spending time wisely

‘What is it?’ You said going back to the list on the iPad. ‘Just fifteen minutes until you can start boarding the jet.’

You saw him shake his head from the corner of your eye, still looking at you.

‘Are you excited to go back home?’

‘Absolutely.’ You said going back to the list. ‘Thrilled.’

He let out a snorty laugh to your indifference, and to your surprise, you smiled softly.

‘Who’s waiting for you there?’ He pressed, moving softly towards you. The smell of his expensive pine cologne engulfed you; it had a subtle note of smoke underneath. Somehow that scent always managed to make you feel equally stressed and relieved. ‘Cousins? Grandparents? You have a stepdad, right?’

‘I do.’ You said locking the iPad before looking back at his expectant brown eyes that rarely intimidated you this much. ‘It’s just him and my mom.’

He nodded softly, looking down at his freshly polished shoes. You wondered if he knew the reason they were so shiny was that you had remembered his staff to polish them twice this week. If he knew the reason he was wearing his favourite suit was because you had selected this one for him that morning. That you were the one that had bought the navy cashmere scarf he was wearing, just because you knew his confidence would boost considerably that way. He hadn’t put gel on his hair today, making the few premature grey hairs above his ear more visible.

You resorted to look back at your work phone to stop staring at him.

As his Personal Assistant, you had a vague idea of what was waiting for Mr Harrington back home, the heir of one of the wealthiest corporations in the country. The disapproving stare of his father, siblings that expected he’d make a mistake so they could take over. He had never told you that he didn’t even want to do any of it, but he didn’t need to. Having worked for two years with Steve, you could see it very clearly by yourself.

That could be the reason why he was asking so many questions about you, things he knew already. Just so he could focus on something else.

‘Do you hang out with any school friends?’ He asked then, you lifted your eyes to find his lit up with cheeky interest. He was too unaware to notice, though, that you’d never give him more information than necessary. ‘Got a boyfriend to catch up with over there?’

You were very aware that he knew the answer to that question, having played this game so many times before.

‘I’ve got something better than a boyfriend.’ You said, to what his eyebrows lifted with more curiosity. You opened your mouth to say something, when your personal phone started buzzing inside your pocket. Standing up, he followed your movements with his eyes as you looked back at him with unusual humour in yours. ‘I’ve got two boyfriends.’

You heard his subtle, chesty laugh behind you as you walked in the toilets’ direction.

‘Hey, mom.’

‘Hey, sweetie.’ She said when you walked inside the ladies’ with two other people behind you. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good.’ You replied softly, feeling the anxiety rushing to your chest. You rested your back against the wall, avoiding your reflection on the mirror. ‘Just… busy, you know? I’m at the airport right now.’

‘Hopefully to come visit your mother?’ She pressed.

‘Mom.’

‘Gosh! I just can’t believe that obnoxious man won’t let you spend Christmas with your family!’

‘It’s just…’ You started to say, but your eyes fell on the woman who washed her hands on the sink next to you, trying to hide the fact she was staring through the corner of her eye. You rarely got recognised, but it could happen. Lots of people wanted to get close to Mr Harrington, sometimes you were the quickest way to do that. ‘We’re just very busy this time of the year.’

‘No one should be working on Christmas.’ She argued.

You bit your lip as the woman dried her hands with some tissues. She smiled at you, and you had to be polite enough to return the gesture.

‘I-I was there for Thanksgiving.’ You said once she left the room.

‘Just for three days.’ Your mother complained. ‘Three days.’

‘I know, mom. And I’m sorry.’ You sighed, looking at the ceiling, pondering about what to do. The winter wind outside echoed against the walls of the private airport, and you wondered if it had started snowing yet. ‘Listen, I— I might have an interview scheduled in the next few days.’

‘You’re going to quit?’ She asked after a while.

‘Maybe.’ You swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know. If I get a good offer, I might.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ You rolled your eyes, ‘I just hate to see you working for that spoiled man. And his father! I can tell he’s vile, too. The stories you’ve told me—’

‘Mom— Mom, those are confidential, okay?’ You said quickly. ‘It’s not gossip that you can share on your knitting club, you hear me?’

‘I crochet.’

You rolled your eyes again, checking your watch. ‘Listen, I’ve got a plane to catch, okay? I love you. Hopefully I’ll see you for New Year’s Eve.’

‘Hopefully? You know very well I need you here by the 30th.’

‘I’ll try.’ You said before hanging up.

Outside, you found Steve standing next to his and your hand-luggage. You smiled softly, checking your list once again, and making sure that everything was in order.

‘I know the journey’s super quick, but I made sure to pack some books for you. They should be in the jet already— What?’

‘Nothing.’ He laughed softly when you looked back at him, his eyes took over your frown for a second before he shook his head. ‘Do you have everything? For your family?’

‘Me?’ You asked, before letting out a silly laugh. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Good.’ He said, licking his lips. Almost hesitating. ‘Good. Well, uhm…’

His eyes saw the way yours got lost behind him, probably checking that he was in the right gate.

‘…Try to disconnect a little, okay? Get some rest, maybe turn off every single device you own for a few hours.’

‘What?’ You said looking back at him. ‘Don’t be silly, Mr. Harrington. We’ve got work to do.’

He always laughed when you employed a formal tone with him, and it never failed to make you roll your eyes.

‘I got work to do.’ He said then. ‘You just have to enjoy your Christmas.’

‘Right.’ You said sarcastically under your breath before standing up straight, you opened your mouth to say something, but the noise of the wind against the airport’s rooftop forced you to close it.

Steve observed you in the few seconds it took for the weather to calm down, playing with something inside his pockets. You smiled uncomfortably at him before your eyes fell on the few other people that were around. Cleaning staff, security, a few pilots that walked towards other gates.

‘Why are you being so awkward today?’ You finally said, looking back at him.

‘Me?’ He laughed in that cocky way that irritated you, making you lift your eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I’m just figuring out a way to wish you a Merry Christmas.’

‘Well, Merry Christmas, then.’ You said as politely as you could, ignoring the heat that rushed to your cheeks.  ‘I’ll see you in a few days. I’ll try my best not to call you, but please keep an eye on your emails— What’s so funny?’

He was smiling, amused probably by your irritability or your nerves. He shook his head softly, looking at you with unbearable condescendence.

The speakers called for him then, announcing that his jet was ready to board and wishing him a good journey. This was it. Yet he stood a few seconds in front of you, almost hesitating. Your eyes lingered on his weird posture, on the way he kept playing with his pockets, on the tap of his shoe on the floor.

‘Merry Christmas.’ He simply said with a shy smile.

You didn’t leave until you saw him walk through the gate.

It had been a couple of hours since you had said goodbye to your boss, when you received a call from the recruiter. She had said something about New York’s weather and having to drive back home from Christmas, and now you were having your interview today.

It was fine. You were prepared, and most importantly, you were done with Mr Harrington. The experience you had acquired this last couple of years was invaluable, really. He was generous, and apart from his usual forgetfulness and chaotic private life, he was a good boss. But it had been weeks, maybe months really, of feeling that you needed to leave this job.

If you only knew why you felt this way.

‘I’m so sorry about this.’ Robin said as she walked down the corridor in her red suit.

You stood up from the seat on the reception to her office, shaking your head softly.

‘I just need to leave before the weather gets worse, you know?’ She spoke. ‘The news are showing the forecast’s terrible, and we all need to be home for Christmas, right?’

‘Right.’ You said shyly as you followed her inside.

Maybe not you, though.

‘Please have a seat.’ She said as you walked inside her luxurious office, though you had seen prettier and bigger. Steve’s was probably the size of the whole floor.

You did as she said, your eyes getting briefly lost on the snowy skyscrapers behind her as she sat in front of you.

‘Right.’ She said enthusiastically putting her glasses on, ‘Let’s get to the point. I know you’re familiar with my clients’ work. Not much to say, she’s easy to work with. Believe it or not, most authors are. At least they’re easier than millionaires.’

You laughed softly.

‘Well, I love Miss Wheeler’s work and have followed her since I was in college. It’d be nice to maybe use my skills for the area I specialised back then.’

‘Well, I have to say, your CV is impressive.’ She said going through the piece of paper with your name on top. ‘You could work for the president if you wanted to.’

You smiled softly at her flattery, yet there was something inside you that felt different. Something that felt wrong.

‘It says you’ve been Harrington’s publicist for most of this year too?’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ You sat straighter on the chair. ‘That’s temporary, though. His PR representative… Hannah, she’s currently on maternity leave.’

‘She’s been on leave for six months?’ Her eyes observed you under her glasses with incredulity.

‘Uh, well— Yes.’ You said shyly. ‘St— Mr Harrington, he offered her paid leave for the first year.’

Robin sat back, letting out a defeated laugh. You felt insecure somehow, observing the way she removed her glasses to chew at the temple’s tip.

‘But I can’t offer you that.’

‘Well, you don’t have to.’ You straightened your back even more. ‘I mean, I’m not even planning to—’

‘But you might.’ She left the CV on her desk, biting her lip as you felt your confidence melt. ‘There might be stuff he’s giving you that my client won’t be able to offer. Nancy can be generous but she’s still an author. An Editorial PA earns considerably less than an Executive PA.’ She laughed. ‘Much less. For some it’s like an entry level job, and you’re past that at this point.’

‘But I want this job.’ You argued. It came out so small you didn’t even believe it.

‘Why?’ She asked perplexed.

‘Because I’m…’ What? Because you were what?  Steve had always treated you with respect and trust. He was the reason why you were able to buy your first apartment, the reason why you were almost done paying your student loans. Then what was it? What was it about him that made this job so unbearable? ‘I’m unhappy.’ 

‘Unhappy?’ She repeated. ‘How? Is he a creep or something?’

‘No!’ You rushed to say. ‘No, of course not. Mr Harrington is good— he’s uhm, he’s kind. He’s been very kind to me. I’m just, perhaps… A bit bored.’

You tried hard to believe your own lie, but the truth was that every day with Steve was different. He was always somewhere, doing something new and unique. He was very smart too, it was hard to keep up sometimes, but it challenged you. This, him, was everything but boring. The thought made the heat rush to your cheeks, and as if you had evoked him, your phone started buzzing on your pocket.

‘Boring?’ Repeated Robin as you took the device out to confirm it was Steve. You did something you had rarely done and sent his call to voicemail. Robin’s laugh made you look back at her. ‘Well, I’m afraid to tell you I wouldn’t call working with Miss Wheeler fun. In fact, it will be very monotonous.’

‘I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.’ You pressed. ‘Listen, just because I want a change it doesn't mean I’m capricious…’

‘It’s not that.’ She said leaning in on over the desk. Her eyes were full of kindness, and still, you hadn’t felt this childish in a long time. ‘Listen, you’re overqualified. And Nancy can’t afford you.’

You sat still on your seat, processing her words for a few seconds before nodding.

‘I mean you could apply to work with the FBI.’ She said. You tried to conceal your annoyance the best way you could. ‘Or as I said, with the President.’

You were pretty sure your frown turned worse with every suggestion, so all you could do was try to smile politely. Robin sat down more comfortably, looking back at you with interest.

‘I can check with my contacts if there’s any kind of offer that’s appropriate for your level of knowledge and experience. Someone who could afford you.’

‘You mean other corporate executives.’

‘Possibly, but not necessarily.’

You repressed a sigh, considering your alternatives.

‘I just…’ You started to say, but you seemed unsure of what to say, looking through the window at all those snowy skyscrapers you had learned the names of in the last couple of years working for your boss. You looked back at her with honesty overflowing form your eyes. ‘I have a deep hatred for those kind of men.’

‘You don’t seem to hate Mr Harrington.’

Precisely, you thought. You didn’t. You couldn’t.

It had been a few hours since you had left Robin’s office, and the sense of failure hadn’t left your body. It was odd, you considered, sitting down against the window of your hotel room wearing your silk robe over your pyjama dress. It had been a long while since the last time you hadn’t gotten something that you wanted.

The city looked silent from the window of the Plaza Hotel, a thick layer of snow falling over the buildings, the streets, and the people. You drank the last drops of wine from the glass, surprised at the weight of the bottle once you stretched your arm to refill it. Somehow you had managed to drink a whole bottle by yourself before dinner time.

Once you found the courage to stand up, the room around you moved slightly before you could find your balance, realising you underestimated how drunk you were. You needed some room service, maybe a bath and an early night. And then you’d fix your broken heart tomorrow.

But when you walked to get the telephone to order food, the screen of your work phone showed three missed calls from Steve. He had even called you once on your personal number, the screen had shown you had a pending voicemail.

Your heart beat hard against your chest for some reason, immediately returning the call. You’d listen to the voicemail later, the only thing you were focused on now was the sound of your pulse in your ears as the dialler beeped.

‘I’m so sorry.’ You said as soon as he picked up the phone. ‘I’m genuinely, genuinely sorry.’

His laugh on the other side of the line made you even more embarrassed.

‘It’s fine.’ He said softly, you could hear the heavy noise of the wind on the line. ‘Listen, we had to fly back to the city. The wind was too much, apparently there’s going to be a snowstorm tonight, so… I need a hotel room.’

You shut your eyes, nodding and hating New York City like you never had in your life.

‘Sure.’ You spoke. ‘Right. I’ll sort it out, just give me a few minutes.’

‘Thanks.’ You heard him laugh awkwardly as you searched for your laptop in between your luggage. ‘I’m sorry, too. Like, I was really gonna try hard not to disturb you during the holidays. Did you make it home safely?’

The softness of his tone would’ve had a different effect on you if it wasn’t for the fact all the hotels in the city were booked. You felt your anxiety rise on your chest, the stress starting to beat your temples, thinking about what to do.

‘Are you there?’

‘Yeah.’ You said. ‘I, uh… I-I missed my plane too. I’m staying at the Plaza. I’m gonna try to get you a room here. Otherwise, I will, uhm, maybe have a look at that penthouse we went to see during Thanksgiving?’

‘Right!’ He said as you put him on speaker. ‘I should’ve really bought it, huh?’

You laughed softly as you took your robe off and replaced it with your trench coat.

‘I told you; you need your own place in the city.’ You said looking at yourself in the mirror. If you fixed the buttons and the belt nicely, no one would notice you were wearing just a slip dress underneath.

He sighed in resignation while you fixed your makeup and hair in the hallway mirror.

‘I should listen to you more often.’ He said.

‘Can’t argue with that logic.’ You said walking towards the bathroom to use some mouthwash.

Steve stayed silent for a while as you spit on the sink, it was so quiet you thought for a second that he had hung up.

‘Maybe I should ask my dad—’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ You interrupted him. ‘I’ll get you a room here. At the Plaza.’

‘It’s gonna be impossible.’

‘Not for me.’

He laughed softly, almost tenderly. It was unbearable.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I have a room.’ You said before hanging up.

‘That’s not true.’ You said calmly as you stood in front of the reception counter. ‘I happen to know the person who manages Mr Munson, and I know for sure, that he’s not gonna be staying at the hotel tonight.’

The reception was busy with important guests walking around in their evening gowns and smoking suits. There was jazzy Christmas music coming from somewhere and the cold wind sneaked in from the revolving door every time someone walked inside. You felt overwhelmed, still a bit affected by the alcohol, but there was no way you’d take no for an answer.

‘I can’t confirm or deny confidential information, Ma’am.’ The manager said from behind the counter. He was a tall man with the moustache of a 1940’s detective, almost caricaturesque in the least convenient way.

‘It’s confidential for you.’ You said carefully. ‘Not for me. I know Eddie Munson’s not going to be here tonight because he couldn’t fly to New York. I know that his booking is cancelled. And I know you have a Vanderbilt King Suite available for my client.’

‘As I said, we can’t deny or confirm that information.’ He said with a polite smile that hid everything but politeness behind it. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, Ma’am. There’s no rooms.’

‘Listen.’ You said, feeling defeated. ‘You’re trying to do your job, and so am I. My boss is about to get here in fifteen minutes. He’s a public figure, he needs privacy and security. His family has been staying at the Plaza for generations. I need to get him a room, and you need to provide a service that meets the standards of the hotel. However, I’m willing to make adjustments if that’s needed. He doesn’t need a butler, for example.’

‘Ma’am.’ The way he looked at you made you clench your jaw. It happened sometimes, in restaurants, hotels or venues, when people realised you were just an employee to someone else, and any respect they could have felt for you disappeared as soon as their impression from you changed. ‘I’m sorry. But we have no rooms.’

You swallowed hard before taking your purse and walking out of the lobby. The cold wind burned your cheeks when you stood over the red carpet of the luxurious entrance wondering what to do, as the valet received the well-dressed guests that were arriving. You were so irritated, and so behind work now that instead of relaxing like you were meant to, you were about to cry.

Until you saw Steve’s silhouette getting out of a taxi. He saw you immediately too, it was impossible not to, as you were standing above the steps, almost like waiting for him.

You saw him thank the valet for taking his luggage inside and you felt a sense of defeat once he stared climbing the stairs.

‘Any luck with the room?’ He said fixing his coat as he stood in front of you. Your eyes lingered on the navy scarf a bit too long, and you blinked away your tears so he wouldn’t notice how frustrated you really were.

‘I’m working on it.’ You smiled, trying to hide the fact that you didn’t know what to do.

‘Cool. Should we have some dinner first?’ He asked as soon as you crossed the golden revolving doors.

‘Dinner?’ You frowned. ‘No, I— I’m going to sort this out first. You go ahead and eat something at the restaurant.’

‘You can’t work if you haven’t eaten.’ He said blocking your way before you could walk in the direction of the elevator. He looked down at you with his tired brown eyes and a soft smile. You felt his fingers subtly brushing yours. ‘C’mon.’

‘I definitely can.’ You walked around him in the elevator’s direction.

Steve stayed on his place as he saw you walk inside the open elevator and ask the bellboy for your floor, before he quickly decided to follow you.

‘You’re so stubborn.’ He said under his breath.  

‘That’s why you hired me.’ You reminded him, hugging yourself over your coat. You could see from the corner of your eye, how he was fighting the smile that threatened to take over his face.

And yet that stubbornness was so useless sometimes. The beautiful penthouse Steve had thought of acquiring last month had been sold to a famous tennis player a week ago. You tried to get literally anything, from standard hotel rooms to smaller apartments that would fit your standards, but everything was either booked, unavailable or unhabitable. And the snowstorm was so merciless you couldn’t even consider renting a house outside of the city.

You sighed deeply, fighting the need to rub your eyes as they stung from looking at the screen, when you suddenly closed the laptop.

‘Right.’ You sighed before standing up. He was laying on the bed, reading one of the books you had packed for his trip. The sight was actually calming, you always liked seeing him wearing glasses. ‘I think I can make a couple of calls and see if any of my friends would let me crash at theirs. You can keep the room.’

‘What? No. I’m not kicking you out.’

‘Well, you need a place to sleep—’ You started.

‘So do you.’ He laughed sarcastically before sitting up. ‘What am I? The spoiled asshole that can’t fend for himself?’

You frowned briefly, before letting out an offended snort. You had never had an attitude with each other, not even in your most stressful days at work. Not even when he made your life more chaotic by his mistakes.

‘When did I ever say that?’

He just shook his head briefly, taking his phone out of his pocket.

‘Who are you calling?’ You crossed your arms over your chest uncomfortably, feeling that you had failed him, but being too proud to admit it.

‘My dad’s secretary.’

You swallowed hard, nodding once before you tried to find what to do with yourself. It didn’t help that he was observing your moves the whole time, that was worse than being ignored.

Out of habit, you picked your personal phone to scroll on social media, but the first thing you saw was his missed voicemail from earlier. So, you locked it again.

‘She’s not picking up.’ He said frustrated before putting the phone back inside his pocket.

You both stayed in silence for a few seconds, your bare toes played with the carpet in attempt to calm your nerves.

‘I don’t—’

‘M sorry for snapping on you like that.’ He said. ‘I’m just— I’m sorry, what were you gonna say?’

‘I don’t think is a good idea to keep searching tonight.’ You said, still looking at your feet, too prideful to accept his apology. ’You won’t get anywhere in this weather.’

You lifted your gaze to look back at him, his piercing eyes were looking at you deeply. As if they were trying to decipher something.

‘We can share tonight.’ You finally said, softly and as indifferent as possible. As professional as possible.

He stayed quiet for a while, until you saw the way he swallowed hard at your proposal. It flattered you that the idea could make him feel nervous, but the possibility itself was absurd.

‘I won’t let anyone see us.’ You assured him immediately. ‘You know, rumours and… privacy. I’m still your publicist.’

He let out a choky laugh, quite awkward and low, before nodding.

‘Yeah. Okay, I guess we’ll have to.’ He sighed, looking at you from where he sat on the bed. All trace from stress and tension had left him. You envied that, how he always seemed to let things go easily. ‘Let’s eat something, okay?’

‘You can go ahead and—’

‘No.’ He stood up, taking a step towards you with a boyish smile on her face. ‘How many times do I have to remind you that you need to eat?’

You looked back at him patiently, a cheekiness you were trying hard to hide taking over your face.

‘I meant, you can wait for me downstairs.’ You said slowly, trying hard to repress the smile that mirrored his. ‘I need to change.’

‘You look great.’ He shrugged.

You took a deep breath, looking to your side before your eyes fell on him again.

‘I’m not wearing much under this coat.’ You clarified.

‘Oh.’ He said then. Almost clumsily, he took a step back. It was really tender, the way his cheeks had turned a shade of pink, how he swallowed hard at the mental image of whatever he was thinking about. ‘Right.’

‘Right.’ You repeated, silence taking over while you moved to grab some clean clothes from the small wardrobe next to the room’s door. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

‘Huh?’

‘Can you try not to make this any weirder than it already is?’

You looked behind your shoulder to find the man standing up in the same place you had left him, hands in his pockets, cheeks flushed and nothing but shyness behind his eyes.

‘We already need to share a bed and spend Christmas together.’ You said, resting your back against the wardrobe. You didn’t seem annoyed by the idea, and neither did he. Still, there were unsaid rules to respect and boundaries to enforce. ‘Let’s keep it professional.’

‘Of course.’ He said after a while, running his fingers through his hair. The warm light of the room mixed with the reflection of the snow outside. He was still blushing, the forbidden grey hairs in between his brown locks turning messy with the movement. You felt very warm in his presence too. ‘Yeah, I would’ve never—’

‘I know, Steve.’ You smiled softly. You couldn’t hear the rest of that sentence; you wouldn’t be able to face him if he finished it.

A few seconds of silence opened between you two before you moved to change in the bathroom.

‘I still think we can have a nice Christmas, though.’ He said before you could close the door behind you.

You nodded softly.

‘I think we can try.’

As much as you tried not to, you always felt out of place. It didn’t help that since you had dived into the luxurious world of the wealthy two years ago, you were more conscious of social cues, more educated on protocol, and therefore more self-aware of your humble upbringing.

You walked into the hotel’s restaurant searching for your boss and trying not to check if people were judging you, with your minimalistic red lip and your simple black turtleneck. It was nothing compared to the fancy dresses the other guests were wearing or their designer shoes.

The restaurant was beautifully decorated with warm Christmas lights and velvet bows of a deep red shade, waiters dressed in white suits walked around with silver trays while an elegant old woman played a jazz piece on the piano. You could appreciate the magical atmosphere, the hopeful air of Christmas Eve that filled you with a deep sense of nostalgia. Often, especially during the holidays, you would ask yourself what it must have been like to grow up like this, to grow up like he did. Surrounded by all this luxury and comfort. And that just made you miss home even more.

Hugging your iPad closer to your chest, your eyes finally landed on him. He was talking enthusiastically to the manager. You lowered your gaze as soon as he made eye contact with you, fitting perfectly in the room full of vain guests. Your boss nodded at you, feeling once again embarrassed by the fact you had been arguing with the man he was talking to just a few hours ago, and still, you hadn’t succeeded at getting Steve a room.

You walked towards his table noticing how everyone around was engrossed in their own conversations. You had learned very early that if you didn’t try to impress anyone, if you didn’t try to pretend you were at the same level as them, they wouldn’t even notice that you didn’t fit in. They wouldn’t feel entitled enough to remind you that you would never fit in.

‘There she is.’ Said Steve as soon as you made it to the table.

‘How are you tonight, ma’am?’ The manager said, pulling the chair out for you.

You looked from Steve to the man for a few seconds before sitting down.

‘I’m okay.’ You whispered softly, sitting more comfortably, and skimming through the menu to avoid Steve’s eyes.

‘I’m deeply sorry about our misunderstanding earlier.’ He said, standing in front of the table.

‘There was no misunderstanding at all.’ You said taking the wine list. ‘As I said, you were doing your job and so was I.’

You closed the menu and looked back at him with an attempt of a polite smile.

‘I’ll have the Malbec.’ You simply said. ‘And olives for starters, please.’

‘Sure, ma’am.’ He said in the same tone, not without smiling to Steve before leaving.

You resorted to have a look at the main courses again, just to distract yourself.

‘I hate it when you do that.’ You said after a while.

‘Do what?’ You didn’t need to look at him to know he was smiling.

‘Force people to apologise to me.’

You finally looked back at him. He shrugged, looking at you with that soft smile of his that made it all a bit more difficult.

‘You deserved an apology. And I didn’t force him.’

You shook your head as you unlocked the iPad, you had to update Steve’s calendar and therefore yours had to be arranged too. If you managed to squeeze some work here and there, you’d might be able to visit your mother on New Year’s Eve.

‘Next time I’ll book an extra room just in case, like I did that time in São Paulo.’

‘God, I miss Brazil.’ You heard him say under his breath.

The fond smile that lifted your lips was impossible to conceal. Your eyes seemed lost in the menu, but they were lost in distant memories. You had been working for Mr Harrington just for a couple of months, in which you had indulged your perfectionism to always be one step ahead, perhaps to prove yourself to him. Yet you had miscalculated the days you were supposed to be in South America, and you ended up having an extra twenty-four hours to explore the gorgeous city. That’s when you really started to get to know each other.

‘It was a nice time.’ You agreed.

‘I think that’s something I wanna do more often next year.’ He said as you kept fixing his schedule. ‘Just… travel, see some new places. I only went to Europe twice this year and I can’t stand the fact I only got to see Amsterdam and Zürich through the Taxi’s window; you know?’

‘Maybe sometime in February?’ You said distractedly, tapping the keyboard on the screen. ‘Since January’s going to be insanely busy for you.’

The odd silence after your comment made you lift your eyes. Steve was looking at you with a confused stare on his face and his lips partly open, as if your words had caught him off guard. The heat rushed to your cheeks then, though you weren’t sure why. You were so confused yourself that you were about to double check on the iPad if what you said was true, when the waiter came back with your drinks.

‘Are you ready to order?’

‘Sure.’ He said then.

The tension dissipated as you both ordered, and he behaved as his usual self with questions and little jokes that flattered the waiter. It was noticeable that a few people had clearly recognised him now, as you scanned the room with your eyes, but though curious, they didn’t seem like the kind that would disturb him.

‘Thank you.’ You heard yourself say when you returned the menu.

‘Any bets tonight?’ He asked playfully as he took a sip of his wine.

‘Mhmm.’ Your pondered as you played with a few drops that slid down your wine glass. ‘M sure the pretty one by the fireplace would love a picture with you.’

From the corner of your eye, Steve cautiously looked for the girl you were talking about. She was very young, with that innocent look in her eyes that you had once too. She was more than pretty, with a delicacy in her manners that could only be the result of a fine education somewhere in Europe. You noticed her very early, as soon as you sat down, and her hopeful gaze had turned into a longing stare towards your boss as soon as she recognised him.

‘Green dress?’ You murmured when you realised he still hadn’t noticed. ‘Uhm, she’s wearing a ponytail.’

‘Oh.’ He said. ‘Oh no. God no, she looks nineteen.’

‘She looks at you every three seconds.’ You hid your smile behind your glass before taking another sip. ‘Oh, she’s looking now.’

Steve imitated you and took a sip of his wine, looking the opposite way in a poor attempt not to entertain the girl’s attention.

‘Ah, this one likes you too. Brunette, blue shirt, sitting at the bar. She would totally send you a drink.’

The woman you spoke about had a more feline air than the girl, her movements were slow and yet confident. She was probably known inside some social circle you could never conceive or imagine. Playfully, she ordered a drink before looking behind her shoulder and giving your boss an intentional smile. An invitation.

‘Jesus.’ He whispered to himself.  ‘She could be my mother.’

Your eyes fell on him then, sitting more comfortably on his chair, you couldn’t help but laugh softly at the familiar pink shade tinting his cheeks.

‘She seems used to being admired.’ You murmured, taking another look at her.

‘I guess.’ He said, playing with his napkin. ‘A lot of people are. I’ve never been good at it.’

‘You do have a weird relationship with praise.’

It took you a couple of seconds to realise you had said it out loud. Your heart immediately raised its pace, feeling the embarrassment washing over you.

‘Wow—’

‘I’m so sorry.’ You sat back, looking at him with the outmost terror overflowing your eyes. ‘I’m— that was so unprofessional of me.’

‘No.’ He laughed, it didn’t even seem like it had offended him. He visibly relaxed against his chair, as if this was a casual conversation and not a professional dinner. ‘I’m genuinely curious about why you say that.’

You sat silently, trying to find a way to put your thoughts in order, or to find a better apology.

‘It’s not my place to make any judgments about your character.’

He shrugged, that careless smile that equally irritated and intimidated you was taking over his face again.

‘You clearly have already.’

You took a deep breath, following the wet rings your wine glass had imprinted on the fancy tablecloth.

‘Well…’ You shrugged. ‘Listen, it was just a silly assumption. I’ve just seen…’ You looked back at him shyly. ‘An interesting number of congratulation cards in the trash since I started working for you.’

‘Hmm.’ He was looking down at his napkin before his cheeky brown eyes fell back on you. ‘You don’t miss anything, do you?’

‘It’s none of my business, anyways.’ You said looking down at your glass again.

‘I mean, I guess it’s not.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t mind it. You are a bit right though, but you’re also a bit wrong. I just don’t enjoy this… artificial flattery that surrounds business.’

You nodded then, encouraging him to keep going if he wanted to. He observed you, studied you, licking his lips as he contemplated the possibility of saying more. 

‘Here we are.’ The waiter said when he made it to the table with your order.

Discreetly, you put the iPad and your phones aside to make space for the food, dying to know what else he had to say, but relieved at the possibility of him dropping the subject.

You both said your thanks and started eating as soon as he left, only the sound of your cutlery against the plates and the soft jazz in the background filling the void.

‘That’s one of the reasons why I hired you, you know.’ He suddenly said.

‘Sorry?’ You said cleaning your mouth with your napkin.

‘You’re good at reading other people’s character.’ He clarified. ‘You’re also very discreet, which works for you, but it rarely favours anyone else.’

It was uncertain for you if that had been a compliment or not. He was smiling and so were you, wondering if you should press him on the subject.

‘What do you mean?’ You finally said.

‘You just know.’ He said, taking another sip of his drink. ‘I don’t know how you do it. If I introduce you to someone; a new business partner, a potential client, I don’t know, a lawyer… I just know that things aren’t going to go well if you don’t seem receptive.’

You processed his words slowly, a bit impressed at this facet of yourself you weren’t really aware of. Of course you were protective of Steve’s relations, but that’s why he hired you. It was part of your job to preserve his reputation and legacy, whatever that was.

‘That’s what you pay me for.’ You joked nervously, taking another sip of your wine.

‘Uh-uh.’ He said smiling once again. It felt weird now, as if he had caught you falling back into a bad habit. ‘No, at first I thought: Well, she’s just starting, maybe she’s intimidated by these people or something. And then it became a pattern, you know? A reporter would walk in, and you’d get quiet or tense, and then a few weeks later that interview would become a problem. Or someone would come in, proposing a new investment, and you’d stop doing whatever to keep listening to their pitch. And then months later I’d find out they were bankrupt or selling again.’

You smiled to yourself, feeling rather proud that he was able to see that. You let him stare at you for a few seconds before you reached for your wine again.

‘You do meet a lot of stupid men.’ You admitted, trying to drop the subject.

‘It’s not just men.’ He said then, and this time you weren’t going to look at him as you rearranged your fork and knife neatly over your empty plate. ‘I mean Cecelia was—’  

‘Please.’ You murmured awkwardly, feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks. ‘Steve.’

‘I should’ve just, followed my gut, you know.' He said. ‘But what my gut said was that if you two didn’t get along then it would never work.’

You shook your head softly. The names of different guys you had dated in the last couple of years came to your mind: Eliott, Dan, Victor, Theo. There were some others, always complaining about the number of hours you put into work, always insensitive about your sacrifices, and always, always annoyingly noisy about your relationship with Steve.

‘Not every woman you date is going to like me. I mean…’ You let out a scoff-like laugh, it was impossible not to feel a bit uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken. ‘We spend way too much time together.’

Your words hung out in the air as you stayed in silence, and you were unable to look back at him. You did so briefly and failed, he seemed to be lost in his thoughts, biting the inside of his cheek.

Slowly, the restaurant started to take shape around you two. Most of the guests had already gone into their rooms, only the lonely, quiet people who sat at the bar were chatting softly. Taking a deep breath, you smiled at your boss, and Steve tried to return the gesture before he asked the waiter to add the bill to the room.

The wine had only made you more tired and sleepy. You both made it to the room in silence, moving slowly and used to each other’s quietness after a long day.

In the room, you took your pyjama and robe and excused yourself to change in the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, you tried to ignore the subtle shake of your hands as you removed your make up and washed your teeth. Things were about to become so awkward between you and him, and you didn’t know how to stop it.

The screen of your personal phone lit up as soon as you turned the tap off. Almost as if it was a reflex, you looked behind your shoulder, knowing very well there was no way Steve would even think about opening the bathroom’s door.

You locked it anyways, completely lost in your thoughts as you sat on the floor to read Robin’s email. Judging by the few spelling errors, you assumed she had written it on a rush to leave the city.

The job offers listed were equally interesting and disappointing. You didn’t know Eddie Munson was in search of a Personal Assistant, and though the idea sounded attractive, it was also incredibly non-practical. You knew his habits and character by the brief interactions you had had with him in the past, and you knew for certain that the rockstar lifestyle would never be your thing.

You rolled your eyes at the sight of Billy Hargrove’s name, having known him for the last couple of years and certain that you could never work for a man like him. For starters, Steve despised him. You knew he was a terrible boss as well, by the way his PAs seemed to come and go so quickly.

And then lastly, there was Jonathan Byers, whose movies had been continuously acclaimed by the most elitist film festivals in the last five years. Taking a deep breath, you thought about it, you considered it. A movie director that was respected and discreet, someone private enough that wouldn’t compromise your own integrity. He travelled as much as Steve, but he dealt with other kind of pressures that would certainly be less demanding for you. You could do it. Most importantly, you wanted to.

You leaned the back your head against the bathroom door for a second, feeling your heartbeat increasing, until you finally got the courage to reply to the email and stating you were interested in Mr Byer’s offer.

When you went out, Steve was calmly reading on the bed once again. Only the lamps on the bedside table were on, but he was still wearing his shirt and suit trousers. The sight of his glasses, of his undone cufflinks, and his messy hair filled you with bitterness, maybe envy. Deep down, there was also something else, a strange kind of sadness that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t really get rid of. You felt so young, hugging the robe against your body to avoid showing off the silk underneath, but he was too engrossed in his novel to notice your shyness.

You sat on your side on the bed, silently getting rid of your jewellery as you heard him close the bathroom’s door behind him. Absentmindedly, you wondered if it had been you who had made things weird as you turned your lamp off and got inside the covers.

The sight next to you was beautiful, the snowy city quiet behind the thick glass of the hotel’s window. You had been working for him for two years, but it felt much more than that, like a lifetime. Maybe it was a thing about your age and experience, but you had never gotten so attached to a job. And you should’ve never had on the first place, that’s why you had to leave before it was too late.

A smell of body wash and toothpaste filled the air when you heard him turn the light off behind him. You were too warm under all those layers but there was no way you were going to sleep next to him wearing just your slip.

He sighed before turning the light off, and you had to bite your lip to fight the need to ask him if he was okay, if he needed something, but you stayed quiet as he made himself comfortable in the tense darkness.

‘Goodnight.’ You heard him whisper tiredly.

You swallowed hard, too nervous to say anything, pretending to be too exhausted to even reply. After a few minutes, you laid back in the dark, trying to relax and failing at it.

‘Earplugs.’ You whispered then.

‘Uh?’

‘Your earplugs.’ You repeated in the dark. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot them—’

You were about to sit up when you felt his hand touch your forearm softly under the covers. The tender texture of his thumb brushing your wrist soothingly kept you from moving at all.

‘Don’t worry.’ He murmured in the same tired tone. Something inside you, something pure told you that his eyelids were peacefully close. ‘I only need them when I sleep alone.’

‘Oh.’ You said before nodding. Your eyes were slowly getting used to the darkness, but you didn’t dare to look back at him. ‘Right, I did not know that.’

‘S fine.’ He laughed softly, a sweet sound that came out of his chest. He moved, his hand wrapped around your arm delicately, rubbing the space between your elbow and wrist underneath the robe. ‘It helps me to hear someone else’s breathing. It’s weird.’

‘S not weird.’ You whispered sweetly.

‘This okay?’ He asked in the same tone as he kept stroking your arm. ‘Calms me down.’

‘Hm.’ Was all you could say, hearing your heart beating hard against your chest. Nerves mixing up with something else, feeling like you already missed this, missed him like this. ‘S okay.’

‘You’ve got goosebumps.’ He whispered before moving closer to you, feeling all the warmth he radiated in the space between your bodies. ‘Are you cold?’

You shook your head.

‘M fine.’

You both stayed silent for a few seconds as you got used to each other’s presence, each other’s bodies. You knew he was awake, and he knew you were as well. There was certain peace to it though, there was something so indescribably soothing about this shared moment.

‘M sorry you can’t be at home for Christmas.’ He finally said.

You shrugged, finally getting the courage to look at him. He was already looking at you, and for once you didn’t see him as someone who had a professional relationship with. For once, you saw him as just Steve.

‘It’s… fine.’ You said, lost in your thoughts and in his touch.

You wondered if there was really a way in which you could separate this different side of him from the man you saw every day at work. From the man in the finance magazines and newspapers, from the strategic businessman sitting at the end of the table in the meeting room, and the lonely man you sometimes saw looking at the city through his office’s window.

‘Hmm, it’s not fine.’ A subtle smile slowly took over his mouth, and you felt your own lips lifting too. ‘I’ve got some stuff planned to make it up to you.’

‘What?’ You whispered surprised. ‘No, I mean— it’s fine. I’m fine with having a quiet Christmas.’

His soft laugh made you frown before he spoke again.

‘You didn’t even let me cover your plane tickets so you could fly home.’ You looked down in embarrassment, feeling guilty for lying to him. ‘The least you can do is let me try to make it up for the money you lost, and the fact you’re stuck with me during the holidays.’

You wanted to tell him right there, that you had never bought tickets to go home, that you had lied to him and everyone else, because your plan had always been to spend Christmas inside this hotel room applying for jobs, and working, and waiting for his call.

‘Steve…’ You whispered his name in the dark. It wasn’t your intention to make it sound so needy, to make it sound so sad. Maybe it was time to tell him that you had just accepted a job offer, that you couldn’t do this anymore.

‘Please.’ His hand was still brushing your arms softly, his skin was still warm, maybe warmer than before. ‘I haven’t had a nice Christmas in years.’

‘Now, that’s manipulative.’ You joked, and he let out a boyish laugh that made your smile wider. You stayed like that for a few seconds, soothed by the sound of each other’s breathing. Maybe his idea wasn’t so bad, and this would be a nice way to say goodbye. Maybe, for once, you could enjoy his company and the moments you shared together without feeling guilty. ‘I guess I haven’t had a good one in a while either.’

The light woke you up, so you moved to your side where it was less bright and comfier. The rest of your senses started to awaken as well, it was very warm underneath the covers, you suddenly realised your shoulders felt cold, and there was a familiar scent in the air; woody, like pine and cinnamon. It made you calm, but also a bit nervous and tense, because it belonged to him.

Steve was already awake when you opened your eyes, sitting next to you with a different book between his hands. He had changed his pyjamas for a casual outfit that still looked classy on him. His hand was running through his hair, his glasses on top of his nose and eyebrows frowning in concentration. You stretched, at first lazily, and then out of sudden you were sitting up.

‘What time is it?’

‘Good morning.’ He closed the book to look back at you, his eyes studied your face and then the rest of your body as you looked back at him, staring like an idiot. Instinctively, your fingers searched for the robe to find that it had loosened throughout the night. Steve cleared his throat as you fixed it again. ‘It’s uh, eleven.’

‘Eleven?’

He observed you amused as you searched blindly for your phones on the bedside table, but there was no sign of your work phone as you ignored the few text messages you mom had sent to your personal one.

‘What the fuck.’ You said under your breath.

‘I heard your alarms,’ He said then, ‘But I thought it’d be nice to let you sleep.’

You sat quietly for a seconds before scoffing softly.

‘Steve, I’ve got so much work to do.’ You said, breathing softly to try not to lose it. ‘I swear, you’ve no idea. I’m so behind.’

‘You’re not working today.’

‘Of course I am.’ You stood up, securing your robe again as you looked around the room for your work suitcase. ‘I need to update your calendar for the first two weeks of January. Then change your mailbox address of your office in Boston because the moving’s next week, and send someone to get your clothes at the drycleaners back at your parents’ because you’re not there now, so…’

‘You’re not working today.’

‘I have to find time to send Hannah a Christmas present for the baby under your name because I was supposed to do that yesterday, and… Where the fuck is my laptop?’

‘In the safe, with the iPad and the phone I got for you.’

You turned around to look back at him, you felt betrayed and still you couldn’t help but bite your lip when he looked back at you with a rising eyebrow and boyish cheekiness behind his brown pupils.

‘Steve.’

His challenging eyes didn’t leave yours as he stood up from his place in the bed.

‘This is not gonna be a discussion.’ His hands found your shoulders and he leaned a little to have a better look at you. ‘It’s Christmas Day.’

It was too early to feel this flushed, and the way his thumbs were starting to massage you over your robe was only making it worse. You looked back at him, feeling stressed and unsure of how to react to his carelessness.

‘Your life’s going to be a disaster if I don’t.’ You murmured.

‘S very sweet for you to think that my life’s not already a disaster.’ He pinched your chin out of nowhere, and you felt like a shy teenager when your cheeks turned warmer. ‘But we have a lunch reservation in an hour, and you need to get ready.’

His phrasing stayed with you as you styled your hair after your shower, and as you finished your make up. Your eyes stayed on him as he wrapped the navy scarf around his neck while you walked together down the hotel’s corridor. You hadn’t stopped to consider for a second that maybe New York City’s weather had conspired in Steve’s favour and maybe it had kept him from facing things you didn’t even know about.

‘How’s your coffee?’ He asked as you looked at the snowy city through the café’s window.

You nodded as your eyes looked back at the expensive piece of porcelain that you had stained with your red lipstick after your first sip.

‘Delicious.’ You said. ‘Thank you for bringing me here, it’s really pretty.’

The café was as beautiful and as luxurious as any other place that he attended regularly, with long columns and marbled floors. All the little Christmas details had made the lunch a bit more special too: the green and gold serviettes, the pinecone shaped butter, the mini eggnog mousse they gifted you and Steve after the meal.

‘Dad used to bring me here all the time when I was a kid.’ He said before taking a sip from his own cup. ‘I always ask for the same table because this is where we used to sit.’

‘That’s so sweet.’ You heard yourself say. ‘Does it still look the same?’

‘Yeah,’ He leaned in slightly to have a look through the window. ‘It’s outside that always looks different. I used to sit where you are and make sketches of the street sometimes. Have I ever told you I wanted to be an architect at some point?’

You shook your head softly, thinking of a younger version of Steve, with glasses and suits too big for him, who used to sit where you sat now. He was here, as well, looking through the window, staring curiously at the world outside.

‘Come here. Look.’

You leaned in subtly as well, taking in the busy image of the white-coloured street where taxis and bikes coexisted with birds and trees.

‘There used to be a square where that building is now, and a carousel where I wasn’t allowed to go on.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I loved that thing. I drew that same view so many times I can probably still do it by memory.’

‘I haven’t seen you draw in a while.’ You whispered to yourself before sitting back. You lowered your eyes as you grabbed your spoon and dip it in the mousse once again. ‘You used to do that a lot when you first hired me.’

‘Hmm. Yeah.’ He considered your words, sitting back as he tried to read you while you finished your dessert. ‘Well, you used to leave those little notepads in my office the first months after I hired you and I didn’t know what else to do with them. I thought it was adorable.’

You shut your eyes briefly then, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks as you took another sip of your coffee.

‘I thought you needed to… write notes.’ You bit your lip as you tried not to laugh at your own naivety. ‘And— I don’t know, important stuff.’

‘Because you thought I was an important man.’ He said resting his crossed arms on the table to get closer to you.

‘Only for the first month.’ You joked before looking back at the window. 

‘Oh, wow.’ He laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it.

He always acted like a teenager in the rare instances where you had friendly exchanges like these, but you were careful not to cross any lines or get too funny. It was hard though, because it was nice and even if you knew it wasn’t true, sometimes it was good to feel like you were friends.

‘What is it?’ He said when he saw the way you were putting a strand of hair behind your ear as you looked to your side.

‘Can we…’ You nervously played with the tablecloth underneath your coffee cup. ‘Uhm, can we talk about work?’

The way he licked his lips with amusement worried you. You were both two days behind work now and the idea of knowing there was a concerning number of emails accumulating in your phone was making you anxious.

‘Listen,’ It took you by surprise when his hands found yours over the tablecloth, it wasn’t until then that you realised you were cold, just because he was so irresistibly warm. You were too overwhelmed to even know if he realised. ‘You’re an amazing assistant. You’re smart, very capable. Incredibly stubborn. You have a weird relationship with authority but somehow that—’

‘What!’ You exclaimed offended. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You hate following orders.’ He said carefully before squeezing your hands.

‘I don’t!’ You argued, attempting to sit back, but his hands held yours over the table, and he seemed to be enjoying this little argument way too much.

‘You do.’ He laughed like a little kid. ‘You fucking do. Like now, I told you to relax because it’s Christmas and you’re not doing as you’re told.’

‘You’re unbearable.’ You said finally sitting back and feeling your cheeks hotter than ever. ‘Like, I swear. You think everything is a joke.’

‘Right.’ He took a sip of his coffee while you crossed your arms over your chest, feeling your hands turn cold at the absence of his touch. ‘Okay, let’s make a deal.’

‘What kind of deal?’

‘A business deal, who do you think I am?’ He joked.

You scoffed softly, feeling even more flushed than before and wondering where all this confidence was coming from, he had never dared to employ so many double-meaning jokes with you. He had also never dared to touch you like he had been doing or smile at you like he was smiling now.

‘We’ll get to do one work thing— Listen, I’m your boss, so I’m trying to help you out here, okay?’ He said when you were about to roll your eyes. ‘We’ll get to do one thing for work, if you do one thing I have planned for you.’

‘Are we seventeen?’ You scoffed. ‘Absolutely not, Steve.’

‘Come on.’ He insisted. ‘For once, I get to plan your day rather than the other way around. I like it.’

‘So what? You want to be my PA today or something?’

He shrugged, sitting more comfortably in the little booth.

‘It’s my Christmas wish and only you can make it real.’ He said sarcastically.

You took a deep breath. From your place, he looked like the conceited teenager he’d probably had been once, the private-school little shit that you read about in magazines. He’d never get a no for an answer, but you probably could never say no to him either.

‘Do I get my iPad back?’ You asked, biting your lip.

You observed him quietly as he searched for something inside his pocket. He seemed to hesitate for a second, as if he was realising something, and you looked at him with inquisitive eyes.

‘What is it?’ You asked. 

He took a deep breath before placing your work phone on the table.

‘You get this for now.’ He said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘All I’m saying is let’s leave the calendar for after New Year’s.’ He argued.

‘The calendar is for January.’ You said hugging yourself as you walked next to him. ‘January is literally right after New Year’s. It needs to be updated now.’

‘I don’t want it updated yet.’ He simply said.

You took a deep breath, walking right behind him as you checked your email and added more things to the list of things you had to do. You had also completely forgotten to call your mother, but the idea of doing it in front of him didn’t make you comfortable.

‘Well, okay.’ You stopped in the busy sidewalk. ‘I guess if we can find a quiet place I can change the address—’

‘I already did that this morning.’

‘What?’

‘While you were getting ready.’ He said. ‘You already called the drycleaners, so we get to do something I planned. Something actually fun.’

He started walking again and you put the phone on inside your pocket as you caught up with him.

‘Being a PA is not about planning fun stuff, you know?’ You said.

‘No shit.’ He said sarcastically. ‘No wonder why I hired you.’

You let out an offended laugh-scoff before punching his side with your elbow.

‘That was very mean.’

‘What kind of boss would I be if I wasn’t a little mean every now and then?’ He said as you followed him inside a shop.

You were about to say something when you realised where you were.

‘…I have an appointment at four.’

‘Of course, Mr Harrington.’ Said the pretty Salesgirl before she offered to take your coat.

‘Do you prefer Dom Pérignon or Grand Siècle?’ She asked you then.

‘Uhm, well I’m work—’

‘We’ll have the Siècle, please.’ Said Steve said instead.

The pretty girl nodded once and got lost behind a corridor as you entwined your hands in front of you and looked around you like a lost deer.

‘Why did you bring me here?’ You murmured shyly at Steve.

‘We’ve got plans tonight.’ He said shrugged. ‘And it’s Christmas. You need a dress.’

‘But this is like…’ You looked around you, detailing the beautiful High-Couture sample gowns that the mannequins modelled. They were all breath-taking pieces, but you couldn’t imagine yourself wearing anything like this. When you turned to look at him, his eyes were already on you. ‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise.’ He said sweetly, studying your worried semblance as he took a few steps towards you. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t need to wear anything too fancy. I called them beforehand and let them know that you often wear deep shades and lots of black. Thought I have to say, red would look so elegant on you I asked them to add a few specific pieces I thought you’d might like.’ He shrugged, swallowing as he looked away from you. ‘But you don’t need to try them if you don’t want to.’ 

You blinked a couple of times as you tried to find words to thank him, feeling equally flattered and impressed, but still not sure if this was a good idea or not.

Where were you supposed to draw the line? You thought as you stood in your underwear in front of all the different dresses that had been picked for you. If only you hadn’t left your work phone inside your trench coat, you’d have some way of calming your nerves right now. You weren’t sure if this was a good idea at all, if indulging yourself in this friendship with your boss was the safest thing to do.

It was all coming to and end though, you thought as you placed the thin strips of the red dress over your shoulders. In a few days you’d have to sit down with him inside his big office and break him the news, so why were you still worried about being unprofessional?

You took a deep breath, downing the champagne the salesgirl had given you to put your doubts aside. Once the dress was all zipped up, you looked at yourself in the mirror. It was so pretty you couldn’t help but smile, with a midi skirt that ended just below your knees. You stroked the front fabric to find out it had pockets, and that somehow convinced you.

It was like feeling like a child again. You opened the door of the changing room and shyly walked the little corridor that took you back to the room where he waited for you.

‘I told you I’d do everything that was on my hands, and I couldn’t.’ You heard him say.

You walked into the room frowning, feeling as you had so many times before on instances where he was having a work call that turned into a personal one. Or in hard moments when he dealt with relationships outside work, and you didn’t know if he needed an assistant or a friend.

‘Well, I don’t think I’m on a position where I care at this point.’ He said gravely as he took a few thoughtful steps. ‘Why don’t you ask…’

As soon as he turned back his eyes locked with yours, standing above the little steps that led to the room.

‘Dad, I’ll call you later.’ He hung up while his eyes were still on you, and you shyly walked down the steps to meet him in the middle of the little room.

‘Is everything okay?’ You tentatively asked.

‘Everything is perfect.’ He said with an idiotic smile as his eyes looked from the dress to you. ‘You look so beautiful.’

You looked at him, then, ignoring the compliment as you searched for answers in his eyes. He knew that you were trying to read him and succeeding at it.

‘Steve.’

‘Everything’s fine.’ He insisted as he took a step towards you. He looked down at you with a sided smile, his brown eyes overflowing with a happiness that anyone could’ve described as delusional.

As much as you wished to be able to show your emotions as freely as he did, you were still worried about his father’s call, about the state of things back in the office once this little fantasy of his was over. You were about to open your mouth to speak when the touch of his hands on yours stopped you. He looked into your eyes with an intense honesty that you had never seen before.

‘Miss.’ The voice of the Salesgirl made you turn around immediately. If she had seen something, she didn’t say anything, she only walked down the steps towards you, carrying your coat carefully. ‘It’s your phone.’

You smiled at her softly before searching inside your pockets, hearing the distant buzzing and thinking that it was probably your mother. As soon as you took the devices the blood left your face at the sight of the name on your work phone.

‘Would you excuse us for a second?’

The pretty salesgirl nodded discreetly before she walked out of the room. Steve stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the marble floor and avoiding your eyes as only the sound of the buzzing phone could be heard.

‘Don’t pick up.’ He finally said without looking at you.

‘It’s your father.’

‘Don’t. Pick up.’ He finally lifted his eyes to look back at you.

‘I work for him, Steve. I can’t just—’

‘You work for me.’ He said taking a step towards you. All the softness that overflowed from his brown pupils was gone, in exchange for a coldness that you had only seen him employ with other people, but never with you.

Steve walked away towards the window as you nodded once. The insisting phone still buzzed on your hand as he looked out, isolating himself in that way you often witnessed at his office, and just as all those times before, you stayed silent. He had hurt you, but deep down you also knew you’d never be petty enough to betray him by picking up that call.

Things turned even more awkward when the phone stopped buzzing, the uncomfortable silence falling between you like snow on Christmas day. You waited for one, two, three seconds, and when he didn’t say anything, you climbed the little stairs and walked towards the changing rooms.

The air was cold as ice when you walked out of the shop wearing your clothes and trench coat. You needed to think. You needed to think about what had happened today and last night, and what had been happening in the last two years since the day you started working for Steve Harrington.

It wasn’t hard to make a decision when you crossed the street and got inside the first shop that caught your eye, your heart beating hard with anxiety as you did. As soon as you walked in, the first notes of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer started playing as if they came from a musical box.

The toy shop had a giant, carrousel-like column in the middle, where pretty dolls were displayed inside their boxes, new and perfumed and magical. Christmas trees of all sizes had been placed around the shop, surrounded by train sets that looked exactly as if they came from those movies you used to watch as a child.

It wasn’t as busy as you thought it would be, tourists walked around taking pictures and videos of the picturesque shop while you browsed in silence and smiled to yourself every now and then. The place gave you a weird sense of nostalgia as your fingers stroked the hand painted roof of the biggest house doll you’d ever seen. You thought of past Christmases back home, the smell of your mother’s food mixing with the scent of wrapping paper, learning how ride a bike on the snowy pavement, the fading memory of your dad’s face…

Blinking away your tears, you found a sunny spot to sit outside, next to the river, hearing the seagulls and the distant melody of the carol singers. Taking a deep breath, you took the phone to your ear and called your mother.

‘About time.’ She complained right before laughing.

‘I’m sorry.’ You shut your eyes before messing your neatly brushed hair. ‘Merry Christmas. I miss you.’

‘Merry Christmas, sweetie.’ She said. ‘When are you coming?’

‘Uhm,’ You bit your lip. ‘I’ll try to get tickets for tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever. I’ll be there before the 30th.’

‘Does the evil boss know his?’ She joked.

You swallowed hard, feeling the salty taste of tears in the back of your throat.

‘I’m working on it.’ You sniffed quietly. ‘But don’t you worry about it. How’re things? Was Santa generous this year?’

‘Very generous.’ She said. ‘I got a new perfume, a nice purse…’

‘…And?’ You smiled to yourself. ‘A nice cashmere scarf I hope?’

‘I loved it very much.’ She said. ‘Thank you, sweets.’

‘You’re welcome, mom.’ You said looking at the city beyond the body of water in front of you. ‘I know it’s silly, I guess it just— I don’t know. It’s a nice tradition.’

‘Oh, honey! I know, It’s not silly. It makes me happy too, you know that.’

You laughed weakly, feeling in the verge of tears again, when you felt a body sitting on the bench next to you.

‘Uh, mom, I gotta go.’ You said looking back at him before your eyes focused on the river once again.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, it’s just… work.’ You sighed. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘In person.’

You made a pause, taking a deep breath.

‘Sure.’ You finally said. ‘Merry Christmas. Love you.’

‘Love you too, honey.’

Steve leaned forwards to have a better look at you as soon as you hung up, and you hated that. You had so many reasons to cry right now and you didn’t want to face any of them, so all you could do was hug yourself while the air froze your cheeks.

‘I am so, so sorry.’ He finally said.

‘How did you find me, anyways?’ You looked back at him.

‘Uh,’ He shook his head, and you could’ve sworn he had blushed a little. ‘Your phone. Your work phone. I can access its location in case you lose it. You know, confidential information and all of that.’

‘That’s quite invasive.’ You tried to joke, but it came out much more passive aggressive than you intended.

‘I know, but it comes in handy when I behave like a complete asshole.’ He said. ‘I’m sorry.’

You looked down, playing with one of the buttons on your coat and thinking about what to say. Maybe the best thing to do was to quit right then. Offer Steve an honest explanation, hand him the phone back and pack. He could keep your room, your check, your heart. Anything he wanted. You just wanted to be alone.

‘Sometimes…’ He swallowed. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to separate work from personal attachments. Especially when there’s not a lot of people around that I can trust.’

Your eyes kept looking at your skirt, your legs, your shoes… anywhere that wasn’t him. It was too hard to look up, to sit here and hear him call this a personal attachment, a business relation, everything except what it was.

‘I keep doing this thing…’ He said. ‘Where I put you in these… complicated, and awkward situations because I desperately need a friend…’

You couldn’t help but look at him then, feeling a mix of compassion and pity and fear and sadness for him.

‘…And it’s so unfair to you.’ He said softly, anxiously looking for a sign of forgiveness on your face. ‘I’m so sorry.’

It took you a while to find the words, to get the courage to look back at this lonely man. It took everything in you to tell him right then, that he wasn’t lonely at all, and that you had always been right here, and as long as you could, you would.

You shook you head softly. ‘I know things with your dad are complicated—’

‘It’s not only about my dad.’ He said moving closer to you. You looked back at him as the freezing breeze blew a few stands of your hair. The sight was overwhelming: his softly frostbitten pink cheeks, his cosy scarf, the scent of his woody pine cologne filling you with longing. You couldn’t help but arch your eyebrows subtly when one of his hands extended over the bench to touch your face, but he seemed to abandon the thought quickly, placing it behind you. ‘You were there when Cece left, too.’

‘Steve—’

‘When she moved out, when she—’

‘Steve.’

‘…Lost the baby.’

You took a deep breath, taking your hands to the bridge of your nose and fighting the need of screaming at him.

‘You know, I don’t need this today.’ You said facing him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ The touch of his thumb on your cheek caught you completely by surprise, and suddenly you weren’t so angry anymore. ‘I could’ve handled it; I should’ve been there instead of you.’

It was getting harder to keep your tears to yourself, but you still managed to. You had to. You were sure she must’ve told him everything before she left, how she hung on to you after months of ignoring you while she was engaged to him, how she begged you not to say a word until she was ready. And you did. You did, because the idea of seeing him suffer shattered your heart.

And it did anyways. It hurt when he asked you to call the interior designer to get rid of the baby blue wallpaper, when you secretly donated the packs of diapers he had piled inside the closet. It hurt to see him show up to work the next few days as if nothing had happened, to pick up those calls from his therapist every week for a month, asking why he hadn’t shown up. It hurt to find out Cece was pregnant again through the press a year after, not a millionaire businessman this time, but a senator of some kind. It hurt that she called you and thanked you for supporting her through it all.

‘You seemed so happy.’  Your voice almost broke at the end of the sentence, looking back at his eyes helplessly. ‘And Cecelia… she didn’t want you there. I— I had to respect that.’

His mouth turned into a line then, you could see he didn’t like what you were saying, but his touch was still soft as his eyes moved from your eyes to your lips while he considered your words. His bitter frown didn’t change even when his soft palm moved to your neck, and his eyes looked back at yours again.

‘I can’t need you this much.’ He murmured then. ‘It’s not fair to you.’

Your hand caught his on your neck and you gave him a sad smile before looking down at the way your knees instinctively touched his. You wished you could tell him it was perfectly fine, that not only being needed was an intrinsic part of you, but that being needed by him was all you thought about every day.

‘Don’t say that.’ You whispered, squeezing his hand. ‘I’m your friend. You know that.’

‘I’m still sorry.’ He whispered with a sad smile. His thumb drew a line from your chin to your jaw as you looked at each other, sharing a silence full of bittersweet understanding. A few snowflakes that fell from a above sat on your lashes and you both finally laughed together. A thin layer of snow was painting the river white, yet you still felt warm, sitting on this bench next to him.

‘I’ll tell you what.’ You said sitting straight, your hands instinctively started playing with the hem of his navy scarf and you smiled softly at him. The gesture seemed to have lifted his spirit, by the way his lips lifted subtly, and his brown eyes were full of dreamy tenderness. ‘I just saw the biggest, pinkest house doll ever inside that toy shop over there. If you get that for Hannah’s daughter, I’m willing to forget this and actually try to have a fun Christmas with you.’

‘She’s not even one.’ He laughed softly.

‘She’ll love it.’

He nodded once, studying your face while he smiled softly.

‘Consider it done.’

‘We’re going to be late.’ You said in the car, checking the time on your phone.

‘You don’t even know where we’re going.’ Steve said, rolling his eyes at you. The gesture almost made you smile, so used to be the one that always rolled her eyes at him.

‘You said we needed to leave by seven.’ You said annoyed, hugging yourself over your coat. Yet you could still feel the warmth of his shoulder resting against yours.

‘That was just so you could be ready by six.’ He murmured, the warmth of his breath on your scalp made you realise how close you were from each other. You could feel his chin hovering over your head as he looked through the window, the Christmas lights making the snowy streets colourful, the people walking, the distant sound of sirens.

You felt nostalgic, or maybe just deeply comfortable in the back of the car, stillness within the chaos of traffic. Maybe it was something else, you thought as you felt your body getting warmer, you were safe. The thought kind of terrified you, but at the same time, you thought as you leaned in and rested your head against him, it wasn’t so bad to indulge yourself in his company, was it? After all, it was Christmas.

‘Are you okay?’ He murmured.

You leaned even closer to him then, and he heard you swallow hard as your hand wrapped around his bicep. His body couldn’t simply not react to all that warmth, to all that tenderness, and he finally gave in and placed his chin softly on your head.

‘I’m just feeling a bit homesick.’ You confessed in the dark of the backseat.

‘Hmm.’ The back of his finger stroked your cheeks softly to get your attention. You lifted your eyes shyly, giving him a subtle smile before you sat more comfortably. ‘You wanna go back to the hotel?

‘No.’ You smiled at him, sitting back. ‘No, I just— Sorry, it’s just… Christmas, it always— it makes me kind of crazy.’

You laughed awkwardly, feeling more flushed every second you didn’t move away from him.

‘What do you miss?’ He asked then.

You almost choked as you sat better; your cheeks turned even hotter before you could speak again.

‘From home?’ You placed your cheek against the seat and looked back at him as he nodded. ‘I don’t know. I guess more than missing something specific, what I really miss is being a child.’ You looked away, still feeling his eyes on you as you smiled sadly. ‘Sometimes, when I wake up too stressed or overwhelmed, I stay in bed with my eyes closed and I take a deep breath. And you know, just for a second, I feel like I can smell my bedroom again. Isn’t that weird?’

‘It is weird.’ He murmured as you looked back at him. ‘It’s also very cool that you have such a good memory. I always feel like I don’t remember anything about my childhood.’

‘You remembered the carousel back at the café.’ You reminded him.

‘Yeah, but I don’t have memories there. I just remember not being allowed to get on it.’

‘Hmm.’ You considered it for a few seconds before looking back at him. ‘What about your childhood home?’

He shrugged, looking something unspecific in the distance.

‘I don’t know. I guess it smells like my dad’s office.’ He admitted. ‘That’s why I’m always so paranoid about having candles and plants all over my place.’ You laughed then, thinking it was odd but kind of funny too. ‘Even if I spend most of my time travelling, I can’t bear coming back to a house that smells untouched. Like a hotel.’

And yet he still did, you thought as you looked through the window beyond his shoulder. His maids were always telling you how boring it was to work for Mr Harrington, because all they did was clean dust. There was no mess or things to clean inside his home. There was nothing.

‘We’re here, sir.’ The voice of the driver made you sit down properly, looking through the window next to you this time.

The city lights reflected on the river like little candles with dancing, twinkling flames. You were surprised you hadn’t thought about this possibility, but when the driver opened the door for you, you didn’t know exactly how to feel about the luxurious yacht that sat next to the private pier in front of you.

‘So,’ Steve Said once he had made it out of the car. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s nice.’ You simply said.

‘We’ll watch the fireworks from the river.’ He said enthusiastically.

‘That’s nice.’ You repeated shyly. ‘It’s quite, uhm, big.’

‘I know, I had completely forgotten I had it.’ He said taking your hand before he pulled you towards the pier.

You let out a laugh of disbelief as you followed him, feeling his warm fingers entwining with yours.

‘How could you forget you have a yacht?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I never use it. I used to party in these a lot when I was in college, but I don’t really have time for that anymore.’

You took a deep, patient breath while you climbed the stairs towards the upper deck. Your eyes looked around for other people, lingering on the lights of the yacht and the dark waters underneath. You could imagine what you’d find inside, but that didn’t mean it would surprise you less.

‘Give me your coat.’ He said once you walked in behind him.

Inside, the yacht hid a luxurious lounge with leather couches, an extensive bar and a pool table. You let him take your trench coat as your eyes lingered on the other side, where there was a giant TV screen and a couple of armchairs. Somehow the heat rushed to your cheeks at the sight of it all, before a loud pop behind you made you jump.

You looked back to find Steve pouring champagne in two glasses from the other side of the room. He was still wearing his coat, but yours was laying on the chair behind him, and you suddenly felt flushed as his eyes lingered briefly on your uncovered shoulders.

‘This is obscene.’ You said once you stood in front of him.

He laughed then, loudly and childishly while he offered you the glass of the bubbly alcohol. You took it carefully, feeling warm under his stare.

‘You have no other option but enjoying yourself tonight.’ He said with a smile before clicking his glass with yours.

You took a sip of your drink before rolling your eyes and he smiled back at you. He seemed to be enjoying your shyness, your inadequacy, way too much. 

‘I didn’t want the crew to stay during Christmas, but they did leave some food so we’re having a proper holiday dinner upstairs in the dining hall. And then I also asked them to leave a swimsuit for you, in case you wanted to try the jacuzzi.’

You let out a nervous laugh, before looking to your side. Steve frowned softly as he placed his glass on the bar’s mahogany surface.

‘What is it?’ He said, taking his coat off.

‘Nothing.’ You shrugged.

‘You want to go back to the hotel?’ He asked.

‘No.’ you said, feeling a bit helpless, a bit lost. ‘No, it’s not that. This is very nice, Steve.’

‘But?’ He asked, searching for some sort of validation in your eyes.

You shrugged, looking around you before your eyes landed back on him.

‘I just can’t stop thinking about the fact that you had a place to stay the whole time.’ You said softly.

Realisation fell on Steve’s eyes, and something else, something deeper that sadness took over them. He was angry. If it was at you, or at himself, you wouldn’t know. His fingers held the glass he had placed on the bar, pondering with a frown. As if you had caught him doing something bad, something improper.

‘I guess I just didn’t want to be alone on Christmas.’ He played with a few drops that fell from his glass before looking back at you. He swallowed hard. You opened your mouth to say something, regretting your words immediately, but Steve kept talking. ‘Listen, honestly, I didn’t even remember I had this place until this morning. I know maybe spending Christmas with me is not the most appealing idea in the world but—’

‘Steve, it’s not like that.’

‘… I just want you to have a good time.’ His eyes were full of honesty as he looked at you, but a part of you felt he had grown cold at your words. ‘Whether that is here, or back at the hotel, or anywhere. It’s kind of my fault that you’re stuck here, anyways. I shouldn’t have made you work on Christmas Eve.’

You took a deep breath, looking away and feeling the guilt rising on your chest. He had tried to give you a decent Christmas. He had bought you this lovely dress, he had requested a proper Christmas dinner, and all you had been doing all day was lie to him.

‘I’m sorry.’ You finally said, taking a step towards him. ‘It’s not your fault, I’ve spent the whole day being stubborn. I guess I didn’t want us to get behind with work, and— if I’m honest with you, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Christmas. It’s not your fault.’

You looked at each other for a few seconds before you bit your lip, trying to repress your embarrassment.

‘Okay.’ He finally said, considering your words. ‘What if… instead of going all the way up to the dining hall we just have dinner here in front of the TV, huh? We can watch a Christmas movie or a horror movie or like, a documentary…’

You let out a snorty laugh then, nodding as you smiled at him.

‘Okay.’ You said then. ‘Sounds good.’

‘Great.’ He said with a smile.

It took little time for you two to get used to the comfort of the understanding silence as you brought the food downstairs. As the evening started, you slowly stopped caring too much about the yacht and its excessive luxuries. This was Steve’s life, after all, but there was also no reason why you had to stick to those unwritten rules you followed in professional instances tonight. A few minutes after your third glass of champagne you were taking your shoes off and walking around barefoot as you filled your plate with turkey and stuffing, and potatoes.

Steve followed you by getting rid of his jacket and shoes and you both forgot the armchairs and sat down on the floor to watch The Parent Trap.

‘I can’t believe you’ve never seen this masterpiece.’ You said once the ending credits rolled. You dipped your finger on the cup of gravy before taking it to your mouth. ‘This is on my top five of comfort movies.’

‘I can see why.’ He cleaned his mouth with a napkin before sitting back against the bottom of the armchair. ‘I guess that’s what I get for growing up with no sisters.’

‘You’ve got, what? Five brothers? And none of them were really into cheesy movies?’

He laughed.

‘Apparently not. They all have their own thing.’ He shrugged.

‘Hmm.’ You said putting your plate aside. ‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know Nick. He was always very into music. And then Trevor’s always been into fencing, he always wanted to do it on an Olympic level, but he’s never been that good.’ He joked, placing his elbows on his knees as his eyes got lost on the patterns of the carpet. ‘Jake’s an aircraft engineer, so he thinks he’s the smart one. And then the twins surf, but Dan is better at that than Richie. I don’t know, they all have a thing.’

‘What’s your thing?’ You asked then.

‘Huh?’

‘What’s your thing?’ You repeated.

He shrugged.

‘I don’t think I have one.’ He admitted.

Steve and you stayed quiet as you thought about his words. He rarely spoke about his family to you, but you had learned things about them in discreet silence. It was widely known that Nick Harrington had a substance problem; Steve himself had driven him to rehab many times. You had only learned this because you had to help Hannah handle the scandal that one time the press leaked the address of his rehab centre.  

You knew that Trevor and Jake didn’t get along with Steve, by the way he absently signed the birthday cards you posted to their addresses every year. You always made sure to date them on the inside, above the empty, cold Happy Birthday printed on the card. You knew that the twins were spoiled and ungrateful, because they never cared to learn your name or address you nicely every time they called Steve for money when their father refused to indulge yet another one of their fleeting business endeavours.

‘How come?’ You asked softly as he took the remote control. Steve stayed quiet for a while, switching to a jazz playlist on Spotify.

You thought for a second he wasn’t going to give you an answer, until he entwined his hands behind his neck as he rested his back against the armchair.

‘I don’t know.’ He said as his hands fell slowly on his knees, losing himself in his thoughts before he looked at you. ‘I don’t think I was given the chance to.’

He stayed in silence for a second as your eyes lingered on his face, as if no one had ever asked him this question before. Then he laughed softly, bitterly, and you frowned.

‘Isn’t that funny?’ He said. ‘The guy with all the opportunities wasn’t given one.’

You lifted your eyebrows as you looked down to your knees, processing his words.

‘S fine.’ He shrugged before standing up. ‘I don’t want to think too much about it right now.’

Your eyes followed him as he moved to the bar, grabbing a bottle of wine before walking towards you and extending his hand.

‘C’mon.’ He said with a soft smile. You didn’t know how he did it, or why he didn’t really care about the sad conversation you almost had. ‘I wanna show you the place.’

You grabbed his hand while holding the two empty wine glasses on the other, and he took you on a tour of the yacht. You had already seen the dining hall, big and impersonal but decorated by a giant red rug that felt soft and cozy under your feet. The staff had managed to place an improvised but prettily decorated tree on the further conner, and a few Christmas lights around the place.

It wasn’t until he took you towards the helm that you realised how comfortable you had felt holding his hand the whole time. The area consisted of three luxurious screens that surrounded the captain’s seat, along with the steering wheel and the engine controls.

‘You wanna drive it for a while?’ He joked in the dark as you looked at the weather and pressure data on the screen.

‘Absolutely not.’ You said immediately. He laughed at it, rubbing his thumb against your hand softly as he took you out of the little room. ‘Do you know how to?’

‘Nah.’ He said as he took you through another room, much more luxurious than the one downstairs where you had eaten. There were more L-shaped couches, and a piano at the end. Beyond that, you could see through the windows that there were lounge chairs outside, probably a pool too. ‘…Could’ve learned at some point, but I never liked boats that much.’

You let out a sarcastic laugh as your eyes lingered on the jacuzzi on the other side of the room. Then, walking past him, you took the wine bottle while he looked at you with an amused stare.

‘What?’

You filled your glass before placing the bottle next to his on the crystal table in the middle of the room. Once again, you kneeled next to the table, looking at him still standing up on the other side of it.

‘You know, I’ve heard things about your times in private school.’ You said with a childish smile that he seemed to find funny as he lifted his eyebrows. ‘I used to think they were just rumours, but I can only imagine the kind of things young Steve Harrington could be up to in one of these.’

He rolled his eyes then, walking around the table to sit on the couch like an important man. His brown eyes piercing, almost mischievous, as he rested his back against the cushion with his legs open. The couch was so big he wasn’t even taking all the space, but this was Steve, he was used to having it all.

‘So…?’ You pressed, taking another sip of your drink. ‘Am I wrong?’

He shrugged. ‘You’re not wrong.’

‘So, it’s true.’ You said almost pleased. ‘King Steve.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ He looked away, shaking his head as you giggled. He took a deep breath, looking back at you as if you were a trouble kid and he didn’t know what to do with you. He leaned in a little bit, placing his elbows on his knees before entwinning his hands. ‘Listen, of course it got out of hand sometimes. You can’t raise a kid telling him he’s got all the money and power in the world and expect him to be a decent teenager. I never said I wasn’t spoiled.’

‘You never said you were indecent either.’ You said softly, looking back at him as you took a long sip of your wine.

His eyes lingered on your face as you swallowed, lifting your delicate hand to clean the drop that fell down your mouth.

‘Some of us have secrets.’ He said after a while. He extended a hand to fill his on glass as you considered his words. ‘You, for example, have many.’

You lifted your eyes to look back at him, thinking that maybe he had figured you out. You thought maybe someone he knew had told him all about your plans to quit, after all Steve knew everyone. You could’ve said something there, act offended or tell the truth. But instead, you just took the bottle back to fill your glass.

‘I’m not interesting enough to have secrets.’ You smiled softly, eyes focused on the pouring liquid as you avoided his stare.

‘I don’t agree.’

‘I know you don’t.’ You simply said with a smile before taking your glass with you as you stood up.

You knew his eyes were on you as you walked around the room, placing the glass on the edge of the jacuzzi before your hand ventured to stroke the still water inside. The sudden bubbling of the water startled you as the lights of the thing turned on, and you heard Steve’s soft laugh behind you.

‘I thought it’d be warm.’ You said foolishly as the heat rushed to your cheeks. Only then you realised how drunk you were, feeling that your skin was more than just warm, your lips were a bit dry, your thoughts all over the place.

The water did turn warm a few seconds later, and you dared to touch its surface again, this time diving your hand a little bit as you rested your chest against the edge of the jacuzzi. It was very quiet, your eyes lingered on the soft waves that the bubbles below created, taking in the colours of the exploding fireworks on the water before you looked up to the window.

You lifted your eyes to look at the sky when Steve turned the lights of the room off, his slow steps echoing through the room until he stood beside you. Only then you wondered how you were supposed to go back home this week.

Resting your chin on the extended arm that stroked the water, you saw Steve placing his crossed arms over the edge of the jacuzzi. He stayed quiet as if you had commanded him to, as if he knew that you needed him to stay like this. As if this silence was his present to you, it felt like that in a way.

‘One Christmas,’ You said then, ‘When I was seven, mom and I woke up and dad wasn’t home. She called him after a couple of hours, and he said he was buying fireworks for that night, and like, that wasn’t weird, really.’ You paused to take in the beautiful explosions in the distant sky, the silhouette of the skyscrapers being illuminated by the colours, the warmth exuded by the attentive body next to you. ‘So, we waited for him to have breakfast together, but he didn’t show up. He also skipped lunch, and we didn’t see him until the evening when he came home and set his fireworks outside. He spent the whole night lighting them up while ignoring us.’ You made a thoughtful, bitter pause before looking down at the water again. ‘He was mad. He had found out he had cancer. I think he didn’t really know how to tell us.’

You felt him swallow hard next to you, and only then you stood straight. Your eyes looked back at him as you rested your fingers on the edge of the jacuzzi. His stare was still on the water as he tried to find his words, but you knew what he was thinking: What can you say to that?

‘Sometimes keeping a secret is just delaying the truth, I suppose.’ He said then. It surprised you that he had come to that conclusion so quickly and effectively, while all you had done was overshare the sad little story of your dad’s diagnosis.

‘I guess so.’ You murmured unsure, before looking down at the water. You both stayed silent for a while, looking at the water as if the jacuzzi was a well that hid all the answers to the drunken questions in your head.

Delaying the truth. Was that what you had been doing these last two years?

‘I need to fly home tomorrow.’ You said, taking a step back, looking at your feet before you started climbing the steps to get inside.

Steve’s eyes lingered on you as you started undoing the zip of your dress. With his lips partly open he offered you a hand that you took as you made it to the border.

‘Mom and I always visit his grave on the 30th.’

‘I can get you tickets.’ He said as you let his hand go, taking a step back as you started undoing the straps of your dress. Something shifted then, the silence was cruel and definite, as if time had turned slower when the dress gently slid down your body and you kicked it to the side.

You couldn’t look back at him as you stepped inside the water, feeling like it wasn’t warm enough to sooth your flushed skin. And yet you kept telling yourself that it wouldn’t happen, that he’d kept it professional and polite between you two, but maybe you didn’t want him to. He had been touching you all day, you had slept in the same bed, for fuck’s sake.

Maybe all you wanted was to challenge him, to see if he dared to. Because if he didn’t do anything here, as you looked behind your shoulder to find him resting his arms over the edge again, then that could only mean that this had always been a one-sided thing.

‘You don’t get to share secrets like this.’ He whispered, shamelessly looking from your face to your body under water before he looked back at you. ‘It’s not fair.’

You turned back fully then, looking into his eyes and knowing he was dying to take a peek at your breasts under that lacy black bra you were wearing tonight. But he didn’t, instead he looked down at his hands as you walked slowly towards the edge, tendered by the red tint on his cheeks. This was so bad. It was so, so bad. Deep down you knew he was weak right now, that there were rules you were breaking, roles that you weren’t adhering to.

‘I know it’s not fair.’ You said searching for his eyes. ‘A lot of things aren’t.’

He looked up again, his eyes studied your face this time. Little drops of water had fell on your cheeks, but your make up was still shimmery under the lights of the jacuzzi.

‘What do you want me to do?’ He leaned in then. Straightforward surrender, maybe the only logical solution. Your faces were only inches away from each other as he challenged you. ‘If you tell me you want me to leave, I’ll leave. If you want me to join you there, I will. If I need to get you out of the water myself, take you upstairs, and make love to you in my bed, I will.’

Your hands played with the water that surrounded you as you looked back at him with partly open lips, wondering if Cecelia, Giovanna, Conny, Harriet or the rest whose names you had never cared enough to learn had been here before. But that didn’t matter, did it? They didn’t have what you had. They weren’t forbidden like you. They were nothing.

‘This is wrong.’ You whispered it as a fact, knowing very well that you didn’t mind, that it was just a cliché that needed to leave your mouth before things could really go deliciously wrong.

‘I don’t think you care.’ He said then.

‘Do you?’ You lifted your eyebrows then, placing your hands on the edge of the jacuzzi as you looked back at him with anxiety written all over your pretty face. ‘Care?’

Steve smiled then, blinking a couple of times as sweet sincerity took over his features slowly, unbearably gentlemanly and patient. His hands found yours over the edge, entwining your hands when his forehead brushed yours and you looked down at the buttons of his shirt, hiding from him.

‘Why don’t you get out and find out?’ He whispered then.

You nodded softly, the silence tense and sweet before you pushed yourself up as he took a small step back and you shyly sat down on the edge of the jacuzzi. He didn’t stay far for too long, catching himself biting his lips at the wet, half-naked image of you splashing water everywhere. His hands found yours on either side of your thighs as he took another tentative step forward, and almost instinctively you opened your legs for him, finding his brown locks with your wet fingers.

His own hands tested your comfort, landing on your hips as you looked down at him with a shy smile.

‘Hi.’ You whispered.

‘Hi.’ He said in the same tone.

You smiled softly, this time more cheekily, as your fingers wandered down, sneaking into his partly opened shirt just because you wanted to feel his burning skin, his chest hair, those corners that you had once forced yourself not to look at.

Unconsciously, you fisted his shirt when he dared to lean in subtly, following your head as your noses brushed, poking yours playfully to break the tension a little. Oddly, knowing that he was enjoying himself in his own time gave you a sense of confidence, you even dared to smile a little before you pulled him in.

You tasted his smile before his lips, maybe he found funny that your urgency seemed almost young and inexperienced, but you knew what you were doing. It took him a few seconds to breathe deeply under your mouth, to gain control by squeezing your waist and lean in even closer to you as your tongue demanded for space in his mouth.

A soft noise left his throat, and you chased his lips to swallow it, begging him to give you another one, please. But now his hands were cupping your face, and you felt more and more like a feather in his arms. It got much worse when he lifted you from your butt with sudden confidence, swallowing the sweet whimper of surprise you let out while he led you to the closest couch.

He let his body fall as you comfortably sat on his lap, making a mess out of his locks as his hands repositioned your thighs closer to him and his needy mouth search for your neck to kiss and bite.

There were so many different instances in which you had imagined the texture of Steve’s tongue before, but you would’ve never thought he’d be so gentle with his teeth as he played with your body. Then, as if he’d reminded this was the first time he had you this close, he chased your mouth for a soft, almost innocent kiss before looking back at you.

‘You okay?’ He asked with a nod.

‘M fine.’ You stroked his face: his beautiful boyishly blushed cheeks, before you leaned in to bite his lip playfully.

The silence was tense as you looked at each other with a cheekiness you would’ve never thought you discovered in each other. You knew now you were driving him crazy, and he knew you were dying to prove yourself. Still holding your challenging stare, his soft hands started to pull down the fabric of your bra.

You were waiting for the moment that his eyes fell on your bare chest, but he was amusing himself by staring at you with his heavy eyelids and cheeky sided smile. Steve was too busy looking at the safest places of you: your eyes, your lips. Yet the boldness of his face slowly died when his hands finally cupped your breasts, and you let out a shaky breath when his thumbs brushed your freezing cold nipples.

He nodded encouragingly as your hands climbed to his shoulders under his shirt and he kept massaging your breasts while your nose brushed against his. While your breaths turned heavier, and your hips started moving softly.

Steve’s eyes were still open, eyelids heavy and pupils glossy while his lips brushed against yours and he swallowed the air your exhaled. His hands wandered down your back, finding a way to sneak under the side straps of your thong, and suddenly the tiny piece of fabric didn’t feel as discreet as you’d thought it was. He gave your ass a good, loving squeeze that left you breathless, and he seemed to enjoy that, by the way he was smiling when he pushed you against his body until your mouth was on his again.

It all turned much slower but much more sensual after that. You skin was hot and full of goosebumps as he held you by your waist to lay your back against the couch. You were dazed, and so overwhelmed as he left a trace of wet kisses between your breasts down to your ribs.

Then, with the patience of a child holding a bird, he placed his cheek against your belly button and looked back at you. His lips were puffy, his cheeks preciously pink. You dared to do something you’d always dreamed of doing and dived your fingers inside those dark brown locks of hair, slowly stroking the hidden grey strands next to his ear.

You could’ve both simply fallen asleep like that, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was stroking your thighs so softly, and your pussy got warmer and wetter the more you felt his weight on top of yours. You held your breath when he pulled your underwear aside, and his finger finally dared to brush those nerves, a thin thread of wetness connecting your pussy with his finger as you kept stroking his hair and he simply looked down to that deliciously sensitive slit in between your legs.

You should’ve been blushing by the way he seemed fascinated by how your pussy pulsed every second he teased you, by how your wetness leaked out, staining his couch in the most sweetly obscene way. He could lick that, yeah, starting from the bottom and then all the way up to your clit. He’d do that for you until you moaned his name, or the word please, he wanted you arching your back, fisting the cushion underneath you. He had thought about this so often that somehow it was hard to know if it was really happening or if this was just another one of his fantasies, another one of those dreams that tended to leave him with insomnia, sweaty and hot in his lonely bed.

There just seemed to be so many endless ways to taste you for the first time and he couldn’t decide which one, so he just went for the easiest one, rubbing his face against your perfumed skin as he slowly left a trail of wet pecks until his mouth was finally kissing your pretty needy pussy.

Steve sighed before you even could, diving his head in between your legs and eating you selfishly as his hands squeezed your thighs. He licked slowly and sensually, from the entrance of your cunt up to your clit before sucking gently, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘…taste so fucking good.’ He said to himself before leaning back. You held your breath as he looked at your shamelessly open and wet pussy while he removed your thong fully, before pushing you knee softly outwards to spit on you. His saliva was warm, and you were so sensitive, the gesture made you release a little moan before his finger dived inside you and you were arching your back again.

His free hand wandered up your hip, admiring your squirming body, the way your chest ascended when you took a deep breath and then softly descended when you released it in the shape of a sweet longing sigh. He grabbed one of your breasts then, this time more firmly, as if he was entitled to, and your own hand squeezed his over it.

‘Fuck.’ You moaned when his finger managed to stroke a particularly nice spot. He had rarely heard you swear before and now he wanted to hear you do it all the time, because your voice made it all sound sweet and harmless. ‘There.’

‘Hmm?’ He asked sweetly, keeping the same sexy rhythm, touching the same damn spot. ‘There?’

‘Ha.’ You moaned almost painfully. ‘Mhm. Yeah. There.’

You were shutting your eyes now, trying not to think too much about how you looked as the wetness leaked out of your pussy the closer you got, feeling it drip down your thighs and ass. Steve’s lips were puffy and wet when he kissed the side of your knee, his hair was stroking your leg unintentionally, his other hand wasn’t pressing your breast anymore, just merely letting you hold it as your breaths turned faster.

‘I don’t wanna cum like this.’ You begged then, opening your eyes to look back at him with arched eyebrows and sweaty cheeks. His eyes were still on you, mesmerised and heavy as he kept his rhythm, not stopping yet.

‘I don’t understand.’ He whispered before kissing your knee again. ‘You look beautiful. I wanna see you like this.’

‘I—’ You sighed heavily, feeling on the edge every second that he kept touching you there. ‘I want you inside me.’

‘You’ll have me.’ He murmured lovingly, still fascinated by the obscenely sweet image of your agonizing body. ‘Soon, baby. So soon. Cum for me first. Cum like this.’

You let out a moany breath again, nails scratching the cushion on your side as he rested his cheek against your knee, drunk by the greed of being the one who could do this to you. You swallowed hard as your hips started to convulse with the rest of your body, and then he felt it, the contractions of your inner walls, your puffy clit pulsing right there under his eyes, glistening with the mix of your wetness and his spit. Your open mouth, noiseless as you held your breath and your breasts pointy and exposed for him before your back landed on the couch again.

‘Shit.’ Your voice sounded so soft and defeated as you closed your eyes lazily, feeling his body hovering over you. Your hands instinctively dived inside his hair when his lips kissed your neck and ear.

‘You were perfect.’ He whispered as you felt the fabric of his pants rub against your sensitive clit by accident, and you were rolling your eyes at how something so subtle was arousing your again.

‘Mhm.’ Your moaned when your blind mouth could finally find his and this time you were messier and dirtier than before, licking his lower lip and wrapping your sweaty legs around his waist. ‘Fuck me.’

He moved you both onto your side, your wet back now against the cushion of the couch as he melted into your body and his arms wrapped around your waist.

‘You’re half asleep.’ He laughed softly, squeezing your naked frame.

‘I don’t care.’ You looked back at him, tasting the wine in the back of your throat and knowing that all your make up was probably ruined by now. You must’ve looked so pathetic, sweaty cheeks, smudged eyeliner, and fucked-out face. It didn’t matter. ‘I’m in love with you.’

He leaned back softly then, studying your face before his hand brushed your cheekbone softly. You were looking at him, pleading that he wouldn’t let you humiliate yourself like this, all vulnerable and naked in his arms.

Steve softly arranged your bodies more cosily on the couch, he lifted himself briefly before placing your head against his chest, stroking your precious hair, smelling your perfumed scalp as your legs remained entwined. And all you were begging was for him not to be too cruel, too patronising, when he’d inevitably break your heart tonight.

‘Are you cold?’ He asked after a while, brushing his fingers against your bare back that was full of goosebumps.

‘Aren’t you going to?’ You were unable to be patient anymore, but you couldn’t face him, otherwise it’d be too embarrassing. And then you had to use that awful wording he used before, belittling yourself even more. ‘Aren’t you going to make love to me?’

Something came out of his chest then, and you frowned. It couldn’t be a laugh, though, there was nothing funny about this.

‘Of course, I am.’ He said then. ‘Just not now.’

‘When, then.’ You said more angrily than you intended to as you leaned back to finally confront him. God, you were drunk. You were a mess of emotions and alcohol, your throat was dry, your ears still buzzing by the long-forgotten orgasm.

It was as if his limbs were instinctively connecting to you, fingertips hovering on your face as they traced a line from your cheek to your chin.

‘I’m tryin’ to find the courage first.’ He explained very seriously. ‘To tell you that I love you.’

You blinked softly, stubbornly, as you frowned. You weren’t unhappy but somehow mad, that you were both this stupid. He stroked your cheek again, his nose looked blindly for yours, and it was if you didn’t want him to kiss you out of sudden. Rejection would’ve hurt less.

‘Come here.’ He said searching for your mouth.

‘Steve.’

‘Come here.’ He said more insistingly this time, pulling your jaw towards him and what else could you do but to give in? He had promised he’d made love to you, and he intended to, by the way his body was turning unbearably hot under all of those layers. He kissed you more purposely then, as your legs wrapped around him again and you unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, softly scratching any bit of skin you could find in the process.

His intentions were patient, but his body wasn’t. You could feel him getting harder as he went in for your neck, your jaw, your temple. At some point he grew too desperate, and the sound of his belt was followed by a clean pull of his boxers and pants, all falling down on the end of the couch.

Now your fingers were able to discover more, to stroke much more skin: the hairs on his stomach, the faded stretch marks under his hips, he had round, firm butt cheeks that you would’ve loved to tease him for, if this wasn’t a sad scenario, if things between you were different.

Your nails left half-moons on his shoulder when his dick first pushed a little through your entrance. Eyes-shut, open mouth and breath held in your chest as he didn’t dare to push himself fully.

‘Easy.’ He whispered on your open mouth, his top lip against yours as he cooed you into it. ‘Slow. Take your time.’

You nodded enthusiastically, because this time you didn’t want to be stubborn, and you really wanted to enjoy this, him. He let himself partly out before pushing a bit deeper, and you seemed to release your breath out, feeling a bit more relieved. One of your hands dived inside his hair as you pulled him closer to you, and he let you guide him as your walls progressively opened for him.

‘You’re so tight.’ He laughed to himself, and you swallowed it before he kissed your shy smile. ‘Goddamn it, your pussy feels so good, baby. You hear that?’

It was the obscene noise of your wetness, of his dick sliding inside you repeatedly in a slow pace.

‘Mhmm.’ You moaned softly as your nose brushed against his, and your hands stroked his cheeks lovingly. ‘Show me?’

The grip on your waist turned tighter then, holding onto you to pull his hard cock in and out of you while your arms wrapped around his neck, and he was finally making love to you, but you were just hugging him, you were saying goodbye to everything he had meant to you.

The thought didn’t let you live, but you were still letting out throaty moans every time he thrusted into you in this sensual rhythm and his cock made you feel blissfully full. You could’ve tried to move your hips a little, but you didn’t want to ruin the perfect synchronicity, and he was so thick you could feel yourself getting wetter while one of his hands held your thigh and your hands stroked his hair lovingly.

‘Where can I?’ He asked urgently. ‘Where?’

You leaned back to have a look at his pretty fucked face, those reddened cheeks, puffy lips, glossy brown eyes that drove you insane. You couldn’t help but leave soft kisses all around his cheekbone, his nose, his jaw.

‘Where do you want to?’ You purred. ‘Huh? Where do you wanna cum?’

He let out a choky breath resting his forehead on yours. You frowned as he slowed his rhythm, letting out an awkward laugh.

‘I don’t know—’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know if you’re on the pill, or…’

You shook your head then, putting a strand of hair behind his ear. ‘I can take something tomorrow.’

He shook his head then, smiling softly with his eyes closed.

‘Tempting,’ He breathed heavily. ‘But no.’

‘Steve…’

‘Where else?’ He said, frowning painfully as he squeezed your waist and his rhythm fastened once again. ‘Where else can I cum, baby, c’mon on. Please.’

You looked at him with perverse adoration then, wondering how many times you had imagined this scenario before, and how pleased you were by his sweet desperation.

‘Mouth?’ You asked tentatively.

‘Mouth?’ He repeated. His eyes opened in disbelief, panting heavily as you looked at him expectantly. ‘Your mouth?’

You laughed softly. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah?’ He asked again.

‘Yeah.’ You moaned sensually as you searched for his mouth, leaving a sloppy kiss on his lips. ‘Want it inside me. Wanna taste you. Swallow you.’

He sighed heavily before nodding, and you could’ve sworn he had rolled his eyes at your irresistible descriptions.

‘Okay.’ He kissed your temple then; you could see that he wasn’t making much sense anymore and that meant he was probably really close. ‘Lay back for me.’

You did as he said, letting him roll you carefully in the little space until he was hovering on top of you. It was exciting in a completely different way: your eyes could linger on the way his muscles flexed as he supported himself in one arm, on the back of his fingers brushing against your cheek as he adjusted himself inside you again.

Because you weren’t searching for an orgasm now, it was much easier to get lost in the details that would’ve escaped from you if you had been drunk by frantic desire. You discovered he had a nice pretty mole on his chest, hidden by all the hair next to his nipple. The image of his dick getting lost inside you would haunt your nights for years as he squeezed your hip. He had this thing too, where he always licked the skin of your neck before nibbling on it, almost preparing it for its teeth. It was sweet, you thought to yourself as you smiled. He had been as gentle as you had always imagined.

‘M so close.’ He said under his breath, placing his head on your breastbone as he prepared his manoeuvre to cause you the minimal distress.

‘Okay.’ You said softly, kissing his scalp as you tried to encourage him. ‘That’s fine. ‘M ready.’

He let out a humming noise, a repressed whine that turned into a moan as he got closer and closer and you kept stroking his hair, as you kissed the protuberant vein on his temple.

‘Open your mouth.’ He instructed when he pulled out and you did as he said. ‘Open your pretty mouth, goddamn it.’

And you did, yes you did. It was a bit messy, but only a few drops fell on your chest before his dick found a warm place to cum inside your mouth. He didn’t try to push it in, or to do anything else, and you trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t. Steve simply stayed there, mesmerized as you sucked the sensitive tip with the right pressure, as he saw the movement of your throat swallow his hot, bittersweet release. You made out with it, with him until there was nothing else. Until he was clean and soft again.

His eyes lingered on your puffy, glossy lips when he pulled it out of you; his hand stroked your mouth and cheek as you both breathed heavily, and he thought about what had just happened. What you had trusted him enough to do.

Your expectant eyes looked back at him from below, waiting for something, anything to happen as you leaned in against his palm.

‘Bed?’ You finally asked.

He nodded, exhausted, feeling that there was so much he wanted to say but he didn’t know where to start.

You weren’t going to ask any questions or let out any more embarrassing confessions. In silence, you moved in the darkness of the room as you headed for the stairs fully naked, leaving the room intact with the smell of sex and the shame of sadness.

A little scratching noise woke you up a few hours later. When you opened your eyes, it took you a while to remember where you were, as all you could see was the curious face of a seagull poking the window of top of you. Behind the silly animal there was a white sky, a few remains of snow melted on the corners of the glass, and all you could do was take a deep breath as you gathered the strength to move.

Next to you, Steve slept peacefully. Your eyes lingered on all the moles that adorned his back, and the messy locks of hair that rested against the pillow. You remembered he had fallen asleep with his head on your shoulder, and how you stayed at least an hour looking up at the early morning sky through the window before you were able to fall asleep.

You still didn’t know what to do. The events from last night replayed in the back of your head and all you wanted was to pretend that none of it had happened, but inside the yacht it was impossible, considering that everywhere you looked took you back to the texture of his mouth, or the heat of his skin against yours.

Eventually, you slowly climbed down the bed before tiptoeing towards the toilet, where you found a bathrobe to cover your body with before walking down the steps to the second floor. You tried to repress a smile when your eyes wandered around the crime scene: his clothes still on the couch, your underwear on the rug, and the red fabric of the dress scattered on the floor like shameful evidence.

Trying to put aside your embarrassment, you picked all your stuff and got rid of the bathrobe, dressing up as your eyes got lost in the desolated deck outside. The underwear was still damp from the jacuzzi, but it’d have to do. The dress hadn’t suffered any damage; you flattened the skirt, thinking about your shoes and trench coat that were somewhere downstairs.

You took a deep breath, sitting down on the couch where you had let him do whatever he wanted with you last night, eyes lingering on the half-empty wine glasses, on the expensive bottle still resting on the glass table as you pondered. You needed some time to think.

You could think back home. You could book the tickets, leave tonight, and have a few days away from this jungle of a city to think things through, to make a decision. But it was obvious that all the possibilities of staying in this job had disappeared after what you had done last night.

After a while, you resorted to go down to the first floor to get your phone. Maybe call your mother and for once not worry at all about emails or calendars, but it seemed that the more stairs you climbed down in this place the more lucid and terrified you felt about the events of the last few hours.

It was as if you were an intruder in Steve’s paradise of luxury, there was no fucking way there would be space for you in this world of his beyond the job of an assistant. In the back of your mind you had flirted with the possibility, of course, many times. Of maybe becoming something else, as you both had confessed last night, but there was no way this thing between you would survive.

The coat was still resting on the chair next to the bar, and you put it on quickly before your hands dived deep into the pockets to find your phones. And you did find them, but the feeling of something else made you frown as your fingers encountered the velvet square box inside.

Your heart beat hard against your chest as you squeezed the little box in your palm, thinking that if you’d squeeze it hard enough maybe it would become less real. Maybe it would disappear, but no. It was small, and hard to the touch, and very real.

Just then, your phone started buzzing and only when you sniffed softly you realised that you had tears in your eyes. You hoped to God that it was your mother, but instead your personal phone just showed a random number, and it took you a few seconds to make the decision to pick up the call.

‘Hello?’

‘Is this Miss—?’

‘Yeah.’ You said weakly. ‘This is she.’

‘Oh. I’m Jonathan Byers?’ The name filled you with anxiety in a completely different way, looking around the room as you cleaned your face. ‘Sorry, is this a bad time?’

‘No.’ you said immediately. ‘No, Mr Byers, it’s fine. How are you?’

‘I’m okay.’ He said carefully. Your breath still felt trapped inside your throat as he kept talking. ‘I was hoping we could schedule an in-person interview soon? I just wanted to speak to you first before I make you an official offer.’

‘Of course.’ You said, trying to process his words. ‘I just, uh, got caught in some extra work. Is it possible to postpone it after New Year’s?’

A tense silence set on the line as you held your breath before he released an awkward laugh.

‘I thought you needed to leave your current job? That’s what Robin said.’

‘A-And she was right.’ You said, feeling your scalp warm and sweaty. ‘I do.’

Your fingers wrapped around the velvety box inside your pocket once again, holding onto it as if it was an amulet. The words stayed on your throat as you repeated them in your head: I do. I do. I do.

‘What about this afternoon?’ You suddenly said. Looking for a clock anywhere around you. ‘I need to book a flight back home, but I’m staying at the Plaza and if it’s not too far from you, we could meet there.’

‘Right.’ He said then, thinking about it for a second before he took a deep breath of relief.  ‘I have a new production starting on the 15th and…’

You nodded as he spoke, looking behind your shoulder when you thought that maybe you had heard something behind you, but there was nothing. Steve was still sleeping peacefully upstairs as Mr Byers kept talking on the phone and you took your work phone out of the coat to place it on the mahogany surface of the bar.

‘Sure.’ You said to whatever Jonathan was saying before you swallowed hard, finally getting the courage to pull out the tiny little box from its hiding place. A frown took over your face as your thumb stroked the perfect red surface of its lid, licking your lips as you tasted salty tears on your throat. ‘Of course.’

‘…Looking forward to meeting you.’ He finally said.

‘Thank you, Mr Byers.’ You said softly.

Your eyes were still holding the phone against your ear when he hung up. The temptation of opening it was taking all over your body, but you weren’t sure if you would be able to leave this place if you confirmed your suspects, if after all it ended up being true.

So, you did the brave thing, which was also the coward thing to do, and placed it on top of the phone where he had called you so many times before the last couple of years. All through different time zones, during the holidays, or from the office. Whenever he needed you, as an assistant, a friend, or just someone to talk to.

You stood there, looking at the sad little image, knowing that you had to leave soon if you wanted to be on time to get your things ready, check out from the hotel and meet Mr Byers. But you were trying to find a better way to do this. There had to be a much better way to leave without breaking his heart in such a cruel way. You just didn’t know how.

Carefully, you let out a defeated sigh, tying the strips of your coat around you before you searched for a pen, something you could write him an extensive and sincere apologetic letter. But there was not much that you could say or write, was there?

Sighing, you grabbed a napkin from the bar, feeling that time was melting the more you delayed your leaving, the more you searched for words. It was only then that you wondered, really wondered, if there was anything you could offer the man you were in love with.

Give me some time, was all you could write on that miserable piece of paper

The flight back home was short, or at least it felt that way because you couldn’t remember much of it. The whole time you had been looking at your personal phone, now your only phone, wondering if you’d have a missed call from Mr Harrington once you landed.

There was still an unheard voicemail from him that you didn’t know if you had the courage to listen to. You had to start drafting an official resignation letter now that you had a new job, and in the next few days you had to start organizing Mr Byer’s schedule for January while leaving everything in order for Steve’s new assistant.

While your mother drove home, you wondered if there could be anyone who paid attention to the little things as much as you did. Would this new person know in which order to organise his meetings so he could be more efficient? Would they remember to get him some earplugs for his long flights? You bit your smile as you remembered how sometimes you used to tell him that his Friday afternoon meeting had been cancelled when really it was scheduled on Monday, just so he could have an hour or two for himself when things were too heavy. But you knew very well now that most of those things had nothing to do with the role and everything to do with the way you cared about him.

‘Are you listening, honey?’ Your mother said that night when you jumped on the table, thinking that maybe you had heard the buzz on your phone when really it had been your stepdad’s. ‘I said Mrs Vandermann’s now too old to manage the Christmas dinner for the homeless shelter so I thought I might volunteer next year.’

‘Right.’ You nodded. ‘Yeah, sorry, mom. I’m still a bit tired. That’s nice.’

‘Oh, ‘s that awful boss of yours.’ She said standing up from the table, she squeezed your shoulder before getting lost in the kitchen as she kept talking. ‘I’m so happy you won’t be working for him anymore. Ask Allan, he’s everything I’ve been complaining about for the last few days.’

Your stepdad didn’t really say much as he quickly scrolled down the news in his phone. You fought the need to roll your eyes at some of the headlines on those sensationalist websites he used to read, but you weren’t going to start a discussion after skipping Christmas, not now that your mother seemed so happy.

‘There you go, you two.’ She said placing two plates with fruitcake in front of you, before clapping enthusiastically. ‘Oh, I’m so happy we finally get to be together as a family.’

Oh, a family. The thought didn’t leave your head as you finished your dessert, and your absent eyes got lost in the worn face of your father in the pictures. You wondered if you’d tell him about Steve if he was still here, sitting on the place where your stepfather was playing Candy Crush while he complained about the news with your mother. Or maybe they would’ve eventually ended up getting divorced, like most of your friends’ parents who had fallen in love in High School and stayed in town.

That night you lay on your childhood bed, among young adult novels you probably needed to give to charity and boyband posters that the sun had bleached until you couldn’t recognise the face of your favourite member anymore. You had seen him once or twice in events where Steve had been invited to, quietly observing him in the distance, wondering what had your teenage self seen in that man. Then Steve had playfully squeezed your shoulder, mockingly asking you if you wanted to be introduced.

You remembered those things fondly as you played with a worn teddy bear your grandparents had brought to the hospital the day you were born. The thing was missing an eye, and some stitches had given up with time, but you still placed your cheek against its fluffy head in the darkness of your room, hearing the snores of your stepdad in the distance.

Give me some time. That had been your request, and in exchange you had received not only time, but also space and silence. Checking your phone for the thousandth time, your eyes lingered once again on the voicemail notification from two days ago.

You took a deep, terrifying breath before taking the phone to your ear. The dial beeped a couple of times before the robotic voice of the operator told you what you already knew: that you had a missed voicemail from Mr Steve Harrington.

‘Hey.’ He had said, only the sound of his voice had you shutting your eyes hard as you moved to your side on the bed. ‘I, uh. I hope you have a happy holiday. I also hope you rest. Like, really rest. Seriously. Or you won’t get your bonus this month.’

The sound of his laugh almost made you tear up. You both had really ruined something precious, huh? Something innocent and harmless that had your broken heart beating fast now.

‘I just wanted to thank you for your support. These last few months, you, uh, you’ve been incredible. And you’re much more confident, and talented and smarter than the girl I met two years ago in my office. I always knew you’d be great at this job… Maybe too great. I—, well. I was calling for two things, actually. First, I wanted to say I forgot to give you your Christmas present at the airport.’ He made a long pause, sighing softly. ‘Actually, I didn’t exactly forget. I… I want to talk to you in person. I don’t want you to think anything weird about this, and I understand if you think I overstepped, but I just recommended you for a job. With someone else.’ He had stayed silent for a while again, maybe searching for the right words. ‘Someone better. It’s a long story. I just don’t know if I want to… be this person anymore. This… busy businessman, disappointing firstborn. Hated brother. I, uh… It doesn’t matter. It’s got nothing to do with you. I know you won’t agree. Because you see the good in me.’  You sobbed in the pause he took, thinking of all the things that had happened in the last couple of days. ‘Because you’re good. You’re the best, actually. And I hope you have the Merriest Christmas.’

A night of insomnia followed a couple of days of walking around absently, forgetting silly things like where the glasses were or where the shortcut you used to walk through whenever you went to the supermarket was.

‘Here.’ Even your stepdad was a bit worried, surprising you with a humming cup of tea a night while your eyes stayed on the TV without really watching anything. ‘You look a bit sick.’

‘Thank you.’

You did feel sick, worse than that, you felt ashamed. You were going through your resignation letter again, checking for spelling errors or unclear sentences, but it was all very simple: you thanked him for the opportunity and set your last day of work as the 31st of December.

All those ideas you had of leaving things ready for the next person had vanished after you listened to that voicemail. Steve had legal decisions to make, he had to decide which one of his siblings to transfer the business to, if he wasn’t thinking about selling or leasing. He had to call in emergency meetings with partners and employees, he had to inform the press eventually. This was new territory that you could’ve navigated with him if only you hadn’t fucked things up. If you hadn’t left that phone and the little box on top of it. If you were still deserving of it.  

Taking a sobby breath, you pressed sent before closing your laptop. You still needed to start catching up with Mr Byer’s calendar and book plane tickets to go back to the city. But there was too much in your head and still nothing at all. It was 29th of December. Tomorrow it’d be a hard, long day, one of those that reminded you that you had never been good at forgetting.

Steve parked in front of the little cottage, trying to imagine a childhood version of yourself in this very porch, walking around in a Halloween costume or waiting for your mom on the first day of school. He tried to imagine you filling the car with boxes when you were leaving for college, and he tried to imagine you on a day like this, years ago, when your father passed away.

He knew that what he was doing was invasive and probably crossing the lines of rudeness, but after receiving that impersonal and abrupt email he needed to come see you. You didn’t get to reject him just like that after two years of hiding his feelings for you, of dodging the accusations of his girlfriends, of fighting the need of touching you in events where it had seemed imprudent and even indiscreet. Two years of night calls that started as business updates and ended in whispered small talk, while you were in New York and he was working in San Francisco, or you were in Boston while he called from London.

You just didn’t get to end things like this.

His eyes lingered on the Christmas wreath hanging from the door before he dared to ring the bell. It was cold, despite the fact he had gloves he still hid his hands inside his coat, wondering what he’d do as soon as he saw your face. If he’d be brave enough to tell you everything or if he’d just melt and cup your face in his hands.

But it wasn’t you who opened the door, exactly. Someone like you, but older. Steve would’ve hoped that your mother might have been as welcoming and sweet as you, but her eyes hid an unexpected indignation that he could’ve never predicted.

‘Hi, Mrs—’ He said your last name, not sure if your mother still went by it. ‘I’m St—’

‘I know who you are.’ She said, still looking quite irritated. They both stood in silence for a few seconds as she studied his face, until her eyes fell on the navy scarf he was wearing. Steve couldn’t miss the way her semblance shifted just subtly, as if she had realised something. ‘How can I help you, Mr Harrington?’

‘Please, call me Steve.’ He said softly, almost as an apology. ‘I know today is a mourning day for your family, but I was hoping I could speak to your daughter.’

She took a deep breath, considering his words for a few seconds, before she closed the door behind her.

‘Listen, Steve.’ She took a slow pause. ‘You’ve already ruined my family’s Christmas by keeping my daughter working absurd hours.’ She said crossing her arms over her chest. ‘She’s been miserable the last few days, missing her father I suppose, as she always does during this time of the year. I need you to respect that.’

Steve frowned, trying to process your mother’s words as he stood on his place, staring at her like an idiot.

‘Mrs —’ Steve repeated her name, but he didn’t really know what to say.

‘Coming here, on the day of her father’s death, trying to get her to work for you again…’ She shook her head, feeling bad for the lonely man that stood on this threshold asking for you. ‘Even for a powerful, educated man like you, there are limits, honey. You should be home with your family.’

Steve stayed in silence for a few seconds, trying to understand where this all was coming from. His mouth was open, but the words seemed inaccessible to him as he tried to solve this puzzle in his head.

‘Is this what she told you?’ He murmured. And your mother must’ve seen the outmost hurt that his brown eyes exposed so sincerely, because suddenly she felt flushed and a bit foolish at what she had just said.

‘W-Well…’ She said unsure, her eyes falling on the scarf once again before looking back at his face. She then released a long sigh, fighting the need of rolling her eyes as she surrendered. ‘Come on in, I’ll make some coffee.’

Steve’s eyes looked for you, and you were everywhere, in pictures that hung from the wall or were placed above the chimney. His eyes lingered on framed drawings from the first grade, on a poetry contest certificate with your name that must’ve been ten years old placed on a bookshelf.

‘She’s on the basement playing chess with Allan.’ Your mother said, bringing a tray with two cups of coffee into the living room. ‘Those two never agree on anything but they’re insanely competitive.’

Steve smiled to himself at your mother’s words.

‘I’ll let her know you’re here.’ She said after a while.

‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’ He said then. ‘Thanks for letting me in.’

Your mother stood on her place on the other side of the living room table, hesitating, until she got the courage to speak.

‘He used to wear those all the time.’ She seemed a bit moved, by the way her eyes shone momentarily as she looked at Steve’s scarf. ‘My husband. I guess that’s why I let you in. That child, she’s always been good at keeping things from me, but I would’ve never thought...’ She sighed as she shook her head.

Steve stayed still as she looked away thoughtfully. He kept silent, trying to remember where he had gotten the warm piece of fabric that he wore every winter, but he was unable to. It had always been there, on the hotel bed next to his pressed suit, inside his suitcase, hanging from the coat rack in his office.

The sound of steps made them both lift their gaze.

‘Fucking cheater.’ You said under your breath once you made it to the top floor. You were about to walk towards the kitchen when your eyes fell on the scene happening in the living room from its entrance.

Only then, Steve realised he had never seen you wear jeans before. It certainly made you look much younger, the thin layer of skin that peaked between the hem and your cardigan, the way your wrists got lost in those wool sleeves. It was so endearing and warm, and God, he was supposed to be mad at you, but he had missed you too much for that.

‘We’ll talk later.’ Your mother whispered on a passive aggressive tone as she walked past you, getting lost on the hallway behind you.

The heat rushed to your cheeks, you didn’t know if it was because of her disappointment or by the way you hadn’t been able to take your eyes off him sitting inside your mother’s living room. He looked so out of place, inside your childhood home where there was barely space for the Christmas tree.

‘Hey.’ He finally said. There was coffee on the table. She had let him in, and she had made coffee for him. There were some pictures somewhere here, of you taking a bath when you were five years old. You needed to get rid of them as soon as possible, before he saw them.

‘Hi.’ You said then, stepping inside the living room with your hands in your back pockets.

Outside, something moved. You both looked out through the window into the snowy landscape, before a little white bunny hopped away back into the forest.

‘I’ve got your email.’ He said then. Steve stood up as your eyes fell back on him. Forgetting the coffee, and everything else he had prepared to say.

You nodded.

‘I’m sorry that I can’t keep working for you.’ You said after a while.

‘It was either you quitted, or I fired you.’ He sadly admitted. ‘Jonathan said he was impressed by your interview… I told him you don’t disappoint.’

‘Hm.’ You smiled softly, playing with the sleeves of your cardigan. ‘Thanks for the recommendation. He never mentioned it, but I know— I know now.’

He swallowed hard, looking away towards the window, before his eyes got lost in the untouched cups of coffee.

‘I wanted you to be safe.’

You nodded once again; your hands fell on the armchair that stood in between you when you took a step forwards.

‘Thank you, Steve.’ You said sincerely. ‘For everything you’ve done for me.’

He shook his head softly, a soft sad smile taking over his mouth as he studied your face.

‘I should be the one thanking you.’

The awkward silence in between you was filled by the distant noise of your stepdad watching the TV, and your mother’s steps in the kitchen.

‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ You asked then, unsure of what to say. All your life, you had never brought a boy home and suddenly he was here, and you didn’t know what to do. ‘This is a small town, but most people keep to themselves.’

‘A walk sounds nice.’ He cleared his throat.

He guessed you were right; it was a small town but also a desolated one. You walked together around the house towards the forest, hearing the noise of the wind and the sound of your steps over the snow.

‘It’s very quiet in here.’ He said after a while. ‘I like it.’

‘Yeah.’ You said softly as you walked towards a distant bench on the other side of the park. ‘I couldn’t stand it as a child. I needed to leave.’

He stayed silent for a while; you could feel his eyes on you as you kept walking towards the bench, the silence progressively turned worst the longer it lingered between you.

‘Is that why you lied to your mom?’

You looked back at him with an offended frown. ‘What are you exactly accusing me of? Not wanting to come back to my depressing hometown during the holidays?’

He stopped in his tracks there, feeling that his patience was running out as he looked at you. You, who had left. You, who had broken his heart.

‘I’m trying tounderstandwhy you would tell your family that I forced you to work on Christmas.’

‘But you do understand, Steve.’ You said looking back at him, feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks. ‘For the same reason you didn’t spend Christmas with yours, because I can’t stand being here. You never really planned on getting on that jet, did you?’

He looked back at you with a blank face, swallowing hard before you resumed your walk and he tried to catch up with you.

‘How do you know that.’

‘Uh, well—’ You turned back, feeling the tears rushing to your eyes. ‘Maybe the fact that you were planning on giving me a ring?’

His eyes turned soft at the mention of his present, his eyebrows arching as he pictured the circlet inside the little box. One he had chosen carefully with months in advance, one day of September in which you had called in sick. That never happened, it was a sign. The little box had been inside his pocket when he was at the airport, he had played with it back in the café, while you sipped your coffee absently. It had felt like a weight inside his pocket the whole time until he sneaked it inside your coat.

‘Listen, it’s not like that.’ He said softly, taking a step towards you. ‘It’s not that type of ring.’

‘Not that type of ring.’ You sobbed, feeling the cold wind burning your cheeks as you looked back at him, pathetically admitting your defeat. ‘What does it mean, Steve!’

‘Sweetheart,’ He took a step towards you, his gloved hands finally cupped your face as you looked back at him with the outmost desperation. ‘It means whatever we want it to mean, I— I was going to explain it all to you later that same day.’ He blinked softly, swallowing hard. Yet his voice was still hoarse and full of despair when he spoke again. ‘I just didn’t think you would leave me like that.’

You released a sobby breath, looking away into the forest because his hurt stare was too much to handle.

‘I’ve been preparing my resignation since the summer,’ He explained as his thumbs stroked your cheeks, catching your tears as your hands finally held onto his wrists. ‘My plan was always to tell you, but… You know, I needed to speak to my family first. And the more I delayed telling them the more I delayed telling you, that I wanted a life with you.’

You released an exhausted breath as you let him guide your wet face into his chest. You hid your face there, before your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist. Lazily, you moved when you felt he was searching for your skin with his mouth, tiny little pecks warming the skin of your jaw and ear.

‘I love you.’ He whispered.

‘I love you too.’ You said stroking the back of his neck. You could’ve spent hours like this, with no witnesses around, only the snow and the wind surrounding you.

‘What are you doing?’ He laughed against your skin as your hand blindly searched for something on the side of his coat.

‘Nothing.’ You admitted leaning back softly when he started helping you.

He smiled to himself, taking the little box out of his pocket. You stood there looking at the way his eyes went from happy to serious to terrified.

‘You don’t have to take it now.’ He said softly, stroking your cheek as his eyes looked everywhere in you face except your eyes. ‘I can save it for you. It’s yours anyways.’

You shook your head softly then, sniffing a little as you placed your hands on top of his scarf, fixing it even if it wasn’t needed.

‘If it’s mine, I want it.’ You whispered. ‘Can I have it?’

Steve’s soft stare lighted up at your words, and he finally opened the little box in between your bodies. You bit your trembling lip at the sight of the delicate gold circlet, with the simplest, tiniest diamond on top of it. It was whatever you wanted it to be, but you both knew exactly what it meant.

You offered him your shaky hand, looking back at him, your eyes full of terror and adoration as he took it out of the little cushion.

‘Am I allowed to—’

‘If you kneel, I swear I’ll kill you.’ You laughed in between tears.

He laughed again, licking his lips as he slid the ring down your finger. Then his lips clashed against yours, he tasted sweet, he tasted certain while his squeezing embrace hurt your ribs. You tasted his tears and his joy as he leaned back to look at you, all teary and happy.

You both sighed when his forehead rested on yours, finally able to feel the sweet relief sitting on your shoulders, taking over your chest. Your hands climbed to pull him from his scarf as he looked down at you, shaking his head.

‘You’re insane.’ You whispered.

‘I know.’

‘We should keep this to ourselves.’ You whispered again, though no one could hear you here though, not even the forest was awake enough. And the city was far, so very far.

‘I know.’ His finger stroked your cheek as a foolish, childish smile started forming in his mouth. ‘Good thing we’re good at keeping secrets, huh?’

🏷️: @keerysfolklore @starrgurl46

You had never seen Dean grovel before.

It started with some gentle offers, and then his pride caved, and he really started to dig in. If you played bait for the witch the three of you were currently hunting, Dean would, (in order), clean your weapons himself for a month, buy you dinner from your favorite place, and let you do at least one donut with Baby in the nearest empty lot. You planned to say yes either way, seeing as people were dying here—and it’s not like the three of you had any other options. But the longer you held out the more Dean added. You stewed on it, until even Sam offered up the passenger’s seat for two weeks. Once you’d amassed a good collection of favors the night before your hunt—

“Fine. I’ll do it,” you crossed your arms.

“God,” Dean cursed, and slumped forward against the table of your motel room in mock-exhaustion. “Only took you two fuckin’ days.”

Sam, who was leaning against the counter of your kitchenette, cooly twisted off the cap of his bottle and smirked around it. “You’re just mad cause’ she played you. Donuts in the Impala? Really?”

“I think that’s fair,” you spoke up, “What’s our witch’s name again?”

“Hermes,” Sam and Dean said, rolling their eyes in unison.

“Well—I’m the one who’s gonna have to be touched by this creep. That’s worth wheelies in the Impala, if you ask me,” you argued. On the motel bed in front of you, you were sorting through the suitcase that carried your entire life in it. There was supposed to be a nice night-out dress in here somewhere, but it’d probably been ruined by monster blood a millennia ago.

“Don’t even joke,” Dean warned, but he hesitated, like he’d been considering the Impala doing wheelies and mentally measuring how cool it’d be. 

“You know…” Sam trailed off, and in the corner of your eye you watched him straighten up. “If this really bothers you, you don’t have to do it. We’ve found other outlets before—this one just so happens to be the easiest one. A harder solution never scared us off before.”

“Exactly,” you snapped the lid of your suitcase shut. “So I can handle an easy one, like you said. I’m complaining for the fun of it, I promise. A witch killing and robbing people is nothing new, and neither are creeps—so I’m not exactly intimidated.”

Stepping away from the bed, you presented your dress to the two. It was almost a little too plain, but you got out so little lately that anything, even willfully being seduced by a witch in a sleazy bar, sounded fun. Little things like that reminded you that the hunt was an adventure as much as it was a job. A pretty shitty adventure, maybe, but after the apocalypse optimism had become a need as much as it was a balm. You were stuck in another lousy motel room in another city you’d never seen. Yet, sometime in the next week you’d be terrifying Dean out of his skin doing donuts in his car, and Sam had been happy lately. You hoped it was your influence.

His concern for you, as usual, boosted your optimism well into next week. You were more of a realist by nature. But if your positive outlook was waking him up and following him to bed every night, yet again, you and Sam Winchester had established another unspoken cycle. You watched his back and he watched yours. Sam talked to you about how he felt and you talked to him, both out of fear of burdening Dean. He gushed about the books he liked and the science articles he read, you fell in love with him every time, and together you relied so heavily on the other that you doubted Sam could breathe if your lungs weren’t working. You saved him and he saved you until you owed each other eternally. It’d been that way since the first time your parents had dropped you off at Bobby Singer’s, when you’d befriended the only other hunter-kids you’d ever met.

A few years back, the horseman Death had called your relationship uniquely symbiotic. To this day, you still wondered what he’d really meant. Feeling Sam’s warm eyes catch yours over his drink almost gave you your answer. But like always, your train of thought chased the soft line of his bicep against his shirt sleeve or the dimple of his cheek instead. This time, Sam was comparing the neckline of the dress to your shirt, imagining you in it. Flushed, you folded it against your stomach and set it on top of your suitcase. You played with a hair tie on your wrist and reminded yourself that Sam wasn’t looking at you that way.

Dean whistled at the dress. “Man. Maybe we don’t even need the witch-killing spell,” he gave you an appreciative smile, “this guy’ll explode the minute he sees you.”

“That better be a compliment,” you glared at him, and for good measure, Sam swatted him on the back of the head. 

“You’ll look just fine,” Sam assured, sounding unenthused.

It was your God-given job to keep him on his toes, so you flicked the bottom of his beer as you passed him and warned with a smile, “That better be a compliment too, Winchester, or you’re both in trouble.”

“Mom, Dad,” Dean whined, “please don’t flirt in front of me.”

In an instant, Sam slipped his bottlecap off the counter and you rolled your hairtie off your wrist. Dean had just collapsed face-first into his bed when both projectiles whizzed off him, ricocheting onto the carpet. You hadn’t realized Sam had moved at the same time until his bottlecap had popped off Dean’s head, startling you into bubbly, shoulder-shaking laughter. Sam didn’t laugh—he rarely did, not since he was a kid—but he smiled, and for now that worked for you.

“Tomorrow, you’ll get some kind of DNA off of our witch at the bar, we’ll do our spell, and we’ll follow you in the car to make sure you’re safe,” Sam decided, softening his voice. He said this mostly to himself, and you indulged him even if you knew your game plan, just because you knew it was a comfort to him to list it out for himself. Years of staying home while Dean and John were off hunting had narrowed his life into lists—of school assignments, of tasks to handle while they were gone—and he’d never grown out of it. You imagined it was why he was so meticulous. “Then, we’re clear.”

“People saved, things hunted,” you drawled, listing each on one hand, “family business—”

“—done,” Dean finished, giving a thumbs up where he was faceplanted in his bed. With that, he rolled over, turned off the bedside lamp, and flushed your room into cool darkness. “Night’.”

You and Sam chorused your goodnights to him. Then, Sam turned toward the window over the kitchenette, adjusted the salt there with the back of his hand, and closed the curtains to cut off the last slivers of moonlight.

As a hunter, it was in the job description that you had some precautions about the dark. With Sam there, across from you, you forgot all notions about being afraid. You enjoyed looking at him even more than the next girl did, but with darkness came a new depth of intimacy. Without sight, you could only collect context from the low timbre of his voice or his presence next to you. It was about feeling instead of seeing. And Sam, with the sweet way he said things and the gentle way he navigated the dark, was nothing but feeling.

The moment was brief, but Sam found your shoulder and followed it up to your temple, which he kissed. Like the lists, it was a ritual he’d never grown out of. And you never wanted him to. You could feel the warmth of his breath, of his hand, flushing through your whole body like the sweet-tasting humidity before a healthy storm. 

“Goodnight, ____,” Sam murmured near your face. He was like you, so if the dark made you more honest then it made him more honest; Sam sounded like he loved you.

You leaned into the brief contact, squeezed his wrist, and resisted the surge of hope pressing up your throat. “Goodnight, Sam.”

_

It should’ve been sad, how happy you were to be out despite the circumstances, but you knew even the best covers had a sliver of truth to them—and tonight, you wanted to flirt, to feel pretty flirting, and to kill some damn witches. Being covered in monster grime didn’t make anybody feel beautiful, and suiting up in a skirt and wedges to masquerade as a fed didn’t count. The hunt rarely gave you an excuse for self-confidence. If this was one of those times, you weren’t about to let it pass by.

And truth be told, you’d been under fire for so long that one witch didn’t feel like much of a threat. You weren’t so stupid that you neglected to realize what Hermes was capable of. But after your five-hundredth witch in over fifteen years of hunting, the fear of danger was nothing more than a wisp of tension floating at your shoulder. If it bleeds, you can kill it, Dean always said. And witches definitely bled.

Knowing that Sam and Dean were watching your six, that wisp of anxiety disintegrated entirely. It was so natural to have them there, Sam on your right and Dean on your left, that you usually dreamt with each brother somewhere in your peripherals. Hazy flying dreams and late-to-school nightmares included. Well, the school nightmares were less strange—once upon a time, you’d really gone to school with Sam and Dean.

Your parents were hunters. That made you like any other sullen, directionless hunter kid in the business, desperate to follow in their parent’s footsteps but terrified of becoming anything like them. Most pure-bred hunters like you didn’t have the fortune of an Uncle Bobby, though. Looking back, you wished you’d had more time with your parents—but you were grateful for the days they dumped you on him. Around when you’d entered middle school, Bobby’s house had become something of a hunter daycare. He wasn’t big on the idea. Obviously. But Bobby melted like all grouchy old men inevitably did, and soon your days spent racing to get him books and spell ingredients overlapped with his days babysitting Sam and Dean.

Dean was two years your senior, and had usually been the bane of your existence. But you’d both existed in the strange place between a hunter and a liability for your parents, so together, you were eager to please, learn, and emulate. Dean had done this because he’d wanted to graduate to a full-on hunter, but you were content with bringing phones to Bobby and helping without being in the way. Sam was much of the same. He was… He was quiet and sweet and he’d cut out the gum Dean had put in your hair without wrecking it. He wrote school essays that were cool instead of boring, and made everything seem interesting and beautiful. Dean had embodied hunting to you, then, and Sam was the breathable living space between.

You loved Dean, and you’d learned a lot from him. But you lived and breathed Sam—and the new, exciting proposition of a home somewhere else—because of the ideas he represented. Being a hunter so young had gutted your faith, and Sam, somehow, had rerouted it all. He’d shown you that there were seams between hunts that you could use to find your footing. Bobby had taught you how to be smart, Dean had taught you how to be practical, and Sam had promised you that all of this wasn’t for nothing. You figured that was why all of the hunters you met were weapons more than people; Sam Winchester hadn’t cupped their face on Bobby Singer’s porch and kissed them like they were still human.

That’d been more than a decade ago, and you could still feel how the rain had made your hair cling to your face, how the shoulders of Sam’s sweater were damp from the weather. The kiss had been brief and childish and a little unmoored. And yet it’d carried you through everything, even the literal end of the world, Sam going in the cage… all of it. He’d been your living space.

That had been built on the rare weekends you happened to be at Bobby’s at the same time, so having a few months of school together bonded you for life. They purposefully forgot to mention that John was settling them in your town and your school, hoping to surprise you. In hindsight, it was a sweet gesture, but there was a bold line between your hunting life and your school life for a reason. High school was awful for you. Your parents’ deaths had left you as exposed as a bloody nerve. With no one else around, your foster family unaware of… the real world, and a valley between you and the life you used to know, hunting was all you’d had. You’d spiraled into it deeper than you ever had before. One misstep in the hallway had spilled all of your research books and spell ingredients out of your backpack, immediately casting you as your school’s new resident freak.

Neither of the boys knew about… the bullying. It was such a pathetic word. You never told them, probably because school was as much of a sore a subject for them as it was for you. So they’d turned up, gleaming with excitement, only for whatever image they had of you as some tough, unflinchable hunter to shatter.

You’d been eating lunch comfortably alone, fork in one hand and research book under the other. All at once your table was crowded with your grade’s most self-absorbed clique, all of them probing you, asking you questions, and giggling amongst each other even at your innocent answers. They stole your book and read it out loud to each other. They prodded at your backpack, searching for more joke material. It happened so often that you knew better than to lash out, as you’d done before—or react at all, as you’d done before—and resigned yourself to another ruined day.

Then, Dean’s hands had cooly landed on your shoulders. Hey, ____, Sam had greeted warmly from your right, and you remembered how he hadn’t bothered to hide his scowl. Are these jokers bothering you? 

It was such a movie moment, a book moment, that the only thing you could call it was wish fulfillment. There’d been plenty of times when you’d wished they’d been there, or wished you could tell them about something that’d happened to you. But actually having it happen—Dean swooping in with that suave grin, Sam refusing to let you carry your own backpack…

You felt like you owed them. It was a small, easy kindness for them to pay, but after months of loneliness and alienation and absolute, incomprehensible loss, it’d been a surge of heat in an ocean of ice. Sudden and unexpected and life-giving.

Since then, you couldn’t remember a single time you hadn’t been in that same position. Standing there, with Sam and Dean on either side of you. As the Impala pulled up to the bar your witch often skulked, you looked reflexively to your left, and there was Dean in the driver’s seat. For once, you were upfront with him—Sam needed room in the back to perform the witch-killing spell.

“And you’re sure you can… hook him in?” Dean asked, gesturing blandly with one hand.

You bolstered yourself, so the smile you gave Dean was a bit more confident than you felt. “Well, his past victims have all looked like me. And, no offense, but I’ve been swindling guys like this since I was sixteen. I’m not too worried about that part.”

Sam sighed so deeply that you and Dean twisted to look at him. Realizing he’d done that out loud, he bumbled awkwardly over his own reaction and coughed. “Uh, yeah. But, uh, I’ll have to do the ingredients in order, so it might take a second after we get his DNA for the spell to go through. You’ll have to… to distract him, until then.” Sam flashed you a tight smile. “I’ll be fast, I promise. You won’t be stuck with that guy for long.”

“Good,” you said. The eye contact you were sharing suddenly felt purposeful. You eased yourself away from his gaze, though it was more of a lurch than a very casual, not-at-all tension-filled turn.

There was a brief lapse in the conversation that made your skin prickle from your spine to your neck. You could feel Dean’s smug amusement from behind his binoculars, simmering, which didn’t help. The focussed silence that usually settled over the three of you on stake-outs never came, so you rushed to fill it.

“...So,” you opened, “if our witch uses a glamor to make himself appear more enticing to each of his victims, then how can I be sure it’s him?”

“He’s gonna be the best-looking guy in the place,” Sam explained. He’d reined in whatever had bothered him earlier, apparently, because his tone became halted and professional.

Dean sprung up, whistling. “That’s how—there ya go, he’s right there.”

You leaned around Dean, trying to get some idea of what you were hunting, but his big ass binoculars were in the way. The witch was only just across the street, yet Dean adjusted the focus on the lenses, apparently aiming for a microscopic look. You lowered them from his face so you could see past them, and behind the eyepieces he was so flushed his freckles had disappeared.

“I mean…” Dean cleared his throat, but his blush only spread further. “Wow. Just. Wow, that’s a good-looking dude.”

You were already opening your mouth to tease him, but everything you’d planned to say, along with any idea of what your name was, where you were, and what you were doing, drained from your grip like a fistful of sand.

Wow. That was the only word you could remember. It occurred to you that Dean was seeing a totally different man because of the witch’s magic, and christ, were you thankful for it. You’d never hear the end of it if they saw what you were… enjoying. The witch pulled up the curb in a glittering white muscle car—which definitely added to whatever Dean was going through. But for you, it wasn’t the vintage Challenger or the shiny loafers, or… or the, um… the white blazer… or the crisp button-up under, uh, underneath… Or the witch’s face. Which was Sam’s face. No little changes to support your preferences in men. No beautification, supernatural glow or… anything else. Just Sam. Sam as he was right now, sitting in your backseat. Sam with his, uh… his face clean and happy… with… w-with his hair styled all nice, like he always styles it when you dress up…

He emerged from the car, facing away from you. He waved a hand at the parking meter and it fizzed out. The broad shape of his back rolled under his suit, panther muscle moving under pelt, and he turned toward the bar with the same grace. His movements were vaguely not-Sam, if you squinted. It was all too sly, and he walked like he wasn’t as tall as he was. But something in the glamor kept you from pressing that idea in your head. Your mind wanted to indulge the parts of him that did look like Sam much more, so any bumps in his mirage smoothed themselves over, perfecting the look. It was clever. Clever… and… and, um… wow…

You had a thought. “The, um…” you tried, “we…”

“Y/N,” the real Sam chided.

The binoculars you’d pulled away from Dean fumbled out of your hand at the closeness of his voice, and you scrambled to catch it, and so did Dean, but neither of you took your eyes away from the street. You ended up weirdly clutching it together, like the two of you were going to wrestle for the right to see the witch through the binoculars. If you were any more focused, you might have.

“Guys,” Sam said, unimpressed. “It’s just a glamor. Pull it together, please?”

“...Sam,” you tested the name in your mouth, “um, witch glamors, how do they work?”

“They’re projections of power. They make each person who looks at them see their ideal partner. Didn’t I tell you this already?”

“I-I know. Just.” You swallowed. “Do they, like, pull from people the person’s already met, or do they, uh… make it up? To suit the person.”

“Both. But it’s easier magic to just use people the victim already loves.” He stressed victim as pointedly as he could, reminding you of the role you’d be playing.

Dean pried his eyes away from the street. They slid over to you, and you immediately did not like the suspicious gleam waiting for you there. “Why? You see somebody you know?” He bounced his eyebrows.

“What? You? Oh, please,” you laughed. You blurted out the first person you could come up with. “He’s ...Leo. In Titanic. Who do you see?”

“Another time,” Dean dodged. You usually would never let him get away with a blatant conversation shift like that, but he was grinning to himself like he could see you bullshitting too. It made you nervous. “Go on and get in there so we can gank this chump.”

“Good luck,” Sam wished you from the backseat, sounding blunter than usual. “And remember—underneath all that, he’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton murdering innocent women.”

“Got it. Reality check received,” you said. Taking the door’s handle, you shot the boys one last look to confirm they’d have your back, and ducked out of the Impala.

_

The bar was of a higher-end than you were used to, so it took some mental adjustment to prepare for your role. Usually, the barflies you tricked preferred rougher, meaner girls, and you got the feeling that wasn’t what fake-Sam—Hermes, you reminded yourself—was into. If he was going after married unfaithfuls, he probably enjoyed mature, deceptive women who talked a lot about all the money they had. It was weird to think of someone with Sam’s face being into that. 

The few pieces of gold jewelry you owned rattled on your wrists as you approached the bar. It was eight, prime drinking time, so everyone who’d had a long day at work or a date filled every inch of the place. Anyone who could afford the obscene prices, at least. A few minutes after you entered, you glimpsed Dean dissolving into the crowd. Hermes immediately took an isolated booth in the corner, where it would be easiest for him to scope out women at the bar. You only caught a glimpse of him. He lounged back, ankle on his knee, the low whiskey-hued light stroking one side of his face. It was… very Sam. He could’ve been on the couch at home, sunk into the cushions and reading a book by lamplight. You tried to reign in the confusing elixir of anxiety and attraction brewing in your stomach.

So far, he’d already begun to sort his targets. His honed-in look was unmistakable on Sam’s face. You made sure to pass in front of the women he was eyeing, and silently applauded yourself when his gaze was hooked on your figure. He trailed your slow saunter over to the bar with those intense, paletted eyes, lingering on the wedding band you wore. Knowing it was Sam—thinking it was Sam both helped and made things a million times worse. Your thoughts wandered like they never did on hunts, heart pounding.

Focus, you hissed to yourself. You needed to get him to drink something, so Sam, your Sam, could use the DNA on the glass in his spell. After setting up your act with a few coy glances, you suppressed the sickness rolling in your gut and summoned the bartender. “Two drinks—one for me, and another for the gentleman in the booth there.”

You almost ordered him Sam’s favorite beer, then felt supremely weird about it when deciding on a pricey whiskey instead. Man, was this place just begging for you to blow some cash. And this hunt… was really begging you to look some unspoken feelings in the face. As you waited for the drink to be delivered, it settled on you what Sam had said before—that this witch was wearing the body of your ideal partner. You weren’t stupid, you knew that’s what this was, but the confirmation from magic of all things…

It’s easier to just use people the victim already loves, Sam had explained.

You knew you loved him. You’d known since you were kids. But that was only ever something you told to yourself—now, the universe was shouting it back to you. It’s not like this witch reached into your mind and knew to choose Sam to get under your skin the most. The glamor was an automatic sort of magic, that you could tell. And if it was automatic… then it was all real. Your ideal partner really was Sam. Not even some dramatized, romantic version of him. The authentic article. It welled up inside you right there in that stupid-expensive bar on your stupid-expensive stool, a surging flood of emotion that seized you and tethered you to the floor.

Those feelings were always followed by the phantom pressure of Sam’s broad, gentle hands on your face. Your first kiss with him must’ve been more than a decade ago. He’d been so nervous that his hands shook, and he hadn’t taken up bow-hunting yet so the pads of his fingers were still soft. You’d held his wrists and trembled too, but you were relieved and excited and warm with wild summer liking, face tacky with dried tears. The last day had been spent weapon training. You’d shot a gun for the first time, and it’d stabbed the reality of your life right through your ribs. You were gonna kill things. It was going to be your job to kill things. Sam had sat with you while you’d sobbed on Bobby’s porch, squeezing you against him even though it was storming like hell. He’d sat there until your sides ached from laughing and you weren’t so worried about everything.

Sam promised you’d go through all this together, and he’d been right. Of course you were in love with him.

Okay. Hunt. Danger. Witch. Focus. He’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton, you reminded yourself.

But the hand brushing your bare shoulder was young, healthy, and familiar. Down to the bow-hunting callouses.

“Excuse me,” he greeted. His voice wasn’t purring with seduction or intent, as you’d imagined. It was just light, easy Sam. Like it’d been a bit since he’d seen you, and he’d just climbed out of the car to give you a secure hug and a kiss on the hair. The witch settled his glass on the bar between you, expression glittering with feigned curiosity. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it was kind of you to send over the drink. I wanted to say thank you.”

Maybe he was reaching into your mind to emulate Sam. Why would a thieving, money-hungry witch be so polite?

“Anytime,” you said, and found yourself responding like you were really talking to Sam. The witch’s smile broadened into his dimples; he wanted familiarity. “It’d be rude to leave such a cute guy without a drink on such a nice evening, don’t you think?”

“I think it’d be rude to leave a beautiful woman without company,” he agreed, eyes twinkling.

Unfortunately, your body wasn’t in hunting mode, as it should be. It was in act-normal-around-Sam mode, but “Sam” was actively flirting with you—so all of your nerves were going haywire. Your skin warmed in ways it never did for the men you won your dinner money from. Or any other man but one, period. An embarrassing, genuine giggle burst out of your chest. “I-I don’t mind,” you beamed.

“Hermes,” he said, offering you one giant hand to shake.

You gave it to him, and immediately he turned it over in his palm, lowered his face to your knuckles, and kissed them appreciatively.

“Y-Y/N,” you blurted, instead of your alias.

Dear god. Jesus Christ. What the fuck.

“Y/N. Really.” The witch repeated. Now he was turning up the sultriness. His voice was so nice and his hand was just like Sam’s and he—he even smelled like Sam.

“No. Uh. Y/N L/N, not Y/N Really,” you joked. Your full name. Out loud. Instead of your alias.

What the actual fuck.

“Forgive my asking,” and fake-Sam ran his thumb over your wedding band, his lips parted and his breath lingering on your hand. His voice was coated with want and humor. “But is there a Mr. Really?”

Fuck. Wait, yes. This was good. This was what you wanted.

You gathered yourself, but not too much, cause he seemed to like your clumsiness. Or maybe it gave him more incentive to kill you. “Yes,” you said, tip-toeing with your wording, “...does that bother you?”

Hermes just grinned and shook his head.

The witch gestured to the stool beside yours, and you nodded maybe a little too much. He claimed it, folding his legs uncomfortably because he was a bit too tall. It made you realize that the glamor worked even better (and harder) up close. All of the little details you loved about Sam—the slight crook of his left incisor where it’d almost been punched out a million times, the freckles under his collar and sleeves—loaded in. You swore they hadn’t been there before.

But, you still haven’t seen him drink from the cup. He wraps his hand loosely around the glass on the illuminated bartop, but otherwise doesn’t make a move, brushing his thigh against yours. You make up bland conversation about a long, arduous day at the wealthy company you work for. You complain a little bit about the doggy daycare your pure-bred Pomeranian goes to. When the bartender comes by, you tip him a good chunk of money right in front of Hermes. And if none of that is working, you bait him with the wedding ring and the cut of your dress.

It’s weird. It’s so fucking weird. But that’s kind of your life, so you’ve learned to accept the strangeness, and you enjoy the surface flirting with this millennia-year-old man who’s planning to kill you. While wearing the face of the love of your life.

You realize that you’ll probably never have this with the real Sam. Not the murder part, but the easy date night flirting—not without the cost of your friendship, or testing Sam’s feelings about relationships. 

When you’re satisfied that he’s hooked, as Dean put it, you raise your second round of drinks together and toast to them. You make something up about good company, and Hermes drinks. He lets his hand cover your bare knee, drawing circles that set every hair on your body on end. After what feels like hours, you brush your nails against the hair at the base of his neck, lean in, and whisper in his ear, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

And with that sly, clever Sam smile, he agrees. But— “My place is close. May I walk you?”

“You may,” you reply, even if it’s a complete deviation from his M.O. The witch always takes his victims back to their own homes, that’s how he robs them. What, was he genuinely attracted to you? Was this a real hookup thing? Or, did he recognize your real name and planned to kill you? Knowing your luck, you’d put money on murder.

Instead of offering you his arm, the witch is gentle and sweet as he gives you his hand. Just before you slip away from your seats, you put his whiskey on the stool, away from the well-meaning bartender who might clean it. The second you make it out the door with Hermes, Dean skulks out of the crowd and drops the empty glass in a plastic bag. Now you’re on the clock. Either the boys get Hermes first, or Hermes gets you. No pressure.

When you get outside, the Impala’s parked elsewhere. You’re both bothered and comforted by that, because while it may mean that the boys are out of sight, your spell is being performed where prying eyes can’t see. That’s good.

Hermes gives your hand a playful squeeze. While you’ve held Sam’s hand before, those moments were always too fleeting for you to take in much. You imagine your mind, or Hermes’ glamor, is filling in the blanks for you. His fingers are long and his hold is encompassing, swallowing almost the whole of yours. You talk for the two of you, since it’s a part of his act to give as little information about himself as possible. He pretends to enjoy your conversation. It’s your mind’s greatest impression of an interested Sam, his brow furrowed, his head ducked in thought, his focus honed in on only what you have to say. The witch leans in close when he does speak, murmuring into your ear. He loves to touch your bare skin, so his hands linger on your shoulders and the exposed portion of your back. It’s all a tactic to win over your suspicion, you know that, but it’s Sam’s hands. It’s his hands and his voice and his face.

“You know what?” Hermes surveys the street, and peaks into the alleyway nearest you, weighing your options like it’s not obvious where he’s going to drag you. Come on. “Let’s take this shortcut here.” He gives you a devouring look, “I don’t want us to wait any longer than we have to.”

“The suspicious, dark alleyway?” You joke. Just a few more minutes. Almost there. It’s gotta be.

Fake-Sam’s smile is fond, and with the same quiet resolution that Sam brings to everything, he parts from your hand to wrap his arm around your waist. He cups your side and brings you against him. His arm is the perfect shelter from the chilly night, bleeding with body heat and the homey scent of the man you love.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he purrs, and admittedly, that’s when you start to panic.

Not because he was edging you into a creepy alley—alleys, in the hunting life, were familiar territory. Or because you realized you were about to fight him. That was more than routine to hunting; it was hunting itself. What made you panic was your own willpower here. You could cut down a thousand evil witches a day, but nothing in this world could make you put that knife to Sam’s throat. Not death, not hell, not heaven. All of them had tried. Every one of them had failed.

This wasn’t Sam. You knew that. The difference was palpable. But it was close enough to make you hesitate, and you were dreading what that could mean.

“Alright, hero,” you flirted. “Lead the way.”

He teased your waist with a squeeze, then began the slow, intimate walk he imagined you were hoping for. The witch started to chat about how much he loved the city, how lively the people were. Bullshitting. Trying to settle your anxiety—so you were open to attack. Well. If he was so hellbent on cornering you now, all you could do was drag it out for as long as you could. You snuggled close to him, and pretended to admire the night sky between the towering downtown buildings.

The two of you passed the back end of a business’s warehouse. Its windows were thin-paned and close by, shimmering with neon light the closer you came to it. You made bubbly, flirty conversation, and calculated in your head when would be the perfect time to smash the glass and attack him with it.

He must’ve had the same idea.

You woke up two seconds later, glass in your hair, in your dress, and prickling painfully between you and the icy concrete floor. The warehouse ceiling floated overhead. Streams of moonlight poured through the uneven shape of the now-destroyed window. It took you but a breath to register this, then you were rolling onto your hands and snatching up the biggest shard that had survived your crash. In an instant you were heaving yourself to your feet and plotting: just a little more time, they just need a little more time, all you had to do was distract.

A long shadow fell over the glass debris. This was the part where your adrenaline would kick in, but a hot, ugly dose of fear joined it. That was Sam. You were fighting Sam. No, y-you—you weren’t—

“Well, isn’t this special,” Hermes cooed. He strolled toward you, the glass crunching under his loafers to the beat of his lazy walk. Everything but his smile was obscured by the dark. “The Winchester whore. I’ve heard of you. I have to say, I’m a little—”

“—disappointed? Let me guess: I’m shorter than you thought, prettier than expected, yadda yadda,” you filled in for him. “G-god, can’t any of you losers find different scripts?”

You knew the shard wouldn’t do much, but you’d hoped having it out in front of you would make you feel better. It didn’t. Hermes stepped into a shaft of light, illuminating Sam, with his hair in his eyes and a curious, calculating turn to his lip. It was straight out of any pink-hued day of your teenage years. Like he’d just found something fascinating in a book he was reading, and was beckoning you over to share it with you. And if it came down to it, you’d have to make him bleed if you wanted out of here.

“Fine. We’ll skip the pretense, then,” Hermes bargained, and with a wave of his hand you were slammed back-first into the nearest product shelves.

Pain exploded across your back, whiting out all else. You dropped a whole foot to the floor and collapsed there, pathetically gripping the closest table to find the courage to stand up. You couldn’t. Every deep breath you took seized your ribcage like a snapped trap. Shuddering in place there, you heard Hermes step across the glass, coming closer. Closer. Come on, Sam, you thought. For a moment, just a moment, you were truly afraid of him.

But this was Sam’s face. Out of all the faces you could see the moment before it all went dark, you’d be glad if it was his. The fear lightened. You lifted your face to meet his, snarling. Hermes waved his hand, and in one great cacophony, like a chandelier dragging itself across the floor, the broken glass fluttered up in a swirling cloud and hung in the air around you like stars. Deadly, jagged stars.

“One less thorn in my side,” he decided, and the hand—a copy of the love of your life’s hand, closed into a vicious fist. The shards whistled.

Hermes exploded into smoke.

The glass hung in the air for a moment more, then rained down on the floor again, shattering into powder. You flinched away and jerked to cover your head, and when all was quiet, and Hermes’ smoke was dissolved in the wind, you rolled onto your side and let out the breath you’d been holding.

People saved. Things hunted. Fuck, your back hurt.

You laid there for a moment longer, having fun pitying yourself, when a sharp cry of your name echoed down the alley outside. It took you a second to gather enough breath to holler back, “In here, Dean!”

Dean sprinted clear past the window, then backtracked so hard he almost tripped. “Y/N,” he sighed. Relief could’ve bowled him over at that moment.

As he charged through the broken window and swung his gun at the dark, you sat up, aiming to smile. You couldn’t really do it. “The witch is dead. Sam got him. High five?”

Dean hesitated, but after stashing his pistol in his waistband and taking stock of your injuries, he gave your raised hand a light smack and opened his arms. The gesture alone made all your injuries feel numbed. “Alright. Up and attem’. Let’s get you some Barbie bandaids and a big dinner, huh? You deserve it.”

“Hell yeah,” you breathed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Without hesitation, Dean scooped you onto your feet, brushed the hair stuck to your bloody forehead aside, and started to guide you toward your exit. After a long beat of you laying your head on him and soaking in everything that's happened, Dean murmured, “The witch didn’t look a thing like DiCaprio, did he?”

You watched your footing instead of Dean’s face. “No. No, he didn’t.”

_

After the bigger chunks of glass were taken out of your skin, you took a quick, wince-filled shower, and toweled your hair on the motel bed you shared with Sam. The glass was surprisingly the least annoying part of fighting the witch; what had really fucked you up were the bruises, which were blooming all along your back in shelf-shaped rectangles. Your injuries were pretty light for a witch hunt, though, so you contented yourself with being alive in a pair of snuggly pajamas.

It was well past eight by now, so the rooms adjacent to yours were quiet, and the road outside threw occasional beams of light across your bedspreads. You always loved the motels on the outskirts of town more than their inner-city counterparts. Though they were usually more run-down, the sounds of tires whisking on asphalt and frogs croaking in the weeds comforted you. Dean rarely let you keep the windows open, but he wasn’t about to snipe at his poor, injured best friend, so you arranged the salt on the sill in neat lines and soaked in the midnight breeze. In safer times, you and the boys might’ve had a bonfire at Bobby’s on a night like this.

Dean left the bathroom light on and propped it open enough to see by. He lapsed into his post-hunt ritual in the half-dark, chattering about your success, while Sam perched in a chair and didn’t speak.

He’d succumbed to an unnerved, unbroken silence once you promised him on the drive back that you’d live. A couple of throws and one window weren’t going to kill you. There was no chance in hell that he couldn’t sense that the witch was eating at you for different reasons, though. If he could tell the route a car had taken while blindfolded, then honing his sensitivities to the daily shifts in your mood was child’s play. But if you pushed him to let it go, he would, because he respected your limits—you just weren’t looking forward to having that conversation.

Dean chattered constantly, like he usually did when something was wrong in the air between the three of you. He’d even tried to hold a conversation with you through the bathroom door while you showered, for god’s sake. When you emerged, hissing at every pinch in your back tissue, Dean was waiting with clothes, a careful smile, and a medkit. His brother was still silent, though he’d jumped up from his seat.

“Sam?” You worked up the courage to say. “Could—would you mind, uh, helping me with my back? There’s… still a lot of pieces I couldn’t get.”

“Uh… Dean can.” Sam drilled his eyes through your room’s door, hunching into the collar of the jacket he hadn’t removed yet. “M’ gonna walk. I need to clear my head,” he sighed, snappishly, and poured all his willpower into not scrambling out the door as fast as he could. It whipped shut behind him too quickly for you to say anything back.

“...Okay. Well. Sucky job, huh?” Dean said. You heard him pop open the medkit and dip the mattress behind you, so you shuffled back a bit and carefully lifted the fabric of your shirt covering your back.

“Yeah,” you muttered. Sam’s shadow flew past your window and disappeared in long, curt steps towards the cicadas chirping by the roadside. You leaned further and further to chase his figure by the porch lights, but Dean gently reeled you back so he could start in on the tinier fragments.

“You helped a lot of people today,” Dean said, trying to goad you back to the conversation. You could hear in his pauses how worried he was about his brother, but you both knew that it was better to give Sam time to simmer, then return.

“Oh, just women willing to cheat on their husbands,” you rolled your eyes.

Dean braced his hand on your shoulder, and gave you a little warning squeeze every time he was going to pull one of the pieces out. The bloody glass tinking into the tin and your sharp winces soon formed a shaky rhythm. “Still people,” he pointed out. You didn’t reply, simmering in the thrum of his voice and the burn of your bruises.

When Dean started putting antibiotics on the cuts and loading them up with Barbie bandaids, as promised, you blurted out: “You think I upset Sam?”

You were hoping for a doubtful laugh or even some kind of scoff, like Dean found it hard that Sam could ever be mad at you, because that’s how his world worked. He needled the two of you all the time for how inseparable you were. You were you and Sam was Sam, mingled too closely for anyone else to squeeze in the middle. Usually, if you asked Dean something like that, he’d shrug. You’d know better than me, pal.

Instead, Dean released a deep breath from his nose. He did it like that so often now that you could recognize it, which unsettled you, since it was Dean’s withholding-sigh. You could usually pry just about anything out of him, but he had this wall that he hit sometimes with Sam. Brother confidentiality or whatever. You could respect that—when things didn’t involve you potentially upsetting Sam.

“Dean,” you tried again, “did I do something wrong? I feel like you’re not telling me everything here.”

He tore open another bandaid with his teeth and choose not to speak. It was enough to tell you that Dean knew he shouldn’t intervene, even if he wanted to.

You glanced over your shoulder to look at him. “Dean. C’mon. How many favors do you two knuckleheads owe me after today?”

Dean counted them in his head, closed his eyes, and cursed. “Don’t make me say it, Y/N. You’re a smart girl. You can’t be this blind.”

“Dean.”

“You don’t get it. Sam will be pissed with me.” He snapped the med-kit closed.

“If he gives you shit for it, you know I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell him that I coerced you and everything, that I cornered you,” you goaded. To make your argument even harder to ignore, you whipped down your shirt and rolled around to face him, your eyes big and bleeding with heart. “Sam is clearly upset. All I want to do is help him.”

Dean’s arms hung at his sides. His tells were small, but for a second there, you could’ve sworn you’d loosened his resolve enough. Instead, he shut you down with a short glare. “...Show me your shoulder.”

You held there for a moment, unmoving and stern, just to press how serious this was to you. If you’d done something to hurt Sam’s feelings, all three of you knew the lengths you’d go to make it up to him. And Dean keeping the reason why so close to his chest could only go two ways—either it was so light and petty that it wasn’t worth mentioning, or it was too terrible to voice. Only one of those ended with Sam nursing an infected wound for months. Few emotional appeals would reach Dean’s ears, but you thought he and his brother deserved someone who fought to right any grievances made against them.

With two fingers, you yanked your collar to one side. Sitting in the meat at the curve of your neck was a fat gauze bandage as wide as three fingers. Dean tested the edges with his thumb while you jabbed, “It’s fine. The stitches didn’t get messed up in the shower.”

“And the painkillers?” Dean checked.

“Working,” you answered. “Now, tell me what’s up. You can’t lie to me for shit.”

Again, you expected an awkward wince or a reluctant grimace from him. And again, Dean surprised you. He sighed deep into his shoulders, cupped the unmarred side of your neck, and shocked you into place with a burning, deathly serious look. “...Son of a bitch, fine! This is a big deal to me, okay? I’m breaking my brother’s trust here—but only because I think it’ll be better for the both of you, capiche?”

You nodded just as gravely. “What is it?”

“Sam…” Dean held you in place for a second more, then drifted out of your orbit, following his thoughts and hesitation in a circle around your hotel room. You let him think, a slow ugly sickness building in your throat. “Sam has feelings for you, okay? He’s—he’s had them for a while. So long that it’s insane to me that you haven’t noticed it yet—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you laughed. “Dean, please, I’m really worried about him. I don’t have time to mess around right now.”

Dean’s flailing arms dropped to his sides. He just stood there looking helpless, waiting. Waiting more.

“...Dean.” The name tasted like oncoming tears. You straightened up and steeled yourself, pressing into every new, stinging wound at your posture’s disposal. “This is… now y-you’re just being mean. You know how I feel about this.”

“I’m…” his hand fumbled upwards, like he thought about calling upon a higher power for help here, then remembered how that’d turned out last time. “Y/N, I’m not messing with you here. Sam has been crazy about you since we were kids.”

You believed him. It took some pacing, some crazed muttering, and some hard, labored breaths, but eventually you broke out of your trance and realized you believed him.

Dean nudged his chin at you, waiting for a response.

Pathetically, you said: “W-why?”

“Pardon?”

You summoned your best glare. “Level with me here. Just. Why?”

“Why the hell would I know?” Dean sputtered. He shrugged up to his ears, smiling a bit, like this was as grand a mystery to him as it was to you. “All I know is that he’d burn this world to the ground for you. Everything today… with you playing bait, and everything… It freaks him out, your scrapes. I mean, it freaks me out too, but I know you can handle yourself. It’s… I dunno, he’s mushier. It’s more personal to him.”

You thunked down on the closest surface, which could've been a hot stove for all you cared; numbing tingles rolled all the way up your arms and legs. Usually, you had a good reign on your own feelings, but now they galloped free too fast for you to catch. Exhaustion’s sweeter cousin barrelled you over. Shock and relief and love and terror each took their own swing at you, until you sat there with your hands limp in your lap, feeling like you’d laid down on the sidewalk and all of your feelings had lined up to kick you around. For the first time in your life you sat down and cried at the drop of a hat. It was fucking awesome.

A bubbly laugh rolled out of you. “Me too. I-I do too. Holy shit, am I over-reacting or what?”

Dean’s warm hand rubbed a spot on your arm the glass hadn’t touched. “Uh, maybe a bit. But I guess you’ve both waited a long time, so Sam’ll probably think it’s… sweet, or some bullshit like that.”

Another laugh surprised its way out of you. “Shut the hell up. God, you were right—I’m so blind. Do you think… Should I…? Sam, he’s still mad.”

Dean paused, enjoying how panic and delight warred on your face. “Not mad. More like…” he searched for the word, beaming slyly, “...jealous.”

_

Sam returned to a buzzing, eager silence in the motel. The second he had inched the door shut behind him, sheepish and looking like it, Dean shoved on his driving boots. You noticed how Sam was careful to catch your eye just once, otherwise entertaining himself with the pattern of the carpet. He at least seemed a touch more clear-headed. Sam had always loved a good, breezy walk; one of a million of his quirks that you loved too much to forget.

“Alright,” Dean scooped up the Impala’s keys, flicking the lapels of his jacket. “I owe Y/N her favorite dinner, like I promised. You want anything while I’m out?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Her favorite place is at least an hour and a half from here,” he said, because of course he remembered that.

His brother shrugged. “I’m in the mood to drive. Cabin fever n’ all. See you nerds in,” he was not at all subtle when checking the clock in your room, or smiling about his results: “...three hours. Ciao.”

“It’ll be cold by—” Sam started, but Dean had already sauntered passed him, swinging his keyring in one hand. His whistling carried all the way out to the lot, and quietly you wondered how long he’d been wanting to tell you what he had.

Sam was forced to turn to you. His displeasure from before had slowly melted into embarrassment, but he wasn’t about to show it. He made a helpless gesture at the door like, welp, there goes that, and the elixir of liking in your chest shook loose a giggle. A real giggle. At least you could be embarrassed together.

Since sleeping on your back was off the table for the next week of your life, you’d gotten comfy on your stomach. With Sam gone, you had the room go completely diagonal on your shared bed, angling toward the dingy colored light of the TV. Dean had put on some random soap opera you weren’t a fan of, but tonight you thought of nothing but one thing. Sam has feelings for you, Dean had said. He’d burn this world to the ground for you, Dean had said.

Repeating them to yourself felt like writing the words down and holding up the paper by Sam’s face—weighing those images against the man you knew. You’d… guessed. Hoped is more accurate. But to see those words in action, moving and breathing in a person, totally blew you out of the water. Dean was right; you were dumb as hell for not seeing it before. Sam teetered on his heels in front of you. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, hiding behind his bangs and forcing himself to stand still. When you shied away to look at the TV, you could feel his gaze devouring you in every dose he could manage. Searching and memorizing. Every time you were occupied, Sam admired the soft curve of your back in your sleep shirt, your swept hair, your shorts, the exposed skin of your neck, your face.

Still, you’d hoped and only hoped for so long. You believed Dean. But you couldn’t bring yourself to understand that it was possible in the first place.

While you watched the television and panicked over what to say to him, Sam toed off his shoes and hung his jacket on the nearest chair. After a moment of hanging in the middle of your room, directionless, he followed his heart to your bedside.

“You feelin’ better?” He dipped the mattress just beside you, your side pressed against his night-chilled back.

You shuffled up onto your elbows, smiling at him with such vibrancy and realness that Sam flushed up to his ears. “I’m all good,” you promised, and it was the truth. “Happy to rid the world of another tie-wearing evil.”

That earned a dry smile. You carried through it, buoyed by everything except thought. “Only got three stitches this time,” you told him, sounding smug, and pulled down your collar to show him the bandage.

All your mind wanted to do was take a shovel out of the Impala and bury yourself off the edge of the highway, but the unbridled joy in your body didn’t care. It brimmed over everything else. The heady, healthy foam of it conquered every other feeling. Your nervousness, your terror, your anxiety. You couldn’t believe that you were just sitting here and talking about nothing. The truth was giddy in your ribcage, like good news you couldn’t keep from him any longer. Sam recieved it so rarely.

Sam just stared at you. You could only make out one side of his face in the dark, the cheek painted with the waltzing colors of the soap opera on the screen. Blues and peaches and warm grays. He was bent so close to you that you could keep your head comfortably sunk into your pillow, and you did, studying him as he studied you. The longer he took you in the more he seemed to relax. One of his hands flexed against the mattress, bringing him back to the world the two of you shared. Your exchange went on for so long that the hand on your open collar went slack, and so did Sam’s jaw. Dean was gone and the two of you were in the safe realm of the dark again—usually, Sam would reach out and brush his hand down your back, squeeze your arm, or kiss your forehead.

“If you’re good, then… good,” he said, distantly. “I’m beat. Let me help you move, huh?”

“Okay,” you hummed.

Even as Sam stood, his face chased yours, one side of a magnet seeking its counterpart. He hovered as you shuffled onto your calves, then pulled back the covers for you to worm under without disturbing your torn skin. You only had so much time to say something—and after so long, nothing could keep you from telling him. Not if you were sure he still felt the same way. You hesitated to lay down, and Sam, sensing your need to speak, paused too.

“Oh,” Sam realized. “I’d almost… forgot. Can I…?”

He waved to your forehead, and before he could retreat out of awkwardness, you convinced yourself to nod. Sam went as far as cupping your arm, then wavered. It was just cute, now. “You can,” you murmured between you, “go ahead.”

Sam dropped a brief kiss on the side of your face, then turned tail for the bathroom to get ready for bed. You had this whole fantasy in your mind of Sam letting his lips linger, burning the shape and feel of them into your soul like you wanted him to, but the two of you hadn’t breached this territory in years. Both of you were terrified of it. Before you could let that fear control you, you blurted out:

“He looked like you.”

Sam’s figure twisted toward you in the dark. “Huh?”

You cleared your throat, which burned front to back with need and apprehension. “The witch, Sam. He looked like you. To me.”

Sam couldn’t look at you dead-on without light, but he tried. Those hungry eyes, hungry for safety and closeness, scraped down your outline. Then again, testing the groves they’d dug. Sam was reminding himself of all the blood he’d seen before, driving back in the Impala and pulling glass out of your jacket with slippery, trembling hands. He deflated. He started toward you, then deflated again.

“He did that to you, with my face—” Sam bleeds.

Before he can start to spiral, you rope in his hand and squeeze it through his sleeve. It’s big and enveloping, just like Hermes’ was, but there’s so much more that the magic just couldn’t replicate. He has a mole on his wrist you’d forgotten about and these subtle veins that bump under your thumbs. His knuckles are strong and feel almost welded, but underneath all that you can feel how gentle he’s worked to be. How much he’s still scared of himself. His mind may be enclosed with good intentions, but Sam had always thought of his body as something that didn’t fully belong to him. Even if the witch didn’t possess him, to Sam, the used goods, the meat suit, it feels like it. And the last thing he’d want his possessed body to do is hurt you. Manipulate you.

“Shh,” you soothed. “No. You’re missing what I’m trying to say. The witch… his glamor made me see the most p-perfect—the best man my mind would come up with.”

Sam just stared. You squeezed his fingers, willing him to understand. His other hand, chilled by his walk, wound slowly over your shoulder. His two leading fingertips lingered over the square white bandage at the junction of your neck. Though he was repulsed by what he thought was his own handiwork, you pressed closer, chasing the rough pads of his bowhunting calluses no matter how much it stung.

“Sam,” you said, sternly.

He just shook his head, ripping his free hand back. Sam pressed: “When he hit you, he looked like me.”

You wound your tether to him ever closer, growing bolder, bringing his hand into the warmth of your chest, entwined against your collarbones. The tears surged into your lashes, but you resisted them with a shake of your head. “It made it easier,” you laughed without mirth. “When he was flirting with me, but at the end, too, yeah. Is that fucked up?”

Sam breathed short from his nose. “Yeah, a bit. But you know I’d never—”

“That’s not even a question. Of course you wouldn’t,” you swore to him. Since the humor was teasing into his voice again, you joined it with your own, pressing your face into his arm. “But, um. If you were jealous of him, well. You should know that there’s really no contest.”

Another long, draining silence haunted you from overhead for a moment, and Sam swayed in place, his hand dropping suddenly on your shoulder. For balance? Was he really… winded? Floored? The show on beside you faded to black, submerging you both in inky, sightless dark. You could feel it in his hands now—Sam was quivering with disbelief. His broad palm scoped up your neck. His hand parted from yours between you, palming across your shoulder. They joined seamlessly together on each of your cheeks, cupping your face just like they had before. You rose into the touch, following him up, until you were standing between his socks at your bedside with your face in his hands. They were still pretty cold; but warming up, and fast. Just like before, you softened all over and held steady to his wrists.

Sam swallowed. “Dean told you?” 

“Yeah,” you choked, afraid of what your voice was capable of. “Don’t be mad at him. Or jealous of some stupid witch. There’s… you have to know by now, that nobody even holds a candle to you, right?”

Sam laughed breathlessly. His long thumbs caressed your skin, your under-eyes, weighing the feel of you and your closeness like it’d be taken from him any minute. His left hand pressed even closer, and you met the scar there with your cheekbone. This is real, you promised him.

“Me too,” he gushed, and the sound poured right out of him just as yours did, overboiling with joy. “For you. Nobody, Y/N, this whole time, nobody compares.”

Real happiness was so new to you that the two of you hovered there, waiting for it to be ripped away. Your face ached, from smiling, from crying, from bruising, and it strained your chest a bit to laugh. You surged into Sam and let it all go anyway. Giggling uncomfortably rattled the injuries on your back, but any ache you felt was soothed by Sam's broad hand in your hair, stroking it away from your face. He was still chilly from his walk. There was a small building heat in the middle of his chest, so you squeezed even closer to meet it and found a leaching embrace instead. The pressure of him all around you could’ve put you in tears again. It hadn’t been long since you’d hugged him, but you could feel that love this time—the way Sam swayed with you in his arms, the way he kept pawing your neck to bring you closer and closer. Like the feeling of you laughing in tandem with him wasn’t enough. He needed to absorb you, be you, for you to be close enough to satisfy him.

He was careful to watch the injuries on your back, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to palm your bruised shoulder blades, to drag his nails down your glass-pocked spine, to squeeze you as close as possible no matter how much your material body hurt. A button on his shirt was digging into your cheek and his chin was poking your head. But it didn’t matter—he was the real deal, imperfections and all, just how you liked him. Loved him.

“Nobody?” You murmured, in disbelief.

Sam shook his head. “Nobody, Y/N. Not anyone.”

Nothing could pull you away from him then, so you didn’t bother to arrange yourself comfortably to kiss him. His face was so close to yours that you could breathe only him and the old books he smelled like. You knew that the second you kissed him that it’d be all over—forever marrying your visions of living to him, and giving your lifeblood a name. It was dangerous in this business to give your reason for living legs and a heart. But Sam’s sleepy eyes had closed and his pulsed swished under your hand, and you knew it was decades too late for that.

Your palms dropped to his chest, and Sam pinned them between you, ducking his head low enough to ache and searing you hard against him. It should’ve been awkward and cramped. You forgot that as you melted into the smell of him, a slab of chocolate in the sun. The kiss should’ve been cursed, since the angels swore he was, that you would be too. If it was, then cursed was warmth and love and closeness. Safe at last! Your body sobbed into the kiss. It all felt silly; like you could’ve done this ages ago.

Sam burst into snickers. You did too, against his mouth, and between peals of laughter you tried to scold him, “Shhh, you big idiot—” but Sam just shushed you back and kissed you again.

He dipped his head like actors in the movies did, intense-eyed and deeply fond, which made you flush and giggle harder. You both gave lose attempts at more sweet pecks, only to absolutely lose it when Sam almost knocked the lamp off the bedside table. Eventually, you were giggling too hard and stumbling too much to kiss properly at all. This didn’t intimidate Sam, who cleverly angled your cheek with his thumbs and kissed where you weren’t laughing. You squealed and wiggled for an escape that wasn’t actually alluring to you at all. Each time Sam caught you on the brow or the corner of your lip, you’d giggle and squirm away, only to float back into his orbit again. Parallelling the millions of games you’d played together as kids; tag, hide and seek, marco polo. Just another chase. Just another step in your infinite cycle.

“Really,” you said, eventually. An embarrassed heat prickled through your entire face. “Nobody compares to me. You really think that?”

“How many more times would you like me to say it?” Sam asked. He did this with both of your hands closed in one of his, his tone clever and sincere. “Not anyone.”

“You… you cheeseball,” you accused, and Sam’s mouth snapped closed to suppress another bubbly chuckle. It’d been ages since you’d gotten him to laugh so hard, so you were gluttonous off it and determined to steal more. “This whole time, you’ve been running around with this schoolyard crush on me… Man, this is quality blackmail material. Did you gush about me in your diary? Write Mr. Sam L/N in all of your notebooks?”

In the stark darkness, Sam again inclined his face over yours. “Did you?”

“No,” you blurted, a little too fast. “...It was Mrs. Y/N Winchester, obviously. It’s different.”

Sam just shook his head, charmed. You could feel him standing there across from you, admiring you in the silence, and it slammed on you like a ton of bricks that Sam must’ve done that before. A couple of times, at least. Just looked at you because he liked you so much. Any flirty confidence you’d built up was overpowered by a wave of shyness.

You rushed to fill the loving silence. “But. About the comparison thing… Good. I-I’m, I’m happy. I always wanted… I always wanted to be your… your first choice, I guess. Is that selfish?”

Sam hummed a no, and again his hand floated up to your face to warm your cheek. It filled you with so much want that your knees nearly buckled. Flustered out of your mind, you rambled: “I wasn’t a fan of Ruby, or, uh, that Becky girl from the convention, or the doctor chick in Iowa…”

He rumbled your name. “I don’t want to talk about them,” he murmured, amused, and kissed you once. When Sam parted from you, the silky lilt of his whisper in your ear flushed your belly with need. “I want to talk about you. And I definitely want to kiss you.”

“Sam…” you murmured. He dipped in for another warm, wet kiss, that instantly wiped your ability to create thought. You had to hold onto his shirt to steady yourself, and by then Sam had paused to not interrupt you. “I-I just…” you scrambled for anything to say, made honest by the dark, “I remember how you looked at them. I imagined how your hands must’ve felt on them… how theirs felt on you. I-I know I’m killing the moment here, but I need you to know—I was, I was out of my mind with jealousy, Sam. I—yeah.”

The hold on him grounded you, and again a second time when his hand settled over yours. Sam brought his arm around your waist, which made you realize how much he’d held you versus how much you’d held him. It was a disappointing ratio, so you welded him closer and snuggled your arms under his shoulders, letting your hands praise the unwinding slopes of his back.

A pleasant sigh seeped out of him, which broke into a careful chuckle. “I’m gonna be honest with you—pretty much nothing could ruin this for me right now,” Sam admitted. Which really meant something, because the chances of this being ruined by just about anything were 80-20. “I’ve wanted this since I was like, twelve. I guess you could say I wasn’t a fan of that waiter in Kansas, or your date to junior prom, or even Dean.”

You choked on your own laugh. “C’mon. You’ve got to be kidding me. Your brother, Sam? That man does not wash his underwear.”

Sam’s weighty shoulders shrugged against your cheek. You could feel his smile against your hair, that slight dimple in his cheek…“He always gets the girl. N’ the others… I don’t know.” Plainly and clearly, he turned into your embrace to speak face to face, “It’s you. It’s always been you. But I’ve never been brave enough to say it.”

You had no clue how to respond to that. A winning lottery ticket could be dropped in your lap, hell could close its gates forever, the angels could finally decide to leave you alone, and you’d know exactly what to say. Holy shit, maybe. Or even a tasteful, what the fuck. But what was good enough for Sam? What words could you say to make him happier than he just made you? You’d never been as sincere or as well-spoken as him, but he deserved that and more.

“I’m just glad we’re saying it now,” you murmured, your throat tight with building tears. Whatever channel was playing illuminated more of your face to him in a frame of white, and there Sam seemed to absorb everything you couldn’t put into words.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“Since our first kiss,” you flushed. “So, uh, fifteen years?”

You could sense Sam’s smug grin coming from a mile away. He always glanced aside beforehand, like he knew he was about deliver a clever blow. “Sixteen,” he boasted. “When we almost shocked ourselves to death taking apart that old Ford in Bobby’s salvage yard—you taught me what an intercooler was, and I was so impressed I wanted you to be my girlfriend.”

“Sixteen whole years,” you scoffed. Just for emphasis, you gave Sam a little push, and he dropped down to sit on your mattress. Without question, he left room for you between his legs and you flushed down to your toes taking up that space. “You gotta beat me at everything, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But I hear it’s gentlemanly to let your girlfriend win every once in a while,” Sam hummed.

That was an obvious challenge put down just for you. It was all too easy for you to rise to the bait and fluster all at once, since Sam knew how to engineer his bets just for you. The divide between your friendship before and your relationship now was a web more than it was a line, so dipping a knee in his lap on the bed was easier than you would’ve thought. Leaning in and smoothing your hands around his neck was not. Sam’s breath hitched in his chest, which you relished in. All these little reactions he always had—they were all because of you. His shyness, his cute hesitation, his miserable attempts at being neutral.

“Well, I,” you clarified, walking two of your fingers up his collar, “hear that it’s gentlemanly to ask her out first.”

Sam really was a dork, because just a little physical flirting had his hands flitting without direction around your middle. Every time your fingers took a further step up his neck, his breathing grew deeper, straining for composure he wouldn’t ever find. Not on your watch. When you finally stole the kiss you’d been itching to take, Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and his hands scuttled to find a place on your waist, wracked with shyness. He really didn’t want to mess this up. It was a sweet notion, if it was even possible in the first place.

Eventually, they found their hold on your hips. You hovered in his space, soaking up the feel of him in the dark as his fingertips memorized you, cataloged you, admired you. Sam’s chin tilted up, silently asking for permission as his hands hovered at the edge of your shirt. Your kiss was all the answer he needed. Gently, his fingers slid under your shirt, where they stoked the sensitive skin of your belly just for the sake of feeling you.

“Would you be my girlfriend?” Sam whispered. He was nervous and everything, as if there was a universe where you would ever turn him down. 

The hands you’d braced on Sam’s shoulders pressed closer, taking in the texture of his shirt and the muscle underneath it, until one of your warm palms had snuck underneath his collar to press flat to his back. Sam released a low hissing breath. You met him with a deep, meaningful, possessive kiss, tickling your nails against the top of his spine. 

“I’m all yours,” you promised, and Sam’s whole body sunk in relief.

He made a desperate sort of gesture along the bottom of your back, avoiding your bandages but wanting you closer, deeper, nearer to him. Emboldened by his obvious yearning, you offered your knee over his thigh. Sam invited you closer. Anxiety swirled in your gut, but the touch of him was merciful and yielding; he’d do only what you wanted to do. This was Sam. You’d never felt safer, so you sunk comfortably into the bowl of his lap.

You kissed him in long pecks at first, the soft bulb of your nose pressing into his cheek. His lips were soft and plush and warm, and the deeper you tasted them the more they drove from you. Any rigid fear left in your chest dissolved at his touch. That’s what he must’ve been waiting for, because he put his arms around you only once you untensed, and with all the urgency of too-in-love teenagers, you embraced. Sam slotted your chests together. You cupped his neck and roamed his hair, crushing him closer until you could feel his firm middle flatten to yours. A low wanting sigh rattled out of him. It was so authentic and distinctly Sam that you felt foolish for ever seeing a thing in the witch’s glamor. This was Sam, with his gentleness, his fear of his strength, his hesitation to take what he wanted. You were proud of your choice of words: you were all his, because this Sam was definitely all yours. This was the Sam you knew.

It occurred to you just how much you’d dreamed of this before. Reality surpassed expectation with ease, purely because there was so much you hadn’t considered. Often, you’d dissolve into gooey daydreams of kissing him or making him happy, only to come out of them scolding yourself for feeding your feelings. Your unreciprocated feelings. But there were dreams you couldn’t control and times where you’d indulged yourself more than usual. Even then, though, you always kept Sam’s emotions out of the way. You’d dream of getting home late from work—in the “normal” world you’d never share—and crawling into his arms, sleepy, or vice versa. You’d dream of going for long drives with him and snuggling with him in the Impala. But you were always the one who said those three scary words to him, while he simply existed as he always did. If you puppeteered Sam into saying it, then you were taking a machete to any notion that your fantasies could be real—and making Sam lie in order to please you.

What you hadn’t considered was what would happen if Sam did say I love you, and, even better: if he meant it.

Sam murmurs it as you’re admiring him in the dark. His eyes had fallen closed and his head had tilted back, receptive to your touch. You loved to touch his face; you warmed his lap, cupped his cheeks, stroked the smooth back of your hand against his temple, and pushed the hair from his forehead in the cool motel darkness. Every once in a while the headlights of a car would give you a glimpse at him, and each time Sam’s gaze would almost be too much.

You whisper it back, thankful for the boldness the dark gives you, and feel something blaze hot inside you when his mouth drags down your cheek to your jaw. They’re deep and punctuating kisses. You’re reminded again of the sinking acceptance you’d felt when Hermes’ shadow had fallen over you. For a second, you’d thought that was gonna be it. Sam would’ve never known the truth, and would’ve ended up in that warehouse instead, picking the glass out of unresponsive skin. And though you’d survived today… Tomorrow, a reaper would have a million opportunities to take what had only just been sown.

You bunched your hands in Sam’s shirt, sounding urgent. “...Let me show you how much.”

Sam hung there for a moment, weighing the silence between your bodies. Weighing the space between them, and how much of it left there was. “You want that?” He asked. Sam made it sound like you were asking to stick your hand in a shark tank. “You’re… you’re sure?”

Your hand on Sam’s cheek turned over, so you were stroking your softer knuckles against his skin. You nodded, realized he couldn’t see it, and pressed in to brush your noses together. Sam’s head tilted all the way back to meet yours when you prayed: “I’m sure. I… I waited a long time to be close to you, so… I’m not gonna waste a second more.”

A breath rasped out of him in understanding. Like everything else in your life, this could be taken from you. Sam’s fingers crept up the back of your shirt, sliding around for where the bandages began and ended. He confessed, “Me either.”

His kiss drew deeper, more lovesick, chasing each one to their full depth. Your hands shyly migrated to the buttons of his flannel and smoothed there. He nodded, flattening his hand to the small of your back, and after that you didn’t have to wonder once how Sam felt about you. It was outlined clearly for you in Sam’s handwriting. He showed it in the absorbing nature of each of his kisses; how he nosed every new inch of your skin, taking care to declothe you the right and patient way; how aware he was of your bruises and bites. When you’re clothesless, he runs both of his hands down your arms and just feels you in the dark. Sam gives you the same courtesy. When you help him out of his last layer, your hands smooth against his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, but the contact still isn’t enough—you need to be closer. You drag him into another gapless embrace, and Sam is already there, eager to pull you in. His hands knead you with purpose. Your hips, your waist, your stomach, are squeezed until every part of you feels raw and achy and alive. She’s real, Sam’s body sighs. Another surging, dizzying kiss has you dragging your nails down his back, tasting every puckered scar and raised laceration from his shoulders to his obliques. He’s plush and warm and firm and right, a missing piece finally filled.

With his arms around you, you kiss him breathless and thumb open the button of his jeans. Your spine tingles in delight the second your fingers are hooked in his belt loops. The butterflies in your belly are birds by the time his jeans are past his hips, and when you’re on your knees in front of him, Sam’s calloused palms exploring your neck and your hair, the bruises and cuts on your back are just a memory.

“You don’t have to—” Sam starts.

The smile on your face is a bit too clever. “I know.” You frame his waist in your hands, pressing both thumbs into the divots of his hips. Sliding downward to find his boxers, you can feel his legs trembling at your touch, the skin there prickling as it’s exposed inch by inch. You press a lingering kiss to his waistband that makes Sam’s breath hitch in his throat. “Just helping you out of these,” you smile innocently, plucking the edge of his boxers. “I’ll have my fun with you like this when your brother isn’t coming back in an hour.”

“O-okay,” Sam agrees, and even in the dark you can tell he’s grinning.

When he’s nude, Sam finds your hand in the dark and brings you to stand with him. Again, you’re slotted into place in his arms, skin tacky with building sweat and cooled by the open window. His face and neck are blazing with a blush. You push the back of your hand against it, feeling him, all of him, in the honesty of the dark. His face lowers to yours, and again you’re met with the impression that the moment he kisses you, you’re his—curse and angels and demons and all.

You accept it with nothing but bliss.

He guides your knees back to the bed again, this time supporting your thighs as you lift yourself up. Your whole body reacts like before, surging into him and purring deep in your throat. You loop your arms around his shoulders in a claiming sort of way, and where your skin meets it sticks and melts together. Dragging you in around the middle, Sam hoisted you into his lap and moaned into your kiss; you slot right onto him, knees tight to his thighs and your chest pressed to his. You have the slightest advantage over him like this, your shadow falling on him. Sam’s eyes flutter shut and he sucks down breath after breath, his hair in his eyes, illuminated in slivers by the television. Something about it just makes you wetter. When you push further into him, there’s a glide between your bodies that makes Sam groan.

“Sh, sh, be careful of your back,” he warns. “Could you—could you hand me my wallet?”

You pat his chest, forehead pressed to his, and answer with a laugh instead: “I’ve got the pill?”

A shift goes through Sam’s entire body, radiating up from his lap. He shuffles his hips, lips parted, and you can feel his excitement pounding in his chest. “Atta girl,” he decides, smirking. “That’s good too.”

Flushed from head-to-toe with heat, you cup Sam’s neck and meet him kiss for kiss. During, you find him between you and tilt in your hips, finally asking the silent question. Sam’s fingers scramble across your thighs, your sides, and around your back. He hangs there, trying to pin down how real this is. This is really happening, his heaving chest says. She’s right here in front of me. A wet, passionate kiss balms his worries. He gives you the littlest nod. That's all it takes for Sam to be met with new, plush territory. You pant into each other’s mouths, fingers digging into flesh, hips dying to sink further in, hanging on the precipice, and when Sam’s certain that you’re ready, that this is really what you want, he presses your thighs down.

A desperate sigh seeps from his mouth to yours, like there's no better place to be in the world than inside you. Something needy and high slips from your lips. For a long time, all either of you can do is bask in it, in each other, breathing hard and shivering. Sam hugs you—genuinely hugs you—against him. There’s a thought somewhere in your mind that you should be nervous at all the lines you’re crossing here, but… Any day of the week you could rub your cheek into Sam’s shoulder like this. It’s a new song, but familiar notes dance all the way through it. The motel room is silent but for the barely-there hum of the TV and the crickets outside, so Sam’s heart under your ear booms. You soak in the familiar sound of it.

“I love you,” you tell him, and Sam hushes it back so fast your voices overlap, then again, “so much—so, so much—” as he starts to move.

Your whole lower half rolls with him, a boat on a wave. An urgent, keening yes squeals out of you the second Sam encourages you down again. It's more than good, than perfect, and entwined so closely like this, you can hear every thought and whim swirling around his mind—can read him better than you ever could before. You feel foolish. How much earlier could you have had this, if you hadn’t been so afraid? There were a million times in your life where you could’ve told Sam. Before the cage, when the apocalypse started, when Dean died and you were stranded with only each other. You latch onto him as you find your rhythm, a hand in his hair, nails in his shoulders, seared as close to him as you can be. Sam gasps your name; happy.

I have him now, you remind yourself. And I’m more than happy with that.

_