#steve 2025

"You look done in," remarked Amanda, catching you in a succession of gaping yawns that you were doing your best to hide behind your sleeve.

"M'fine," you replied, yawning again and she eyed you with concern.

"What do you have this afternoon?"

"Karl, Shy and Benny for top set, and then one-to-one with Tarone."

"That's it?"

"You need me to cover something?" you asked, praying she would say no. The idea of running around playing football made you want to curl into a ball and weep.

"No, I want you to get out of here and get some rest, you've got a big weekend."

You looked at her sharply, heart beginning to race, and she frowned.

"With your sister?"

"Oh! Shit, yes, you're right. Christ, I'm so tired I genuinely forgot," you sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. "I'll need all my health and strength for that one."

"Have a lot of stuff, does she?"

"It's not moving stuff I'm worried about," you said darkly and she laughed.

"Get yourself away after classes, we'll cope without you for one afternoon."

"Well, as long as you're sure, I'm not going to say no," you smiled, the moment short-lived as shouting erupted down the corridor, swiftly followed by the distinctive sound of crashing of furniture.

"Fuck's sake," Amanda grumbled, striding out the door, voice raised in warning.

*****

Packing up your stuff in your room after an exceptionally painful session with Tarone - his mood had been worsening for weeks and none of you could get a handle on why - a shifting of the light next to you made you jump. Looking up, you found Shy standing beside your desk, twisting the cuff of his green hoodie between his fingers.

"Jesus christ, Shy!" you exclaimed, clutching your chest as your heart made a bid for freedom. "You can't sneak up on people like that!"

"Sorry," he mumbled, still fidgeting with his sleeve, head dropping to dodge your eyes.

"It's ok, I just didn't hear you come in. Do you need something?"

"Nah, it's fine," he said, barely audible, beginning to back towards the door.

"Hey, c'mon. I'm sorry, you just caught me by surprise. What is it?"

"I've got that thing you asked for."

You quickly cycled through the many things he could be talking about and he must have seen it in your eyes because his face clouded.

"The tape?"

"Oh fuck! Yes! Sorry, my brain's having a hard time today. You're joking, you really made me one?"

He shuffled his feet, mouth turned down. "You asked for it."

"I know," you said, coming round your desk to lean against the edge nearest him, smiling broadly. "I just thought you'd think it wasn't worth it for someone as naff as me."

He cracked a half smile and your heart soared at this extreme display of emotion.

"Yeah, well… figured you probably only listen to shit, so you need it."

"Cheers," you laughed, reaching out to take the cassette tape he was proffering at you, turning it over in your hands. The track list was written on the sleeve in his small, precise writing, 'Wild Bluebells' inscribed along the spine in a swirling, artistic font. Popping it open you found some of his characteristic artwork decorating the inside of the sleeve, supplemented by tiny bluebells.

A lump lodged in your throat.

"Shy… this is amazing," you said quietly.

"S'nothing really."

"No, it's really not nothing. It's brilliant. Thank you so much."

He shrugged, hands shoving into his pockets, startling when you quickly wrapped him in a hug.

"Thank you," you said again, giving him a light squeeze before pulling back to a more respectable distance.

"Yeah… well… don't fast-forward anything, it'll sound shit if you do."

"I promise," you said, giving him a little Girl Guides salute and tucking it carefully into you bag, just as the bell began it's shrill clang.

"You'd better get going or you'll be late for Owen," you said, shouldering your bag. "Thank you, Shy, I really appreciate it."

Proud mortification painting his features, he nodded, and slunk quickly out of the room.

*****

"Oooh, I almost forgot, I have car music," you said, rummaging in your handbag for the small plastic case. Steve had picked you up earlier than planned after your early escape from Stanton, and you were already over the Severn bridge and speeding along the M4 through Wales. Finally finding it, you popped out the tape that was already in the deck and slotted in the one from Shy.

Immediately the little vehicle was flooded with the - slightly tinny, thanks to it's below-average speakers - thudding of heavy drum and bass.

"What the fuck is this??" Steve shouted over the noise.

"Shy made it for me," you called back.

"Shy??"

He turned his head fully to look at you and you pointed at the road.

"Try not to get us killed before we even get there, eh?"

"Shy made you a mixtape?"

"Don't say it like that," you replied, pulling a face.

"Like what?"

"Like he's made me a 'mixtape'." Your fingers curled mockingly in mid-air.

"Sorry, is this not a mixtape?" he shot back with a grin.

"Fuck off," you huffed, sitting back with your arms folded, music thudding in your bones.

"Well why was he making you a mixtape is if it's not a 'mixtape'?"

"Because I asked if he would."

He fiddled with the knob, turning it down slightly so you could hear each other better.

"You asked him to??"

"I thought it would be funny. But maybe also pretty good? He, Benny and Nabz seem like they know what they're doing. Besides, I thought he could do with a little project. He's been quieter since half term, don't you think?"

Humming in agreement, he reached across from the gearstick to rest his hand on your thigh, squeezing gently. His palm was warm through your jeans, and you covered it with yours, linking your fingers through his.

"Doesn't feel real yet," he said quietly. Or rather, just loud enough to be heard over the thrumming baseline.

"What doesn't?"

"A whole weekend, just you and me. No colleagues, no kids, no interruptions."

Warmth blossomed in your chest, seeping slowly through your veins.

"Is it weird that the thing I'm looking forward to most is—"

"The beach, I know, you've only mentioned it four hundred times."

"No," you laughed, squeezing his hand, feeling heat climb to your cheeks as the confession lingered on your tongue. "Being able to go out for dinner. Or just walk around together… not having to hide, y'know?"

He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles lightly. "No, it's not weird." Forced to relinquish it to change gear as the traffic in front of you slowed, he glanced quickly at you, tongue flicking across his lips. "I can't wait to be able to kiss you in public."

"Ok, but that is weird," you grinned, the warmth in your chest joined by dancing butterflies, laughing when he flicked his middle finger at you.

"I'll turn this car around if you can't behave."

"Oh yeah?" You reached across the central consol and rubbed your hand lightly over his crotch, earning a sharp intake of breath. "You sure you want me to behave..?"

*****

The journey should only have taken a couple of hours but a crash on the motorway delayed you for what felt like forever. The lack of sleep overtook you as you finally began to speed up again and when you woke you were on small country roads, weaving down towards the south coast.

By the time you pulled into the car park at your hotel in a small seaside town, the sun was already beginning to disappear across the bay. Climbing out you stretched your arms high above your head and groaned, stiff after sitting still for so long. A bracing wind blew in from the sea, the fresh salty tang filling your lungs. In the twilight, the beach was only just about visible on the other side of the road.

"Are you coming?" he asked and when you turned he was smiling, hands full of luggage.

"Let me help," you said, hurrying to relieve him of your bag but he tutted you away.

"Go on ahead and get the door, I'm fine."

The hotel itself was a handsome, rambling old building, the white painted stone facing out towards the bay. The large reception area was softly lit, built around a grand flowing staircase that spoke of a bygone era.

There was an awkward moment checking in, where the receptionist referred to you as his wife and you felt him stiffen next to you before you slipped your arm through his with a smile and let her believe she was correct.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled as you waited for the lift.

"It was weird hearing her use your surname. Let's not do that again," you replied, nudging him lightly in the ribs.

"We'll just call you Mrs Steve from now on then, shall we?"

The lift chimed as heat rushed to your face, something stuttering in your chest.

Mrs Steve.

Upstairs, he unlocked the door with an old-fashioned key, and held the door open for you to pass through first. It was much larger and grander than you'd been anticipating, decorated in muted cream and honey tones, the seemingly antique furniture darkly polished. Everything in the room was arranged so to ensure that anyone lying in bed would have a clear view out of the wide bay window. With darkness falling outside and the light in the room, it was a struggle to see anything other than yourself in the glass, but cupping your hands against it to peer though, you thought that perhaps in the morning you would be able to look right out across the bay.

"Jesus christ, Steve…" you mumbled, turning back towards the room and dropping your handbag on a nearby armchair while he set your bags down by the wardrobe. "This must have cost a fortune."

He smiled, cheeks tinging pink as he came across to where you stood, wrapped his arms around you.

"Worth it."

"Won't she—"

"No. I don't want to talk about her, not when we're here."

"I thought we were going to be making plans…"

He pulled back and cradled your face between his hands.

"We are. But not right now and I don't want to have to discuss her any more than strictly necessary. This weekend is about me and you, not her."

He kissed you gently and you leaned into it, wobbling when he pulled away faster than you'd anticipated.

"Right," he said briskly, a glint in his eye. "We've still got a bit of time before dinner and I think we should start as we mean to go on. Get those curtains closed and take your clothes off."

*****

It was surreal to be walking through the streets of the little town holding his hand like it was the most normal thing in the world. No one even looked in your direction. Passing an estate agent's window, you stopped to nosy and it took half a second for him to realise, tugging your arm slightly as he carried on without you.

"That one's pretty," you commented, pointing at a little cottage in the corner as he reversed his steps to join you.

"You'd want to live here??"

"You never play the 'what would you buy?' game??"

His reflection in the window smiled back at you, and he slipped an arm around your waist, keeping you warm with your back tucked against his chest.

"Ok, well if we're doing that, we should do it properly. What about that one?"

He pointed at a much larger property with a price-tag that would never be within reach of either of you, even if you combined. Not unless one or both of you had a dramatic change in profession, anyway. Or maybe perhaps if you won the lottery.

"It doesn't have a sea view though."

"So fussy," he teased, pressing a kiss into your hair. "Well if that one's not to m'lady's liking, what about that one?"

You spent several more minutes debating the relative merits of various properties you would never own, his fingers linked through yours against your stomach, lips and beard occasionally tickling at your neck.

"Come on, we're going to be late," he said eventually, nudging you by the waist and you fell into step beside him again, his hand warm in yours.

It was still only the middle of March, and being out of the school holidays and high season, the town was quiet, but the little bistro he ushered you into had a nice low-level Friday night buzz, the cosy interior wrapping itself around you after the crisp chill outside.

"I keep thinking someone is going to see us," you said after your waiter disappeared with your orders, taking a sip of the wine he'd just delivered.

"Me too," he chuckled before reaching across the table for your hand. "This," he continued, thumb stroking a circle in your palm, "somehow feels like the most risky thing we've ever done in public."

"And that's really saying something," you giggled. "Lorna's face the other day in the laundry room. I swear she knows you were knuckle deep inside me seconds earlier."

Out of the corner of your eye you saw the man at the table next to yours glance sharply in your direction and you turned to meet his stare, slowly raising an eyebrow.

His already ruddy cheeks darkened in hue and he looked away hurriedly.

Steve tried and failed to muffle a cough of laughter behind his hand and you shook your head at him, grinning and raising your glass.

"To us. Happy Wales."

"To us," he agreed, eyes crinkling at the corners, lightly clinking his glass against yours.

*****

His fingertips dug into your hips with a bruising grip as you rode him, nails dragging across his chest.

"Careful," he warned through ragged breaths, hips rising to meet yours, pushing him impossibly deeper and you cried out, not caring whether anyone in the next room might hear you.

"Seriously, Bells, don't," he said, catching your wrists and lifting your hands away from him, fingers interlocking so you didn't lose your balance. In their wake you could see the red crescent moons you had left behind on his flushed, freckled skin.

He groaned when your cunt clenched around him at the sight.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, he manhandled you onto your back, on his knees as he slammed back into you so hard it made your head swim.

"If you can't be trusted to behave," he mumbled, hitching your legs up over his arms, the change in angle sending dots dancing across your vision.

"You could always tie me up again," you gasped out with a wicked smirk, and he smiled dryly, shaking his head.

Undeterred, you tried rocking your hips against his driving rhythm, reaching to up to let your nails trail down his chest again he groaned, dropping your legs to grab your wrists, pinning your arms above your head.

"I said stop," he ground out, barely audible over the desperate whine that left you; in leaning forward to pin you to the bed, the thick tip of his cock was pressing mercilessly against your gspot.

"Oh fuck…there…fucking… harder…" you whimpered.

But he stopped moving altogether, hovering above you, his weight balanced on your wrists, a sly smile creeping across his face.

"I told you in the car there'd be trouble if you couldn't behave."

"Steve…c'mon…please..."

His cock twitched heavily inside you at your thin whine and he shifted so he was circling both your wrists with one hand, dragging the fingertips of his free hand down the side of your face and over your lips.

"Open."

He barely had to say it before you had parted them, his fingers invading your mouth, skin vaguely salty on your tongue. With a faint roll of his hips, lights exploded across your vision and he pushed his fingers further into your mouth until you made a muffled choking sound.

"If your pretty little cunt didn't feel so fucking good, I'd be in your mouth right now and you could just wait."

A keening noise rippled out of your throat and he moved his fingers, sliding across your tongue until salvia began to gather at the corners of your lips, slipping down your chin.

He gave another roll of his hips, harder this time, more deliberate and a desperate moan choked against his hand.

"Should I make you get on your knees? Cum all over this pretty face?"

You were slipping, even without the delicious friction of movement, just having him buried so deeply inside you was dizzying. At his words, your body unintentionally jerked against him and you both groaned, darkness flickering across his eyes.

"I thought I told you to behave?" he almost growled. "That's it, on your knees."

In a heartbeat he slid out of you, his fingers pulled roughly from your mouth and before you knew what was happening, he was practically pushing you to the floor, the thick carpet plush against your bare knees. With his hand on your chin he gripped his cock in the other, tapping it against your lips until you let him press into your mouth, sliding deep.

"Fuck…" he groaned, hand curling into your hair, hips rocking against your face. Bracing your palms against his thighs you tried your best to keep up, not to gag, your chin damp with your own salvia, feeling it dripping down your chest.

He swore again, huffed out between ragged breaths, having to tug your head back by the hair so he could pull back fast enough, the familiar tang already coating your tongue before it fell in warm ribbons over your face. A small amount landed near your eye and you swiped it away, so you could keep them open, staring up, open mouthed, as he pumped the last of it onto your waiting tongue.

"Jesus fuck…" he sighed, the relief palpable on his face, cock still semi-hard in his fist. Licking the small dot from your finger you stuck your tongue out to he could see the pearly liquid pooled there before you made a show of swallowing.

"You're enjoying that too much," he chuckled, smearing a trail of cum over your lips with his thumb, groaning softly when you licked it away.

"What can I say," you shrugged, pushing yourself your feet, legs a little wobbly. "You're just not very good at devising punishments."

Your spit and his release lay stickily on your skin, but you made no effort to remove it.

"But that's besides the point - you have unfinished business."

With a wry shake of his head he followed as you hopped back onto the bed, legs hanging over the edge, spread wide to welcome his face between them.

"Reckon if I said no, that would be a better punishment," he winked, warm palms pushing your thighs further apart and dragging his tongue between your slick folds.

"Shit!" you hissed, head falling back against the bed, arching up into his mouth. "Well, it would be… but that really all depends how well you want the rest of this trip to go, doesn't it?"

*****

The next morning dawned bright and clear, blue sky and sunshine that promised a warmth they couldn't match. Undeterred, bundled up in coats and scarves, warm and full from an overly-indulgent breakfast, you finally made it to the beach.

"Happy now?" he asked as you picked your way over the softer sand, sinking and wobbling your way towards the shore with glee.

"Could you sort out making it a bit warmer?"

"Look, it's not pissing it down, that's the best I can do."

Flashing him a grin over your shoulder, you stopped just short of the wave line, closing your eyes and breathing deeply, letting the salty air fill your lungs and pull at your hair.

"Fuck, I love that smell."

"Bristol harbour smells like that."

You opened your eyes and fixed him with a look. "Fuck off, it does not."

Laughing, he wrapped his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

"We hardly ever got to come to the seaside," you said quietly, covering his arms with yours, leaning back into him.

"When you were a kid?"

"Yeah."

"I grew up in a rubbish little town on the south coast of Ireland. The beach was about five minutes from my house."

"Seriously?" you exclaimed, twisting to look back at him, wide-eyed. "You're so lucky!"

"Nah, it was shit. I couldn't wait to leave."

"How can it have been shit if you had the beach?? You ungrateful bastard."

He laughed, the rumble warm against your spine and you relaxed back against him once more.

"I remember when me and Bonnie were about six, our grandparents brought us down to the coast. We stayed in a caravan right by the dunes and I never wanted to leave. It was nothing fancy - in fact that's an overstatement, it was the smallest caravan you've ever seen with four people crammed into it - but I loved every minute of it. I cried the whole way home. And then when we got back, our mum clobbered me for banging on about how great it was."

He squeezed you a little more tightly, lips pressing against your temple.

"I was thinking about that when I was in Barcelona. I could never have even imagined just deciding one day to get on a plane and just going to another place, just like that. That something like that would be allowed, or even possible."

"Yeah, no one went abroad on holiday where I grew up," he agreed. "Except for the O'Rourkes. Posh cunts." He chuckled quietly against your hair.

"There were no posh cunts where I grew up - the only people with the money to go abroad for their holidays were the criminals," you laughed. "I remember me and Bon being insanely jealous of Jacqui Downy having one of those braids in her hair when she got back from Spain. You know the ones where they wrap the coloured thread around it?"

"Oh yeah, the girls got those when we went to Menorca last summer."

"Posh cunts," you giggled.

"Says the woman who's just had an impromptu mini-break in Barcelona," he shot back, tickling you in the side until you yelped.

"We tried to do it ourselves at home," you continued, settling back in his hold. "Unsurprisingly, it did not work. And we'd nicked the thread out of our Gran's mending box and she was absolutely livid. Chased us round her flat with a slipper."

"Some day I'll take you to Menorca and get you one," he chuckled.

"I'll hold you to that," you smiled, turning in his arms, the wind whipping around you, ruffling his hair.

"Thank you for this," you said, kissing him softly, butterflies dancing in your stomach at how open and brazen it was to kiss him in public.

"I love you," he murmured as you pulled back, cupping the side of your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone.

"I love you too," you whispered back, looping your arms around his neck and kissing him again.

*****

The beach stretched out into the distance and you ambled slowly along the length of it, your fingers linking with the hand that hung loosely from where his arm was slung around your shoulders.

"Have you had a chance to think about it all now then..?" you asked tentatively when he still hadn't mentioned anything to do with leaving Helen and the far end of the strand was almost upon you.

The thumb that had been absentmindedly rubbing against your fingers stilled and you glanced sideways at him to see his jaw jump against his stubbled cheek.

"Steve…I know you don't want to talk about her, but we said this weekend was going to be for—"

"I know," he said quietly, drawing his arm away from you as he rooted in his pocket. The now familiar plastic crunch of a pill packet rustled in his pocket and he quickly fired it into his mouth, swallowing it dry.

"Do you need to turn back? I don't want you to hurt yourself," you said quickly.

How many was that since you'd woken up? Three? No, four? More..? You tried to push the rising worry back down where it came from.

"I'm fine."

"You're clearly not fine if you need pain relief."

"Bells, I said I'm fine."

You stopped walking at the snap in his voice and his face immediately crumbled in apology.

"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to… I'm fine. Honestly, it's just a niggle. Look, there's a pub up there—" he said, turning to point back up on the shore. "Let's go and get a pint and some lunch and we can talk. Ok?"

Mumbling your agreement, you let him take your hand, leading you higher up the beach to a small wooden-slatted path that led to the road above.

The pub was busier than you'd expected given how sleepy the town had seemed the night before, but the bright day had clearly drawn people out into the air - or a pub near the air anyway - and it hummed with a low roar of voices and laughter, the five nations rugby playing on TVs dotted around the place. Squeezing through the crowd you managed to find a small table tucked in an awkward corner, just two low stools on offer.

"Will your back be ok on that?" you asked as he set down the drinks and an assortment of crisps.

"I'll be grand. Sorry, they don't do food so this is the best I could find."

"It's fine," you shrugged, tearing into a packet of salt and vinegar, ripping it open to spread wide on the table to share. "I'm still a bit full from breakfast."

Smiling, he copied you, laying out a packet of ready salted and you took a long sip of your beer.

"Ok, come on then, tell me what you've been thinking."

Spreading his hands on the table with a small sigh, he nodded.

"It's difficult."

"Well, yeah, of course it is."

"You're probably not going to like it."

"Try me."

"I have to think about what's best for the girls…"

"And you think I wouldn't understand that??"

"No… no, I know…I just… I can't fuck up their lives like this and be working the way things are at the moment. It's too much - my idiot work sons take up too much of my time and energy."

You gave him a half-smile and reached for his hand.

"It has to be in the holidays then, right?"

He nodded.

"That's ok, Easter's not that far away. Barely even a month."

He cleared his throat and took a swift slug from his pint.

"Easter's not long enough."

You slid your hand away from his, straightening on your stool.

"Meaning..?"

"It needs to be the summer."

"The summer?! But—"

"Please, just let me—"

"That's months from now, Steve!"

People near you turned to look and he winced, reaching out his hands towards you, imploringly.

"Please… please, just listen."

You sat back away from him, folding your arms, jaw tight.

"Easter is only two weeks long, Bells, and then I'll be straight back into the mayhem at work. I need time - time to tell Helen, which probably is going to be shit for us both, and time to work out with her how we tell the girls. I'll have to move out, I need to know where that is."

"There's always my house," you said quietly and he frowned, fiddling with the ragged edge of the nearest crisp packet.

"I need somewhere the girls have a room." He cleared his throat. "Somewhere just with me." Your feelings must have been written all over your face because he swallowed quickly. "I mean, it wouldn't be right for me to move them in with you right away, would it? It's going to be messy and confusing enough for them. And that's why I need to be around to move, and help them get used to the change, and everything else that's gonna come with this whole fucking mess."

"I'm a fucking mess??"

"No, c'mon on, that's not what I meant and you know it."

"Steve," you said, biting the inside of your cheek, "if you don't want to do this… it wasn't my idea… if you're having second thoughts I'd rather you just told me."

"I love you."

"That's not the same thing."

He dragged a weary hand down his face, fingers fidgeting in his beard.

"Bella, please, I'm so fucking tired. The lads… I can't do it all at the same time. It'll fucking kill me. I'm just trying to be honest."

"Just say you don't want to and stop pretending."

"That's really not what I'm saying."

"You want to wait until July, Steven. It's fucking March!"

"Can't you even try and see where I'm coming from?!" he snapped, hands banging on the table, making you - and several others around you - jump. He held up a hand in apology and people returned to their drinks, but you could feel them watching you out of the corner of their eyes.

"I do," you said quietly, swiping a drip of the condensation trickling down the outside of your pint glass. "I guess I just… when you said it before, I thought it would be sooner. That you weren't talking about carrying on having an affair for the better part of another five months. I don't know how I feel about that."

"It hasn't seemed to bother you so far," he muttered.

"It was just sex before," you shot back, eyes narrowing. "You're the one who stopped it being that. I told you I wasn't looking for anything."

"So why is waiting longer such a problem?"

"Because you told me you loved me!"

Heads turned again and you huffed out a sigh, standing abruptly and gathering your coat, bag and pint.

"Bella… where are you—"

Ignoring him, you started pushing your way outside, desperate to get away from prying eyes before the tears that were pressing in your throat made an appearance on your face.

The beer garden was almost empty, only a few hardier souls braving the bracing breeze off the sea with their drinks, and you dropped down at a weather-beaten picnic table as far away from anyone else as you could get. Slurping shakily at your pint, you dashed irritably at the tears that slid down your cheeks.

"Bella…"

You hunched further into your coat and kept your back turned, not looking up when he sat down across from you.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing here, ok?"

"Don't use that voice on me."

"What voice?"

"Steve of Stanton Wood. I'm not Riley, I'm not throwing a fit because someone looked at me wrong."

"I don't know what you want me to do, Bells," he sighed, dropping his head into his hands, elbows on the table.

"Just be honest with me."

"I thought I was being honest."

You lifted your head and he met your eyes.

"Do you even want to leave Helen?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation, gaze unwavering, and you nodded slowly.

"I don't know if I can do this for another term, Steve. It's going to be so much worse for you when she finds out it's been going on since Christmas. I understand wanting to protect the girls, please believe me, I do. I don't want to be part of fucking them up. But do you seriously think this is going to work?"

"I…don't know. I just don't know what else to do," he said quietly, eyes dropping to the table.

"Every week that goes by that we keep doing this increases the risk of us getting caught and then you'll have no control over it at all."

"So what are you saying?"

You shrugged slightly, taking a sip and letting the bitter bubbles settle on your tongue before you swallowed.

"Maybe we need to stop? Until you can leave her."

Anguish flashed across his eyes and, in what appeared to be an almost unconscious movement, he rifled in his pocket, pulling out a blister-pack of the little round pills like the ones you'd found, and chewed one right out of the plastic. He didn't even take a drink to swallow it.

"You want that?" he asked hoarsely.

"It's not about what I want. They're your kids."

"I need you."

You smiled slightly, a heaviness crushing in your chest. Opening your mouth to reply he carried on before you could finish your attempt to form words.

"I'll leave her at Easter. I'll figure it out."

"No, I don't want—"

"I don't want this to stop," he said fiercely, reaching across the table to take your hand in both of his. "I don't want to be without you."

"You'll still see me almost every day."

His head cocked to the side, sadness dragged heavily on his features.

"You know that wouldn't be the same. And do you think we'd really be able to keep our hands to ourselves..?"

"I think if you tried very hard. Aren't we always trying to teach the lads impulse control?" you smiled, your fingers gently linking through his.

"Now who's using their Stanton voice?"

You laughed quietly and he smiled, the soft kind that crinkled his eyes and made butterflies erupt in your stomach.

"I don't want to force you into something you don't want."

"I want you."

He let go of your hand and got up, coming to sit beside you, legs slung either side of the bench so he was looking at you.

"Easter then?" he asked, cupping your cheek when you turned to face him.

"Easter," you agreed, letting him lean in and catch your lips in a soft, slow kiss. He drew back slowly, hand still resting warmly on the back of your neck, thumb drawing teasing little strokes along your skin.

"So…" you said slowly, a cheeky smile sneaking across your face. "Did you leave those crisps inside?"

*****

He'd booked a table for dinner in the hotel that night, the old building's former ballroom converted into a beautiful dining room, the high ceiling decorated with ornate plasterwork, delicate chandeliers suffusing everything in a shimmering, golden glow.

"Are you sure I look alright?" you mumbled, tugging at the hem of your dress, suddenly self-conscious about how much thigh you had on show. It was one of Celia's and it had looked perfectly fine when you were packing, with her sitting on your bed talking you up. But now you were here it seemed unsophisticated and out of place.

"You look beautiful," Steve replied, dropping a kiss to your shoulder, his hand warm in the small of your back as you were shown you to your table. You did an awkward little dance with the smiling maître d' when he pulled your chair out for you when you weren't expecting it, and with heat flaring to your face you managed to get settled, grateful for the flowing white tablecloth hiding your legs from view.

"Relax," Steve smiled, reaching for your hand, thumb smoothing over the inside of your wrist. "You look stunning."

"Just don't let me make a tit of myself using the wrong fork or anything."

"Bold of you to assume I've a fucking clue myself," he laughed, squeezing your fingers and letting go as a waiter came to fill your water glasses and offer you menus. Behind him, another of the staff appeared, bearing a tray with two delicate flutes of champagne. Smiling, she placed them down on the table and you frowned at Steve.

"What're—?"

"We're celebrating," he said, the staff dissolving away once more.

"Are we?"

"Are we not? It's not every day we get a whole weekend alone."

Shaking your head at him, you lifted your flute and clinked it gently against his with a light crystalline ding.

"Now you're just showing off."

He smiled warmly over his glass as you both took a sip, the bubbles dancing crisply on your tongue.

"I love you," he said quietly and it was as though the bubbles had migrated from your glass to your chest.

"I love you too."

He insisted you do the full three courses, apparently not interested in sparing any expense, though you fretted silently about how he was possibly going to explain such an extravagance to his wife. Before dessert, you excused yourself to go to the loo and as you wended your way, somewhat unsteadily, back towards the table you saw him popping two pills into his mouth, washing them down with his wine.

"Everything alright?" you asked as you sat back down, smoothing your dress over your thighs, trying to tug it closer to your knees.

"Why wouldn't it be?" he replied, brows tightening slightly.

You opened your mouth to remark on the pills but as you drew breath to speak, your desserts arrived and the moment passed.

"Can I interest you in any teas or coffees?" asked the waiter as your dishes were cleared and you shook your head, Steve doing the same.

"Could we get the bill please?" he asked instead.

"You have to let me split that with you," you said when it was delivered, even though you feared the prospect of much it might be. But he'd already refused to let you pay towards the hotel, or dinner the night before, so really it was only fair.

"Absolutely not."

"Steve, c'mon, I know where you work, stop pretending you're loaded," you laughed, reaching to take the slip of paper from him.

"No way," he said, snatching it back before you could see. "This weekend is on me."

"Don't be silly, it's for us both. Let me share."

"Not a chance," he said stubbornly, covering the page with his hand like one of the lads at school trying to stop the other boys from copying his answers, as he added your room number and signed at the bottom.

Shaking your head at him, you sighed.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Why am I not allowed to spoil you? This is the last two and half months of drinks and dinners and fucking, cinema tickets or whatever, in one. I never get to take you anywhere, so please, stop looking at me like that and just, I dunno, say 'thank you, Steve',"

"Thank you, Steve," you parroted back in a silly high voice and he rolled his eyes. "Sorry… thank you, really. It's been lovely. You're very sweet when you want to be."

"Not all the time?" he winked, standing and dropping his napkin on the table, reaching for your hand as you stood as well.

"Well… I'm not sure I'd call what you did to me last night very sweet," you giggled in his ear and he flushed bright pink as he led you across the room and back towards the stairs.

*****

He had you pushed against the wall the moment the door closed, tongue sliding into your mouth, your hands tangling in his hair.

"Is it sweet you want then?" he mumbled against your lips, squeezing gently at your waist.

"Not necessarily," you replied, humming appreciatively when his hand crept under the hem of your skirt, warm against your skin. Lifting your knee to his hip his fingers roamed until he was cupping the curve of your behind, groaning against your mouth when he found you bare.

"Fucking hell," he rumbled, pulling back to look at you. "Have you not been wearing anything under this the whole fucking time?"

Biting your lip, you ran your thumb over his, smoothing away the traces of your lip colour. "No, just since dessert."

"And to think you're allowed to work with children, you dirty girl," he muttered, grinning darkly, smothering your laughter as he kissed you hungrily.

"Come here, I need a better look," he said as you came up for air, gently dragging you across to stand in front of the long, freestanding mirror in the corner. Slotting himself behind you, you watched in the reflection as his hands smoothed down your sides, following your curves, until he reached the hem of your dress. Flicking a glance up to his face, you caught the dark gleam in his eye, leaning back into his lips against your neck.

"Look how fucking beautiful you are," he murmured, slowly lifting your skirt until it skimmed your upper thighs, making you shiver. "Just look…" Raising it higher, your absence of underwear came into view and he groaned, the sound reverberating against your spine, making a small moan slip from your throat. Bunching your skirt at your waist in his fist, his other hand stroked delicately over your bare thigh and up to your hip, tracing the crease down towards where you were already aching for him.

His fingertips hovered just shy of your pussy and you could feel the wetness gathering, his cock beginning to dig into your back. Flicking your tongue over your lips, mouth suddenly dry, your heart raced in anticipation.

"Hang on," he muttered, hand dropping and pulling away from you.

"What?? No…" you whined, reaching to stop him and he let you pull him back into a needy kiss.

"Just wait, I'll just be a second," he said, extricating himself from your hold. "Go and get on the bed."

Too turned on to try and make sense of what he was doing, you did as you were told, wriggling your way into the middle of the bed.

"Not so far," he said and you finally realised what he was planning, watching him strain to drag the heavy mirror across the room.

"Fuck, you're gonna do yourself a mischief, let me help," you said, quickly clambering off the bed to help him.

"This was sexier in my head," he huffed with amusement, for once not fighting you and you realised why when you started helping him shift it. It weighed a fucking tonne.

"Here good?" you puffed, bringing it into position at the foot of the bed.

"As any. Go on, up you get."

He swatted at your bum and you giggled, climbing back up into position. A cracking sound made you turn and you saw him throwing another pill into his mouth.

"You should have let me help you from the start."

He rolled his eyes, swallowing it down and began to unbutton his shirt. Crawling over to him, you sat up on your knees, taking over undressing him.

"I could kiss it better," you winked, his shirt landing on the floor, his belt rattling in the loops as you pulled it free. Dropping it to the floor, you traced a fingertip down the trail of dark hair that led from his belly-button down beyond the waistband of his trousers, his erection straining against the fabric.

But he shook his head and cupped you face between his hands, kissing you gently.

"I want tonight to be about you."

"Because it's so rarely is about me?" you smirked and he rolled his eyes, ushering you further back across the bed, shedding his trousers and climbing up to settle himself behind you, gathering the pillows to help keep him upright as he positioned you both in front of the mirror once more.

"I want you to see you how I see you," he mumbled, his lips on your neck as he ran his hands down your body, squeezing your breasts, making you arch against him. "How fucking gorgeous you are."

Pulling your skirt back up, he parted your thighs, opening you up to you both in the mirror.

"Touch yourself," he murmured, taking your hand and resting it over your bare pussy. "Like that night in the office."

Biting back a moan, heat flaring across your skin, you did as he asked, easing your fingertips down to your core to gather your wetness, sliding it up and over your clit. He made a low groan of approval behind you, your breath catching in your throat as you rolled circles across the sensitive little bundle, your slick-coated skin glinting in the low light.

"Not so fast."

With a quiet whimper you tried to comply, slowing your pace, need prickling under your skin and curling up your spine. His hands slid over the front of your dress, cupping your breasts again, thumbs searching for the telltale firmness of your nipples beneath. You gasped, arching slightly, when he found one and then the other, dragging his thumbnails across them, the friction delicious through the fabric.

"Let's get you out of these wet clothes," he smirked and you stopped what you were doing, sitting forward to let him ease the zip of your dress down your spine. It slid down your arms, pooling at your waist and as he made short work of your bra, you quickly wriggled out of the dress, chuckling it unceremoniously on the floor.

Oh well, it needed a wash before you gave it back to Celia anyway.

Resting back against his chest, relishing the feeling of his skin against yours, you tipped your head back to kiss him.

"Where were we?" he smiled, hands on your thighs, spreading them wider until your legs were draped over his. "You're not looking," he added, brushing his lips over yours again briefly, his fingers sliding between your slick folds and over your clit

"Oh fuck…" you whimpered, eyes dragging back to the mirror, both watching and feeling his hand gently caressing across your most sensitive parts.

"Look how wet you are for me," he whispered, lips ghosting along your neck, the tickle of his beard making you shiver and pulse. Holding your eyes in the mirror, he lifted his hand, his fingers already glinting with your arousal.

"Don't stop," you mumbled, clutching at his forearm, trying to push his hand back to where it had been, and he chuckled throatily in your ear.

But he did as you asked, slightly rough fingertips dragging tight circles across your clit, fast and slow, never setting a rhythm you could fully relax into. When your eyes slipped closed at the pleasure sparkling through you, he scolded you softly, teeth on your neck until you opened them again and watched him dismantle you.

His free hand danced across your breasts, teasing the firm buds, and stroked lightly over your heated skin, until he brought it down to join the other. You choked on a moan, watching as it took over on your clit, the first dipping lower, pressing against your core.

"See how well she takes it," he murmured, easily sliding two thick fingers into you, stretching you open. "You should see how pretty she looks wrapped around my cock."

You choked on a moan and felt his dick twitch where it pressed against your lower back. Struggling to catch your breath, you could only watch as he pumped lazily in and out of you, his fingers shining in the low light. Dragging them against your walls, he brushed across that spot inside that made you jolt, a wicked light in his eyes when you managed to force yours open again.

"Always so pretty when you're about to cum for me," he murmured and your cunt tightened, hips rutting urgently against his hands and the slick roll of his fingertips. "Look," he urged, lips on your neck. "I want you to see what I see."

Breathless, head spinning, flames licking up your spine, you tried your best to keep your eyes open, blurrily watching him fuck you with his hands, his movements punctuated by the wet sounds of your arousal. Your own fingers gravitated to your breasts, hearing him groan quietly behind you as you started teasing the stiff buds, stroking and squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper.

"That's it," he urged, adding a third finger, your cunt stretching to accommodate in the mirror in front of you. "Let me see you touch." He stopped rolling across your clit to grab one of your wrists, pulling your hand down between your legs. "Make yourself cum."

With a whine, your fingertips flew across the little bundle of nerves, his fingers stroking you from the inside, and your thighs began to quake. His cock pressed thickly against your back, twitching in his underwear as you began to slip and with a string of incoherent cursing, the dam broke, washing you away, dripping down to his palm.

"Good girl," he mumbled, lips curving against your neck. Blinking hard, head still buzzing from the rush, you met his eyes in the reflection. He smirked and heat burning across your skin as he pushed your thighs apart from there they had clamped around his hands, showing you the mess you'd made when he pulled his fingers from between your legs.

"Fuck, I—"

You choked on your words with a whimper when he smeared your orgasm over your pussy, your skin glinting slickly back at you in the mirror.

"Beautiful," he smiled, trailing damp lines up your stomach towards your breasts.

Twisting your head you arched back, fingers curling into his hair to bring his lips to yours in a fierce kiss, tongue pushing needily into his mouth, a groan rumbling against your back.

"Fuck me," you mumbled against his mouth, kissing him again until you were forced to move, to help him with the awkward struggle to remove his underwear when you were lying on top of him. His cock sprung up thickly against his stomach and you began to turn to straddle his lap, stroking him gently.

"No," he murmured, catching you by the waist and easing you back to face the mirror. "I want you to see."

"But—"

Large hands gripped your hips, lifting you up and back towards him until his cock pressed up, sliding between your sticky folds. You both mumbled obscenities at the feeling, his thick tip nudging against your clit, your previous orgasm painting his flushed skin.

Lifting yourself higher, planting your hands on his chest, behind you, to keep your balance, you watched in the mirror as he guided himself into you.

"Am I hurting you?" you gasped out, mouth falling open as you watched your body stretching wide around him as the inches slowly disappeared inside you.

He let out a low groan wreathed in amusement.

"Christ no, you're not hurting me… jesus fuck, would you just look at that…"

You could see him behind you in the reflection, craning his neck to see around you, to watch as you began to move, rocking your hips to slide along his cock.

"'D'you see how beautiful you are?"

The graveled reverence in his voice sent a hum running through you and you glided down onto him more slowly, hips grinding in a circle, toying with him until his breath was coming in short bursts, his fingers bruisingly tight at your waist where he helped support your weight. Holding yourself just on the tip, rocking lightly, you smiled at the way his mouth fell open, the pink flush that had spread across his freckled chest up to his cheeks.

It wasn't something you would normally say about yourself, but in that moment, you felt beautiful. Powerful.

And then he pushed his hips up, filling you entirely in a single, hard stroke, robbing you of breath.

"Fuck!"

Wrapping a heavy forearm around your middle, he held you still, fucking up into you, until his cock gleamed with your arousal and your thighs burned with the effort of holding yourself in position. Open-mouthed, gasping, whining, struggling for breath, you did your best to keep watching as he buried himself in you over, and over, and over again, each devastating thrust angled perfectly to meet that sweetest spot, stars bursting across your vision.

"I'm…I'm gon—" you whimpered, unable to get the words out before you unravelled. The force of the orgasm that overtook you, forced him from you, his hips still rutting upwards, dragging his length through your folds and over your over-sensitive clit, making you cry out weakly. Limbs like jelly, you would have collapsed back into him had he not had hold of you.

With a soft kiss to the base of your neck, he guided you gently, easing you forward until you were able to catch yourself on your hands and knees. The bed dipped as he moved behind you, a mumble of over-stimulated protest slipping from your lips when he ran his fingers over your wet, twitching cunt, making you jolt when he slipped them over the swollen little bundle of nerves.

Leaning forward to hover over you, fingers still casually toying with your leaking cunt, he brought his head level with yours, tenderly kissing your shoulder.

"Keep your eyes open," he murmured, meeting your lips when you turned towards him, before pulling back and guiding his cock back into your tight core.

With a moan that was more of a wail, you immediately failed to heed his words, burying your face in the bedding, fingers curling into the sheets at the overwhelming feeling of him filling you completely.

Thick fingers tangled in your hair, gently tugging your head up.

"I said watch," he ordered softly, groaning when your cunt tightened around him in response.

You did your best to keep your eyes open, too lost in the exquisite feeling of him to be embarrassed by how your mouth hung open in dogged pants, or how your make-up had been smudged wantonly over your face. Your hair still in his grasp, you pushed up on your hands to arch back towards him, your breasts rocking with every deep snap of his hips, hard nipples occasionally grazing against the bed, the air filled with the scent of sex and the wet sounds of your pleasure.

"So f'king pretty," he groaned, his rhythm stuttering, hand falling from your hair to grab at your waist, your ass, pushing at the soft flesh so he could glide even more smoothly into you and watch your greedy cunt devour each and every stroke.

Your head dropped between your hands as you felt the waves come for you again, yelping when he slapped your bum sharply, the clenching of your cunt making him groan.

"I said watch…" he huffed out between ragged breaths.

But no amount of instruction could stop how your vision was clouding at the relentless drive of his hips and with a high, wordless whimper you slipped over the edge once more, collapsing forward to bury your face in the sheets as you shook, his still arrowing cock sending aftershocks ricocheting through you. Gasping for breath you lifted your head just in time to see him follow you, his face contorted into a mask of pleasure as his thrusts stuttered to a stop, pushing deeply into you as he filled you with his release.

He slumped forwards, sweaty forehead pressed to your back, rapid breaths hot against your skin. Kissing along your spine, he recovered himself and pulled back, murmuring softly.

In the mirror, your heartbeat finally nearing something akin to normal, you watched as he bit his lip, a slow grin of satisfaction spreading across his flushed face.

"What..?" you asked and he glanced up, eyes dark.

"I could watch that all day," he replied. You jumped slightly as his fingers grazed between your legs and then he held them up for you to see, coated in white.

"Pervert," you chuckled, shifting so you could roll onto you back, stretching out your arms towards him. He settled next to you, holding up his sticky fingers with a cheeky grin. Opening your mouth, you let him press them against your tongue, swallowing the salt-sour tang and he groaned in appreciation.

"And I love that too."

You laughed softly, coaxing him down into a kiss, not caring that he could likely taste himself on your tongue. He probably got off on that too, you giggled to yourself.

"I love you," he mumbled against your lips as you came up for air, peppering soft kisses across your cheek and jaw, down to your neck.

You swallowed, catching his bristled chin between your fingers to draw his mouth back to yours, letting the smell of his aftershave and warmth of his skin pressed against yours suffuse into you before you answered.

"I love you too."

*****

You came out of the bathroom to the sound of him cracking yet more pills out of their plastic packet. Turning when he heard the door open, he threw them into his mouth and shot you a smile before washing them down. Uneasiness blossoming in your stomach, you tightened the belt of the hotel's white fluffy dressing gown and sat down, cross-legged, on the bed.

"Has it been bad today?"

A frown creased across his face for a second, gone so quickly it might never have been there at all.

"Sorry?"

"The pain."

"Oh. No, not really. Just normal, I think. Though, I might have just overdone it a bit there," he replied with a wink before disappearing into the bathroom.

As soon as the door clicked shut you scooted across the bed to see what he'd taken, the packet casually discarded on his bedside table.

Oxycodone, all the small holes empty.

The toilet flushed and you retreated to your original spot before he came out, drying his hands.

"Why did you ask that?"

Forcing yourself to meet his eye, you swallowed.

"No reason." He frowned and you sighed, fusing a hand over your hair. "You just seem to have been taking a lot of pills today and I was worried I'd hurt you, or we'd walked too far, or… I dunno, I was just concerned."

His face relaxed and he chucked the towel back onto the bathroom counter.

"Well there's nothing to worry about," he replied lightly, busying himself with picking up his hastily discarded clothes, the scars on his back standing out pinkly against his skin above the band of his boxers.

"You sure?"

The words left your mouth before you could stop them and you saw his shoulders tense. Straightening, he turned slowly, a half-folded shirt in his hands.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing… I just worry. It's my one flaw." You passed it off with a smile and he chuckled, but it sounded just as forced as your smile. "I just didn't realise you had to take so many, that's all. They're strong stuff."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you know about how strong they are?"

"I— I don't. What I mean is… everyone's heard of Tramadol, right? And oxycodone is…"

You trailed off under his chilly stare.

"Why do you seem to know so much about what I'm taking all of a sudden?"

"Why shouldn't I? Is it a secret?"

His frown deepened. "No. But my painkillers aren't really any of your business."

"Oh, so you want to leave your wife for me, but the pain management of the man I love isn't any of my business??"

"Unless you're my GP, no. It's not."

"And you get all those pills from your GP, do you, Steve?" you shot back, unable to stop the fears that had been building within you for weeks from spilling out.

He froze for a second before straightening his shoulders. "Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean??"

"Nothing…" you said, picking at a tread on the sleeve of your dressing gown, regretting even starting this conversation. It was entirely the wrong time to having it. Why were you spoiling what had been a lovely evening?

"Answer me, Bella. You clearly mean something. Spit it out."

You flinched slightly at the sharpness of his tone, a rare display of the headteacher he could be, the one he usually kept hidden under gentle, jovial cajolling.

"You left a packet of oxycodone at my house last week," you began, hesitantly, watching him closely. "I tried to give it back at school, but you know what it's like. So I thought…" You swallowed and two deep lines formed between his brows.

"You thought what?"

"I thought I'd just leave them in your drawer."

He stiffened, colour beginning to drain from his cheeks.

"You went through my things?"

"No. I mean, I didn't mean to. I was concerned—"

"You had no right—"

"I love you!" you snapped. "I just wanted to understand what you were taking, ok? Because I was worried when Celia—"

"What the fuck does Celia have to do with this??"

"She's a pharmaceutical rep, she told me what the oxy was. And my sister said—"

He barked a rough breath of laughter.

"Jesus fucking christ, Bella. You go through my things - my personal, private things - and then you talk to anyone except me about it…"

"I… I don't have a lot of luck with people and drugs," you mumbled.

"Drugs..??" he exclaimed, staring at you in confusion. "Wait, do you mean to tell me that you think I'm some sort of druggie, is that it??"

"No, I—"

"You see me taking pills and just assume that makes I'm some kind of addict? I was in a fucking car crash, Bella! You know that! You want the truth? Well here it is: my back is fucked and it hurts all the fucking time. Every single minute of every single day. I take those fucking pills for some fucking relief."

"I'm sorry… I just—" you mumbled

"You're unbelievable," he snapped, raking his fingers through his hair. "I do all this for you, I change all my plans to leave Helen for you sooner, even though it's probably going to fuck up my girls, and this is how you thank me."

You sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "I never asked you for this," you said, gesturing around the grand room. "And I would have shared the cost but you wouldn't let me. And don't you dare throw your kids at me like that! I told you, if you don't want to leave her now, then there's a perfectly sensible alternative on the table. I'm not forcing you to do anything."

He cleared his throat scornfully.

"And I never said that you're not in pain either," you continued, climbing off the bed. "But you don't take them like 'oh, look, it's time for my pills'. You take them all the time, like you're not even aware you're doing it. And you can't tell me you're supposed to take that many because the dosage was right there on the fucking box."

"I take what I need to—"

"To numb what you're feeling."

"No—"

"I think you do. That day at the conference - you'd already taken your normal dosage. I know because I saw you do it when we were upstairs, but then you started taking extra because you were stressed. Today on the beach, you'd already had at least four before we even got there but as soon as the conversation got hard, you took another. And again in the pub. That oxy is like fucking morphine and you're popping them like they're fucking tic-tacs, Steve, so don't lie to me, it's insulting."

"You have no idea what you're talking about. How fucking dare you—"

"And then there's the fact that half the boxes in your desk were unmarked."

He squinted at you. "I don't know what you—"

"They didn't have pharmacy stickers."

"So?? That makes me a fucking druggie then does it? Because some minimum wage kid at the chemist didn't put a sticker on a fucking box."

"You know who else doesn't put stickers on the boxes?"

He scowled at you in response.

"Dealers," you said, his scowl deepening, red climbing his face. His whole body was tense, hands flexing in fists at his sides and for a moment you wondered if you should be afraid of him. Of being here, alone, with him. But you dismissed the thought almost as fast as it arrived. He might be many things but he wasn't dangerous. Not to other people anyway.

"So you see a box without a label and you decide that two plus two equals four hundred and seventy-six, and now I'm a scumbag addict scoring a fix, is that it?" he hissed.

Wrapping your arms around your waist, you took a deep breath.

"Both my parents were scumbag addicts. And I grew up watching what happened when they scored a fix."

He flinched like you'd slapped him.

"Yeah. I know what I'm talking about. I know what addiction does to people. To the people they love. Cassie tried to convince me I was wrong, and I let her because I didn't want it to be true."

"It's not true."

"Then tell me where you got those pills."

"I already did! The fucking chemist."

"You're lying, Steve. The fucking pharmacist would never let them go out like that. There are fucking rules, especially with how strong those drugs are. You think they're not checking every fucking opioid that goes out the door??"

He dragged a hand down his face, scratching at his beard.

"What do you want me to say, Bella?? You've clearly already made up your mind."

"I just want you to tell me the truth. If we're going to do this - you and me - you cannot lie to me about this."

"I'm not—"

With an anguished groan you threw your hands up. "Fine. Have it your way. I'm going to bed."

Stomping around to your side of the bed to you shrugged off the gown, letting it fall to the floor, and climbed into bed. Switching off the night you huddled against the edge of the mattress, putting as much distance between you as possible.

"Come on, Bella, don't be so fucking infantile."

You didn't reply, hunching further in on yourself, until at last you heard him curse under his breath and the shuffling of him getting into bed too. The bed dipped as he got in beside you and the room was plunged into darkness, as tears leaked across the bridge of your nose, soaking down into the pillow by your cheek.

*****

You lay awake for a long time and you could tell he was too by the rhythm of his breathing and the way he tossed and turned.

"I know you're awake," he said eventually, but you didn't reply.

"Bella."

"Go to sleep."

He moved closer to you, his fingers brushing lightly down your arm but you jerked away.

"Why won't you believe me?"

"Because I know I'm right." You rolled over suddenly to face him, startling him, though you were barely able to make out more than a Steve-shaped mound of darker shadow in front of you. "I've spent literal decades of my life watching the people I love lie to me about drugs, lie to me about using, lie about being high. Trying to hide it from me, pushing me away, making me feel like I was going insane. Promising me it would never happen again."

A fresh tear leaked down your cheek and you scrubbed it away in frustration.

"I didn't want it to be true. That's why I let Cassie and Cee convince me I was seeing ghosts. But I've been watching you since Birmingham, Steve, and you've been getting sloppier around me. I don't want to be right about this - believe me, I don't. But I am. And I don't know if you're just not ready to accept it, or if you're just so used to lying that you don't know what else to do—"

"I'm not ly—"

You swore bitterly under your breath. "If you're not going to be honest with me, there's no point in talking about this anymore tonight," you huffed, rolling away from him again, tucking the duvet tight around you.

Silence lapsed between you again, the space between you larger than just the expansive hotel bed.

"What happened with your parents?" he asked softly and you hugged the covers more tightly.

"They were both addicts, from the time we were born," you began after a moment, voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't even know how they let them take us home from the hospital, but they did. But they were our parents and we didn't know that wasn't how parents were supposed to be. Not until we went to school anyway. But where we grew up, we weren't the only kids in the class with parents who'd choose shooting up over making sure there was fucking milk and bread in the house."

He shuffled slightly closer and you rolled onto your back, staring up into the darkness, falling backwards into the past.

"Once, when Bonnie and I were about five, they got so high they left the hob on with a pan of water on it, and it boiled dry and almost burned our house down. We were lucky one of the neighbours saw smoke and called the fire brigade. And they were always disappearing - sometimes for days at a time - out on benders. I remember so many nights of me and Bon huddled under the covers together, listening to them arguing about who got the last hit when there wasn't enough for two."

"Jesus," he murmured, inching closer and you no longer had the energy to pull away, the warmth of him comforting as old, unpleasant memories engulfed you.

"By the time we were six, I was regularly making dinner for us both. When there wasn't food in the house - which was often - we stole it. I'd be the distraction, crying like I'd hurt myself, and Bonnie'd grab what she could." You laughed dryly, letting your head rest against his chest. "It was like Ready, Steady, Cook. Never knew what she'd come out with and we'd have to do our best to make something from it."

"Why did no one ever call Social Services?" he asked hoarsely and you shrugged.

"Around our way, that was just how it was. Nobody cared, not back then. Everyone had their own shit going on and if you meddled with the wrong people, it could be dangerous. I didn't know it at the time, but our dad dealt for the big man on the estate, and no one was going to risk trying to help us in case our dad sent Harry Downy after them. Our grandparents did their best and they tried to protect us - we lived with them a lot - but eventually our mum would always show up, screaming and threatening them until they had to give us back."

He kissed your temple, hand warm against your stomach and you covered his fingers with yours.

"I don't know why she bothered, it's not like she wanted anything to do with us when we were there. But I suppose it was the guilt."

You swallowed at the ball pushing in your throat.

"But it wasn't all bad. There were the bits in between, when they would get clean for a few weeks, or sometimes even months. And they'd take care of us and tell us it wouldn't happen again. But it always did. They'd lie and lie and lie… Bonnie was smarter than me - she knew it was bullshit - but I wanted to believe them so much that it took me by surprise every time."

You took a deep breath, squeezing absentmindedly at his wrist.

"And then when we were eight, our dad died of an overdose."

He stiffened, grip tightening around you. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"After he died, mum got clean - properly clean for the first time since we were born, I think. But then she met Frank, and then she got pregnant with our brother, and it started all over again. And at least it's not coke and smack and pills anymore, but Frank's a drinker, so… she just picked that up instead. Booze and fags and a bit of weed. She hasn't been properly sober since I was twelve."

Lapsing into silence, exhausted, you rested against him, breathing in the sharp notes of his aftershave that still clung to his skin.

"I'm so sorry, Bells," he said again, kissing your hair. "I didn't know…"

"It's not exactly a heartwarming family story."

"No…" He cleared his throat. "But just because you had such a tough upbringing and your parents struggled, doesn't mean—"

You pushed away from him and he struggled to keep you close, a strong arm around your waist as you flattened your palms against his chest.

"Let go—"

"Stop… stop it," he hushed you, other hand coming to cradle the back of your neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that happened to you. That's no way for a kid to grow up. And look, I get it. I can see what you were saying earlier, but I've got it under control. I'm not like them, I'm not addicted. I just take a few extra, here and there, when I need to take the edge off because what they gave me doesn't work—"

"That's how it starts, Steve."

"I'm fine," he said emphatically, stroking your hair. "I promise you. You have nothing to worry about."

"But—"

He silenced you with his lips against yours, soft and insistent.

"I love you, Bells. I promise, it'll be ok. I'm not like that."

Your chest tightened, tears spilling over and down your cheeks.

"Hey, c'mon on now… don't cry, pretty girl," he soothed, wrapping you in his arms, curling himself around you. "I've got you, you're ok. It'll be ok, I promise."

NEXT

Guys, do we think it will be ok? It might not be ok... 🙈 As ever, come yell at me in all the usual ways, I weep with joy at your comments 🤍

NOTE: I really grappled with how to bring the issue of Steve's addiction issues out in as careful and sensitive a way as I could. And to be very clear, of course I don't think people who need to take pain meds for chronic pain are addicts! But Steve definitely is 🙈 We also have to factor into this that the story takes place in the 90s and I think we probably have better understanding and vocabulary around dependency and addiction now, than we did back then. That said, I don't have any first hand experience of these things, so if you think anything here feels wildly inappropriate please do tell me (kindly if you can, any error was unintentional) so I can address it. Thanks, xx

Masterlists: CILLIAN | SERIES | MAIN

You arrived early, as you always did. The corridors were still half-dark, the smell of polish and damp wool hanging in the air. You unlocked the classroom and watched the mist bloom and fade on the windows. It would be a long day. They were nearly always long, but you told yourself they were worth it.

By eight the noise had started—the scuffle of shoes, the high laughter that never sounded kind. The lads were wild already, their tempers thin. You kept your voice even, your patience steady, the way he’d taught you. He said boys like these had to be met where they were, not where you wanted them to be.

He came by mid-morning, standing in the doorway with his coffee and that tired half-smile. All right there? he asked, the Irish softening the words, turning them over gently. You said you were fine, though you weren’t. His cuffs were damp from the rain. He looked like a man who’d been carrying something too heavy for too long. When he went on down the corridor, the day pressed closer, then eased, as if the building itself were breathing with him.

By lunchtime two boys had fought again—one bleeding from the nose, the other shouting threats he didn’t mean. You helped separate them, your hands shaking afterwards. When it was done you stepped outside, past the bins and the cracked paving, into the little garden where no one went. The air was cold and wet, full of the smell of soil and smoke. You stayed longer than you meant to, counting your breaths. Then you heard his step on the gravel.

“Thought you might’ve legged it,” he said, the humor thin but kind. He looked at you for a long moment. The blister pack was in his hand, his thumb pressed to the foil. He didn’t open it. “You all right?”

You said yes. He nodded, as though he knew you were lying, and left you to the damp air and your fast heart. After he went you knew what you wanted from him had already begun to grow beyond what was proper. You wondered if he knew, if he could sense it in you—the way you waited for his voice, the way the day always seemed harder until you heard it.

The afternoon sagged. In the staff room Amanda, the deputy head, sat with her folder open and her bright voice. 

“You all right, love?” she asked, aloud for the room. 

You said you were fine. She closed the folder but didn’t move. 

“You don’t look it. It’s all right to say no. We can’t fix everything.” 

Heat rose in you. You felt eyes that weren’t there and still you blushed. 

He came in then, his coat wet at the shoulders. “You’re giving her the third degree, Amanda,” he said lightly, the weight of his voice closing the matter. 

The air loosened. She laughed and left. He stayed, rinsing a mug, watching the steam. “You sure you’re all right?” You nodded. “You don’t have to be,” he said. The words stayed after he’d gone, ticking like the heater, soft and relentless.

-

You’d forgotten you were on overnight duty until you saw the rota. Your name beside his. The realisation sat heavy and bright. You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was only work. The boys would sleep, or pretend to, and you’d do the rounds as always.

At nine the corridors were quiet, the kind of quiet that hums rather than rests. You straightened a blanket, picked up a shoe left by a door, and found the staff room lit. 

He was there, coat off, a bottle of red open. “Small one?” he said. You hesitated, then nodded. The wine looked thin, more brown than red. 

“Vinegar,” he said after a sip. “Should’ve left it for the kitchen.” 

You smiled. He turned the blister pack once, twice, then flattened it with his palm. 

“Do they help?” you asked, surprising yourself. 

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not always.”

The bottle emptied by talk and silence. He spoke as if to the room. 

“You ever think we do more harm than good?” You looked at his hands, the careful way he held the glass. 

“Some days,” you said. “Most days.” 

He nodded. “Them boys—” His voice caught on the word. “They’ve been hurt in ways we’ll never get near. I tell myself I’m helping. Then I go home and I can’t sleep for thinking of all I might’ve made worse.” 

You said, “You care. That’s what matters.” 

He laughed, gentle and sad. “Caring’s the curse, isn’t it?” 

The rain tapped at the window. He told you he should ring home later, check on the girls. You felt the word settle—girls—like a stone dropped into water. Plaits, small shoes by a door. Another life that did not include you. Knowing it was different to hearing it in his mouth.

When you left him there the taste of the wine stayed, sour and warming. You stood for a long time in the corridor listening to the building.

-

You slept badly and woke to a pale morning. He passed you by the office door, sleeves rolled, papers under his arm. He smiled politely and went on. The distance hurt. At breakfast you stirred tea until it went cold and could not stop hearing his voice: 

You don’t have to be all right. 

By evening the air had the thin light of surrender. You saw him through the glass of his office—elbows on knees, head bowed. A folder open: a boy being moved on. 

He said, “They keep telling me it’s for the best. A fresh start. God help us if this is the best we’ve got.” 

The next morning the puddles in the yard held the sky. In the staff room Amanda laughed about a broken window. You hung your coat and willed your face to calm. He was by the noticeboard. His eyes found yours across the room. 

There were no right words. You put a hand on his sleeve. He covered it. The warmth of him startled you. He stood and drew you in. His coat smelled of rain and soap. When he kissed you it was light, careful, as if asking permission he already had. Footsteps passed. You parted, looked away, said nothing. He told you to go. You did, your legs unsteady, the rain on the window like an ending you’d barely begun.

-

You smiled too wide; he returned it, small and certain. Relief lifted and then you pushed it down, as you had learned to push everything down. 

Later he found you alone. He stood at the door. “I should apologise,” he said. “For yesterday. For—” 

“Don’t,” you said. 

“You’re not upset?” 

“No.” 

He let out a breath like a laugh. “Christ. That’s a relief.” 

He looked like a man deciding to carry a little more. 

You said, “I’ve thought about it all day.” 

He said, “So have I.” 

He brushed your wrist with his fingers, and then the space between you gave. The kiss was slower, steadier, meant to be remembered. The clock in the corridor struck. You both stepped back. 

“We should—” he started, and didn’t finish. You nodded and stayed where you were.

-

That week a fight near the bins went bad. You did what training said to do. Someone slipped, someone swore; by evening the story had teeth. You’d left them unsupervised, you’d failed to follow protocol, you’d raised your voice. None of it true, not exactly. A report was promised. Amanda’s voice grew clipped. He said nothing. You sat alone in the empty classroom, the air thick with bleach and old noise. What you feared most wasn’t the reprimand. It was what he might think—that he would see you as careless, another weight for him to carry. At his office door you heard serious matter, incident report, unacceptable lapse. 

He turned and saw you. “You all right?” he asked, and you could not answer. “Don’t worry,” he said, quiet, official. “We’ll sort it.” His hand on your arm, brief, unseen. “Go home. Get some rest.”

Morning came pale and cold. “Steve’ll want to see you,” Amanda said, passing through. 

He was at his desk, sleeves rolled, coffee gone cold. “I read the report,” he said. “I spoke with the boys. And Amanda.” He rubbed his mouth. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. They’ll still expect a response. I’ll take responsibility. I should’ve checked the rota. You were stretched thin.” 

“You don’t have to—” 

“I do,” he said. “That’s how this works. The head takes it.” He looked at you and whatever he saw softened him. “You did the right thing. You kept it from getting worse. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” 

Your throat tightened. Gratitude and something else rose to the same place. Outside, the bell rang. 

It was late when the house settled—a slow breathing in the pipes, a cough down the corridor, rain lifting and returning in soft veils. You found him in the staff room reading a report he wasn’t reading. 

“Go on,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment, bracing himself. “Get back out there.”

-

“You all right?” he asked. 

“I am,” you said. “Are you?” 

He smiled, rueful. “Not especially.” 

You stood by the window and watched your two reflections share the glass. He came to stand beside you. He touched a strand of your hair as if you were a page he wished to mark and could not. When he kissed you this time it was quiet and certain. You let yourself be kissed and learned the particular peace of his nearness, and the cost of it, both at once. 

“What does this mean?” you asked. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “But it feels like something I can’t stop wanting.” 

You let yourself hope then, for the length of a breath. Then you walked the corridor together in silence, your torch-beams two narrow rivers of light.

-

It was a Thursday when the thought took shape. The air of the office had turned stale and yellow by evening. He lingered at the door, tapping a file against his hand, his eyes shadowed in the way that did not come from sleep alone. 

“I keep thinking,” you said before the courage left, “we could try this—away from here.” He looked as if the word itself hurt. 

“Try what?” 

“This. Whatever it is. We could meet somewhere. Where we’re not staff. Where no one knows us.” 

He stared at the space between you, the struggle plain. Then his shoulders dropped, the fight leaving him. “Would that help?” he asked. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Would you want that?” 

“Yes.” 

He exhaled, a sound between a sigh and surrender. “All right.” He stepped closer, not touching—only near enough that his warmth reached you. “Saturday,” he said. “A pub by the river. Six. Come in after me, not before.” He turned to go. “This shouldn’t happen,” he said.

“I know,” you said. He gave the smallest smile and left you to the rain.

-

You arrived in town early and walked by the river until your nerves slowed. The water was high and brown, running quickly. The pub windows were steamed, the door swollen with damp. Inside, the air smelled of smoke and wet wool. 

He was in the corner, different without the tie and the walls, his hair falling forward. “You found it,” he said. 

“I walked past twice,” you said. 

“Good instincts,” he said, and that small tired smile did its work. 

You sat across from him at a table scarred with old initials. He ordered two drinks and you held the glass for warmth, not thirst. For a while you talked about ordinary things—the boiler, the damp in the corridors, a boy who slept at last. No one looked at you twice. The fire caught and fell. His voice was softer here, as if the listening walls were behind him now. When his hand found yours on the table it was no accident. He traced the back of your fingers with his thumb, small deliberate circles, his eyes never leaving yours. The touch felt like language. All that should have stopped you stood far away in the flicker and hum. 

“It’s good to see you here,” he said. “Like this.” 

You could not answer, so you turned your hand and held his. The moment lengthened, a room inside the room. 

“Shall we go?” he asked, quiet as a blessing. You nodded and followed him into the rain.

-

The hotel stood back from the road, plain as a held breath. The corridor smelled of polish and damp carpet; the key was hot in his palm, as if it had remembered other hands. In the room the lamp made a low hum. The curtains didn’t quite meet. He set the key down and looked at you properly, as if to confirm you were real. You reached for one another at the same time, not with haste but with relief. The first kiss answered more than it asked. He held the back of your head, careful in your hair, and the day folded itself away. The bed creaked when you sat. He knelt to untie your shoes, his hands steady, almost formal, as if every gesture required permission and had been granted. You touched his face—the line of his jaw, the soft beard there, the tired beneath his eyes—and he closed them, breathing you in. When he kissed the hollow of your throat you felt the hum of it move through you; not hunger, not yet, but recognition. You did not name it. Names would have made it smaller.

You learned each other slowly. Buttons, breath, the smallness of the room. His hands trembled and then did not. You found the warmth at his shoulder, the place at his back where worry lived and softened under your palm. He whispered something you didn’t catch and did not ask him to repeat. There was a sense of being given back to yourself, of coming to the end of a long corridor and discovering a door you had always known how to open. 

When you came together it was careful and then certain, quiet as the rain on the window, a rhythm that belonged to no one else. You held on and let go and held on again, the world narrowed to breath and the steady weight of his body and the light at the edge of the curtain. 

-

Afterwards the air smelled of rain and warm skin. He lay beside you with his arm across your stomach, the weight of it light but sure. The clock ticked, steady as a second heart. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice roughened, as if the words had climbed through something to reach daylight. You nodded. He smiled in that tired, honest way. “Thank you,” he said, as if you’d given him more than a moment’s peace. 

You watched him dress, button by button, as if this tenderness were something you must do carefully so that it would last.

-

You carried the room back to the school like a small warm thing inside your coat. No one knew. You learned to wear the secret lightly. At breakfast you stood on opposite sides of the urn and spoke about rotas, your faces plain. In the corridor your shoulder might brush his sleeve and nothing would be said and everything would be felt. You met in town again, not every week, not predictably. A rhythm formed that asked for no promises and gave none. He did not speak of home; you did not ask. Sometimes, in the half-sleep of a late hour, he said the girls and went quiet, and you lay still and did not turn your face away.

You did your work. You held a boy’s shaking hands. You stood with another at the edge of the field and waited for the dark to loosen its hold. He did his work too, quietly, bearing what he could. When things went wrong he took the blame like a coat he was used to wearing. He stayed older than his years and kinder than he should have been. You learned the weather of his moods—the thin days when the pills in his pocket called, the rare laughter that made you look up without meaning to. If he looked back you looked down and pretended to search for keys.

-

One afternoon, weeks later, the same room held you again. The lamplight felt dimmer, the shade a little crooked. You had not arranged it; you had simply arrived, like people arriving at a church that opens each day at the same hour. He set down his coat and stood a moment, taking you in. You undressed each other without hurry. There was tenderness that had learned its path. There was care that did not need to be spoken. When you lay together afterwards you did not touch. You watched the slow sweep of headlights across the wall and felt the ache of what could not be changed settle into its familiar place.

“We can’t ask for more, can we?” you said. 

He was quiet for a long time, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.” 

You nodded, and it hurt, and still you nodded. There was no anger in the room, no regret. Only that tired sort of gratitude—this small, stolen thing existed at all. He reached for your hand and held it loosely. 

“I don’t want to lose this,” he said. 

“You won’t,” you said. “Not while we have it.” 

You both knew what that meant. Not forever. Not even long. Just for now.

He dressed and you watched his ring catch the light. He saw you looking and gave a faint, sad smile. “I should go,” he said. 

“I know.” 

He kissed you once more, brief and certain, and was gone. You lay back and listened to the rain take his place. For a moment you pictured the school—the boys sleeping, the corridors still and dark, the life waiting for you to return—and you understood that this was the keeping place: the quiet room inside yourself where something tender could live, even when it shouldn’t.

You walked back through town with the lamp-lit windows and the small dogs nosing puddles and the smell of chips hanging in the air. Your coat held his warmth a little longer. In the corridor you passed a wall of photographs of boys. You did not look. You knew all their faces by name.

In the morning you rose early. You set the heater humming, wiped the mist from the window, laid out the books. You listened for his step and pretended you weren’t listening. He came by with coffee, shirt rumpled, his eyes soft in the way that didn’t match the rest of him. 

“All right there?” he said. 

“Fine,” you said. 

It meant not fine, and he knew it, and he smiled anyway. The day went on. You thought of the room when you needed to be steady. You thought of his laugh when it came, rare as the sun.

You did not call it love. The word would have required a different life. You called it what you could: mercy, sometimes. A small mercy kept in a quiet place. Enough to carry you from one door to the next, from rain to light, from morning to the hour the building finally stilled. You went on. You learned the names. You said them softly. You met where no one knew you. You did your work. You chose tenderness, even when you shouldn’t, and it wasn’t everything. But it was what you had. And somehow, in that quiet, it was enough.