be more on the nose. Still, it almost makes you want to cry, Penelope gets every drop of her generosity from him. 

Several families convene around the stands, sending their girls into the dugout with good luck. Penelope greets a couple of her friends, both of whom gawk at her cast and argue over who will get to sign it first. 

Steve reels her back over for a quick hug and a round of super embarrassing dad kisses. “My little superstar,” he calls her. “Gonna hear you chanting in the next field over, yeah?” 

She agrees and smacks his hand with her good one. 

You hold out your own with a, “Good luck, Pen!  

She whams down on your palm so hard it burns, but you’re both beaming despite it, high off the excitement of the very first game of the season. Penelope is towed away by a gaggle of girls dying to ask all sorts of questions about her arm. Steve drops the cooler off in the dugout and meets you in the bleachers. 

“Hello,” he says as he sits. "Fancy meeting you here." His eyes flit around every inch of your face, his smile beginning to mirror yours.

“Yeah, funny, I was hoping to see you."  

“You got all dressed up for this.” You're in a plain tee and jeans, but the shirt is technically new.

“Teal’s a hard color to find. Three different stores it took me.” 

There’s a pause, neither of you looks away, no one says a thing. 

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says. He’s so serious about it as if he doesn’t possibly thank you enough. 

You bump your elbow to his and turn towards the game.

“You’ve got to be up early,” he says. 

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Best get some sleep then.”

“I’ve tried. My thoughts won’t quiet.” 

“I’ll have something brought up. Tea or—”

“No, wait—“ You jerk the door open wider. “Will you just… sit with me. It’ll help.” 

He blinks at you achingly. He’d love nothing more than to rub your back, your head a warm weight on his thigh as you drift off. And that’s what you want, what you’re really asking him. You’re quite difficult lately, childish, with no sense of law or discipline, despite living in the heart of it. But saying no to you is never an easy feat. You’ve not been told no much in your life, he thinks. 

“My lady, I believe my post is outside your quarters.” 

Your eyes roll blatantly as you drag him inside by the gauntlet. “You’re cruel to me.”

He waits for the door to shut. “I’m careful.” 

His shoulder knocks the doorframe as your nose bumps into his, the point of your tooth catching his bottom lip as you kiss him. He kisses you back, albeit much gentler, rejoicing in the soft press of your face. Only then does he realize how badly he’s missed you— the warmth of your skin, your scent, the barely-there twitch of your brow when your lips find his.

You whine when Steve paws you away. His thumb lingers, though, featherlight, wiping spit from the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re no fun,” you complain. 

“Fun gets men like me executed.” 

“I bet you were born frowning.” 

“And perhaps I’ll die with—” 

You lunge for another kiss. How can you not? He tastes like the honey cake you snuck him at supper. 

You kiss until you're gasping, until his lungs sear like a wildfire. “Okay, enough,” he rasps. His chainmail rattles with each big breath from his chest. “I must go.” 

“Wait,” you cry, your hand curling around the neck of his breastplate. “Stay, really, just stay. Just to sit. We don’t have to do anything.” You pout up at him, eyes gleaming with an agonizing sincerity. 

“And if someone finds me here?” 

“I never get visitors at this hour.”

“But if you do? If someone knocks or if—”

“Then you’re just keeping watch in here,” you shrug, “per my orders.” 

His eyes slip down your arm where the sleeve of your nightgown has lost your shoulder. He scratches the scruff on his cheek and sighs. “Get in bed.”

Joy flares across your face like a spark catching tinder. And Steve can’t feel far off, not when you peck his lips, spin around, and swoop into bed with one of the biggest smiles you've ever given him. He thinks it’s easy, then. Easy to love you, easy to say yes when he shouldn't. But it’s much more complicated than that, of course. 

You shimmy under a thick blanket and tap the sheets beside you. “You could sit.” 

Steve props his sword against the wall and crosses his arms. You're not slick. “I’m just fine right here.”

You drop into the mound of pillows behind you with a huff, crossing your arms deliberately back at him. “You know, I’m not actually trying to get you hanged.” 

He doesn’t answer you. He’s standing by the door like it might fly open and save him.

You hug a pillow to your chest with a big sigh, your finger twirling one of its tassels. “You’re just… so good at pretending.” 

Steve raises his brows. “Pretending?” 

“That you don’t want me.” 

Your voice is quiet now, lashes fanned out across your cheeks. He really can’t tell if you’re serious or not. 

“I tried to sleep,” you go on, even softer, “but it’s worse when I close my eyes. My head’s so full and my body’s just aching, and all I can think about is you.”

He shifts his weight around when you meet his eye. His jaw ticks. “You said we didn’t have to do anything.”

“We don’t,” you murmur, pushing the quilt off of you, way down to the foot of the bed. 

Steve’s gaze follows your hand back up, where the hem of your gown is pinched between your fingers. You take your time, unveiling yourself inch by inch. The smooth crest of your calf, the pudgier outside of your thigh, then the pretty stretch of your tummy. The pad of your finger does a slow loop around your belly button, sailing back down to the forgotten waistband of your underwear. 

His eyes dart back up to yours. “Princess.”

“You’re allowed to want me, you know.” Your hand crawls under the thin piece of cotton, eyelids drooping shut the second you brush your sweet spot. “Even if you can’t have me.” 

Steve drops his attention to the floor, hands wringing themselves red behind his back. “Are you punishing me?” he accuses. 

The first touch is sharp. Your body’s extra sensitive in the way it always is at the start. The words barely make it off your tongue. “Do you deserve to be?” 

He’s silent. You muster your eyes to open and find his glued to his boots. 

The bed groans as you scoot down the sheets. Your legs part to make room for your hand to rest on your inner thigh. You sigh all needy, extra breathy, a sound unlike anything Steve’s ever heard from your mouth. It sets every drop in his bloodstream on a race to his crotch. 

“I know your hand’s bigger than mine, but sometimes if I—” a whine makes it through your pressed lips, “—if I go at it long enough, it’s like my body forgets and thinks it’s yours.” You drag your finger up through your folds, painting circles around your clit with your slick. “How long do you suppose that’ll take?”

Steve breathes in the growing scent of your sweat, the sweet smell of arousal, and yet he doesn’t move a muscle. He doesn’t so much as make a peep. He’s got a stupid amount of self-control, you’ll give him that. Whatever vow he swore, it sits in him like stone. But with enough time and pressure, a stone always cracks. 

You curl a finger inside yourself. There's an audible squelch each time you pump it. “Steve,” you start panting. Over and over, so much that it begins to lose all its meaning.

He shudders, face scrunched tight like he’s in pain. 

“Mmm— is this— hah— is this what you imagined?” 

“Stop,” he whispers, “please. Stop it.” 

“I want to feel you,” you whimper. “I’ve never wanted anything so badly.”  

He’s growing desperate, pleading your name under his breath when the mere use of it is a rarity. His skin glows like he’s been kissed too long by the sun, and air churns through his chest like he’s forgotten how to breathe.  

“Steve!” you gasp. 

He staggers forward a step, fists locking up at his sides. “Someone will hear you,” he urges. 

“And what of it?” 

His glare touches you then, if only just for a second. But a second long enough to whip him into more trouble than he found himself in before. You look bewitched, back arched off the bed, toes curled in the sheets. Steve’s never quite seen anything so devastatingly beautiful. He’s mesmerized. 

“I’m so close, Steve, I—” 

There’s a pocket of sweat in Steve’s gloves like a liner, leather clenched so hard he’s sure to have blisters when they come off. He clamps his eyes shut again, but his ears are still helpless. 

The next sound you make is raw, ripped straight from your throat as your body seizes. You shake with the sudden burst of pleasure, hips flinching from your own hand, your voice a broken little thing as you call for him. 

He’s a dead man, he thinks. If a chambermaid or a nightsteward heard— and he fears it’s impossible not to have— he’ll soon hear the march of his brethren sent to arrest him for a sin of the highest dishonor. He’ll lose his title, probably his head, and worse, you. 

Steve’s a trembling mess of a man when you look at him. So much for the years of stamina training when you’ve caught your breath, and he’s still reeling for it.   

“Poor thing. So worked up,” you coo. 

Steve huffs air through his nose. His mouth twitches into a pinched little line. This is the angriest he's been with you in a while, but he can’t afford the luxury of expressing that. “Am I dismissed?” he spits.

“Would you look at me first?”

Steve loosens the leash on his gaze. He looks up at you— really looks. You’re sprawled out, skin glistening, dress cinched up at your waist. It's unladylike, the opposite of crown-worthy,  something he used to loathe about you. But now he thinks, how could he have ever? How could he look at you and for even one second think you’re anything but divine? 

Steve’s arm nearly gives out reaching for his sword, it's the weight of tungsten when you've turned his bones to gelatin. “You’re the cruel one,” he says, his softening expression betraying the hoarse attempt at scolding. “You’ve given me something I’ll never be able to stop wanting.”