#winter fic

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There’s a singularly unique feeling that you only get curled up in your plush duvet in the dead of winter. 

You’ve barely come to when you realize you’re drooling. Palming the one corner of your mouth, you roll over, all the knobs in your spine crinkling and cracking, and stick your face right into your husband’s chest. 

Clark’s the same as you are. Head tossed back on his pillow, mouth agape, one arm flung under your neck. He insists he doesn’t snore, but this morning, he does. You dot a kiss on his pec before pulling your self-made blanket soufflet tighter around you both. Despite whatever he’s got going on with heat-vision or any other of his generative abilities, Clark makes a point of tucking you in every night and crawling in after you. In the winter, it’s especially so “Mother Nature doesn’t steal our cozy”.

The fireplace ambiance from your shared noise machine crackles on. It sits in the corner of the room, plugged into the wall. Clark had gotten it for you when you’d moved in together, far before your marriage. He knew it helped soothe you to sleep, and before long, he couldn’t live without it. One of his favorite traditions in your relationship is choosing seasonal noise machine noise. Cozy fireplaces and bonfires for winter, brown noise for the fall, green noise and rain into spring and summer, and binaural beats whenever he was feeling particularly passionate. 

You try drifting off again, but it’s no use. You settle with your cheek pressed against Clark’s sternum, staring out the window. 

It’s snowing, you realize. Today is going to be the nicest lazy day inside. A dull throbbing begins pulsing in your head. It starts  at your temples and migrates medially into the center of your forehead. So much for being cozy. 

You try pressing your face deeper into Clark’s chest. It should be easy, given the sheer real estate of his body. Even after all these years, you can never pass up an opportunity to just feel him up. Or stare. Both are equally enjoyable endeavors. 

As you continue to stare out of the window, the bright, blank snow begins to soothe you. Right outside your window is incredibly still, incredibly quiet; you feel that the more you stare, the more the serenity of the snow will become a part of you.

Your headache is probably from your addiction to screens. You’d tell yourself to get out more, but seeing as the outside world is blanketed in snow… Oh well!

The purchase your cheek has on Clark’s wooly pajamas is suddenly lessening. Your husband, in his  sleepy glory, is rolling over. He’s such a heavy sleeper– it doesn’t matter if you’re sitting on his chest or blow drying your hair sitting on the bed. He will knock out, stay knocked out, and lose that sense of sweet awareness you’ve come to love. 

You grumble, and he grumbles, and now he’s stirring awake. He’s laying on his side, your cheek now slumped on his bicep. Now, instead of being flat on the bed, you’re propped up at an incline in an effort to stay close.

“Honey?” he murmurs, the two syllables raspy in his morning voice. 

“Mmm.” He rolls back over, to your delight, and you crawl back over him. As you’re settling into his chest once more, his arms come to curl around you. One hand slips up your neck, into your hair; the gentle scritches start. “Mmmmmm.”

“When’d you wake up?” he asks gently. You don’t think he’s opened his eyes yet.

“Like two seconds ago.” You turn your head to kiss his pec again, this time so he can actually enjoy it. “You were getting antsy.”

He returns your favor, pressing a kiss to your scalp. “Good morning.” Clark’s fingers never still against the opposite side of your head.

“Good morning,” you parrot back. “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as I usually do…”

“You need to be taking your vitamins, babe, I’m telling you…”

“But I don’t need vitamins!”

 “To sleep better you do. Or you need to start drinking tea. We also need to stop doomscrolling before bed…”

He stays silent, accepting your insistence. His chin is close enough to the tippy-top of your head  so that you can feel him nod groggily. You take the following extended silence as acceptance, before you realize his hand has stilled in your hair and he’s snoring again.

Over the next thirty minutes, you seriously consider extracting yourself from your husband and getting up to start your highly anticipated lazy day, but you just can’t bring yourself to. Eventually, Clark startles himself back awake, and you’re stretched out by him laughing. 

You venture into your shared bathroom to start your morning routine while Clark ambles over to shut off the noise machine and start his stretching. “Baaaaaaaaabe,” he calls, not even two seconds later. “I’ve had a fantastic idea. Do you want hot chocolate with me?” His voice is bright and sunny now, his sheer excitement evident. You smile at yourself in the mirror. Every morning, it’s the same. He wakes up full of sunshine and joy for you, the life you’ve built together, and of course, breakfast. 

“Do you want a cheesy omelet with me?” you call back. Clark gives you no vocal response. All you hear is the pitter-patter of his footfalls as he scuttles out of the room. You dip down to wash your face; you barely keep yourself awake against the warm water.

In no time, your happy little apartment is filled with the smell of frying  turkey bacon and mozzarella cheese. Clark’s always like this– stealing items from your to-do list and taking them on himself. “Anything so that you can rest,” he always says. He insists that you work too much, that you don’t give yourself sufficient grace. So he’s made it his life’s mission to make your life as easy as possible. 

“You stole my idea, babe,” you say chidingly. You pad into the kitchen, giving him an eyeful that he doesn’t see. He’s stood in front of the stove trying to take up as much space as possible, just for the sake of keeping you out. 

“Ummm, no… I’m making a warm breakfast for my cold wife.” He hadn’t even seen the throw blanket you’d tucked yourself into. “Isn’t it so beautiful outside? You never see scenery like this in Smallville, you know.”

You wedge yourself between him and the loop-around  cabinetry. “Don’t change the subject. I’m going to do something nice for you, okay?” You rise onto your tippy-toes, and Clark immediately responds, gently setting down the spatula in his hand to instead cup your face for your good-morning kiss. While these daily kisses are almost never anything steamy, they’re almost always you and Clark’s favorite constant in your relationship. He loves saying he’d rather carve an ice-sculpture of Lex Luthor with a fork before he went a morning without kissing you hello. “But you are right. It’s very pretty. Very calm.”

He reclaims the spatula with his outside hand to pull you into his side with his other hand. “Is the heater working okay? Are you too cold?” His hand rubs up and down your arm over the blanket.

“I’m okay. Cozy,” you say truthfully. “A cuddle would be helpful…” 

Clark laughs at your voice’s lilt. “You know, I think that’d help me out immensely, too.” He bumps your hip with his. “TV brekkie?”

“There’s a new season of Love Is Blind,” you offer. You look up at him, hoping to catch his eye. Not that you mind staring at his side profile… your most shallow love for your husband is your infatuation with his tendency to be so damn chiseled.

He beams. “Enough to binge?”

You weasel your way to the cabinet that you keep all your mugs in, plucking two from the shelf with the hot-cocoa mix alongside them. You know all the sugar isn’t good for you, but both you and Clark are massive sweettooths. Why skimp out on your first lazy snow day of the year?

He stays at the stove, hovering over the frying pan containing your breakfast. He watches you over his shoulder, that same stupid grin plastered across his face. You travel across the kitchen to the fridge, his smile contagious to the point that you find yourself grinning at the carton of milk and the tin of whipped cream in your hands.

As every body in orbit eventually does, you find yourself back next to Clark, your shining star. You pour your two mugs worth of milk into a tiny pot, trying not to stare into Clark’s pan. The luscious smells have intensified, the turkey bacon fully crisped, the mozzarella gooey. If you look at it, you won’t be able to entirely ignore the hunger clawing on the inside of your stomach. 

“Let me know if anything starts bubbling?” you ask, glancing back up at him. He’s chewing on his lips in an attempt to stop smiling. That always makes you laugh.

“Sure, honey,” he responds lightly, his glee barely contained. The two of you haven’t had a day to bust yourselves in ages. Between your own work, the Daily Planet, and the entire Superman thing, you haven’t had a chance to sit on your asses and do nothing together. With the snow, Clark won’t be expected to go into work later, and you had the day off anyway. His giddiness is beginning to rub off on you.

You spoon a dollop of whipped cream into each of your waiting mugs. You find some dark chocolate bars in the snack cabinet and decide why not? By the time you’ve crushed up some squares and sprinkled them into the whipped cream nestled in the mugs, Clark has dug out a bag of marshmallows.

“Hey! I’m supposed to be doing this for us!” you exclaim as he dumps marshmallows into the milk. “You’re already handling breakfast, babe.”

He crowds you out from in front of the stove. “Go sit, honey.” He looks over his shoulder at you, a dreamy smile floating across his mouth. “Really, I got this.” 

You sigh and roll your eyes at the back of his head. Before you know it, Clark’s making a show of setting your plates on the coffee table in front of you as you lounge on your sofa. He’s finished the hot chocolate for you, placing them carefully by your breakfast plates.

You stare at him, unabashed. Clark’s hair is all fluffed up, stray curls clustering over his forehead. Even though the sleep shirt he’s wearing is thick, and you can’t really see the shape of his arms, you get the inkling that if you get close enough to feel him up you’ll find nothing but solid muscle. You let your eyes naturally travel south. Damn him for wearing pants.

Cark quickly rounds the table, collapsing into the cushions next to you after you open up your blanket cocoon to him. He drags you closer to him, draping your legs over his thighs. “Did you say Love Is Blind?” 

Your arm closest to him hooks around his neck. You scritch at the skin just under his neck, much to his immense happiness. “Only if you want to, honey. I want you to choose.”

He leans over and gently sets your plate on your lap. “I want to do what you want to do.”

Your chest flushes with warmth. “But I want to do what you want to do.” He gently rubs at your shin, smiling at you goofily. “I want you to choose!”

He leans all the way in to kiss your cheek, then just under your eye, then your lips. “Then I choose Love Is Blind.” Clark pulls away only a few inches in favor of staring into your eyes. Before he moves to do anything else, he lightly bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes flitting all over, up and down, side to side. “I love you.”

You need to force yourself to keep eye contact. Your cheeks hurt as soon as you start smiling at him. “I love you too. I love you.” You chase his lips for a final, chaste kiss. His mouth against yours is gentle, soft. He tastes like chocolate… 

You barely separate, your noses bumping, sending both of you into fits of giggles. “You haven’t even started on your fruit of labor,” you prod, holding up your plate. “Eat.”

“I need to be sure you’re comfy, first. You’re cranky otherwise.”

“Am not.”

He leans back into the couch while palming the TV remote. “You get hangry, babe.”

Well, you guess you do. “Just eat, Clark!”

He bites lightly on the tip of his tongue as he tries to get your show on. Yes, he’s technologically challenged, and it’s almost always incredibly inconvenient, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. The extra time he takes fumbling with whatever it is you spend watching his cheeks dimple and his eyelashes flutter.

Maybe an hour later, an episode in, he’s not even doing anything with the remote; you’re staring at him anyways. He’s clutching his mug with both hands, his brows are furrowing, the corners of his lips tipping down into a frown. A goopy, light-colored trail of whipped cream sits right on his upper lip. 

“Relax,” Steve whispered. “Nobody knows. It’s fine.”

What did it say about the two of you that you were nailing everything, then? If nobody knew otherwise, then…? Catching his gaze under the shitty Hawkins streetlamps that definitely needed to be replaced was practically like catching them in the moonlight. Maybe it would've been better? The overcast had been welcomed graciously until it had started snowing on the drive over. Watching the flakes catch on his lashes and the ends of his hair poking out of the knit hat was something abhorrently unfair.

“I’m taking your word for it,” you murmured, glancing over at the horrible combination for the evening currently getting their skates on. A triple date with a horrible, horrible, horrible miscommunication that felt straight out of a purpose of torment. “But–”

"Nope. No overthinking it." Steve slid off the bench and ignored his skates. Snow gathered on his knees and was surely ruining his blue jeans. But it was a little hard to think about that–that welcomed touch of cold–when he was at your feet. When he lifted one boot up from the flaky snow-covered ground and started unlacing it. "We're doing this, and it'll be totally fine."

Well, you were at the rink. You had the skates. Everyone was already getting up to head out onto it with the small crowd that'd had the same idea. There was literally nothing else on the docket besides that, unless you begged Steve to just leave early. 

“Did I say thanks for doing this yet?” You glanced up at Steve through your lashes, ducking away from the laughter barreling through the hum of conversation all around you. The laces gave on your boot. Steve pulled it off, making sure your wool sock didn’t go with it. 

Feeling his fingers curl around your ankle underneath your jeans….

The hitch in your breath came out with a small puff in the air. Hopefully, he hadn’t noticed it.

“Yeah,” he answered, peering back up at you, pausing for just a moment. A single, gentle, heart-stopping moment. One of many the night was tricking you with. It was just the scenery. Just the unfortunate circumstances. Just…your mind screwing with you because you were supposed to look like you were on a date. “It’s uh…it’s what friends do, right?” 

Friends.

Steve shrugged. The movement seemed to push his hand a little higher under your jeans. One finger brushed just above your sock, and despite all the little touches throughout the night to sell the lie, that one was just a shock. Like, almost a literal shock. The kind that made you twitch and squeeze the edge of the bench in desperate need to hold onto something. 

“I mean, you’d do the same for me,” he added.

And, of course, you nodded. Because you would. If Steve had a sibling that somehow talked them into coming out on a group date to get a use out of a six-person skating discount, you would’ve gone if he’d asked. You also would’ve definitely played up the we’re totally more than friends angle if one part of the third couple, by total surprise to you and your sister, was your high school ex. 

Really, the odds of it happening to you when Steve had dated 75% of Hawkins was just the world coming to mock you. And mock you endlessly as Dylan’s date was Melanie–successful, pretty, and tortuously skilled at just about everything. And you were? You and Steve were going from filler roles for the discount to definitely dating on the down low the second you walked up to the meet-point restaurant for dinner and saw Dylan there.

Literally only took making eye contact from halfway through the lot, and by the time your heart had dropped into your stomach, Steve had his arm around your shoulders. 

“Just go with it,” was all he’d said when you’d thrown a confused look his way. 

You were still going with it. After an excruciating meal where the tension might've all been one-sided, but Steve was Steve. It felt weird being on the receiving end of his territorial flirting instead of witnessing it from afar. In his defense, however, it was sort of…necessary. Given that part of the reason you and Dylan broke up was your friendship with Steve senior year. Apparently, tutoring the King of Hawkins High, laughing at his stupid jokes, and actually hitting it off platonically was a little too much. It wasn't the main reason, but it was a catalyst. 

“So, you two are dating now?” 

The question heard around the entire dinner table. After drink orders had been placed and everyone was perusing the menus. When Steve decided he was going to give you the full treatment and he draped his arm over the back of your chair and idly ran his fingers over your upper arm. Part-way helpful as a reminder that he was there and he wasn’t about to let you go through the sheer awkwardness of what you’d just walked into. And…part-way horribly distracting because–sweet hell–Steve was running the lightest of touches over your arm after you’d taken your coat off. 

Your sweater was thin.

Every warm touch felt like fire trying to burn through the material. But maybe that came in part from your heart trying to beat out of your chest. You were having outright palpitations just squeezing your menu while trying to process Dylan's question.

Bless your sister for not saying anything to the contrary.

“Yeah. We’ve been keeping it secret,” Steve said, squeezing your shoulder and throwing you a look that could only be described as flirty. “Trying not to attract too much attention, but figured we could loosen up for tonight.”

So, you and Steve were dating. Awkwardly. Uncomfortably. Or maybe it was just you who was worried about sweating through your deodorant and shaking like a leaf to the point of worrying that everyone was going to notice. Steve seemed totally normal. Like, way too normal. He played the fake boyfriend a little too well. Holding your waist when standing by each other, snagging your hand when you walked to his car together. Fixing your hat and smiling at you like you were worth a million bucks. 

Sweet hell.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding a tad too determined down at Steve. He still held you at your ankle. “‘Course I would.”

Expect Steve probably wouldn’t need the help. And, if it came down to the harsh truths, it fell way more in your favor than Steve’s–the fake dating premise. Steve pretending to be your boyfriend? Well, he had the looks and the charm to back everything up. But you pretending to be the fake girlfriend? It wasn’t anything to bat an eye at. 

Pointless comparison. Especially when you were still trying to catch your breath without having moved at all. Had this pushed you into direct heart failure? How funny would that be? You keel over dead right there because Steve had his hand on your ankle. The tipping point of a whole night of fake flirting and little touches. 

Ha. Ha.

“Alright, then.” Steve lifted one skate. One you’d gotten from your parents years ago that luckily still fit, but you’d never made much use out of the pair. Skating hadn’t exactly been your thing. It still wasn’t. Your sister was already out on the rink with her boyfriend. Dylan was helping Melanie out onto the ice. And you? Your fingers were starting to go numb in your gloves while you held onto the bench for dear life. 

“Let’s go play couple out on the ice,” Steve whispered, throwing you a playful smile while slotting the skate onto your foot. 

It was hard to really ground yourself. Seated there, watching the idiot kneel in the snow for you, playing it up just to save you from some awkward embarrassment. What did it really matter if you'd just shown up with a friend? It was still you showing up with Steve. If anything, it would've hammered home how ridiculous Dylan's bullshit about Steve had been back then. It was only a few years ago, and you and Dylan had dated for…a year and a half? Two years? It was all muddy. But it was stupid and silly, and you just wanted to go home, drink hot cocoa, take a hot shower, and fall asleep while watching a movie or something.

Anything other than feeling your breath hitch again when Steve tied the first skate and then the second. Or how your heart suddenly launched itself into your throat when he’d finally gotten his skates on and then he was helping you up. Hand in hand, both of you struggling to balance while walking toward the rink–Steve going backward like he was some savant. It was a wobbly walk on the frozen ground, but going from the snowy ground to the shoveled sidewalk and right onto the smooth ice was like whiplash.

“Oh, shit,” you sputtered right in unison with Steve.

He followed you out onto the ice, one step after the other, and you accidentally did a circle that made you spin toward him while he got his balance. Like ducks trying to take off, your arms were out to keep a balance that wasn’t there while you just kept gliding over the ice. Others skated by with smiles, egging you both on to practice. In theory, it was really nice. In practice, being under so many watchful eyes while you were trying not to fall on your ass was mortifying. Especially when Steve somehow managed to get his balance first and was holding his hands out toward you like you had any hope of skating closer.

“Come here, come here,” he said, half serious and half playful. He curled his fingers toward himself, waving you in. Skating closer. Like he practically owned the rink. Sporty asshole. You almost cursed him verbally, but it took an effort not to actually flap your arms like a bird. “Use me. Just, okay. Okay. Okay.” Steve grabbed one wild hand and pulled you in. Probably a little too hard. Hard enough that you were suddenly a little more upright than before. That you were suddenly at him. Nearly skate to skate. Chest to chest. An arm around your waist that was going to have a catastrophic outcome. “Here, see? Just use me, I’ve got you.”

Palpitations. Knees shaking. Stomach dropping right out of you. Oh, sweet fuck.

Steve nodded at you while you just…blinked at him. Stuck. Stuck right against him, his arm around your midsection, his other hand on yours, both of you managing to stay upright just like that. Light movement just seemed to make you skate. Maybe it was him, maybe the rink was angled, maybe it was just the ice. Who the hell knew? It sure as hell wasn't you. Fuck no. You were standing there shivering like you’d stepped out into the snow naked, and Steve’s rosy cheeks were really starting to hold your gaze better than his own.

“See?” he whispered.

“All I really see is you right now, Steve,” you answered. A murmur that was far from the actual intention. But it was hard to find your breath when he’d managed to steal it away. “You’re…you’re really good at this.”

“Well, I used to play some hockey, so I’ve got some practice.”

He shrugged, and that was not what you were talking about even in the slightest. And as he slowly guided you away from him, turning you to face forward, still holding your waist with one hand and your hand in the other–considerably more relaxed than before–you didn’t correct him. You weren’t ever going to. It was one thing to playfully compliment him on fake flirting and playing up a fake relationship. Sure. You’d go get drunk and laugh about it. But the actual confusion he was making you endure was…something else. It was just confusion.

For fuck’s sake, it was Steve. You’d seen him vomit as many times as he’d seen you vomit. Brought him soup when he was sick, though he went out of his way to make sure to do the same when you had the flu. Even came out to see him hungover on your couch, half naked, snoring like a madman while drooling a little. 

With Steve, it wasn’t…. You weren’t….

No. It was Steve. 

That stupid, pretty face of his and the well-practiced charm were just sneaking through weirdly. You just had to remind yourself that it was for show. The hand in yours, the one on your waist, the whispered encouragement in your ear as he talked you through each stride that pushed you further along the ice–it was for show. 

“See? Look at that!” He squeezed your waist a little harder. His excitement was contagious. You beamed at him over your shoulder. You were skating. Like actually skating. With his help, yeah, but it still counted. “Do you want me to let go?” He moved a little behind you. No closer, no farther away. Just…adjusted. But the idea that he could just let go and leave you felt like you were seconds away from being stranded. 

“Not yet,” you answered quickly. A little too quickly, but it was already out there. “I still feel wobbly.”

“Don’t sweat it.” His fingers laced with yours. The ice almost said hello to your hands and knees. “I’ve got you.” 

He had you. That you believed tenfold. Right then, just for the night, yeah. He was a good friend. The best.

You smiled back at him again, and he returned it.

Fuck.

Wondering what it was like to kiss Steve wasn’t a new thought. Seeing him with every other woman in Hawkins made it pass through your head a few times. But not once had it ever come as viscerally as it did then. Not once had it ever been preceded by a glance at his smile and a burn in your stomach to just move. Just turn. Just lean in a little to see if you could taste the chocolate cake you’d shared at dinner.

Not once had your cheeks burned like a fever had found you at the mere thought. 

Skating. 

You made yourself do a quick glance around the rink. At your sister and her boyfriend. At all the others there. At Dylan and Melanie. Skating. You and Steve were just skating. Nothing more, nothing less. Two friends skating was practically the same as a couple skating. So it…it was normal. It was just…you just had to relax. Take a few breaths and just relax.

“Ah, ah, ah! You’re doing it!”

At some point, the close contact relegated to handholding with distance between you. Side by side, your grip far tighter than Steve’s as you did your best to maintain balance while skating. It was hard to compartmentalize–skating, balancing, holding Steve’s hand, not making a fool of yourself in front of Dylan or Steve. 

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Looking over at him with a deep desperation you couldn't define, skating around in the crowd, lost in those practically twinkling eyes, you just…. You should've stayed home. It was going to take time, you knew it, to adjust back to normal. This was probably nothing for Steve. He could see you tomorrow, and fall right back into rhythm. If anything had been made clear since the two of you met, in his eyes, you were just friends. He never hit on you; he never so much as flirted. Playful banter and leaning up against each other when hanging out to watch a movie were about as close as you two got. Minus the necessary assistance when holding hair back while the other threw up or helping them to bed when they’re sick. 

But for all intents and purposes, Steve had already told you without directly saying it, right from the get-go–there was nothing between you.

And it was only right then and there, under the overcast sky, the thick snowflakes coming down in droves, his hand in yours, his cheeks all rosy and cute, that you felt it. That blatant rejection that burrowed into your stomach. Into your chest. 

You were just friends.

And a few hours ago, that was a thought that made you feel nothing but satisfaction. Sure. He was one of your best friends, if not your best friend. And now?

"I think I'm ready to go home," you said, pulling your hand back from Steve's. Your brows came together with a pinch and you caught just a glimpse of Steve's doing the same. And your ability to keep on your feet even after letting go of him would've been celebrated, but…. "Sorry, I just…I think the cold's getting to me, and it's been a long night. Um. Can we call it?”

Warmth brushed along your waist and settled on your back. Jesus, he smelled good. Really good. Not like dinner. Sort of like snow and expensive cologne. That really nice shampoo he used, too. Even with his hat pulled on, you could still smell how sweet it was. 

“Uh, yeah. Totally. Sure, sure. Um, here, here.” Steve helped you finish the rest of the lap, and even though it wasn’t much, it felt long. Long and lingering, and when the tip of your skates hit the grass, you stumbled with gratitude. Because there his hand only tightened for a second before you were smiling politely and slipping out of his grasp. “I’ll just let them know we’re heading out.”

He waved vaguely in the direction of your sister. You barely caught his eye when you nodded. Everything was starting to feel really, really cold. Especially when Steve skated off, and you turned back to the bench to find your shoes. Stumbling through the snow, sitting on the cold bench, prying off your gloves to get at the laces better–shivering was anticipated. The bones it reached, making your teeth chatter and body tremble uncontrollably, wasn't. 

Thankfully, you already had your boots on when you heard Steve come strolling over.

“I’ll go get the car warmed up–”

“Heard you were taking off,” Dylan said. You jerked your chin up and found him reaching for a bottle of water he’d brought with him, probably already partially frozen. He went from the end of the bench to you, managing too well on those skates, and he threw a look over at a skating Melanie. Her back was to you. “Everything okay? You’re looking a little panicky. Harrington do something?”

Your smile wasn’t forced, but it certainly wasn’t kind. It was the kind that came through with a sharpness and a dull annoyance because what was he doing? Getting water, fine, but lingering? Playing nice?

“I’m cold,” you said flatly. “Steve and I just came out so my sister could get the skating discount. So.”

He nodded. Ignorance would've been nice. Knowing what his expressions meant just said he didn't believe you. At all. It was as frustrating as it was comedic that it was as close to the truth as you could get, though. 

“Right.” He nodded. “So you and Harrington. This is a new thing, then?”

Jesus. You pushed up from the bench.

“Yes, Dylan. It’s new.” It was a known thing in town that Steve was dating anyone and everyone to find the one. Basically. Most probably just thought he was a bit of whore. “And we’d prefer to keep it a secret, please. Just…tell Steve I’ll be waiting by his car.”

“So you two weren’t–” 

“No,” you breathed. Your skates dangled from one finger, the laces tied together. “Steve and I were barely even friends until after graduation. Don’t know how many times I can tell you that before you hear it.” You held up a hand and shook your head. “And it doesn’t matter. Great seeing you. You and Melanie are a cute couple. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Making out behind the bleachers. Tutoring each other in the library. Date nights at the movie theater and the shitty diner by the school. Just a flash of old memories that were better left in high school. You didn’t wave or look back at Dylan. Just tired, cold, and with an extreme awkwardness in your veins, you carried on to Steve’s car.

Waiting out there in the empty lot, back against the freezing metal, you stared out at the cars coming and going. It felt weird. Not being able to relax while simultaneously feeling that weight start to lift off your shoulders. You were playing pretend the last few hours, and you'd play it a little longer on the way home, just with a different context. Having very, very, very momentary feelings for Steve was one thing. But not having to pretend you two were together was a bit of a relief.

Sort of.

It was just….

“Fuck….” 

You dropped your head back against the car. The thud was soft with the barrier of your hat cushioning it. But you closed your eyes and just let the snowflakes come speckle your face with cold kisses. On your lashes, cheeks, nose, eyes, lips. Cooling off a different part of you that kept sending your heart into a frenzy. 

Every little touch, every whispered comment, every lie of the night….

Confused. Your body, your heart, your head–you were just confused.

“Hey, there you are.” 

Warmth was a pool radiating at the base of your spine and deep in your belly. A flutter opened your eyes, and a dip of your chin brought you to Steve, jogging over with concern written all over that pretty face. Damn it. 

"What happened?" One hand. One hand came to your shoulder, and Steve leaned to meet your gaze. A squeeze of your shoulder was a rock and an earthquake. Simultaneously grounded where it was crumbling away under your feet. Oh, fuck. “Is everything okay?”

No. “Yeah.” You nodded, trying so, so desperately to not pull out of his grasp like he had the plague. “Yeah, just…. I’m tired.”

“Sure.” Steve matched your nod. “Okay. I’ll get you home. Here, here.” He reached past you, keys jingling, and unlocked your door. He got it for you, opening it wide and keeping his hand on your waist, then shoulder, then hand. Like there was anyone around to really sell the chivalry for. 

For one brief second, when he shut the door, you were in freezing cold silence. Skates tucked onto the floor by your feet, hands rubbing together, carefully watching Steve up through your lashes as he ran around his car to the driver's side. Your heart pounded like a drum. You and Steve, fake or not, had just gone on a date. 

His door opened.

A date. With a lot of Hawkins residents around. 

Cold air whipped in. His door shut.

You’d gone out on a date where he was very open about playing the role of boyfriend. Physically. Where others, even when mentioning you wanted to keep it a secret, were probably going to talk.

He started the car, cranked the heat that was still freezing, and tossed his skates in the back.

Oh, hell.

Problem on top of problem on top of problem.

He pulled out of the spot in no rush, and you held onto the door with a tightening grip.

It was a fifteen-minute drive to your place, and that felt egregiously too long and too short all at once. Cause it needed to be said. Had he even realized it yet? Being a good friend was great, but….

“Sorry if this gets around town,” you said softly, looking out at the blur Hawkins became in the foggy windows. “I mean, that you and I are…they’re not going to know it was you doing me a favor.” And almost the worst part and simultaneously the best part…. “Robin’s going to have a field day with this.”

“Eh, it’s whatever.” Steve shrugged. “I mean, Robin is definitely…yeah. It’ll be a fun shift at work when she finds out. But the rest, it’s fine.” He reached forward and readjusted the heat. Cold actually started to turn warm when it barreled out of the vents. “Is that…. I mean, is that what leaving early is about? Cause I don’t care about that. I mean, yeah, if you’re uncomfortable, that’s a different story. But like. I mean, it’s fine–”

“No, no.” Maybe a little. “It’s…. I figured Hawkins would just assume you finally made your way around to me.” Oh. Shit. Wrong phrasing. Not…untruthful, but it was harsh.

"Ouch," Steve mused. It was halfway between hurt and playful. But the side it landed more on was the former. It stung back at you with a pinprick along your neck. "Tell me what you really think of me."

It wasn’t like it was the first time you’d made comments about his dating history, but it was the most direct. And, really, it was more of an insult to you than him. But it was a path you shouldn’t have steered the car toward. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said softly. Hawkins, for the first time in ages, was a draw. Staring out the window was a much more welcomed interest than looking over at Steve. “I just didn’t think through what the lie would really mean. And it…it doesn’t matter. Really, I’m just tired. This isn’t how I thought the night would go. I mean, I wasn’t expecting Dylan to be here. So…so I’m just…I’m–”

 “–tired,” you said in unison.

Steve’s was much more apathetic than yours. Somehow.

“Yeah.” You nodded softly. “Thanks for coming out with me. You’re, uh, you’re good at it, selling the charade.” His car jostled over a bump in the road. He readjusted his one-handed grip. “I mean, the quick thinking and coming in to play my hero–the hero like that. Thanks. I really do appreciate it.”

“Sure, yeah.” Another bump jostled you. A stoplight miraculously turned green before he even took his foot off the gas. “I just sorta saw Dylan and figured…you know. I just went with it. He was such an ass in school.”

Dylan had been an ass about a freshly single Steve Harrington being friendly with his girlfriend. It wasn’t like that was something to just brush aside back then. Proved to be nothing, as you’d repeatedly said, and still proved to be nothing. The lie obviously notwithstanding. But bringing it up was a pointless tangent you’d already spent the night trying not to think about.

“Well, I’ll get dinner next time we go out. Or the movie. Whichever happens first.” The fog in the window was starting to lessen. Buildings gained more trees between them only briefly. Steve’s reflection showed him just nodding, then reaching for the radio. The Beatles played through the speakers quietly enough to get lost in the faint melody, and you just watched the changing scenery. From town to houses to your apartment building that Steve and Robin lived just a few roads up from.

What a shit night. Your heart rate was battling between settling and racing. To relax in defeat or ricochet back into panic. Lots of heart-stopping, heart-skipping panic because there you were again, thinking about Steve as he pulled into the parking lot. As he put his car in park and turned the radio off. As the car moved when you both shifted, and you reached for the skates and car door at the same time for ease of getting out of there quickly.

“Thanks for tonight–” became a trailed-off sentiment at the touch of your arm. 

You turned, blinking down at Steve's hand on your forearm. He gave you just a little squeeze and a concerned look that was so sincere that it hurt. Confusion was better. Confusion when you showed him an equation that quite literally just did not compute, and you had to talk him through it–that you could handle. The bright laughter he got–drunk or sober–sure. Or whenever you curled up on a couch and just casually ate popcorn and watched a movie. That worked. 

But the concern with the touch that almost felt tender was….

“Night, Steve,” you said abruptly.

And at the start of your name, you shut the door and stalked toward the stairs. The sound was cut off, and you begged that he’d just drive off. Steve was a chaser. If he was eager enough, he’d be following you up those stairs to make sure you were okay. But the world was on your side for once. His car hummed a little louder, and by the time you were up to the second floor, he was pulling out of the lot.

Thank you.

You plopped onto your shitty couch in your slightly too-cold apartment with your skates dropped on the floor and stared at your small TV. Just stared. Didn't even reach for a blanket. Didn't even get water or take your shoes off or shed your layers. Just plopped and sat there, replaying the evening. From the dreaded excitement of Steve promising that he'd whisk you off and show you how to skate while everyone else played romance into whatever the night had become. 

So, so much contact. You could still feel the idle touches on your upper arm and…and at your waist and wrist and hands. Gah! Peeling your gloves off quickly, you pressed your bare hands against your face. They were cold to the touch, and you swore you felt them sear and sizzle against your cheeks.

“Fuck me.”

He'd looked so pretty covered in snowflakes. And those rosy cheeks. That smile. The same affectionate idiot who looked at algebra for the thousandth time like it was a foreign language, but apparently played every sport under the sun, and well. If only Mrs. Turnbull hadn't assigned you to tutor him. Literally…of all people. But then you wouldn’t have met your best friend.

“Uggggghhhhhhhhhh.”

You dropped your hands and head back. Staring at your ceiling had nothing on the dark clouds that still dropped snowflakes. It was ugly, and an old water stain from the previous tenants above you morphed into looking like the Millennium Falcon, courteously pointed out by Steve when he'd spent a few minutes looking at it while waiting for you to get ready one night.

Damn it, Harrington.

Every other woman in Hawkins except you. A notion that’d never bothered until that night. And it was a second away from dragging you into the bathroom to look at yourself in the big mirror, scrutinizing every inch of yourself while the shower warmed up. 

“Damn it.” You closed your eyes and groaned again. “Damn it.” The cold was starting to get to you. “Damn it.”

You pushed up and went toward the thermostat. 

Damn it.

Knock.

Knock. Knock.

Knock.

You turned the temperature up just a hair. Huh? It was probably just a neighbor needing an egg or a cup of sugar or asking you to turn something down that definitely wasn’t from your apartment. Mr. Kawasaki had ears like a hawk sometimes, yet he always blamed you for noises when he lived under your neighbors from across the hall.

It would top off the night perfectly to get yelled at by him, so why not just go all in, huh?

You shook your head. What a fucking night.

Jerking open your front door, well, it wasn’t Mr. Kawasaki or Lisa from the left, John from across the hall, or Tammy on the right. A bouquet of whites and blues looked back at you first and foremost. Wrapped in a bit of brown tissue paper and tied with twine. It…it was….

“Alright, whatever I did wrong, you just have to tell me, cause I’m a little confused.”

Steve didn’t really have to do much except walk toward you. You blinked at the flowers and him while moving a step back to make enough room for him to squeeze through. Your apartment was basically his apartment, and you just…he….

What? 

Your doorknob slid from your hand. The door shut with a click. You turned slowly to find Steve going for the bottom cabinet under the sink. Without breaking stride and too much eye contact, he pulled out the vase you had under there and–oh, okay. You were holding the flowers. Staring down at them in your hands, cold and snowy, but very, very pretty, you just…stared. He filled up the vase with water.

“You got me flowers?” you asked softly. Not the poignant question. Yet. You shook your head. “What? What? Steve, hold on.”

“Yeah, cause I clearly messed up cause you sprinted out of my car.”

“I didn’t sprint,” you corrected. “Okay, it’s just…a weird night, and I wanted to get inside. I’m just–”

“Tired, I know. But I also know when you’re tired, and this is different. So I figured I did something cause I'm pretty good at doing something and sometimes not realizing I did it. So, can you please just help me out here?" 

He slid the vase across the counter. The water sloshed inside. The absence of the running sink made the apartment feel painfully silent.

You swallowed hard. Sweet hell. 

“Did I…did I overstep with the whole fake boyfriend thing?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. He pulled his cap off and tossed it onto the counter. “Or…the skating stuff, I know it was weird with Dylan there.”

“No.” You were shaking again. Staring desperation in the face because you couldn’t tell him the truth. That was friendship-ending. There was no coming back from I think I have feelings for you. Especially when you could go to sleep and wake up in the morning, and they could be gone. It was just a fluke of the evening. That's all it was. That's all it could be. "No, Steve. You're fine. You didn't do anything wrong."

“Alright, well, I call bullshit.” He propped himself up with one hand and put the other on his hip. “I know you. I know this. But, uh, if you don’t want to tell me, okay. Just, whatever I did, I’m sorry.” He tapped the counter a little. “I didn’t mean to make this night worse for you. I was trying to do the opposite since fucking Dylan was there.”

For as sassy and passive-aggressive as he could be, the sincerity was almost comical. He'd gotten you flowers. He'd only ever gotten you flowers when your uncle passed away a few years ago, when he'd thrown up and missed your toilet and gotten it all over the floor, which he'd been too drunk to clean up, and when he'd accidentally given you food poisoning. So this felt…more than sincere.

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered. 

“Gee, thanks.” He pushed a hand through his hair. 

“No, Steve, it….” Damn it. Damn him. You couldn’t put the flowers down. It was weird. He brought you flowers. He brought you flowers. It was just so strange. He came back with flowers to fix whatever was up. “It’s nothing. I mean, it’s just…. Damn it. It’s stupid. Like actually. It’s really stupid.” Ah, jeeze. You scrunched your nose. "Not the flowers. No. And not you. This is nice. This is sweet and nice, and thank you, really."

“But?” he asked. 

There wasn’t a but. Not in the sense that he was waiting for. Not anything traditional. No, no. You liked him. Standing there holding flowers, thinking about all the nights over on your couch where you cuddled up next to him, his arm partially on the back of the couch but also maybe a bit around your shoulders more than you’d ever realized, hanging out together. You liked that really aggravatingly pretty face. 

You couldn't give him an answer. And Steve, all for the dramatics, just nodded and pushed his hair back again. Like a final, determined acceptance. Probably regretting going out and spending money on the flowers just to come by and get no answer.

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you Monday for the movie with Robin, right?” he asked, catching your eye as he went toward your door. 

“Yeah,” you answered.

Why was your heart in your throat? Why did it feel like it was trying to break out? Why were you still shaking? He was leaving. He was leaving, and he'd brought you flowers. And it…. Oh, don’t be stupid. You squeezed the base of the bouquet. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid. His fingers brushed over your arm as he passed with one of those touches that said I’ll see you later. Gentle and sweet and really, really, really annoying. 

Damn it. 

Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid. 

“Steve," you blurted. Your knuckles hurt where you were pretty damn sure you felt some stems snapping under your fingers. "Earlier, on the rink, when I said you were really good at this?" Don’t. Be. Stupid. You cringed into a wince and let out a careful sigh. It pinched and pulled and was the last beg to shut the hell up. “I wasn’t talking about skating.”

Your furnace kicked in. Heat rattled through, and even that roaring hum was nothing to quell the painful silence. Could he hear how fast your heart was beating? All you had to do was play it up like a joke. Nothing serious. Nothing like the fever you’d gotten when you were out together. Fuck no. Just a moment of confusion that was laughable. Definitely laughable and had nothing at all to do with the dread in your stomach at seeing your reflection later and reminding yourself that you were the one woman in Hawkins Steve wasn’t interested in. 

"What were you talking about?" he asked softly. His eyes did a quick once-over from your boots to your hat. The kind that held a lot behind it without giving too much away, and if you'd been wearing anything else, your legs might've given. But this was a little sobering. You were bundled up in nothing really flattering. Jeans and boots and a thick coat. Wasn't that a sexy sight?

“I just…. For a second….” Pick better phrasing for fuck’s sake. You cleared your throat, but there was a knot present there that wasn’t going anywhere. “I got a glimpse of the Steve Harrington that had Sally Sampson tracking me down to ask why you hadn’t wanted to go out again, and for a second, I actually kinda understood her.”

Was that…? You winced again. It felt way too roundabout, but being direct about it was way, way, way too much. The kind of too much that the roundabout way seemed to circle back around into being. Fuck. You scrunched your nose again and dared a look at Steve. A real look. The kind that wasn’t zoning out while looking at his chest or his hands or anywhere else but his face. And….

“Oh my god.” The slow grin. The slow, shit-eating grin. “Wait. Okay.” He held up one hand, and the gears turned way quicker than they ever had for algebra. He beamed. “You like me.”

Your heart skipped. Hard.

“That’s not at all what I said, hold on,” you blurted.

“For a second–”

“No, no, for a second, Steve, I just got confused. Okay? We…you know. The…the close contact and…and the flirting. It just….” You waved a shaky hand around. Stepped back toward the counter and set the bouquet down. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You planted both hands down on the counter. “I’ve never been on the receiving end of…of all of that with you, and I just got confused for a second, and it…. I don't know. I don’t know! I don’t–”

Oh, Steve and his grand gestures. Steve Harrington and his stupid, stupid romantic-addled brain. Planning date after date, picking out gift after gift. Checking in with you and Robin to make sure he was still doing shit right. Making sure you went out for every birthday, had company for every holiday you couldn’t be with family for. He even tried to rope you into double dates on Valentine’s Day when you were perpetually single for each one.

And he was there after you and Dylan broke up. With movies, tissues, ice cream, and a shoulder. A nice shoulder.

And….

Your fingers brushed over the flowers accidentally.

And he’d brought you flowers then, too.

His goddamn grand gestures.

His gloved hands were still cold when he cupped your cheek. His hair brushed against your temple, and his nose against yours. Warm. A single gasp and then warmth. By a miracle, your stumble was only mildly awkward when he got to you. Then everything melted into the warm, soft press of his mouth against yours.

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Slow and…and…. Your eyes fluttered shut. What was he doing? A question that faded into the background when he pulled you closer. There was nowhere closer to go, but there you two were. His mouth parting over yours, yours parting to press into him. The soft breaths. The light graze of his mouth over yours before he was back. Before the wet drag of his tongue.

You pushed back and bit your bottom lip, but that was as far as you'd managed to go. Your pulse was currently beating its way through the Millennium Falcon water stain on the ceiling. 

“What are you doing?” you sputtered.

“Trying to take the opening I’ve been waiting four years for to kiss you, but if you want me to stop….”

Buzzing. Just buzzing. From a moment of racing thoughts into complete and utter silence, you blinked at him. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing–he…. Steve….

“Just….” He leaned back in, and he tasted like mint chocolate. Sweet, decadent mint chocolate. 

Just yeah. Yeah, you reached for him as he did you. It was strangely subconscious. The fever was back as your fingers took the hair at the base of his neck. Soft–so, so soft. And he…he was good. Holy shit. Maybe it was the years of practice. Maybe it was the confidence. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t been with someone in ages, but it was really easy to understand it. That goddamn draw. Steve kissed like you were the only person in the world meant for him.

Like he really had been waiting four years to kiss you.

And that….

That was….

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You stumbled back a step, and Steve had a hand on your waist that pulled you in. In like your bodies were suddenly flush together and–fuck.

You put a hand on his chest. Oh. His heart was pounding. It made it all the harder to break the kiss. To put one half-step-worth of space between you. Panting. Sweet fuck. You were both panting. His cheeks were pink again, and his pupils were blown, and he looked at you–really looked at you–exactly like he did when it was late and the movie had just ended and there was nothing to do except either give him your couch or kick him out. Most of the time, you hadn't kicked him out. You'd just…that look…. You'd always figured it'd been him silently asking if he could just stay and crash. Not this.

 “Um,” you started, but you had nothing to end with. Just um. Just um and a whole lot of incomplete thoughts.

"You're off from work at 3:30 tomorrow, right?" Steve asked, his nose practically bumping against yours again. 

You nodded. Your heart skipped.

“When I was driving to get the flowers, I saw some poor sap putting up a sign that they’re showing Christmas Vacation tomorrow at 5:00.” He shrugged a little. “If you’re interested.”

Ha. Ha. For all the times you'd watched from close and afar when he asked someone out. It was a coin flip on whether it was going to be successful or not. A messed-up pickup line or the day he managed to just ooze charisma. This was neither. This was just Steve.

"Pick me up at 4:30," you breathed. Barely. He'd stolen every breath in that kiss, and you were using every new one to regulate your pulse. Unsuccessfully. 

“It’s a date.” He held your waist tighter. Damn it. Your stomach flipped, and your heart skipped. "I'll…go. But, uh, sorry tonight was so weird." Another squeeze of your waist. You stepped with him as he stepped back, and you didn't even mean to. "We can talk about this tomorrow, okay?"

Yeah. Yeah. You swallowed down the semi-awkward whine that started to inexplicably build in your throat. The kind that started in your chest and pushed, pushed, pushed all the way up your throat like it was just another breath sneaking out.

But you stifled it. For all associations you had with Steve Harrington and whining, this wasn’t one of them. And just going down that path was going to open doors into areas you couldn’t think about with him in front of you. Let alone…at all. Not without pausing to really let it all sink in.

He’d kissed you. Twice.

He wanted to take you out. 

He’d wanted to kiss you for four years.

Motherfucker. 

You bit your lip and just nodded.

The world had turned on its head. This didn’t make any sense. None of it was…it…. Goddamn it. There was so much to go over. So much to think about. So much of him in memories to replay. Every tutoring session. Every random movie night. Every party you tagged along with him, bored, and tallying up the failed flirtations to talk about later with Robin.

Oh, sweet hell. Robin was going to lose it. 

“Tomorrow,” Steve murmured, his lips ghosting over yours again.

Fuck him. That…. Mm. Mhm. 

“4:30,” you breathed.

His lips brushed against yours.

“4:30.”

Weight gave on your hand. Steve stepped back. And back. And back. His hair had fallen forward, and he pushed it back without breaking eye contact. Burning, striking eye contact with blushing cheeks that you only saw in the cold and when he was shitfaced. And his lips were kiss swollen and pretty and he…. You used to really look at him when he was hunched over the table, tapping his pencil against the paper, trying to solve equations. He was pretty back then, but this was visceral.

He was…yeah.

You put your hand on the counter where he’d left his hat and the flowers sat just a hair away from your fingers, barely able to keep yourself upright. The flip in your belly was catastrophic to your sanity. As was the little spin he did with the same flirty smile he’d been doing all night, and it….

Ah, hell.

The door shut behind him.

Your knees buckled, and you caught yourself on the edge of the counter, back to it. Panting. Shaking. Burning hot.

“What the fuck?”

You could still taste him on your lips.

What the fuck, Steve Harrington? 

For the first time since he’d invited you out after a tutoring session in high school, you were nervous about seeing him. 

Oh, fuck.

You were going on a date with Steve.

You were going on a goddamn date with Steve.

You had to call Robin.

You sprinted toward your phone and dialed before you could even risk Steve getting home first. She’d have something to kick your thoughts into gear. Because what the fuck?

You were going on a date with Steve.

…chest?!

You jolt upright, pushing off Jason’s chest, your hair lifting in static little wisps as it detaches from his sweater. He sits up too, gripping the back of the couch to steady and pull himself upright.

“We- This- I swear nothing happened!" you ramble on, elbow nudging Jason to back you up.

“We just fell asleep. Real late,” Jason adds, morning voice raspy as the heel of his palm rubs at his eye, attempting to shrug the morning haziness away. He runs a hand through his tousled morning hair.

“Yeah, sure looks like it,” Babs quips from where she stands, gesturing to the cushions. “You were both so polite to the couch.”

She continues to hover with a smirk, folding her arms as she inspects both of you in your post-cuddled environment.

You rub at your morning eyes and take note of what Babs meant. The L-shaped couch did remain perfect. Untouched. Blankets folded, cushions unmoved by the foot of where you (and Jason) were laying. Even in the cold, neither of you had reached for the blankets. Like your body heat alone had been more than enough.

You glance at Jason, who is now sitting up. He seems to have drawn the same conclusion, rubbing at the back of his neck as his gaze flicks from the untouched couch to you.

Last night was nothing short of magical.

After a late-night snowboarding session, smooth as butter snow on the trails and snowflakes glinting under the moonlight, you’d both returned to the cabin frozen to the bone.

It took a while to get the key to slot into its frozen hole, leaving you two clowning at almost 2am at the door.

“Oh my gosh, Jason.” You lightly jogged on the spot to stop yourself from freezing, the lamp post nearby enabling you to see the puffs of air drawing warm from your mouth as you speak. “Hurry up already!”

“I’m tryin! It’s not going in!” Jason yelped, attempting to stab the key into the iced-up slot of the cabins back door. The keys jingle, then he fumbles and drops it onto a a small mountain pile on of snow by your feet.

“UGH, JAY!!!” 

You stiffly plopped down, digging your glove onto the small mountain of snow where the keys sunk into. You swear your knees give out as you pick up the keys, joints frozen and wailing to be warmed up. And as you stand back up you shove Jason aside to you make your own attempt to open the door too.

“IT’S THESE DAMN GLOVES, I SWEAR,” Jason protested trying to turn the knob as you successfully slot in the key. 

“The key isn’t turning!!!” you whined then, contemplating on banging on the glass door even though most of your friends are well asleep. 

“Okay… here…”

Jason hunkered down and began blowing air into the keyhole to warm it up. And despite your annoyance and your frozen face, you gleam. He looked so damn funny.

“The heck are you laughing at, help me!” he whined. 

You bend down next to him, right next to his face and start blowing warm air into the keyhole too. In the cold winter night, all you hear the the echoing, alternating "hah, hah, hah"s as you both warm up the doorknob. Your faces are almost plush next to each other as you both try to warm the metal. Jason tests it, and finally, the key turns and you both practically pounce inside, giggling at how or why your makeshift mouth heater worked.

“Shhhhhh, you’ll wake everyone up!” you smile up at him smacking a gloved hand at his shoulder.

“Right, right…” he smiles back, both of you dropping your snowgear by the entrance and making a beeline towards the fireplace, already kindling in the open lounge of the cabin.

The rest of the evening... well if you'd consider 2:03am an evening, went by cozily. A warm cuppa of hot chocolate in both your hands, both of you sinking into the couch side by side, letting your chilled bodies soak in the heat from the fireplace.

“Did you see my jump in that last run?” you asked, the warmth of your voice breaking the cold and quiet. “I swear I was flying!”

Jason chuckled softly. “Flying? You nearly wiped out. I thought we were both going to end up in the snowbank.”

“Hey ay ay, I didn’t ask for you to come rescue me, I was fine,” you protested, nudging him gently with your shoulder. “And speaking of wiping out, you practically face-planted on that last slope.”

He grinned, lifting his cup.

“If I wanted to do a graceful winter sport, we’d be figure-skating,” he added, his voice echoing slightly in the mug before he took a sip.

You laughed at the thought. “Oh, we are so doing that next. I’d pay to watch you kiss rock-hard ice instead of snow.”

His eyes glinted at you from behind the mug. He set it down carefully on the coffee table.

“You’re so on,” he whispered, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

The cabin had quieted completely, save for the crackling of the fireplace. Everyone else had retreated to their rooms after the long day of snow and early-morning activities. Rarely did you get these moments; everyone knocked out early, just the two of you, relaxed, with no patrols, no obligations.

He leaned back against the couch, exhaling a slow, peaceful breath. As if his mind was on the same wavelength.

“You know, I never thought snow could feel like… I don’t know… magic. The way it fell under the moonlight? I swear I could see it in slow motion and it was the most relaxed I've ever felt,” Jason spoke, eyes never leaving the fire.

"Save for my freezing balls. Those guys were tense," he tersely added before sipping again.

You chuckled, eyeing his side profile and catching the glint of firelight reflecting in his eyes regally green eyes. You seemed to have a way to make Jason be completely honest with you. No matter the topic. Magic or his balls.

You smiled softly before closing your eyes. “Yeah. It was… peaceful. Kinda makes all the cold worth it.”

A small grin tugged at your lips before you opened your eyes to meet his. “You know, my first memorable winter moment was in our backyard,” you chuckled. “Alfred would get so worried about our DIY course on the hill behind the manor. But Bruce? Oh, man! He'd practically volunteer to go down face-first. On a cardboard sled, straight into a mountain of snow waiting for him at the bottom. It was absolute chaos, but memorable.”

He glanced at you, expression softening. “Yeah,” he huffed, smiling. “Then Damian would clock my head with a bowling ball–sized snowball. I swear on my life.”

You laughed so hard you had to press your face into the back of the couch to keep from waking anyone.

Hours passed of you reminiscing on the past winters, eventually slowing as you both watched the fire dance in comfortable silence after. Without remembering when in the night it occurred, you found yourself head rested lightly on Jason's shoulder, feeling the warmth radiating from him. He glanced down briefly, and though you couldn’t see it, a soft smile tugged at his lips. Then he leaned his head ever so slightly against yours. A simple mirrored gesture that felt sweeter, more comforting, than the hot chocolate you'd just downed.

“You’re… uhm… really warm,” you murmured softly.

He let out a low, amused chuckle. “Yeah… you are too.”

Minutes passed in silence, the fire’s glow and the faint ticking of the clock filling the room. Jason shifted slightly, letting his arm rest casually behind the couch, keeping you close without crowding you. You tilted just a little more into him, feeling your bodies naturally sync.

“You know,” he whispered, almost absentmindedly, “I could stay like this forever.”

You smiled softly, chest fluttering. “Yeah? I think I could stay like this forever too.”

A yawn escaped you.

Jason’s eyes softened, and he let out a low, contented hum. “Guess I’m not the only one,” he said quietly.

You settled further against him, letting the weight of your head rest fully on his shoulder. He shifted just slightly to accommodate, leaning in more comfortably. Then, just before sleep fully carried you away, he added; “So… figure-skating tomorrow, huh? I’m warning you, I’ll qualify for the Olympics.”

You giggled softly, pressing a little closer. “You better prove that with triple axels tomorrow morning.”

Jason laughed quietly, the soft sound vibrating against your shoulder. “I'm telling you you’ll be surprised.”

Your yawn returned, softer this time, as your eyelids grew heavy. Shadows danced across the cabin walls and ceiling as the firelight remained wide awake, snow glittering faintly outside, and the quiet intimacy of the room wrapped around you both.

Finally, by the soft fire, your bodies pressed close, and slowly, inevitably, you drifted fully into sleep… curled together, tender and safe, heads still leaning against each other in the perfect silence of the night. Eventually, you settled fully against him, his warmth lulling you to sleep.

“DICK! Come look! They were cuddling the entire night!” Babs’s voice sliced through, shaking you into the present morning.

You rolled your eyes.

Then, both you and Jason exchanged a glance.

"Slept okay?" he asked.

"Oh, best sleep ever, actually."

It's only fair you return the honesty you always get from him.

You both smile at each other, and between your pair of eyes there was a mutual agreement. An agreement that this couch, may just be your sleeping station for the rest of the cabin holiday.

You prodded him gently, a teasing lilt in your voice.

“Sooo… if I remember correctly, you promised me an Olympic tryout today, didn’t you?”

It’s happening. 

You tried keeping this at bay. You really did. Every time a thought resurfaced, it was just as quickly pushed to the side. Maybe this time it would be different. Yet, despite your relentless fighting methods, your palms were still sweating on and off. Even the lights visible from outside your window, which are usually calming, evoked nothing. Something about the weather today was too similar to when it all went down. 

So against your strongest will, the nightmares came back. 

Neck damp with sweat, you tear off your bedsheets violently. Normally their warmth is comfortable, but tonight they’ve left you overheated. The stark contrast of the cool air doesn’t help, either. Your heart rate and breathing only get more out of control.

For some reason, the need to get away is overwhelming. To where, you’re not sure. Just anywhere. 

Anywhere that’s not your trembling body. 

Anywhere that’s not your restless mind. 

Legs taking on a will of their own, you stumble through the hallway, into the elevator, and down a few floors into the living room. A crushing weight presses itself over your body, making your chest more hollow with nausea than it already was. There’s nothing in your system right now, yet it’s threatening to return.

You’re pretty sure you’re about to gag when Bob comes into view on the couch. A pang of guilt washes over you, afraid to intrude upon his time to rest with a messy breakdown. 

“Oh, hey! What are you – what are you doing up this late?” He taps on his phone screen. “It’s almost three.”

Three. You didn’t even bother checking the time because every worst possible image and sensation and thought is swirling around, too hazy and too vivid all at once. You might just collapse onto the floor.

But you don’t want to burden him with this at an insanely late hour of the night. It’s your problem. 

Bob’s expression shifts as he notices the obvious rise and fall of your chest. “Are…you okay?”

You could just take care of it yourself. Deny it, say that you’re fine. 

But a buzzing sensation begins in your limbs. 

You’re going to have a heart attack. 

You’re going to die. 

“I–” You gasp. “I can’t breathe.” 

In an instant, he’s at your side. 

Nothing is really registering, with the exception of his hands’ gentle pressure on your shoulders. He guides you to the couch and, sitting down quickly, faces you with a composed urgency. 

“Can you put your hand on your heart for me?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

Sucking in a sharp and uneven breath, you fight a cough. “I think I’m – oh my God, I’m going to throw up. I can’t. I’m going to throw up.” 

“You won’t, I promise. It’s temporary. Now look.” He raises his right hand, then puts it gently over his pajama sweatshirt. “Go ahead and put your hand on your heart. It’ll get better soon.”

A trembling hand ends up on your chest. The rough pounding of your heart against your palm freaks you out. “It’s – it’s too fast, it’s –”

“I know, love, I know. But nothing is going to happen to you.” Bob holds your gaze with a quiet intensity. “So what we’re going to do is inhale, hold, exhale, and hold again, all for four seconds. Alright? You remember?”

Box breathing. It’s something you do with him all the time. You nod. 

“Okay,” he whispers. “Let’s do it together.”  

He counts through an entire round of this technique, but your body keeps fighting you. The breathing, you think, might only be making things worse. It’s too rhythmic – too much, like literally everything else that’s threatening to break you down. 

The faces that make your stomach burn and the sounds that seared themselves into your brain are still suffocating. You’re seeing it again. You’re feeling it again. You’re back there again, and there’s nothing you can do.

A cry for help attempts to leave your lips, but nausea makes your mouth go dry as soon as you open it. Shame washes over you at the thought of how stupid you must look.

“Hey.” Bob’s voice is almost firm, yet deeply understanding. “You’re safe. It’s just you and me.” 

Just you and me.

The words bounce around amongst your racing thoughts. You’re always telling yourself – and him – about the importance of validating feelings, but fear of something not present, an event long gone, is making that impossibly hard to believe. 

He pats his hand on his chest as a reminder, briefly interrupting the spiral. “Let’s – let’s do it again.”

Another round goes by. Torture. The violent thrashing of your heart is just as bad, and everything feels awful. You’re absolutely stricken with terror.

But Bob’s eyes never abandons you. “It’s going to pass. Okay? I’m right here. Right here with you.”

Several rounds of clammy hands and nauseous swirls come and go. You can’t keep track of them all – everything starts blending together. It feels as if this could never end.

But after more deep breathing and quiet affirmations, it occurs to you that, somewhere along the way, you gained feeling in your body again. Your limbs and your hands aren’t numb, or shaking as uncontrollably. The new sensations make you shiver. 

“There you go,” he whispers, giving a small, encouraging smile. “You’re doing great.” 

Maybe, just maybe, something deep within you starts to settle. 

Eventually, you regain focus on the give of the cushion beneath you and the tile against your feet. The image of his polite, concerned stature sitting in front of you also finally feels clear. Your breathing is still a bit uneven, but it’s back. 

In the violent sea of your thoughts, his voice has been a lighthouse. 

A few indistinguishable moments later, Bob finally takes his hand off his heart. “How are you feeling now?”

“Um…” You take one deep breath on your own, focusing on how the cool air fills your lungs. “Better, I think.”

He hums and, slowly, holds out his hands. Searching your face for permission to come into contact, Bob offers you a kind look – one free of pressure if you’re not ready. 

The gesture relaxes your muscles naturally. Nodding, you reach out for him, and he gives your hands a gentle squeeze. A completely silent motion, yet one that speaks volumes. That’s one of the many ways to describe your love for each other: quiet, but loud. 

Without warning, you start to cry. 

The softness popped something open like a spring. Growing up, you thought the stormy relationship of your parents was all there was to the world. Countless times did you wonder if it was destiny to end up in a cycle of bitter miscommunication – with someone controlling who never even gave you a second thought. 

But here you are, with a partner whose eyes shine with tears of empathy, his arms enveloping you into a warm hug without hesitation. 

Your weeping is a release for the stress pent up within your body from tonight’s anxiety, but also everything else – from the stinging words of the past to the fight to keep it all down this week. Curling your hands into his sweatshirt, you grip him like you’re afraid he’s going to disappear. 

“It’s okay, baby.” Bob rubs soft circles on your shaking back. “It’s okay.” 

It tears him apart to see you this way. 

He’s never met anyone as giving as you in his life. With a bright personality that just oozes love, you never fail to convince him of good in the world when he needs it. For every single one of his depressive episodes, you’re there to make his favorite meals and brush his hair when he can’t bring himself to. 

You are his anchor, his sun, a force that has loved him at his darkest.

Because of your thick skin, you always say you don’t need anyone to take care of you. He knows you don’t, but that doesn’t mean he can’t return the favor for all you’ve done for him. 

You don’t know how long he stays there with you – more than enough for you to come down from your high. Small sobs subsiding, you sit up, a bit dizzy. A chill runs through you at the loss of contact with his warm body.

Now sitting cross-legged, he watches you intently. “Do you – do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe in a little bit. Can we just…” You inhale. “Be together for now?” 

The vulnerability of the question makes your cheeks burn, but you watch as Bob smiles softly. “Of course. Whenever you’re ready.” 

He wipes a stray tear from your cheek, a wordless reassurance that you didn’t have to pull away if you didn’t want to. 

You sigh. Although you want to revisit some of this when you’re in a calmer state, you realize you’re still holding yourself back.

“Um…” You clear your throat shyly. “I will say it has been a long week, though.”

Relieved that you’re opening up, Bob hums. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Because of the time of year, I think. It reminds me of...everything.” Your skin prickles at the confession, but putting it into words relieves more tension. “I felt like I’ve been – I don’t know, really struggling not to break down, I guess.”

His eyes flicker. “I’m so sorry, baby. I had – gosh, I had no idea.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault at all.” You bite your lip. “I didn’t want to bother you with this.”

“You could never bother me,” Bob insists instantly. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

Wrapping his arm back around your shoulder, he brings you closer towards him again. Leaning your head against his chest, you let out a long exhale. He’s always so patient. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, savoring the feeling of his comfortable sweatshirt on your cheek. “I love you.”

The words stand still in the slowly unwinding atmosphere. You feel the soft patter of his heartbeat picking up, making you smile to yourself – it’s completely different from the wild pounding of your heart from earlier. While your body will still be recovering for a while, the sound is evidence that the darkness never lasts forever. 

“I love you, too.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, warm lips soothing your skin. “Never forget that.” 

For the first time all night, you truly feel safe.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆

Christmas was the only point of contention you and Dean had ever had.

It was understandable why Dean hated Christmas; while for you it was nostalgic for playing in the snow and drinking hot chocolate and getting the things you'd been asking your family for for months, for Dean it was the total opposite. Life on the road meant no Christmas tree, no time to play in the snow, no winter markets, no skating, nothing. And life with John Winchester as a father meant no gifts. At least Sam had Dean to swipe something from a convenience store, and if they were staying with Bobby, then Dean might get a toy truck or two, but nothing he got was really that magical.

That's why this year you were finally going to do it: get Dean Winchester a gift he actually wanted, something that could sway him to put up a Christmas tree and participate in your stupid little traditions and merriment. However, Dean being a—for lack of a better word—manwhore meant there was really only one gift you knew he'd want with no doubt in your mind.

You.

December 17th, you still didn't have a tree up, and Dean refused to even touch the idea. So it was time for your 'feminine wiles' and an early Christmas present to sway him not to be the goddamn Grinch.

"Dean," Sam barked from the doorway. You'd been in the same motel for a week and weren't leaving for at least two; this case was a bitch, but it meant there was time for at least some festivities, if you could convince your boyfriend of that. "There was something waiting for you at the door. I'm going out to grab some takeout for dinner; just... make sure it's not ricin before I get back, okay?"

"Fine!" Dean shouted back from the washroom. Sam sighed and gave you a wordless look to say, 'You're welcome. I'll be gone in a while, so so-help-me-God if I come back and you're not done and fully clothed,' as he pulled up the little corner of wrapping paper and taped it shut over your hair, a barely-sticky bow going right on top. You were covered head-to-toe in green, red, and white paper, covered in checks and plaid and pine trees and bows; it was an abomination to look at but $1.25 from the dollar store next door.

Sam left, shutting and locking the door behind him, leaving you to wait patiently by the door for your all-too-unmerry boyfriend. God, what if he really thought the girlfriend-shaped present by the door really was ricin and just put you back outside in the snow?

Never mind that; the washroom door just opened, so you caught your breath in waiting. "The fuck..?" Dean mumbled, walking over to you (or so you could assume by the sound of his footsteps getting louder, but your eyes and ears were both fully blocked, so it was honestly hard to tell).

"Baby?" he called, "you home?" Great, so he didn't know you were in there. You barely caught a sharp breath, sucking it back down before you made a noise, as he punctured the paper with a pocket knife right in front of the crevice of your elbow. You jerked back barely to avoid the blade, but not enough to arouse suspicion. He got the beginning of a cut going through the paper before setting down the knife and ripping the rest with his hands.

Because he decided to open from the chest level, the first thing he saw wasn't your face or your card but your fucking cleavage. "Holy shit," he mumbled, tearing further upwards to see your face, rosy from the nipping cold in the motel. None of the windows closed all the way. "What the fuck's going on?"

"Merry almost-Christmas," you smiled coyly, looking up at him with faux naïveté, cheeks like little apples from your smile.

"This is what I've been missing out on every Christmas??" His eyes dipped back down to your chest. Of course they did; you knew your boyfriend too damn well.

Along with the ugly and ornate wrapping paper, you'd found yourself a Christmas lingerie set from the dollar store, choosing that for the little outfit you'd wear as Dean's present. There was faux fur lining the top and bottom hems, red velvet gapping the distance over your front, and a big empty spot along the back, with two small red bows, one at each peak of your chest. The boning of the corset under the velvet pushed your cleavage up and together, practically shining under the cheap motel lights.

Dean licked his lips, sputtering for a moment before getting out a "Jesus Christ, baby—" before you cut him off.

"Finish unwrapping me, Dean," you murmured, looking up with sparkly eyes, and you didn't have to say another word before he shot into motion. He pulled the rest of the paper over your head and the rest down to the ground, revealing little pearly stockings with lacy red garters digging into your thighs and small bows on the front. You stepped out of the pool of wrapping paper, doing a small twirl for Dean to see the full outfit, catching how his eyes lingered indecently on the high-cut bottom part doing absolutely nothing to cover your ass.

"How are you not freezing to death?" he murmured, still deeply caring even when he was harder than a rock.

"Oh, I am," you grinned, an idea suddenly popping into your head. "I think you need to warm me up." You reached up and wrapped your arms around him, playing with the baby hairs wisping along the nape of his neck. One leg hooked up on his waist, and he quickly grabbed it, digging in so hard you'd surely bruise, before grabbing the other and forcing you off the ground.

"You're a fucking she-devil, woman," he groaned, one arm staying around your thighs and the other wrapping around your middle, forcing you into an almost animalistic kiss. His nose pushed against yours, lips wet and pressing harshly against yours before he moved down a touch and tugged your lower lip between his teeth. That elicited your yelp, which elicited his groan, both of you a total mess before he turned around and threw you on your shared bed.

You landed with a squeak, bouncing on the springy bed before he climbed on over you and caged you in with his harried, broad arms. "Is this supposed to be Mrs. Claus?" he murmured, pressing a quick kiss into your lips before moving down to your throat so you could answer... or at least try, if you weren't too distracted by the wet kisses and suckles at the base of your throat.

"Mm hm," you mumbled, struggling to string words together.

"So, does that make me some... tall, muscular elf keeping Mrs. Claus satisfied while her husband's out making millions happy and forgetting to give gifts to neglected children?" Dean teased.

"No," you smirked, "it makes you Santa. Home for the first time in forever, what with you spending so much time forgetting neglected kids."

"I guess the fast food on the road has taken a toll, huh," Dean laughed.

"Mm, I still love you," you smiled sincerely, cupping his face and bringing him up for a kiss. He reciprocated easily, knee slotting between your icy-cold thighs.

"God, you're freezing," he murmured.

"It's fine. The outfit's cute, ain't it?"

"That's one way to describe it," he said between kisses. "Totally fucking hot is another way."

"Does it change your opinion on Christmas?" you asked sweetly.

"Oh, fuck yeah."

"Yay!" you squealed, arms shooting up in celebration. Your knuckle skimmed his nose, his hand rushing to his nose to make sure it wasn't bleeding. It wasn't, nor was it broken, just a little sore. "Oh, shit—sorry," you rambled quickly, cupping his face and rolling so you were both on your sides.

"It's─fine, baby, I'm fine," he chuckled awkwardly.

You kissed the tip of his nose. "You sure?" Another kiss.

"Actually," he said under his breath, eyes skimming mischievously over yours, "I think I need you to make it up to me." His hand brushed your thigh, testing the waters, before slipping under the fake fur and over your barely clothed hips and back.

Fairy lights strung across bookshelves, garlands wrapped around banisters, and at least four poorly hung paper snowflakes drooping from the ceiling. Half the faculty was already tipsy. The other half was lying about not being tipsy.

You were determined to remain sober.

Which lasted until Isadora Capri drifted through the crowd, caught your wrist with two elegant fingers, and pressed a wine glass into your hand without breaking conversation.

A soft, amused “Drink,” was all she said.

And… well. What were you supposed to do? Say no!? You weren’t insane.

So now you were slightly tipsy – warm in the cheeks, giggly, pleasantly unsteady – and Isadora Capri was laughing at everything you said like it was far more charming than it really was.

Her arm brushed yours as she leaned in to speak. Your hand grazed her waist when you turned. She caught your elbow when someone bumped into you. You touched her bicep for balance exactly one time and then refused to let go for ten straight seconds because you were a clumsy drunk and she was very, very stable.

“Steady,” she murmured, catching you again when you swayed. “Honestly, darling. One glass?”

“It was a large glass,” you attempted defensively.

She laughed – soft, low, devastating. You instantly forgave her for teasing you.

You wandered together – talking, drinking, half-flirting, half-pretending-you-weren’t-flirting – unaware of your surroundings because she made the room feel like it had narrowed to just the two of you.

You didn’t realise where you were standing until a voice behind you shouted:

“HO HO HOLY SHIT – YOU’RE UNDER THE MISTLETOE!” (help me-)

You froze.

Isadora froze.

The entire room turned.

Someone started clapping. Someone else wolf-whistled. Someone near the food table yelled “FINISH THE JOB!” and was immediately shushed.

Your heart shot straight into your throat.

“O–Oh,” you squeaked. “W–we didn’t… I mean– we didn’t notice–”

“You absolutely noticed,” someone mumbled.

Isadora lifted her chin with a faux-prim expression. “I assure you, we did not.”

The problem was: She said it with that voice. The one that sounded like velvet, sin and a dare.

You felt her eyes on you even before you looked up. Warm. Expectant. Amused.

You swallowed.

And then – in a fit of panic and tipsy bravado – you leaned forward and pecked her lips.

A tiny kiss. Barely-there. Cute.

Too cute.

The room cheered.

Isadora… did not.

She blinked once. Twice.

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before she exhaled like that small, innocent kiss had just lit a fuse inside her.

You turned away quickly, cheeks flaming. “See? There. Festive! No big deal.”

Her hand caught your wrist.

Firm.

“You,” she said, voice low and dangerous, “have no idea what you just started.”

Oh no.

Oh no.

She guided you – gently but unquestionably – out of the center of the room, toward the quiet corner near the old bookshelf. Each step made your pulse stutter faster.

“Isadora? Isa? W–where are we–?”

“To talk,” she said simply. But her fingers interlaced with yours. And that was not a “talking” grip.

You were barely out of sight before she pressed her hand to the wall beside your head, caging you in with the softest, deadliest smile you’d ever seen.

“You kissed me–” she murmured.

“I– I just– people were looking–”

“You kissed me,” she repeated, slower this time, her other hand finding your hip like it belonged there. “And then you turned away from me.”

“I wasn’t turning away–”

“You were escaping, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t–”

“Shh.” Her forehead brushed yours. “Look at you.”

You were breathless. Shaking. Very warm. Very tipsy. And very trapped in the best possible way.

“Isa–”

“You’re flushed,” she whispered, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “You get flustered so easily. It’s adorable.”

You made a sound that did not belong in public.

She leaned in – lips grazing your jaw, breath warm against your cheek.

“If you wanted to distract them…” she murmured, “you should have kissed me properly.”

Your legs gave out.

Her arm caught you around the waist.

And then – finally – she kissed you.

Not soft.

Not shy.

Slow, deep, hungry in the way that made your knees buckle and your grip on her sweater tighten. Her mouth moved against yours with exquisite, devastating precision – coaxing you closer until you were all tangled breath and trembling hands and the quiet, desperate sounds she kept stealing from your throat.

Her thigh nudged between yours.

You gasped.

She swallowed it greedily.

When the kiss broke, you were both breathless.

“Isa…” you whispered, dazed.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know.”

A thunk behind the bookshelf startled you both – someone dropped a biscuit tin.

You stiffened.

Isadora pressed one last soft kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then pulled back slowly, smoothing your hair like she was wiping evidence off your face.

“We should… rejoin the party, eventually” she said, voice still thick with heat.

“Eventually,” you echoed.

You returned far too late to be subtle.

---

A while later Ames looked up from the snack table. “Ah! Capri! Your mistletoe placement is beautiful this year.”

You blinked. “Her what?”

Ames grinned. “Oh, she insisted on hanging every last sprig herself. Said it ‘encouraged a festive spirit.’ ”

Murmurs of agreement. Nods from several teachers.

You turned your head.

Isadora Capri was sipping her wine behind you.

Not hiding her smile.

At all.

“You–” you hissed. “You planned this?”

She tapped her glass to yours. “I merely decorated.”

“You put mistletoe in every doorway we passed!”

“Mm.” Sip. “Decorating.”

“You trapped me!”

At last, she leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“Darling…” Her voice dropped. Dangerously. Warm. Claiming.

“If I really wanted to trap you, we wouldn’t be back at the party yet.”

You nearly combusted.

She smirked.

---

The snow outside was soft and fresh by the time you two stepped out into the quiet courtyard, the party still humming behind you.

You were tipsy. Warm. Floating.

Isadora tucked your hand into her coat pocket with hers to keep it warm.

You leaned into her shoulder automatically.

She chuckled. “Careful. You’ll fall.”

“I am falling,” you mumbled.

Her steps faltered.

Slowly – very slowly – she looked down at you.

“…For me?” she asked, voice soft but sure.

You blinked, heat blooming across your cheeks. “I umm- I meant literally, but–”

Her fingers tightened around yours.

“That answer works too,” she murmured.

You hid your face in her arm. “Isa!”

She kissed the top of your head, smug and affectionate. “My sweet, tipsy girl.”

“I’m not that tipsy.”

“You tried to unlock the snowman with your room key.”

You groaned. “Stoppp…”

She laughed, warm and lovely in the winter air, guiding you home through the softly falling snow.

Halfway there, she said – like it was a casual observation – “I’m kissing you again when we get inside.”

Your heart flipped.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you whispered.

She smirked.

“Yes.”

And snow fell quietly around you both as she led you home.

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Day 5 of Caprimas, hope y'all are enjoying it 💙

All likes, follows, comments, reblogs and requests are very much appreciated - I love hearing from you guys!

Much luv & thx,

"Babe?" he calls, voice still rough with sleep as he checks the bathroom, the kitchen. The coffee pot is on, but you're nowhere in sight.

He spots it then, swirling white outside the window.

The world beyond the glass is a blur of snow, fat flakes whipping sideways in a full on snowstorm. And there, halfway down the driveway, is you.

You, in your thick coat, shovel in hand, out in the middle of the snowstorm.

Shoveling.

John freezes at the window for exactly three seconds, processing

"You've got to be kidding me."

He yanks on a hoodie, pulls on his boots without socks, and storms toward the door, muttering under his breath, "She better not have a death wish, because I swear..."

The wind hits him the second he opens the door, icy and vicious, snatching his breath. Snow flies into his face, sticking in his hair and beard. He squints against it and stomps out onto the porch.

"HEY!" he booms over the howl of the wind.

You shovel another heavy line of snow and toss it aside, pretending not to hear him.

He isn't fooled.

"Don't you dare ignore me," he warns, trudging down the steps. Snow is already past his ankles. "What are you doing?"

You finally look up, cheeks flushed from exertion and cold, snowflakes clinging to your lashes. "What's it look like?" you yell back. "I'm shoveling!"

His eyes narrow, that little vein in his forehead starting to show. "You're out here in the middle of a damn snowstorm..."

"It's not a storm," you argue. "It's just… aggressively snowing."

"...shoveling the driveway," he continues as if you didn't speak, "by yourself, at..." he checks his watch "...eight in the morning?"

You shrug, digging the shovel into another drift. "The snow doesn't care what time it is."

John steps off the porch, squinting like the snow personally insulted him. "Where's your hat?"

"In the house."

"Where it does what? Supervise?"

You roll your eyes. "I'm almost done, relax."

He walks closer, boots crunching over the half-cleared driveway. Up close, you can see the way his jaw ticks, the lines between his brows deepening as he takes you in, no hat, no scarf, jacket unzipped, hair dusted in white.

"How long have you been out here?" he asks.

You look away. "Not that long."

"That's not an answer."

You puff out another cloud of breath. "I woke up at six."

"Six?!" His voice goes up a full octave. "You've been out here for two hours?"

"On and off," you protest. "I went inside for coffee."

"Oh, great," he says. "You hydrated with caffeine and came right back out to freeze to death. That's much better."

You grit your teeth, shoveling another path just to prove a point. "I'm not freezing to death. I'm fine. I've done this a hundred times."

"Yeah, before you lived with a six-foot-something human snowplow," he snaps, jabbing a thumb at his chest. "You were supposed to wake me up."

"I didn't want to bother you," you shoot back.

He stares at you like you've spoken another language. "Bother me? By letting me shovel my own damn driveway?"

You grip the handle a little tighter. "I always do it myself. It's not a big deal."

"It is when you're out here half dressed, in a storm, for two hours," he says. His brows pinch together, his voice dropping into that low, irritated concern he gets when you do something he interprets as a direct attack on his blood pressure. "You're gonna get sick."

You snort. "That's not how that works, John."

"I don't care if it's scientifically accurate," he mutters. "You're coming inside."

You shove another pile out of the way. "I told you, I'm almost done..."

"Yeah?" He takes another step closer, looming now, arms crossed over his chest. "Define 'almost.'"

You gesture vaguely down the driveway. "I just have… that part. And then the sidewalk. And maybe the steps."

He follows your hand and sees the untouched half of the driveway, the snow still coming down, already starting to fill in what you've cleared. His eye twitches.

"We're gonna lose this battle," he says flatly. "The snow is winning. Get inside."

"John..."

"Nope." He shakes his head, decisive. "We're not arguing. You're cold."

"I'm not cold," you lie immediately, even as your teeth threaten to chatter.

He gives you a slow, disbelieving once-over. "Your nose is literally the color of a stop sign."

You lift your free hand, covering your nose self consciously. "It's fine."

John sighs, the long, put-upon sound of a man who knows he's about to do something dramatic. "I tried the reasonable approach," he mutters. "I really did."

You narrow your eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he says, closing the space between you in three strides, "you brought this on yourself."

"John, don't..."

You don't even get to finish the sentence before he plucks the shovel straight out of your hands like you're a toddler holding a plastic toy, jams it point-first into the snowbank beside you, and then, before your brain can catch up, he bends, grips the back of your thighs, and hauls you over his shoulder.

You yelp, the world tipping upside down with a rush of blood to your head.

"John!" you squeal, muffled by his back. "Put me down!"

"Not a chance, sweetheart," he grunts, adjusting you like you weigh nothing. One arm hooks around the back of your knees, the other bracing your waist. "You had your shot. Now it's my turn."

You smack at his back with your gloved hands. "I am an independent adult!"

"Uh-huh." He starts marching toward the house, boots crunching over the snow. "An independent adult with no hat, no scarf, and a death wish."

The wind hits your exposed legs and you hiss. "It's not a death wish, it's called being productive!"

"It's called frostbite waiting to happen!"

"You're being dramatic," you grumble, though your voice wobbles a little because you are upside down and also very aware that the neighborhood can probably see this.

He snorts. "Says the woman shoveling like she's fighting the final boss of winter."

You squirm, trying to twist and see where you're going, but all you get is a view of the half cleared driveway and your shovel, abandoned and sticking out of the snow like a sad little flag of surrender.

"John, seriously," you protest. "I'm going to fall."

"I've got you," he says, and he says it so easily, so confidently, that something in your chest squeezes. "I'm not dropping you. Relax."

Your fingers curl in the back of his shirt at the solid warmth of him under your gloves. His shoulder digs into your stomach, but he keeps a hand splayed steady against your back, protective even while he's lecturing you.

"You do realize," you mutter, "this is completely unnecessary."

"You being out there alone for two hours is unnecessary," he shoots back. "This is a proportionate response."

"You kidnapped me from my own driveway."

"Correction, I rescued you from your terrible decision making."

"You are unbelievable."

"And you are stubborn." He huffs a breath, the sound vibrating through his back. "We're a fun pair."

He tromps up the steps, shouldering the front door open. Warmth spills out, along with the faint smell of coffee you'd left on the counter. He steps inside and uses his heel to kick the door shut behind him.

The sudden change in temperature makes you shiver. You hadn't realized how cold you really were until now.

"See?" he says, like he can feel it. "Freezing. I knew it."

"I am not freezing," you argue weakly, even as your body goes from numb to pins and needles in seconds.

"You're arguing while upside down," he says. "That's how I know you're lying."

"You started this!"

He chuckles, finally slowing. "Sit tight. We're almost there."

"Where is 'there' exactly?" you demand.

"Couch. Blankets. Possibly a lecture," he says. "We'll see how cooperative you are."

He bends and, with surprising gentleness, lowers you until your feet find the floor. Your knees wobble, the room tilting for a second after hanging upside down. You grab his forearms to steady yourself, fingers clutching at warm muscle, and he catches you around the waist automatically.

You're suddenly very close. His cheeks are pink from the cold, a few snowflakes melting in his hair. His eyes sweep over your face, checking you, like he's cataloguing each little detail, the red tip of your nose, the flushed skin, the way your hands are shaking slightly where they rest on him.

"Hey," he says softly, the irritation blunted now by concern. "You okay?"

You swallow. "Yeah. Just… dizzy."

"That's what happens when you play shovel warrior for two hours," he says, but it comes out quieter, his thumb brushing absentmindedly along your side where his hand rests. "Come on."

He steers you toward the living room, one arm secure around your shoulders. You let him guide you, mostly because your legs are still protesting and partially because his body heat feels really, really good.

"Sit," he orders, nudging you down onto the couch.

You drop onto the cushions with a sigh, the couch swallowing you. John snags the throw blanket from the back and shakes it out, the fabric fluttering over you in a warm cloud before he tucks it around your shoulders like he's wrapping a burrito.

You wiggle your hands free. "I can do that myself, you know."

"Yeah," he says, stepping back to look you over with his hands on his hips. "I know you can. That's half the problem."

You blink. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He lets out another long breath, the last of his irritation settling into something more like exasperated affection. "It means you're so used to doing everything yourself, you don't even think to ask me."

You pull the blanket tighter around you, suddenly a little defensive. "I didn't want to wake you up. You were actually sleeping for once. I can handle snow."

"I know you can handle it," he says. "You can handle just about anything. Doesn't mean you have to."

You look away, picking at the edge of the blanket. "I'm not… used to asking people for help."

"Yeah." His voice softens, like he gets it. Like he's seen it a hundred times already. "I've noticed."

You shrug one shoulder. "I don't want to be a burden."

John's quiet for a beat. When you finally meet his eyes again, there's no annoyance there, just something steady and warm.

"Hey," he says, and you hate how much you like the way he says that, like it's a subtle way of saying hey, look at me. "You're my girlfriend. You're not a burden. You're… my responsibility."

Your brows shoot up. "Oh, I'm your responsibility now?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Yeah. In the sense that I am absolutely responsible for making sure you don't do dumb things like reenacting a polar expedition at dawn."

You snort. "It was hardly a polar expedition."

"You were one frostbite away from starring in a cautionary tale," he insists. Then his expression turns more sincere. "Let me help, okay? That's what I'm here for."

You shift under his gaze, suddenly feeling a little raw in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. "I'm trying," you admit quietly. "It's just… new."

He nods, like he understands that more than you said. "We'll take it slow. Step one, when it's aggressively snowing..." he gives you a pointed look "you wake me up. Deal?"

You chew your lip, considering. "And what if I wake you up and you're grumpy?"

"I'm already grumpy," he deadpans. "Might as well put it to good use."

You snort, the sound turning into a reluctant laugh. "Fine. Deal."

He grins, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. "Good. Now, I'm gonna make you some hot chocolate so your insides remember what warmth feels like."

"I can make my own..."

His eyes narrow.

You catch yourself. "I… can sit here and… let you make it."

"There you go," he says, satisfied. "Character development."

You roll your eyes but sink back into the cushions anyway, blanket cocooned around you. As he turns toward the kitchen, you hear him muttering under his breath about you being "a menace" and "too stubborn for your own good," but his tone is fond.

You close your eyes for a second, letting the heat seep into your fingers. The house is quiet except for the low rumble of John in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the clink of mugs. The contrast to the howling wind outside makes the living room feel extra cozy.

A moment later he's back, juggling two steaming mugs. He sets one on the coffee table and hands you the other, careful to angle the handle toward you.

"Careful," he warns. "It's hot."

You take it, your gloved fingers fumbling. He clicks his tongue and gently tugs the gloves off one hand, then the other, stuffing them into his pocket.

"Hands," he says. "You can't warm up with snow gloves on."

"You're very bossy today," you murmur, curling your bare fingers around the mug. The warmth sinks in immediately, making you sigh.

"I'm bossy every day," he points out, dropping down onto the couch next to you. The seat dips, your shoulder brushing his. "You just usually argue harder."

"I'm conserving energy," you say. "I was out there battling nature."

He gives you a side eye. "I know. I watched you for a full minute before I came out. You looked like you were about to declare war on the driveway."

You puff a laugh, taking a careful sip. It's rich and warm and way too sweet, and you know he added extra marshmallows just because he knows you like it that way.

"You know," you say after a moment, staring into your mug, "you could've just… taken the shovel and helped."

"I was going to," he says. "Then you said you weren't done yet in that tone."

"What tone?" you ask, offended.

He mimics you in a high, dramatic voice. "'I'm not finished yet.'"

You gape. "That is not what I sound like."

"That is exactly what you sound like when you're about to push yourself too far," he counters. "And I knew if I just took the shovel, you'd try to wrestle it back."

You open your mouth, then close it. "…Okay, yeah, maybe."

"So," he says, smug, "over the shoulder was the safest option for both of us."

You stare at him. "Safest?"

"Yeah. That way you couldn't slip on the ice, and I got to be the hero," he says, grin widening. "Win-win."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "You just wanted an excuse to show off."

"I don't need an excuse to show off," he replies instantly. "But I do appreciate one when it presents itself."

You elbow his side, earning a soft oof. "You're insufferable."

"You love me."

You make a face, but your heart does a little flip anyway. "…Unfortunately."

He chuckles, draping an arm along the back of the couch behind you. After a second, you lean into him, letting your shoulder press against his chest. He immediately takes advantage, tugging you closer until you're tucked against his side, blanket spread over both of you now.

"You know," he says quietly, lips brushing your hair, "you don't have to prove anything to me."

"I wasn't," you argue automatically, even as the words land a little too true.

He hums, not calling you out, just… there. Solid. Warm. Gentle in a way that constantly surprises you, considering how tough he can be with the rest of the world.

"I like that you're independent," he adds. "I love that you can handle yourself. Just… let me handle some things too, yeah?"

You play with the edge of the blanket, thinking. Letting someone else handle things, handle you, still feels weird. Vulnerable. But the way he'd marched out into the snow without even a coat, just because you weren't in bed where he left you, makes something tender unfurl in your chest.

"Okay," you say softly. "I'll… try. No promises."

He smiles against your hair. "I'll take 'try.' And next time you wanna shovel, you wake me up and we'll do it together. Or, wild idea, we wait until it stops snowing."

You sniff. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Fun?" He pulls back to look at you. "You and I have very different definitions of fun."

You tilt your head, lips quirking. "You didn't have fun carrying me inside?"

His eyes spark with mischief. "Oh, I had fun with that part, for sure."

You swat at him, laughing. He catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his lips, his gaze softening.

"Seriously, though," he says, a little quieter, a little more serious. "Next time… don't make me come out and fish you out of a snowdrift, okay?"

You feel your cheeks warm, and it has nothing to do with the hot chocolate. "Next time," you promise, "I'll wake you up. You can be my very grumpy snowplow."

He grins. "That's all I ask."

You take another sip of hot chocolate, then nestle back into his side, listening to the wind howl uselessly against the windows. Outside, the driveway is being swallowed by snow again, but you find you don't really care.

For once, it's not your job to fix it. Not alone, anyway.

You've got your own overprotective, infuriating, wonderful human snowplow for that.