#stluvs

A pale stream of sunlight poured in through the window leaving you disoriented as you stirred awake. Last time you checked you didn’t have a window adjacent to your bed, nor was it usually this warm in the morning. You thought back to the previous night and the only thing you could recollect was an all-consuming ringing in your ears. Unable to recall anything of substance, you pushed the covers down and sat up slowly, swinging your legs over the side when you were sure you wouldn’t get dizzy. Your eyes focused on the walls painted a mint green color, and what had happened last night seemed to finally click in your mind. You’d fallen asleep at Steve’s last night, the alcohol you’d consumed leaving you unable to drive home, though you didn’t remember falling asleep in that bedroom.

The walls in the hallway were gray with white trimming along the top. The house seemed oddly unlike him, the only signs that he’d even lived there being the scratches on the wall that he’d undoubtedly made as a child. There were windows on either side of the hallway with beige curtains pulled to the side. You looked out the window to see your car parked in the driveway and the road covered in snow.

It’s snowing. How did you fail to notice that before? Was that on the forecast? You pushed that thought away for a few minutes, opting to worry about that later.

Steve was already downstairs, the smell of his cooking making its way up the stairs along with the soft crackle of the fireplace. He turned down the stove at the sound of your footsteps, turning around to face you a moment later. 

“D’you sleep okay?” 

Somehow, Steve seemed softer in the mornings, his old t-shirt not quite covering his tummy as he reached over to grab a plate.

“Yeah,” you paused, “I don't remember falling asleep there though.” Steve stayed quiet for a minute, like a child who’d done something wrong and had been caught in the process. You’d assumed that you’d fallen asleep there and forgotten but something about the way Steve was looking at you, his honey-brown eyes twinkling with fondness, made you change your mind.

“I carried you there,” he said softly, “is that okay? thought you wouldn’t want to sleep on the couch and I didn’t wanna wake you up…” You nodded with a smile and he seemed to deflate with relief.

“d’you wanna eat anything?” You nodded again and he smiled, flipping the pancake on the stove before putting it on the plate. He handed you the plate and you sat down, watching Steve move around the kitchen with a smile. For a second you let yourself indulge in the domesticity of that moment, let yourself believe that this was more than what it was, your friend doing a nice thing for you.

Do friends do this for one another?

You ignored the thought, grabbing syrup and pouring it on the pancakes before grabbing your silverware. Steve joined you a few minutes later, setting down his plate and a plate of sliced fruit before he sat down. His eyebrows puckered once he noticed you hadn’t started yet.

“You didn’t have to wait for me babe,” he frowned. You didn’t know why, but your heart swelled at the nickname. Maybe it was the ease with which it fell from his tongue. The way it came so easily to him to treat you like something delicate and fragile. It was the way you felt yourself melting at the word.

“I wanted to,” you paused, “it felt wrong to start without you.”

In complete honesty, you’d gotten distracted watching him. Trying to memorize every little habit of his in the morning to make the moment last longer. Something about him had you completely and utterly bewitched. The way he would hum softly to the record he had playing in the background soothing you.

You ate in silence for a few minutes, both of you looking up every so often only to see the other doing the same. The only thing you could hear was the scraping of cutlery against ceramic plates. Steve was the one who penetrated the silence, the scrape of his chair legs against the ground making him wince as he stood up. You followed suit a few minutes after, setting your plate and utensils in the sink before washing your hands.

“it’s snowing” He regretted the words as soon as they fell from his lips. You didn’t give him much time to mull it over though, relieved that he’d been the one to start a conversation as you nodded.

“It’s pretty,”

He smiled. 

“You think?”

“Almost distracts you from the fact that you’re snowed in.” 

It was true. Somehow he’d gotten through breakfast and the majority of this conversation without thinking about that. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to spend time with you, he did. In fact, he’d dreamed about having a morning similar to this one with you for a while. But all Steve could think about was how right it felt to see you in his kitchen. To see you leaning against the counter as you messed with the hem of your shirt. He tore his eyes away from yours and you did the same, somehow able to sense the nature of his thoughts. Unable to continue the conversation, Steve excused himself to clean, which. in his mind, wasn’t a lie. The kitchen was a mess from last night. So much so that you couldn’t believe you didn’t notice it earlier. You stood there for a few moments before following, deciding that he would need your help considering the state of his house.

By the time you were finished, the both of you were exhausted. The dust that was stirred up made Steve sneeze, and still, he insisted on taking the vacuum cleaner from you, insisting that you’d already done enough. You know he didn't have any ill intentions in doing so, in fact, you couldn’t help but daydream about that moment.

Your back is pressed against his torso, and the warmth from his skin was seeping into yours through your shirt as he whispered to you, “Honey, you know you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” you said simply. You could feel the vibrations in his chest as he spoke softly. 

“You've done lots already, let me help,” It was a sort of back and forth, a dance with one hand tied behind your back as the both of you refused to acknowledge what was obviously there. At some point you let him have it, turning around to face him only to realize you’d overestimated the distance between the both of you. Your breath hitched and for a moment, so short that you thought you imagined it, you could see a flicker of want in his eyes. He stood there, his gaze lingering just a second too long on your lips before he swallowed and he stepped back to give you space.

He’d wanted to kiss you and you knew it. You could see it in the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallowed. Could feel it in the way his heartbeat had quickened when your chest was pressed against his. And all you could think was why? Why didn’t he kiss you? Why did he ask if you wanted to share his bed? Why had you agreed? Granted he could see you shivering and this is something that you’d wanted forever but it didn't stop you from wondering.

“what’s on your mind?” His voice was soft, so soft, sweet even. His palm was flat against your back, leaving little room between the two of you as his scent, the faint smell of hairspray, consumed your senses. You couldn’t help but wonder how. How he could lay next to you and pretend nothing had happened. Have the warmth of his body seeping into your skin and be okay.

“Can I ask you something?”

“you just did babe,” a childlike smile made its way onto his lips. You fought the urge to mirror it.

“Steve you know what I meant,”

“You can ask me whatever you want, sweet.”

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?” you wondered, “we both wanted to so why didn’t you?”

“oh honey, I—” Your chest ached at the endearment.

“And why do you keep calling me that if you don’t want me?”

“What made you think I don’t want you?” 

“Steve–”

“I want you babe, I’ve been wanting you, so much it hurts. As for your other question, I got scared.”  

His voice got quiet, as if he were ashamed to admit it. Years later he’d explain to you that it all felt more real as he said the last word. Like the entire conversation had been a dream and he’d only now come to realize that the rise and fall of your chest underneath his palm was real. Nonetheless, you went quiet at his words, rewriting the situation in your mind according to the new piece of information you’d gotten.

“You got scared?”

“Mhm”

“you scared now?” he shook his head and you smiled, “then what's stopping you”

His lips were featherlight against yours, one hand holding your jaw like you were something delicate and fragile. Like you would shatter in his hands. It was all-consuming and barely there at the same time and you couldn’t help wanting more.

“Steve,” you pulled away for a second and he pouted at the loss of you, “More, please.”

“You sure?” 

You nodded.

“Words baby I need words.”

“Please, I need you,” That seemed to be good enough for him as his thumb dipped under the waistband of your shorts. The sound that you let out was soft and high-pitched, something between a gasp and a moan when his thumb met your clit.

“That’s cute,” he paused, “do that again for me ‘kay?”

He slotted one of his legs between yours before slipping one of his fingers into you. Your breath hitched in your throat and Steve smiled. It was all a haze, the feel of his skin against yours making you dizzy

“This okay?” He pushed another inside you, the slight stretch making you whimper as it toed the line between pain and pleasure.

“mhm,” He pumped his fingers into you lazily, your slick leaking on his hands and wrist. He had his fingers curled to hit that spot inside you that had you seeing stars. 

“Steve” you cried. His mouth fell open at your words, and he swore he’d died and gone to heaven. He quickened the pace of his fingers, and you clenched around him, becoming increasingly desperate for your release.

“God you have no idea how much I’ve been wanting this,” It was lewd really, the way Steve talked to you. The way you could feel his smile against your neck at every little sound you made. The way you could feel his hard cock twitch against your back. The knot in your tummy seemed to tighten as your walls did the same around his fingers.

“That’s it,” his voice was low, the words whispered against the column of your throat, “cum for me honey I know you can.” A mixture of whimpers and whines and his name tumbled past your lips as Steve coaxed you through your orgasm.

Steve’s nose is dusted pink, the freckled skin sunburnt from one too many times in the heat without protection. His lips are twisted into a smile. The kind that feels rare. The kind that has the same effect on you as a shooting star or an eclipse. You have to stop and stare for just a moment, turning the smile on his face from one of joy to the teasing kind. 

The way you’re staring isn’t rude in any way, just more intense, full of the need to pull at the seams of his very being to figure out how he is who he is; To figure out how the same person, who’d been cooing at a puppy a moment ago, a furry tiny thing, can now be staring back at you with the same intensity, his mouth opening, and closing as he does so. 

The leather hat on his head is a faded brown, clearly well-loved over the years. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, taking with it any hope that he’ll say something — anything.

It’s laughable really, the way that even after all these years you still find yourself staring. That you stayed there. In that fancy restaurant with the fizzy drink you ordered on your left-hand side and the boy, you’d just been staring at in front of you. He was younger, his hair darker and his skin lacking the freckles he’d gain in the years to come.

You stayed there.

In the way Steve put his hand on yours when the words left his lips. The same lips that’d kissed you so many times you’d lost count. The same lips that’d mouthed at the slope of your cheek every time you smiled because he thought it was endearing. 

Your memory isn’t that great really, but somehow you’d managed to engrave every detail of that moment into your mind, down to how Steve’s voice had lifted at the end of each sentence. Like he was asking you a question rather than informing you of something. Like if you’d begged he would’ve listened. 

You thought about it — about pleading with him to stay and asking him what went wrong, convincing yourself for a while that closure was what you needed. But it didn’t seem to matter now. 

No amount of closure could truly satisfy you and time had taught you that. No amount of closure would prevent bumping into him at the grocery store or the way heat still blossomed in your chest when he looked at you. No amount, you’d decided, would fill the gap he’d left in his wake.

“You’re starin’,” the voice comes from beside you, a little boy whose face you only half recognize, “my Ma says it isn’t nice to stare.”

“Yeah?” he nods, “tell your Ma it’s only rude if they catch you.” The boy grins and turns around, no doubt running home to tell his mother what you had said. You imagine she’d laugh at that, shuddering and failing to hide a smile as she tells off the boy for believing such things. The boy would then nod in confusion. Perplexed as to the way his mother’s words and expression contradicted each other, and that would be the end of that. You assume so at least.

What you don’t expect, however, is the boy coming back a few minutes later, this time tapping the man you’d just been staring at on the shoulder. A part of you wants to call out, to stop the boy from saying something he doesn’t know the consequences of, but one small foreign part of you tells you that he knows exactly what he’s doing. The boy points at you and there’s that smile again splitting Steve’s cheeks, the kind that lights a fire underneath your skin, slowly melting you like wax from the inside out. Steve pushes his hand down quickly, checking to see if you’d noticed before turning back.

“Your Ma ever told you that pointing is rude?”

“She says it’s only rude if they catch you.” Laughter bubbles in your chest like water in a tea kettle and you try your best to suppress it, a huff of laughter making its way from your throat instead. 

“Think this one already has,” Steve gently lifts the boy's hand with his index finger until he was pointing to you again, “Look.”

“Talk to her then.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, though to anyone else it might have been. The concept seems foreign to Steve – you haven’t been in his life for years now so why would he bother changing it now?

“What?” 

“She was just starin’ at you, it only makes sense.” 

“Guess it does,” he lets go of the hand in his, his eyes flitting from yours, now looking back at him, to the encouraging ones of the boy in front of him.

“You’re stalling,” he observes, “why are you stalling?’

“I am not stalling,”

“Why are you here,” Steve tilts his head, as if to say, fair point, before turning back to you. A shiver ripples through his spine, distributing all of his nervous energy to the tips of his fingers and toes. 

One foot in front of the other, he decides. He stepped forward, his right foot now an inch closer to you, then his left, and before he knows it he was tapping on your shoulder.

“Long time,” 

“Wonder why that is,” he almost smiled at that. After all these years, you’re the same. The same tendency to speak before thinking that he had adored at some point, the same crinkle in your nose he’d grown fond of years ago. 

“Sorry,” 

“Don’t go ‘round saying things you don’t mean”

“I do—“

“You don’t.” There is a sort of weary resignation in your voice, the kind that showcases the years you spent wondering what you’d done wrong. He isn’t sorry, and he would make the same decision over and over if he was given the same options today.

His lips part ever so slightly, heart-shaped and pink, “you see the boy over there,” his words topple on top of one another as he rushes to change the topic, “little shit pushed me in this direction, something about it only making sense.”

“Figured,” you pause, considering your next words, “did the same to me.”

“D’you think he’ll notice if we go our separate ways?”

“I think he’d grab us by our ears and push us together like dolls.”

“Doubt he’d be able to reach our ears.” He says, his voice lifting with a crack of humor.

You’re laughing now, a lovely sound he doesn’t realize he missed until he heard it. “Our ankles then.” 

“So we're stuck?”

“Don’t act like this is the worst thing in the world,” you smile. “There were times when you’d pay to be near me.”

“Still would peach,” he murmurs. “S’just an observation.”

“An observation hm?” Steve nods. “What else is an observation?”

He ponders the question for a moment. “You haven’t changed at all, same attitude and tongue like a whip.” That he’d always adored, he wanted to add, but he didn’t, no point in telling you things he’d told you multiple times before. No point in reminding you of things he’d rather not think about. 

“Yeah?” Steve hums in agreement, “And what gives you that impression?”

“The boy,” his voice is low, both rough and smooth in a way that made your skin burn, “when he pointed to you, I asked him if he’d ever been told by his Ma pointing is rude, y’know what he said?” 

You do. “No.”

“He said ‘s only rude if they catch you,” his breath is warm against your neck and suddenly you realize he’s gotten closer to you, “and something tells me his Ma isn’t the one who taught him that.”

“Why would you think that?” 

The corners of his mouth twitch and you mirror him, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. He swallows in a desperate attempt to stifle his laughter, failing a moment later. He’s right. You haven’t changed and you haven’t yet decided if you like that or not. 

He looks at his wrist, as if to check his watch, only to find the skin bare, a slight tan line apparent from hours spent in the sun. His face falls.

“Lost your watch?” you inquire. Steve adores that watch more than anything, though you can never figure out why. You just assume it was a gift of some sort.

“Stolen,” he mutters.

Your lips form an ‘o’ shape for a moment before breaking eye contact, “‘s about to be dark anyways,”

“I’ll see ya later then? Tomorrow?” You can hear the grin in his voice. You can hear it in the way his voice twisted into a pretty breathy noise at the end of his question, hope tainting his tone.

“You askin’ me out Harrington?”

“Depends,” he tapped his chin and you bit your tongue to hold back any remark you’d later regret, instead taking his bait.

“On what?” You wouldn’t ever tell him but you had the incomprehensible urge to squeeze him then, when his grin got wider and his cheeks split with the force of it. To make sure that this moment has substance and it isn’t something you conjured up in your free time.

“D’you want me to?” 

“Think the kid’s boutta answer for me,” his brows pucker, “So yes, for the boy.” You decide.

“For the boy.” He agrees.

“Till tomorrow then?” 

“Till tomorrow.” He agrees. There’s a sort of unspoken agreement between the two of you. Treat whatever it is that there still is between you like it doesn’t exist. Assume that every interaction from now on would be for the boy. No matter how much you enjoy it, it couldn’t possibly be because you want it. Ridiculous.

-

He follows through the next day, though you half didn’t expect him to, opening the door to find Steve all dressed up with lavender in a bouquet. You tell him you’re just finishing your hair—you hadn’t even started. Steve can tell, noticing the familiar frantic note in your voice.

“Take as long as you want, yeah? I’ll be right here.” 

The sweet smell of flowers travels down the hallway and reaches the bathroom. Heat blossoms in your chest and rolls over your skin, filling you until your cheeks are full of warmth. You’re out about 30 minutes later, haphazardly pulling a confused Steve into the bathroom to help you pick a necklace.

“Honey, couldn't you have shown me this out there?” He whispers after pointing to a piece of jewelry. 

“Didn’t think of that then,” you turn around and hand both ends of the chain to him before continuing.

“D’you get here okay?”

It’s a dumb question and you know it. He loves less than 10 minutes from you and he’s been to yours more times than you can count. But he indulges you.

“For the most part yeah, rode through a storm or two though.” You can feel a huff of his laughter against your neck as he fiddles with the clasp. Steve had never been good with chains and clasps smaller than his fingers, having grown accustomed to thick ropes and metal and leather reins.

“Oh?” Your lips quirk at the corners. “D’you dry off before you came in?”

“Of course, wouldn’t wanna get mud all on your floor now would I darlin’.” His tongue pokes out of the corner of his lips as he focuses, exhaling suddenly as he finally connects the clasps. “S’that it?”

Your thumb and index feel at the little chain links, searching for the clasp. “You know what?” You smile.

He mirrors it. “What?”

“I think you might’ve done it. Well done, Steve.”

“Did I?” He adjusts the necklace. “Maybe I did.”

“That’s what I like to call growth Harrington.”

“Yeah?” His voice is warm with affection. Positive reinforcement always did wonders for the boy.

You hum your approval, “Last time I asked you couldn’t even undo the latch when I handed it to you.”

“Last time you asked I was 17 and dumb.” His tone is flat like you’d struck a nerve. You aren’t exactly sure why—he’d brought your separation on himself. 

“‘m not exactly sure being able to successfully put on a necklace is what measures intelligence.” He smiles, your attempt to lighten the air having been successful. One day you’ll tell him that you only ask him to help with your clasps because the fire it lit under the skin of your neck was an addictive one. No matter how much time apart you’d spent and how bad he is at it you couldn’t help but crave it. But today isn’t that day.

“Couldn’t tell the difference between a stallion and a mare.”

“Steve, I still can’t do that.”

“Shit like that is part of my job peach.” His voice drops to a dramatic whisper. “Though if you really need to know you could always look at the underside. ‘s pretty foolproof.”

A puff of laughter erupts from your throat. “Steve ‘m gonna ask you somethin’ and you gotta be honest.”

“Shoot.” He seems to know what you’re planning on asking him, warmth flushing his cheeks even before your lips part

“How many times have you done that?”

“Oh come on darlin’ now you’re just tryin’ to embarrass me.”

You smile and his cheeks flush with warmth

“You need humblin’ every so often, I'm just taking it into my own hands.”

“You want me to be honest?” You nod and his voice drops to a whisper, “A lot. More than you would believe.”

“Makes sense. You were always real good at limbo.”

He laughs at that. “You think I’m good at limbo all ‘cause of looking at a horse's underside?”

“You said it, not me.” 

His heart is filled with sticky sweet adoration, the feeling running through his veins and under his skin. “I’ve missed you, peach.”

“You gonna take me out first or not Harrington?”

“How could I possibly forget with you lookin’ like that? You all dolled up just for me?” He tips his head forward, the brim of his hat eye level with you as he takes your hand in his.

You press your hand to your chest, a little dramatic but that’s the point. “Who else would I look like this for, hm?”

Steve grins, the kind that’s gorgeous and just a bit too cocky and you love it. He tugs you out the door with that, unlocking his car and opening the passenger side door before getting in himself.

“Say, the storm you rode through, which horse got stuck in it with you.”

“Think it’s the one you named, Cinnamon.”

“You went through with naming that poor horse, Cinnamon? Steven, it was a drunken suggestion.” He laughs, warm and low.

“Cinnamon doesn’t mind it, I’ll tell ya a secret though,” his voice lowers to a whisper, “I think Nutmeg despises her for it. The whole spice thing.”

“Stole Nutmeg’s thing hm?”

“‘s what she says.”

Your finger trails up the length of his arm, connecting freckles on tanned skin. “‘s romantic y’know, riding the horse I named to my house.”

“Of course it is, I came up with it.” You tilt your head and lift a brow. He laughs. “Not without your help of course.”

You hate how much you perk up when he says that. You hate how much you want yourself to hate him but you can’t bring yourself to, because no matter how many times you thought over the way Steve left you however many years ago, he still has you. And you still have him. And neither of you want to say it, but in this moment the boy that's brought you together couldn’t be further from your mind.

Eddie notices your expression and he lets out a huff of laughter. Heat rises to your cheeks and you look down, well, as much as you can with your face pressed into a pillow. 

His index finger tucks itself under your chin, tilting it up slightly so you were looking at him. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“What?”

You and Eddie often have sleepovers, whether it be because you had had an argument with your parents or because Wayne was out of town when he was younger. Along with that you have moments like this every once in a while. Where your friendship with him tips into something more than just that, a friendship.

“You should sleep,” you reply, deflecting to the best of your ability. You weren’t great at it

“So should you, your eyes are shutting as we speak.” His voice is warm and sticky with affection.

“They are not.” You insist. He cheeks split with a grin at your tone, petulant like a child’s

“Tell me what, then.”

“You look tired.” You reply, correcting yourself a moment later when he pouts. “‘S cute I mean.”

Eddie’s lips part for a minute. You’re filled with the overwhelming urge to tell him to shut his mouth unless he wants to swallow a bug, but you decide he looks cute like this; Dazed and confused works for him.

“Nice save.”

“I mean it.” You promise.

“‘M just teasin’ babe. I know.”

You think you could get used to him calling you that.

His eyes flick back and forth from you, your eyes stuck to whatever book you’d had in your hand, and the screen. You weren’t really reading anything and he knew it. Your eyes had stopped taking over the pages as soon as his hands had first started moving up on the skin of your thighs. It continued like that for a few minutes, looking at each other when you assumed the other wasn’t, until he gave up on resisting.

“Alright, c’mere,” He grips the fat of your thighs, large palms pulling you towards him. His thumb skims under your dress, brushing over your hip bone as he presses his lips against yours.

You pull away to whisper, “Eager much?” 

He groans, as if to say, obviously. Your chest swells with some amount of pride at the effect you had on him. Your big strong boyfriend melting in the palm of your hand because your skin had been touching his, and the fact that he could only resist for so long. Pulling you close to him in record time.

You wouldn’t change it for anything.

He groans. Not out of any inconvenience or malice, more so that pulling his lips away from the already darkening bruise on your neck was the worst fate the universe had to offer—but he does.

“Can’t I love on you?” He huffs. 

You think it’s adorable.

“While I’m in the bathroom?” 

He pouts, the expression paired with a petulant whine; You give in.

You never admit it but you love it when he gets like this; when it seems like he could climb inside your skin and you still wouldn’t be close enough. Steve enjoys it too—though in a different way. He adores seeing your lips twitch as you hold back laughter. He loves having his palm roam up and down your sides as you giggle, a pretty noise, and turn around eventually, wet hands making his shirt damp. He’d let you drench any one of his shirts for the way you kiss him after. Soft and sweet and a little bit shy, a stark contrast to the way he’s been touching you. You held him like he’d break in the palm of your hand. Like if you gripped just a bit too hard the muscles in his torso would crumble. 

He adores it.

“Your shirt.” You let go of the fabric, wringing your knuckles together as your eyebrows pucker in concern. 

Steve wants to kiss it. “I’ve got others, haven't I?” He does.

Sunlight filtered in from the blinds, causing a little crinkle in Steve’s brow as it fell into his closed eyes. His soft snores gave way for grunts as he pressed his face into his pillow. He looks pretty like this, you thought. His eyes screwed shut and the hair on his freckles chest peeking over his t-shirt. Your thumb smooths over his jaw, connecting the marks.

You groaned in frustration after a few minutes, pressing yourself into the boy's arms before accepting it—you had to get up. Goosebumps rose on your skin as you slid out of the covers, a tremor running through your body.

“Shit,” You cursed, standing up quickly.

Steve’s thumb and index wrapped around the small point of your wrist, tugging you gently.

“Where are you goin’?” His voice was rough, remnants of sleep scattered throughout.

“‘ve gotta get up,” His lips grazed over the back of your hand, “work and such.”

“Call in sick?” His eyes were big and brown, tempting you as you think. He mouthed up your arm, pulling you onto the bed as he does. “I’ll take you out. How ‘bout that?”

“Steve,” You chastised him.

“What?”

“S’too much.” The crinkle in his brow returned and you smooth it over with your thumb, “You took me out last night.”

“We could stay in then, stay in bed all day?”

“S’nice,” you smiled.

You shrug off your jacket, draping it over the couch before adjusting the dials on the thermostat/

“Eddie, it's 80 degrees.”

He sits up suddenly, “shit.”

You hum in agreement.

“I must’ve turned it up without checking.” He reasons. 

Your socked feet shuffle into the bedroom, carpeted floor rubbing against the fabric. Pressing the back of your palm against his forehead, you nod slowly. “You’re warm.” He shakes his head as if he were dispersing anything you’re implying.

“You’re cold.”

“Eddie.” You scold. 

“Baby.” He pouts.

“You’re warm as in, you have a fever.” 

“I do not.” He insists, “I don’t get sick.”

A huff of laughter lodges itself in your chest. “Why not?” 

“I haven’t been sick since grade school.”

“Poor boy,” You murmur, dragging your thumb over his cheek. “‘S about time then don’t you think?”

“I would’ve been perfectly fine with never getting sick.”

You nod solemnly, “I know, I know. Just take the cough medicine for now, yeah?”