tini

WARNING: This story implies/references some potentially triggering topics including domestic abuse, sexual assault, a past miscarriage (chemical pregnancy), and follows the journey of how the characters deal with it. Please consider these carefully before reading. I can’t stress this enough!

A/N: This all started out as a one shot idea of Dean playing with kids and nerf guns. That one shot hasn’t been written yet because my brain wanted to know where the kids came from, but Dean will get his hands on a nerf gun in this fic.

uploading weekly on Fridays 🇦🇺🕕

Chapter 1 - Yearning

Chapter 2 - Harbouring

Chapter 3 - Confronting

Chapter 4 - Familiarising

Chapter 5 - Languishing

Chapter 6 - Domesticating

Chapter 7 - Honeydaying

Chapter 8 - Disconcerting

Chapter 9 - Ruminating

Chapter 10 - Saddling

Chapter 11 - Containment

Chapter 12 - Sentiment

Chapter 13 - Derisionment

Chapter 14 - Announcement

Chapter 15 - Disappointment

Chapter 16 - Ligament

Chapter 17 - Retirement (working title)

Chapter 18 -

Chapter 19 -

Chapter 20 -

TIMESTAMPS TBA

EXTRAS/RELATED

Writing Game Snippet

100 Followers Celebration Sneak Peak

WIP WEDNESDAY (20/02) Chapter 16

Please Remember folks, abuse isn’t always physical. It’s also not easy to admit when you’re going through it, or sometimes even realise. Look after yourselves, and keep an eye out for signs from those you love. ❤️

If you'd like to be tagged in this series or any of my other works, please let me know, or you can add yourself HERE

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]

PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]

PART THREE — May 28th

PART FOUR — June 1st

PART FIVE — June 4th

PART SIX — June 9th

More chapters TBD

#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 6.5

Chapter 7 (pending)

If you'd like to buy me a Kofi

— this is my first smau series i've ever posted so bare with me lol.. — modern au/no upside down au — ignore timestamps/dates because they're irrelevant — they all live in new york — jancy, henderhop, lumax and byler are all canon cause idgaf (you don't see much of them other than jancy tho icl) — adults are about 22-23, teens are 18-19 — steve has a big crush on you, and you have a big crush on him — you and steve don't have each other on your private accounts — you don't know he's spider-man

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profiles !!

☆ — you nobody knows you run the whoisspidey account except for jonathan (you still don't know how he found out)

☆ — steve the only people who know he's spider-man are the people on his priv (and most of them found out accidentally)

☆ — dustin he's steve's "guy in the chair"

☆ — robin + eddie steve's other best friends who are sick of his ass

☆ — jonathan + nancy your best friends and co-workers at the daily bugle, and yes they have matching pfps

☆ — max + lucas they're basically your children

☆ — will + mike + el jonathan and nancy's little brothers (and yes they have matching usernames) the sweetest girl ever, and also dustin's girlfriend, you would die for her

☆ that's everyone !! i'll start posting the first few updates asap !!

☆ — smau updates !! update 1 update 2 update 3 update 4

regular + spidey!steve taglist: @karolinesvrsion @keshet2k @exooojongdaeee @riddlersoupwrites @oohgeminii @isabelspicey @notmily @imani4reading @jamietarttdodo @yikesmama3 @sunflowergir62 @lacywithdrawal @boldlyfadingdinosaur @kanabefairy @dxphhnnee @jamieexistss @ladyartxxmis @glittrrx @dr0wsy-m00ns @dyanasaur @kyzpixie @jeepers-creeperz @miss-celestial-being  @redvelvetcupcke1 @marvelgirlie-4 @berryonasummerevening @harry-luver @mortqlprojections @pedr0swh0r3 @maxxximoff @strangegirl26sff @kyrasworldd @1011008 @napofaprincess @nikolailantsovseyebrow @bylerinaathogwarts @ophirei @fallingwallsh @emngray @batmanssssss @kitty-kei @taylorsupernova @bobbihasnouser @dwindella @sofimayaowo @zabcoin @veesse @harringtondarling @kissalready @jinxispunk @peterthehorseisinhere

Warnings: 18+ to be safe. a small amount of sexual content, flirtations, a husband and wife touching in public, verbal sparring and talk of making children and use of the word “bred”, swearing, use of the words “cock” and “cunt.”

The sound of hooves in the courtyard rouses Kate from her anxious stupor by the hearth, toilsome grain list forgotten on her lap. The scroll swishes to the floor at her abrupt standing, wafting out of her path as she rushes to the window.

First the clatter of a single, foremost, over-eager rider, followed at a lag by his retinue, skilled riders all and armored as befits the guard of a nobleman. They make such a clatter in the yard when they come in after him. Some petty part of her briefly considers the tactic of staying here in their chambers in protest, a quiet sign of disapproval with his errand, of discontent with his brusque leave taking two weeks agone.

Her Harry would find her anyway, and like it better that she were in their chambers. He would like it well she were so near the bed and like it ill she slighted him in her dutiful welcome -but he would not speak of that. Not one for speaking much, her husband, not on matters that plague her these days, weeks, months. Kate might have it out with him in the old way and slap him about and toss cold quips and get from him little more than the same benign aggravation and good humored laughs between, a couple dozen kisses to her neck and a grapple in the sheets.

That is what talk they would undertake were she to stay up here.

It is that lone, eager, forerunning clatter of his horse that speaks to her, speaks for him. Just as his sword and his reputation and his gruff graciousness has spoken well of him across these northern lands, his eagerness to return to her, to outstrip his men in haste to be back from his fool’s errand and into her embrace -it is all the declaration of devotion she may expect from him. It is the truest form, without jape lacing his tone or tonic of lust clouding his confessions.

Harry Hotspur, as fast to return to his wife as he is to meet a fight.

It is love, of the sort she has grown to be grateful for, and it is that and fear of losing it besides, that rushes her out from their chambers and down the polished steps, out to the great hall and past the giant outer doors, cursing a lousy servant or five and ordering a bath and commissioning supper and refreshments as she goes. The torch flames bend from her flight, a whoosh and a shadow stalking Alnwick Castle’s stone passageways until the gray light of evening pours into her sight from the opened great doors. Squires and stable boys clutter her path but they part as she dashes, nay, only a dignified hasten now, out into the courtyard where nearly all of this fool’s troup have dismounted.

There are doffed helms to the Lady Percy, the jangle of chain mail crinkling with bows and scraps of deference all around them, but she sees only him, with mist dripping on his nose and a face too boyish for the insolence he has returned from discharging.

“Kate.” he utters.

Will ever he say her name lazily? She hopes not, for that alone she will endure the unwarranted cheerfulness with which he greets her on this dire occasion. She has heard it said in anger, in jest and in passion, vows and quips, praise and warning. And now in cheerful pleasure as evening mist soaks her gown and the heavy clunk of her husband's footsteps clang ever near her on the paving stones.

“Lord husband.” she greets, hands folded over her freshly healed womb.

His stride falters and he rocks back on his spurred heels, an arms length away, an embrace so tangible she can see his jaw tick from the watering of his mouth. “Lord husband is it?” he repeats thoughtfully, eyes drifting down to the paving stones for a brief moment as if to recollect some forgotten crime, they flick up soon and in them is jesting scrutiny, “My lady wife rushed all this way, down five corridors and a furlong of Keep only to greet me thus?”

Did her rising breath betray her eagerness? Could he see her in the hall despite his business dismounting?

“Your cheeks are red.” he shows her mercy, some form of it. His form. “But -Lord husband, it is, nevertheless?”

“Unless you would prefer ought else?” she inquires, he had once thought this smile quite chilling, he had admitted after their first babe, now he finds it rousing, he has admitted after their third.

“If it please you.” his shifting stance is noisy, his tabard and sword and still clutched helm a racket of accouterments in the pattering rain.

“I have any number to offer,” she concedes, stepping nearer, a lady’s step, covering one third of the ground between them that he might vanquish in a single stride. Still, he waits. “Knucklehead.” she whispers, her breath a fog and her insult as lost as vapor in the ears of his watching men, her bearing alone must satisfy their curiosity, as must his growing smirk and rising color, “Jackenape.” Another step until each little scar on his face is visible and the little canyons each raindrop make of them. She saw his finger twitching where it grasped his visor “Cur.”

There was the slightest flinch between his brows at that, a furrow that smoothed as his mirthful lips flattened out. “Careful now, lady wife, with words like Kerr* thrown about, my men might think you presumptuous, their lady gone and married to some other, a Scottish laird at that. So sure of my death already, sweet Kate, that you must speak of Kerrs in mine own yard? Ha, ‘pon my word you are qu-“

“Hush!” Her hand, fresh warmed as it was by recent hearthside and rich velvets pressed frimly to his lips, a tingle shooting straight to her toes at touching him at last. He was silent then, only the puff of breath against her fast chilling fingertips. “Tease me not so,” she begged, her own mirth gone out in her eyes, her arch look turned to grief, “not when you are just returned from an errand all but ensuring such an end. It is too cruel, even of you. Handle me kindly, Percy, as you always have, in words this time, if not in embrace.”

He seemed to ponder this before raising that hand not occupied with his helm, clumsy and clad in gauntlet as it was, to her wrist, wrapping the chilled and layered steel round her pale flesh and gently tugging her hand from his lips, only so far as to press it to his cheek instead, their audience of men at arms unheeded. “I betook myself to London,” he enunciated, as if it were their first night all over again and his thick borderland drawl too strong for her courtly ears to decipher, “to remind a king of his debts.”

“And tell me!” she cried fiercely, a choked, barely quieted protest as her hands dug into the wet leather of his jerkin, wrist twisted from the steel grasp, “What errand is that but a fool’s? Have you no fear at all left in this bruised carcass? Do I patch up an animated corpse time and again from your wars only for it never to have soul and feeling and wisdom in it? Do I, Harry? Gone to remind a king? How do you dare such?”

“It is he who has dared too much!” he cried back, loudly where her’s had been choked, a ringing and rebauld defense, worthy of a man who would chastise his monarch in full view of council. “First his debts, and now my son’s land! We did not make children so as to watch like blithe cowards as their birthright is bequeathed out from under our feet -piecemeal!- to a courtly cunt whose only recommendation is his alacrity to pucker and bow.”

Kate glanced about her at the men making show of industry, piddling at harnesses and armaments, walking horses in circles. Her husband's words could be no worse than what he had said to the King’s own face, anyone without stomach to become a rebel would have stayed behind in the Capitol, sensing dissension brewing. Lady Percy could perceive none missing from his number. So, a war it was to be, then.

“So, a new generation of Percys is to play at kingmaking.” she summarized.

“We make no boast of it.” Harry protested in turn.

“No,” said she, “why would you with how poorly your last choice has served you?”

That caused a start from him, a step forward that was neither gallant nor eager but angry as man to man. Kate, still with hands fisted in the crooks of his armor, stepped with him, backwards to his hall. “It is your brother with the better claim.” he showed his plan at last, a slow and conniving admission, one not common for his brash ways and straightforward mind.

Kate gasped at the implication. “Edmund?”

“He was proper heir, all along.”

“Your father-“ she chose her wording carefully, “-did not agree.”

“My father’s preference is not law.”

“It is mistaken for such, often.” Kate smirked in reply. “And Edmund is not suited-“

“-Edmund is not the turd now stealing from his vassals!” her Harry rejoined, his helmet pressed to her chest, “Edmund will do.” he reiterated once more.

Kate stared at his temper, the signs of it in his flaring nose and his wild eyes, the cure was between her thighs but watching mist drops fall from unblinking lashes was sweet prelude indeed. “Edmund,” she replied quietly and in a manner to be heeded, “is not willing or suited, he prefers instead to listen to welsh bards and lay upon the lap of his savage wife.”

Her Harry rolled his eyes at her truth, an admission, or the closest to one, she would ever receive. As if battling some great inner turmoil she watched him purse his lips and heave out a sigh before in a sudden movement the helm was tossed to the ground -much to the scramble and reaction of a half a dozen squires who ran to pick it up from its puddle- and suddenly steel hands were upon her hips, tugging her near to him even as she shied away, her face turned in a pantomime of demureness. “Strange,” he said and his tone suggested he still pondered her report of her brother's amorous preoccupations, “-and her lap so less Devine than mine own wife’s.”

“Then why do you haste from it so often?” she whined, delivering a smack against his belted tabard, right where the lions paraded across his right breast.

“Only a man dying of thirst appreciates that water has a flavor.” he reasoned and Kate allowed the open mouthed kisses that crept down her neck, her face turned stubbornly still to the south wall. The blacksmith's roof will be in need of new thatching soon, before spring. Before war.

She feels stubble against her tender skin, bracketing those pretty lips she once derided him for. No warrior ought to have lips like that, it was not seemly, not when maidens were denied such richness, such fullness, such rosy hue. But there is roughness about his lips and on his jaw as it tucks into the juncture at her shoulder, that show of clavicle her dress allows drawing him in like a siren’s song. He must’ve rode hard the entire way, no inns or refreshment, no shaving or baths, straight to her as from a battlefield. The King’s city is just as loathsome as any field of carnage, but he went to free her brother, to get a ransom, to reclaim their stolen land, to remind a king.

He did it for her, and the babes she gave him.

Kate turns her face from the blacksmith's thatch and raises her hand to his face, tenderly stroking the three days' beard that's grown as he's been on the road, riding hard to get to her. They have backed nearly to the hall’s mouth, the drip of rain off the gutter patters behind her on the threshold, Kate knows he can smell supper and hear the clatter of their children racing to meet him on still chubby legs. How different is the love of home, man to woman, Harry would sooner fight for it and she would cower within. Her thumb swipes at the raindrops making farce of tears upon his cheek.

"Princess," he breathes against her palm as he crushes her into his chest, still half armored and agonized for it as he cannot feel her softness with the cuirass, the leather, the chainmail. There are curves and bosoms and soft flesh he knows too well just on the other side of this awful barrier.

Princess will be her title if his treason succeeds, if her brother wears that cursed crown. “Princess”. It sours her mouth, but it is kind of him to wish it for her.

"You will come back, Harry.” she commands of him, she declares the outcome of this brewing war, “Soaked in the blood of feckless scum, you will come back and put another babe in me. A little prince or princess," she hisses in his ear, and she can tell he freezes at that, her concession to his treason, still as stone in his metal casings.

His eyes are ever so blue as they search hers.

"So I forbid any recklessness, my Lord Husband. Because I want this - " and her hand slips beneath his jerkin and the hem of mail to squeeze his cockstand most assuredly, as assuredly as she was that he would be sporting one for her, gripping it as one might grasp a chalice of wine during a toast "- and the rest of you, in one piece." Harry slumps against her shoulder, panting into the chilled hair and too heavy for her little frame. "Or so help me God." she intones, sharper than any steel he wields. "Swear it, Harry." She gives him another punishing squeeze, and he groans, agonized, as his mouth meets with the softness of her bound bosom, his knees the hardness of the stone cobbles. If she hadn't promised a use for his cock, he'd think she was liable to geld him herself at his presumption to seat and unseat a king, but now that he is out of her grip, for a moment, and looks up at her with such longing he fears his soul has left his chest for hers.

"So help me God." he agrees, it is in providence’s hands, after all, and in Kate’s clasped one’s atop his head.

“Fool.” she says once more as she bends over him, gently pressing a hand to the back of his head, pressing his face to her belly and her chilled fingers to his sopping hair, “It is not my brother these men fight for, nor for me. Not when it is you that calls them to it.”

“For what then?” He mumbles into her womb, hands heavy on her hips, the courtyard’s occupants dispersed into the shadows of the eaves, but a couple dozen peering eyes twinkle towards them in the twilight’s gloom.

“How often have I heard it said here, in this very courtyard.” Kate scoffs, observing the strength knelt so adoringly before her, “Have I dreamed each cry of ‘no prince save he be a Percy?’ Ha, to think they fight for a Mortimer, indeed. Ha!”

Harry staggers to his feet at this poke, it is, as are so many of his Kate’s wounds, half torment, half praise. His blood pounds with the elixir of her acknowledgment of his capability. “It is well then, Kate Mortimer,” he recites, daring now to put his lips very near her own, to nuzzle his strong nose with her hawkish one, to tip a chin and bat an eyelash against her wet cheek, “it is well that you are Percy now yourself, through and through, wed-“ his lips meet hers in a brush she chases after, “-and bred.”

🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯

You brush past me in the hallway, and you don’t think I can see you, do you? I’ve been watchin’ you for ages, and I spend my time trying not to feel it…

Hawkins High, September 1984

He’s so pretty sometimes that it’s disgusting.

That’s really the only thing you think when you watch Steve Harrington sneak up on his girlfriend, Nancy Wheeler, and swoop her off the ground in front of her locker. From across the hall, your locker hangs open, your body turned halfway toward them so that you can pretend that you’re not staring.

You stare a lot.

It’s not exactly the hair, you think- everyone shits a brick about his hair, for some reason that you don’t understand. Yeah, it’s nice… but you like everything else about him, too. You like how sweet he looks when he laughs. You like the way that he holds himself and the way that he looks when he puts his hands on his hips and stands around like he’s directing the traffic around him. You like how much of a prince charming he is, really. It would surprise you if he doesn’t win prom king at the end of the year. They already call him King Steve, it’s not too far of a stretch.

You close your locker just as Steve kisses Nancy, in front of god and everybody in the C Corridor hallway. Steve’s arms wrap around Nancy’s petite frame and he dips her, like they’re in some sort of George Peck and Audrey Hepburn movie. Not that the place is much of a cinematic setting, though. Down the hall, the science rooms are doing their dissection units, so the whole place smells like formaldehyde and disinfectant, and you sort of feel like curling up into one of those dissection pans and dying, yourself. 

That should be me, your brain screams. Me!!

It’s always been like this. You’ve had a crush on Steve since freshman year- the fact that he’s dating Nancy, who’s a year younger than him, doesn’t escape your jealous mind. You’ve been in classes with him for four years, you’ve admired him quietly, you’ve hoped and prayed that he somehow noticed you noticing him.

You don’t think he knows you exist. Four years- and now you’re both seniors, about to graduate, and he still doesn’t notice you. You should really stop caring, or stop trying, or stop… pining. Or something. 

You hike your bag up onto your shoulder and juggle your books in your arms. The bell rings, and quite suddenly the entire hallway erupts into pandemonium (predictable, sure, considering everyone loiters around instead of actually getting to class on time). Kids fly around you in all directions to get to their next classroom. Nancy Wheeler ducks away from Steve Harrington, avoiding yet another kiss.

God, you wish you could kiss him.

Someone slams into your shoulder from behind, muscling past you to get to science lab 5, rat central. Your binder slips out of the stack of books in your arms and clatters loudly to the ground, just as someone walks past and kicks it across the floor.

“Fuck,” you spit, chasing after it. The back of your neck feels hot. For the first time in four years, you hope to god that Steve Harrington doesn’t notice you. 

You duck around people’s legs, trying to grab at your binder, while not trying to drop any more of the books in your arms. Loose papers are starting to fall out of the binder as it skitters across the floor, and this is becoming more and more of a comedy of errors by the minute.

Your fingers just brush the corner of it before someone kicks it again. 

“Do you mind?” you snap as they walk away, not even looking in your direction. Crouched close to the floor, you don’t matter. Maybe you could count that as a blessing, considering you don’t want to be perceived right now.

You finally just throw away all dignity and crawl across the tile floor- disgusting and dirty and covered in sandy grit, as though it hasn’t been cleaned all year- to get to your binder. 

And you come face to face with a pair of white Nike’s. Ones that you know way too well, because you’ve stared at them every time they’ve passed you in the hallway. 

Nonononono- You clench your jaw and then look up, way up, to find Steve Harrington towering over you. 

He looks like he was about to just step around you, but then he notices you gazing up at him from all fours, and his hazel eyes lock on yours. You blink at each other for a second before he flushes, a pink blush breaking out on his cheeks and crawling up his neck, and he looks away quickly, but crouches down to grab your binder before your hand can land on it. 

“Sorry,” Steve says quietly, gathering up the couple papers that had started to slide out of the folders inside. You sit back on your heels, your blood rushing in your ears, mortified. His big hands gently poke the papers back into the folder as they should be before he hands it to you. “Looks like you’re gonna be late to class.”

You scoff. “Look who’s talking.”

Steve’s eyes find yours again, and he’s finally so close to you that you can admire the little bit of green in them. You’ve never been close enough to notice before.

He cracks a lopsided smile, one that he uses to charm people, you know- you’ve seen him use it on teachers and cute girls alike. “I’m always late to the party. But I get there, eventually.”

“I hope so.” He cocks his head at you. He doesn’t know the real meaning to your words- or, at least, you don’t think he does. 

I hope you don’t stay oblivious forever, Steve Harrington. I hope you get there, eventually.

You take your binder from him, but you pull your eyes away from his a bit later than you properly should. “Thanks, Steve.”

You get up and take off toward your next class, walking quickly so that you don’t come off like you’re lingering too long. But, halfway down the hall, you look over your shoulder at him.

Steve hasn’t moved, still crouched down close to the floor, with his head bent like he’s deep in thought. With his back to you, you can still see the pink flush on the back of his neck, peeking out above his collared shirt.

‘Cause I can see you, waiting down the hall from me, and I can see you up against the wall with me. What would you do? Baby, if you only knew that I can see you…

Hawkins High, April 1985

Prom season sucks. Always has, and always will. 

Maybe it was your fault for hoping that Logan Sawyer, popular prick extraordinaire, was serious about wanting to take you to prom. He seemed serious enough, stopping by your locker during passing period and leaning over you as he asked you, his mega-watt smile making you blush. You’d counted yourself lucky- you didn’t think anyone was going to ask you, and people aren’t allowed to go to prom stag.

It took Logan two weeks to find a prettier girl to go with, though. You don’t know why it hurts so much. Maybe it’s because you wanted to believe that you were someone’s first choice, but it never quite seems to turn out that way.

You wipe your tears in the mirror, scowling at your puffy, bloodshot eyes. The bathroom next to the girls’ locker room in the sports wing is completely deserted at this time- the boys’ gym class is in session now, and you’re cutting into your lunch time, but you really don’t want to have to go and cry at a lunch table, in front of a bunch of your bitchy peers, who will inevitably make fun of you for it.

Sniffling, but slightly more composed, you head out of the bathroom. The sports wing is ridiculously bigger than any other wing of the school (typical of American public schools, to prioritize sports over every other department). The wing boasts weight training rooms, dance rooms, three separate gymnasiums, and a door directly to the football field, with the locker rooms on the farthest end to allow for easy access to the field. Connecting all of these rooms is the longest corridor in the building, which seems to run for half a fucking mile.

You’ll have to walk that half mile, because in order to get to the cafeteria, you’re gonna have to traverse the entire building. You might not get to eat much today, but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make. Maybe Mrs. Marshall will be kind enough to let you snack on a granola bar in your next class period.

Halfway down the long hallway, you feel the angry sting of tears behind your eyes again, and your face screws up in frustration. You stop, turning halfway back toward the girls’ bathroom, wondering if you should just go back in and allow yourself to cry some more.

Suck it up, you think to yourself, smacking at your tear stained cheeks. He’s not the guy you really want to ask you to prom, anyways.

You press your fingertips into your eyes to relieve the sting of tears, taking a deep breath. Being in high school is driving you crazy. At this point in the year, the teachers have given up teaching, the students have given up learning, and you’re basically just biding your time in a glorified babysitting service until you can inevitably grab your diploma and get out of here. You can’t wait for that time to arrive. 

A door opens further down the hallway, in the direction of the cafeteria. You wipe your nose once and keep moving in the direction you were going, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, standing in the middle of the hallway having a breakdown.

Moving forwards, you keep your eyes on the ground. Once you hear the door that had been opened slam shut again, you figure that whoever it was has moved on down the hallway, and you lift your eyes again. 

They have not, in fact, moved on. And you suddenly have the urge to turn and fucking run back into the girls’ bathroom, because Steve Harrington is bent over at the drinking fountain, directly outside the boys’ weight room.

What the fuck, what the fuck. You suck on your teeth, trying not to falter in your stride. Maybe he hasn’t seen you, and you can just pass him up. It’s fine, he hasn’t seen you crying. 

Your mind backtracks to the beginning of the year, you fumbling your binder all the way across the hallway and ending up right in front of him, crawling toward him. Looking up at him and probably, most definitely, making him really uncomfortable.

You have English class together, where you sit at the desk closest to the door. He comes in late almost every day, so he passes by you every time. Some days he looks at your desk. On good days, he meets your eye. But he hasn’t spoken to you since that day in September, and you really shouldn’t hold out hope that he will. 

You definitely don’t want him to notice you when you’ve been crying, your face is a mess, your hair is limp and you look bedraggled. You just want to fade into the background of your next class with whatever snack you can get from the cafeteria snuck into your bag, so you can stress eat it without any guff from a teacher (like you aren’t 18 and capable of deciding when you are and aren’t allowed to eat).

You keep your eyes down. If you don’t look at him, he doesn’t exist.

Except, Steve Harrington always exists, in the back of your mind, and in your periphery. He is impossible not to notice, as per usual. He really just draws the eye like a magnet. Try as you might, your eyes keep flicking up to take stock of him. 

He’s wearing a uniform gray P.E. shirt and gym shorts that don’t leave a lot to the imagination, and you fixate on his thighs more than you should. He has sweat dripping down his neck, wetting his hair on the sides of his face and the seam of his shirt. It shouldn’t be attractive. He shouldn’t be attractive. With his face a mess. And his hair limp, and looking bedraggled. Truly, you make a priceless pair, being the only two people in the hallway.

We’re perfect for each other, a voice says in your head. And you manage, for the first time in an hour, to crack a smile down at your shoes.

He finishes getting his drink at the fountain, and you figure that he’ll just go back into the weight room and not see you. But, of course, luck is not on your side.

Steve Harrington looks at you. And you look away, quickly, acting like you hadn’t been staring at him. And in your periphery, again, you see him stretch his arms over his head, and then turn and lean against the cinderblock wall beside the door to the weight room, with his hands on his knees as though he’s catching his breath.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

He does it so casually, and with the way he’s sweating and his face is flushed, you’re sure that he probably does just want to take a break before going in and lifting more weights. But something in the back of your mind says that the maneuver was too purposeful, immediately after he laid eyes on you. 

It could just be wishful thinking on your part. You heard through the grapevine that Steve and Nancy Wheeler broke up in a nasty way just before winter break, and it doesn’t seem like he’s been interested in anyone since. He hasn’t dated anyone, hasn’t flirted with any girls or showed up at any parties. Nancy must have really broken his heart.

You know too well what that feels like, right now.

Nearing where he leans against the wall, you keep your head down and you plan on just passing by without any acknowledgement from him, same as it ever was. If he’s still carrying a torch for Nancy, you’re sure that he doesn’t want anything to do with you. You’ve nearly convinced yourself of it.

But then you hear your name called quietly, and it nearly makes you jump. You look over at him, thinking you’re just hearing things, but you look directly into a pair of hazel eyes again, and you feel yourself rocketing back in time to September.

You didn’t even think he knew your name.

You slow to a stop. It would be rude not to stop, right? “Uh… hi, Steve. You good?”

Steve Harrington looks you up and down, while he leans against the wall and breathes a bit heavily, like he’s out of breath. He peers at you through long eyelashes, looking impossibly inviting despite everything; the setting, your appearances, the way that you feel like dissolving into a puddle right in front of him. “Yeah, great. You?”

He’s scrutinizing your face now. You shrug, since he’s already seen you, and there’s no way to pretend you weren’t crying thirty seconds ago. “I’m fine. Just being dramatic, don’t worry about me.” 

“When people say not to worry about them, it usually means that you should,” Steve muses. He looks coy, like he’s speaking from experience. 

You sigh, stepping forward to get your own drink from the drinking fountain. “Logan Sawyer called off our date for prom.”

“Oh.” Steve pauses for a few seconds, watching as you bend down and take your drink, more silent than he usually is. “I mean… that really sucks. I’m sorry. But… Logan Sawyer?”  

“Yeah.” You wipe your mouth, and then wet the ends of your fingers and use the cool water to rub at your stinging eyes again. When you’re done, you lean up against the wall beside him, letting your back settle into the cinderblock.

“The guy’s a fucking douche.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, I mean it, I think it’s a good thing you’re not going to prom with him. He’s really shitty to girls.” You look up at Steve, who’s watching you with his arms crossed, with the most serious expression you’ve ever seen him wear. “I mean, the only guy worse than Logan is probably… I dunno…”

“Billy Hargrove?” 

Steve laughs. Actually laughs. You’ve wanted to make him laugh like that for four years. His cheeks turn crimson and he grins down at his shoes, snickering like there’s way more to the joke he’s laughing at than you even know about. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s gotta be the worst.”

You chuckle, albeit with a sadder tone than he has. “Well, I’m not going to prom with either of them. So, I can count my blessings. I guess.”

Steve frowns, and he looks like he’s going to say something else, but you’re already turning away, not wanting to continue the depressing conversation about your lack of dates. Especially not from the one guy who you desperately want to go on a date with.

You get a few steps away before he takes a step after you, saying, “Wait. You, uh-”

You stop, and look back at him. He looks dumbfounded, his arm outstretched like he was going to try to grab you if you didn’t listen to him. When you frown, he steps back against the wall, bringing his hand up to run through his hair. 

Oh . That’s a nervous tick. You know it, because you’ve watched him do it more than once in English, in front of the class during a presentation.

Steve looks down at his shoes, his brow scrunched in thought. He looks like he’s really trying to find the right words to say. In your head, a hopeful part of you imagines what those words could be. ‘Will you go to prom with me?’

Finally, he looks up at you resolutely. “You’ll find someone to take you to prom. I’m sure of it.” He nods a little, like he’s reassuring himself that he said the right thing. 

You can’t help the smile that springs onto your face. It’s incredulous, of course, but he can’t know that. Keep trying, baby. You’ll get there, eventually.

“Thanks, Steve.” It’s the second time you thank him in the course of the year.

But what would you do if I went to touch you now? What would you do if they never found us out? What would you do if we never made a sound?

Prom Night, May 1985

The dress you’re wearing is sleek and a lot simpler than some of the more popular styles on the dance floor, but you like it more than you care to admit. You’d just grabbed it off the rack at Macy’s, and beyond that you didn’t want to go all-out for prom. It turns out that your lab partner, Gavin Connelly, needed a date, too. So, you’re here with him, because you knew that if you missed prom, you would probably regret it.

Except, well.

Gavin, stoned out of his fucking mind, is sitting at one of the tables, nursing a cup of punch, looking like he’s two seconds from falling asleep. You’ve taken to making the rounds and saying hi to anyone you can call a ‘friend,’ because you’re tired of just loitering next to him. Something tells you he didn’t want to even be here.

The speakers are playing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’ and couples are swaying on the dance floor in a Bonnie Tyler-induced haze. At a loss for people to bother, you wander back over to your date to find his head plastered to the white table cloth. 

You glance to the guy sitting next to him, a kid with glasses who you don’t recognize but who seems to know your date, because he’s just patting Gavin’s back. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, no, he’s dying.” The kid shoots you a sarcastic smile. 

You nod, pressing your tongue hard to the roof of your mouth. “Well, if he wakes up, tell him I’m getting some air.”

Fuck this. Fuck prom. Fuck high school boys.

Your heels, which are killing your feet already, click loudly on the tile hallway floor as you exit the gym. The table where you can check your bag and coat are located at the other end of the hall, where everyone is supposed to enter through the door to the football field.

You can hear voices from the far end of the hall, and Bonnie Tyler’s voice fading out the further you get from the gym. You might never be able to hear that song again without thinking of your ruined slow dance opportunity.

As you pass by, someone coughs off to the left and you turn your head to see Steve Harrington, black tie and all, loitering in the shadows. You stop a few feet from him and squint into the dark.

You can’t believe it. He always seems to show up at the worst times. “What are you doing, skulking around?” 

“I’m not sulking.”

You snort, stepping into the shadows with him. “No, skulk- like, sneaking around?” 

“Well, I didn’t mean to sneak-” he looks over his shoulder at the gym entrance. “I’m just getting some air.”

“Funny,” you murmur. “I was just about to do the same thing.”

He eyes you, a lot like he did a few weeks ago in this same hallway, further up toward the other end of it. He takes in your hair, styled painstakingly to ‘perfection,’ or as close as you could approximate it, and your off-the-rack department store dress. You suddenly feel like you aren’t as pretty as you thought you were at the beginning of the night. 

But then he meets your eye, and all those insecurities fade into the back of your mind. He’s smiling at you, and that can only be a good thing.

“So, uh…” Steve leans back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, “You found someone to take you?”

You press your lips into a tight line. You don’t really want to think about your date right now, but- “Gavin Connelly.”

“Who?”

You laugh, kicking the heel of your shoe against the ground with a soft clack. “Yeah. God, I wish I didn’t know him right now.”

“Why, what’d he do?” Steve sounds perturbed. You look up to find him scowling already.

“Oh, he just ate a pot brownie before he picked me up and passed out at one of the tables.” You finish with a tired giggle, shrugging at Steve as he peers at you with an annoyed expression. “Who did you bring?”

“Kelly Palmer.” 

You know Kelly. She doesn’t say much, but she’s gotten a scholarship to a big art school. “Do you like her?”

“Yeah, she’s nice,” he says mildly. Unconvincingly.

You can understand the subtext. She’s not Nancy. When you look at his face, he seems tortured in the low light coming from down the hall.

“Guess I’m oh-for-two,” Steve adds after a pause. “Last year’s prom, Nance and I didn’t have such a good time, either.”

You nod. It seems like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” you offer. You don’t know the ins-and-outs of Steve and Nancy’s relationship, aside from watching them suck face in the hallway five paces from you for a year and a half. “Prom sucks. High school sucks. These can’t be the best years of our lives, trust me.”

“Yeah, I hope not.” 

“I just can’t wait to get out of here, you know,” you grumble, allowing your sour mood to come out a little more than normal. It seems like Steve is just really good at getting you to let your guard down. “I’m planning to go to Chicago for college. This is all just… you know, it’s just the starting point. What about you, any big plans?”

“Dunno. I didn’t get accepted to any schools, so I’ll just be getting a job here in town until something better comes along.” Steve shifts, his heel hitting the wall behind him. He looks disappointed when he says, “I think I made too many mistakes.” 

You frown, chewing on your lip. “What do you mean?”

He gives you a heavy look, like he’s gearing up to say something important, something game changing- and then his gaze softens. 

“You’ve got an eyelash.” He gestures to his own eye, like it’ll make you understand exactly where the loose one is on your face.

“Oh.” You falter, lifting your manicured hands and wiping at your undereyes. “Did I get it?”

“No, uh- here, I can-” Steve tentatively reaches forward, and you step toward him to let him touch your face. 

Steve Harrington is touching your face.  

His fingertip brushes your cheekbone, so featherlight you would barely feel it if you weren’t hyper aware of everything that he said or did. His touch glides across your cheek and toward your temple, and then he seems to keep it there, his hand hovering just over your skin.

Reflexively, your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. You’re inches from Steve’s face, your eyes falling to his lips.

You could kiss him. You could live your fantasy, right now.

Steve’s gaze lingers on your face for a moment, and then he says, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. He doesn’t say that you look beautiful. He doesn’t say it conditionally, like it’s just for tonight. You are beautiful. Even when you’re crawling on all fours after your binder. Even when you’re crying, and your hair is limp, and you look bedraggled.

“Steve…” you whisper, inching closer to him. 

“STEVE??!”

You jump away from him like he’s burned you, and peek around the hall corner to see Kelly Palmer standing outside the gym looking up and down the hall, searching for him. She looks lost, and sad, like he must have ditched.

She looks an awful lot like you just did, coming out of that gym.

You feel Steve’s hand where it had fallen to your wrist, dragging your attention gently back to him. You take his hand and squeeze it once, giving him a tight smile. 

“You brought her here for a good time,” you say with your bravest smile. “Just don’t pass out at one of the tables on her, okay?”

Don’t be a douche. Don’t be like Logan Sawyer. 

Steve swallows, and gives you a short nod. You think he finally got there.

You give a soft pat to the lapel of his suit jacket. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” 

He touches your arm one final time before he slips around the corner, just as Kelly turns to go back into the gym. You watch him walk away, and you think to yourself, That’s the last time I chase after Steve Harrington.

Wherever there is, it’s not with you.

Steve loops his arms around Kelly’s waist and lifts her, earning a thrilled squeal as the silver taffeta of her dress glints blue in the light from the gym. You wait until they’ve disappeared back into it before you turn and high-tail it toward the coat check table.

And we kept everything professional, but something’s changed, it’s something I like. They keep watchful eyes on us, so it’s best if we move fast and keep quiet…

Starcourt Mall, June 1985

“Come on, it’s ridiculously hot outside,” your best friend, Shelly, groans as she pulls you along by the wrist. “I can’t believe they only have one ice cream place here.”

“I’m sure they have slushies at the-”

“Ice. Cream.” You know better than to argue with her.

Scoops Ahoy has a novelty nautical theme that makes you want to both laugh and break down in tears when you see it. The PA is playing a cutesy rendition of Drunken Sailor on accordion, and you think that if you keep looking at the striped wallpaper behind the counter, you might get literally seasick. In the mall. In landlocked Indiana. 

Or… is it landlocked if it fronts Lake Michigan? It doesn’t matter. You’ll be in Chicago in two days, anyways.

You let Shelly drag you along until you look towards the front counter, and you see something that nearly makes you trip and face plant into Shelly’s fresh perm.

Even Shelly pauses. “Is that who I think it is?”

It’s something about the stupid little sailor’s cap and shorts, and that he’s so, so pretty in it, you think. It’s also something about how you have the perfect vantage point to watch him try and fail to flirt with the girl that approaches the counter to order. You’re enamored with him. There’s no other way to describe it. 

You have half a mind to run away, after what you promised yourself on prom night over a month ago. You’d done good, you didn’t search for him in the halls, you ignored him in your last couple of class periods with him. You’d even been in the bathroom when his name was called at graduation. 

But, here he is. Steve Harrington, absolutely obliterating his chances of getting a date with the girl ordering a sundae ahead of you. 

Honestly, you don’t know what you’re waiting for. Maybe an invitation? A sign from god that today’s the day that you’ll make a move? Or maybe this is just a test of will.

You stop resisting Shelly’s attempts to drag you along, and straighten your spine. You can do this. Four years’ worth of pining won’t make a difference in whether or not you order a strawberry ice cream cone.

He’s even prettier up close, his rosy cheeks framed by sunkissed, wavy hair. When he sees you he stalls, going a bit wide-eyed and then seeming to realize he’s supposed to do his job. He leans heavily against the counter. “Ahoy, ladies! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I’ll be your captain, Steve Harrington.”

“Uh-huh.” You stare at each other for a long moment. “How much do they pay you to recite that script?”

“Absolutely nothing, I do this for pure enjoyment.” You’re almost sure that he doesn’t. He pauses, a hand poised on his hip. “Too much?”

“I’d dial it back just a smidge. Maybe keep the ahoy and the captain thing and toss the rest.” 

“Noted.” He nods slowly, his eyes fixed on you. “I thought you were going to Chicago?”

“I leave the day after tomorrow,” you shrug. “Still time for me to burn the place down, you know.”

“Well, I’m glad you stopped by,” Steve chuckles. “I could show you where the gas line is, then we’d all be in trouble.”

“Oookay.” Shelly gives you a curious side-eye, and then turns back to Steve. “Well, I’ll have a U.S.S. Butterscotch with a chocolate dipped waffle bowl, if you don’t mind.”

Steve tears his eyes away from you long enough to grin at Shelly. “Coming right up. And for you?”

You freeze, glancing up at the menu. It’s written in an infuriatingly cutesy code-language that you have to decipher. “Um. I’m still deciding.”

“All right, then. Just let me know, when you’re ready.” 

Steve slips away to make Shelly her sundae, a heaping pile of ice cream and butterscotch syrup that looks like the fast track to a heart attack. You alternate between trying to comprehend the menu and being distracted by Steve in that stupid sailor’s uniform.

The script on the menu may as well be written in a foreign language. Blackbeard’s Delight. Treasure Island Turtle. U.S.S. Sherbet. The sizes are even harder to understand. Fathom. League. Nautical Mile. You don’t have the capacity to decipher it- your eyes are seeing the words, but your mind is traveling back to prom night, and feeling Steve’s finger on your cheek as you gear up to kiss him.

“Are you ready?”

“Mhm…” It takes you a second to zone back into the present moment, where Steve is standing in front of you, on the other side of the counter, waiting to take your order. He waits, with a patient smile on his face, while you blink dumbly at him.

What did you say? What did he say?

“I… um.” You’re sure you look completely out of it. Your eyes flick nervously up at the menu, that you still can’t fucking read. Shelly’s already gone to sit down with her sundae, the traitor.

“It’s kind of hard to understand, isn’t it?” Steve says quietly after a moment, dropping the phony customer service charade. “I hate it. I think we should just be able to say what our favorite ice cream flavor is and be done with it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still squinting up at the menu. Blackbeard’s Delight: blackberry swirl with blueberry syrup and a gold doubloon. “The fuck is a doubloon?”

Steve snorts, and reaches under the counter before bringing back a handful of gold foil-covered chocolate coins, which he dumps into your outstretched hand. “You want more? We get them wholesale.”

“I’m good,” you giggle, juggling the chocolate coins before they go cascading to the floor. “I think… I don’t… I don’t understand a thing on that menu.”

“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” He leans forward to ask you, like it's a secret. Just between the two of you. His head bent a little to peer at you closely, so close that you can count the freckles on his skin.

You glance over your shoulder. Shelly is seated by the far wall, under a painting of a kraken, giving you an indignant look. When she notices you looking, she mouths an emphatic, ‘LET’S GO!’

“Don’t tell anyone,” you whisper, and Steve affects his gravest expression as he nods. “Strawberry.” 

“A classic,” he grins. “Fan of sprinkles?” 

“I can dig a few sprinkles.”

“Perfect. I think we have something up your alley.” He grabs a scooper out of the bin and twirls it once, just to show off. “Sex on the Beach.” 

“What?” You don’t remember seeing anything about that on the menu.

He glances up to smirk at you before shrugging. “It’s strawberry ice cream with peach syrup. You’ll see.”

You keep an eye on his hands behind the glass partition, watching them put two scoops of strawberry into a medium sized carton. Completely unable to rein in your thoughts before they get away from you, you’re thinking about how good they would feel under your shirt. You follow a treasure map of freckles trailing up his arms, disappearing under the blue sailor’s shirt he wears. You want to kiss every single one of them.

You finally reply, “I guess I have to put my faith in your professional ice cream slinging abilities.” 

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Steve mutters sardonically as he squirts peach syrup across the two scoops of ice cream, giving it a golden sheen. “I’m the king of cream.”

You purse your lips as it takes Steve a second to realize what he just said. When he does, he snaps his head up to meet your eye in horror. 

He opens his mouth to take it back, but you shake your head, holding back laughter. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I think it’s pretty much ruined already.” He turns crimson, blushing down at the half-made sundae as he rapidly shakes yellow sprinkles onto it. “I was doing so good, too.”

“Who says you aren’t still?” You give him a cute smile when he looks up through his lashes at you, still arranging toppings on the sundae. You’re not sure what happened between prom and now to change him so much, but it’s almost as if he’s… goofy. He’s less concerned with appearances, he’s more laid back and willing to make fun of himself. 

You like it a lot. 

You watch him plop two maraschinos onto one ice cream mound, and wedge a candied orange slice into the other, inverted, to look like a setting sun. As he passes it over the counter to you, he says, “Here you go, one Sex on the Beach. On the house.”

“What? No, I couldn’t-”

“I mean it. For overlooking my stupidity,” Steve insists. He gives you a meaningful look when he adds, “A million times over.”

“I’m not overlooking anything when it comes to you, Steve,” you tell him fondly, and drop one of the doubloons into the tip jar. It’s gaudy, gleaming artificially gold in the middle of the crumpled up dollar bills. “Hang onto that. You might be able to cash it in for a kiss someday.”

Steve blinks rapidly, leaning across the counter as you walk away. “After you come back from Chicago, right?”

You look over your shoulder, and you wink at him.

When you finally stop in front of Shelly, and you use your plastic spoon to dig into the adorable sundae that Steve crafted for you, you remember that you’d gone up to the counter with every intention of ignoring Steve and acting like you didn’t even know him.

You winked at Steve Harrington. You said you’d kiss him. You think back to the girl who was so afraid of Steve even noticing her, almost a year ago, and wonder where she went.

You look down at Shelly. She’d graduated a year before you, so she wasn’t there to witness every blunderous interaction you’d had with Steve in school. You never told her how in love you were with him.

Now, she looks up at you coyly. “So. Steve Harrington, huh?”

“Shut up,” you grunt, looking up and out at the food court outside of the Scoops Ahoy storefront. “As if you know everything.”

“Are you gonna try to make something out of that…” she gestures vaguely with her spoon toward the counter, “before school starts?” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” you say honestly, still poking at your sundae. “Anyways, I leave too soon for anything to really happen. What- I screw him tomorrow and then fuck off forever? It’s just wishful thinking, probably.” You finally take a bite of the ice cream, just to punctuate your sentence.

“Hm. Probably. How is that?” Shelly nods at the ice cream in your hand. “Looks pretty.”

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” You’re being honest. Something about the peach syrup with the strawberry base literally evokes the flavor of a sunset. “They should give him a raise.”

Humming, Shelly stands and takes her half-eaten sundae. She nudges you in the direction of the door. “C’mon. We’ve gotta eat these before the next showing of The Breakfast Club.”

Steve watches you and your friend leave, with the wistful gaze of someone who just watched their greatest opportunity walk away from them. He never knew that it was possible to hate an entire geographic location, but he really wishes Chicago would get blown off the map in the next 24 hours. 

The wooden partition doors slam open, and Robin’s head appears in the window to the kitchen. “The cream king? Do you want me to actually hurl?”

“I said, ‘the king of cream,’” he groans, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets. “Kill me, Robin. Load me into the freezer. Bury me at the fairground.”

“You think you’re valuable enough to displace that much ice cream?” Robin rolls her eyes, and with another loud thwack, her white board appears in the space behind her. “We don’t make anything called Sex on the Beach. This is a family establishment.”

“I made it up.” 

Robin coos, “Aww. Be still my heart. You love her to the point of invention.” 

Steve whirls around. “Love? Who said anything about love?” 

“I did.” Robin uncaps her dry-erase marker and draws a tally mark under the side that reads, you rule.

“Uh, Robin,” Steve snaps, pointing at the board condescendingly. “I think you put that on the wrong side. I fucked it up.”

“Dingus. Please. As much as it makes me gag- and you know I gain immense pleasure from counting how often you screw up- I could practically hear her heart eyes.” She sets the white board down, begrudgingly. “I think you found the only girl alive who’ll find all this-” she waves her hand at him, “endearing. Who was she? Some ex of yours?” 

“If only,” Steve sighs, shaking his head. When he turns back to the counter, his eyes land on the single chocolate coin glinting in the tip jar.

He scoops it up with two fingers and pockets it.

You won’t believe half the things I see inside my head. Wait ‘til you see half the things that haven’t happened yet…

Family Video, March 1986

The air conditioning nearly blasts you backwards into the parking lot. You don’t know why they need it blasting so hard at 7pm, in the middle of March. It’s not like it’s the height of summer- your spring break takes place earlier than the local school’s, but it just means that you get to beat the crowds when you come home to visit your family.

Of course, they love to send you to run errands. You end up picking up the groceries, and the housewares, and, on this occasion, the choices for family movie night. 

This Family Video’s selection isn’t necessarily as extensive as the ones in Chicago, but it’s good enough. You enter the store, and it dumps you directly in front of a cardboard cutout of Phoebe Cates about to flash you. Family friendly entertainment, and all.

The TV in the corner is running the final scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly- Ennio Morricone’s score plays dramatically into the empty store. There’s no one behind the counter currently, so you pull the list of videos your extended family members had all requested. The Breakfast Club. Camelot. The Birds. Pretty general selections for your family, but it seems like you’ll have to hunt them up on your own. 

You’re wandering down the romance aisle, since The Breakfast Club was nowhere on the new releases or comedy shelves, when someone finally emerges from the back room. You see a flash of a head moving toward the front counter from over the top of a rack, and you take it as your chance to ask for help.

“Excuse me? Do you guys have any copies of The Breakfast Club, or-”

You stop short, choking on your words. Steve Harrington turns around to look at you, carrying a stack of VHS tapes perched under his chin, and holding a folded up piece of paper between his teeth.

You stare each other down for a second, before Steve gracefully spits the paper over his shoulder and onto the counter. “Hey, um… long time, no see?”

“I’d say.” You tilt your head. Funny how quickly your eyes will hone in on his lips, like searching for a target every time. “We always seem to run into each other like this. What happened to the ice cream gig?”

“Starcourt burned down,” Steve says, plopping the stack of VHS tapes down on the counter beside the paper he spit out. “Right around the Fourth of July, last summer.”

“So, right after I last saw you?”

Steve smirks to himself before he turns back to you. “Yeah. Like, a week or so after. Did you manage to burn the place down, after all?” 

“I wish.” 

You pause, taking the time to size him up. It’s amazing what the better part of a year will do to someone, inside and out. With a striped shirt and green vest, he looks much more relaxed and casual than he had at Scoops Ahoy. His hair’s a little longer, his eyes a little darker as they rake over you, in return. 

You’re a little bit desperate to see what’s going on in his head, if it’s anything like what’s happening in yours.

You wish you could say that you tried to seek him out when you got back to town- a year ago, maybe you would have. But you’d pretty much given up on the idea of him, moving up to dating college boys who don’t string you along, who don’t wait until the last minute to finally try their hand at flirting with you. If he ever passed through your mind, it was with the attached hope that he’d found greener pastures than Hawkins, Indiana. Foolishly, you hoped that as long as you told yourself that he’d moved on, it would be true. And then maybe what could have been wouldn’t matter anymore.

You’d stepped back into Hawkins after half a year of college, the graveyard of all hope in your happily ever after, and you hadn’t even thought of Steve Harrington. Except, seeing him now, everything comes flooding back. All the days spent pining over him. All the close brushes you’d had with finally getting the ending you wanted. 

You have to be honest. “You look good, Steve. You always do.”

Steve chuckles, tilting his chin down as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his light wash jeans. “Better without the sailor costume, right?”

“Aww, I liked the sailor costume.” You step closer so you can whisper, “I thought it was sexy.”

Steve peers down his nose at you, drawing himself up to tower above you at his full height. He tries to look unaffected, but you can see his ears glowing pink beneath wisps of golden highlights. “Watch it. You’re gonna give me an ego.”

“We don’t want that, do we?” You unfold the list of movies you’re here to collect, holding it up to him between two fingers. “Got any of these movies?” 

Steve reads the short list, and nods to himself. “I know we have Camelot, but I’m not sure about The Breakfast Club. Let me check in the back?” 

“I’ll be here.”

“All right- don’t get up to any trouble, though. I’ve got my eye on you.” He points at you coolly, feigning an authoritative expression. He tries to hide his smile, but the creases around his eyes give him away. 

“I hope you do.” You try to appear casual as you breeze past him, but you have to fiddle with your jacket collar to hide their shaking. Still, you feel the sweep of his gaze on you like rays of sun on your skin. It frightens you how easily you can fall back into the old back-and-forth routine you established in high school- how he gets you to say things you never meant to voice, but that live in your head effortlessly. 

Steve watches you disappear down the drama aisle before he takes in a huge breath of air and bolts toward the back room. Any and all coolness he was performing disappears like so much smoke. Slamming open the door, he nearly shouts, “Do you have a doubloon?!” 

Robin startles, swinging around in her seat, looking away from her computer screen. “A what? Why are you yelling?”

“A doubloon, a f-fucking-” Steve looks quickly over his shoulder, out the door, and starts hunching over as he whispers, “a chocolate coin. Like one of those ones we had at Scoops, remember?”

“Why do you want a chocolate coin?” Robin squints at him. “Stop crouching like that, you look like Nosferatu.”

Steve hisses through his teeth, and he’s got a frantic edge to his expression that Robin doesn’t like. “Okay- remember that girl, the one who showed up at Scoops that time, and you gave me my one and only ‘You Rule’ tally?” 

“No.”

“Great. Well, she’s here, and she told me if I gave her one of those chocolate coins she’d kiss me.” Steve shoves his hands through his hair, mussing up the already disheveled style. “Please, Rob, I can’t let her get away again. I’ve done it, like, a thousand times already.” 

“Okay, Romeo,” Robin humors him, turning around in her seat. “So you’re saying this babe, who I very much don’t remember because you always struck out while we worked at Scoops, told you that if you bribed her with chocolate she’d kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think she was maybe joking?” 

Steve opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. Truthfully, he hadn’t. He’d overlooked the idea that, after everything that had happened between you, you might just be joking about kissing him. 

“You know you could use your actual charm to get a girl to kiss you?” Robin dips her chin, shaking her head like it’s obvious.

Steve frowns. As if he hasn’t already tried that. “Do you have any chocolate coins or not?”

Robin sighs exasperatedly. “I don’t think I’ve seen one of those things since we worked at Scoops. Sorry, bud. You’re out of luck.” 

“FUCK!” Steve’s hand smacks the door as he heads out of the back room, making Robin scowl after him. She shakes her head as she turns back to her work.

Back out on the sales floor, the credits to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly have finished, and white noise fills the empty space. Steve turns in a circle by the checkout counter, searching for you among the aisles.

Where did you disappear to, this time? A part of him dreads the answer. He was the one who fucked everything up- he shouldn’t have chickened out when he had the chance. He should have asked you to that fucking prom, but he was too scared to commit after what happened with Nancy. 

If this is his last chance, he needs to make it count. 

He coughs into the dead air, and says, “Looks like we’re all out of The Breakfast Club.” There’s a disconcerting amount of silence that leaves him cold, almost certain that you’ve left already, for the last time.

Then, you appear from behind the red curtain to the adult videos section.

Oh.  

“Everything okay?” you ask sweetly as you approach, holding a couple tapes that you must have picked up while you shopped around. “I heard some yelling back there.” 

“Oh, yeah. Just, uh… shelving issues.” Steve backs his way behind the counter. He repeats, “Sorry, I couldn’t find the movie for you.”

“I heard. I’m not worried about it.” You plop the tapes that you did find on the counter. “It was nice of you to look for me. Thanks, Steve.”

“Always.” Steve starts scanning your tapes; it looks like you managed to find the other films on your list, along with one for yourself. From the adult section. 

You watch in amusement as you can see the cogs visibly turning in Steve’s head, while he stares at the front of the porn video you picked. Spring Break Sex Party II. Not that you’d ever seen the first one, but the cover of this one was suggestive enough- a bunch of drunk people naked on a beach, lying in a great big pile. Looks like fun, in your opinion.

You always love seeing Steve blush. The prettiest shade of pink colors his cheeks before he glances up at you. “Should I ask…?”

“It’s the closest thing to getting a Sex on the Beach, here.” 

Steve chokes, and he scrambles for a response to that. “I- I was gonna ask for an I.D.”

“You know we’re the same age,” you deadpan.

“Y-yeah. I, uh- I know… I know that.” He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes tightly shut.

You wonder if this is what you looked like to him, that time in the hallway when he loitered by the fountain to talk to you. “Breathe, Steve.”

A blast of laughter leaves his mouth before he can swallow it. If only you knew how hard it actually is, to act like he’s not just fucking melting right in front of you. When he hangs on every word you say, and every other thought he has is about how badly he wants to tell Robin to get lost and take you in the back room. You don’t know how much he’s fixating on your curves and how they’d feel against him, how much he wants to taste every inch of your body. He’s practically vibrating in place with all his pent up frustration, and you’re here buying porn, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Steve clears his throat, shakes his head. Christ. “Okay, well. You know that this is a sale item, it’s not for rent. You can return it within 10 days as long as the packaging hasn’t been opened.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” He’s still nodding as he puts it into the bag with the rest of your rentals. 

“Are you always this affected by people buying from the adult section?” you ask mildly. 

“Nah, usually I don’t care,” he replies without thinking. 

“Good to know that you care about my taste in pornography,” you tell him with the most shit eating grin on your face, taking the bag from him. “I’m flattered.”

He makes a clumsy noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. He’s right back to working at Scoops Ahoy, fumbling every attempt at flirting, losing his cool at the sight of a pretty girl. It’s… humbling.

He’s sure Robin would say that he can always use more humility.

“It was good to see you again, Steve.” And just like that, you’re sand slipping through the cracks in his fingers. 

Desperately, he tries to block the flow, closing his fingers around you in an attempt to keep you in his grasp. “Do you- uh-” He lurches forward, white-knuckling the counter like his life depends on it. You turn back towards him, an eyebrow raised at his sudden outburst. 

You’re back in the school hallway, senior year. Crying over Logan Sawyer. Harrington is up against the wall by the drinking fountain. You want him to just say the words and ask you to prom.

“I mean… if you have the time, while you’re in town… do you want to go for a cup of coffee? With me?”

“Oh, Steve.” You sigh, and it’s the most heartbreaking noise he’s ever heard in his life. Soft sand, falling through his fingers, disappearing back the way you came. He already dreads your answer before it comes. “I wish… you know, if I had come in here and met you about a week ago, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. But I have to catch the train back to Chicago tomorrow. My break’s almost up.” You offer him a reassuring smile. “I’m just glad that you didn’t completely miss me, at least.”

“Right, of course.” Steve smiles back at you, feeling more like an idiot the longer this drags on. He’s like Sisyphus rolling that rock up the fucking hill. “I… I’m glad I got to see you, too. Maybe next time.” 

Oh, it hurts. It hurts way more than you thought it would, to have to turn Steve down- after all the years pining for him through high school, after the time you turned him away when he would have kissed you. You think about kissing him, now. He would let you do it- he’s asking you out, and he looks so sad that you’re saying no.

You could. But wouldn’t it make saying goodbye this time even harder than it already is?

“Yeah. Maybe next time,” you tell him. You don’t want this to hurt more than it does. You truly hope there’s a next time, another year down the line when you run into him over winter break. Maybe you’ll find him at the Radio Shack. 

Steve watches you leave, once again. Fumbling his chance, again. When the door swings shut behind you, Steve bends at the waist and drops his head against the countertop. 

Typical Harrington. Late to the party, miss the girl.

“Well. That was… really painful to listen to.” Robin emerges from behind one of the shelves, crossing her arms. Gently, she adds, “On the bright side, I don’t think the chocolate coin would have mattered.”

Steve picks his head up, and he thwacks his forehead back down onto the counter.

And again.

And again.

And I can see you being my addiction, you can see me as a secret mission. Hide away, and I will start behaving myself…

Sur La Table Restaurant, Chicago, April 1991

You shake your umbrella out as you step into the warm foyer of, quite possibly, the most upscale restaurant you’ve ever set foot in. The carpet is deep, blood red, the walls a dark chestnut wood. The white covered tables are each spotlit within the otherwise dark dining room, and the atmosphere is flavored by soft piano and the quiet din of hushed voices. 

You had been hesitant to accept Theo’s invitation to dinner- he seemed too stuck up for your taste, but when Shelly introduced you to him, you had to admit that the name of the restaurant piqued your interest. Sur La Table. Chicago’s premiere Michelin Star restaurant. 

As you hand your umbrella over to the coat check clerk, you’re greeted by a smiling hostess. “What’s the name for the reservation?”

“Um… Theo Bowman. I believe he’s already here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right this way.” 

Theo stands as you’re shown to the table. Tall, with dark hair and a wide smile, he reminds you of someone you knew once, but you just can’t seem to place it. Then, when he towers over you to shake your hand, standing far closer than necessary, you’re able to pick it out from the recesses of your mind.

Logan Sawyer.  

“You look nice,” Theo says pleasantly, and you chalk up your initial comparison to nerves, on your part. You don’t often let friends set you up on dates, so you’re a little bit out of your element as it is.

As you go to sit down, you admit, “I was so glad when you picked this place, I’ve always wanted to eat here, since I moved to Chicago.” 

“It’s not the nicest place I’ve been,” Theo shrugs, taking the seat across from you.

Your smile falters, for a second. “Oh, no?” The water has already been brought to the table, you guess while he was waiting for you. You take a long drink.

“Nah, I’ve been to Le Bernardin, in New York. That’s fine dining.” Theo waves his hand at the upscale dining room. “This is… okay.”

“I see.” You lift your menu, hoping that he’ll do the same.

“Yeah, New York is so much nicer than Chicago, in my opinion,” Theo continues, fiddling with his napkin as he talks. “There’s a lot more to do. Have you ever been?”

You hope this is just his nerves talking. “No.” 

Theo keeps talking as you stare at the menu in front of you, at a loss. It’s an a la carte menu, clearly, but extensive and all in french. Salade de poires pochées. Coquilles Saint-Jacques Gratineés. Filet au poivre vert. You’re scrutinizing the fine print of what all the dishes include when your waiter steps up to the table. You know when it happens, because Theo finally stops blathering about New York. 

You break your eyes away from the menu to glance at the server’s waistline, at eye level with you. He wears a crisply pressed suit and tie, his hands clasped in front of his belt. 

“Good evening sir, ma’am,” the server says in a hushed tone, to keep the volume of the dining room down. “Welcome to Sur La Table. I’m Steven, I’ll be serving you this evening. Before we begin, are there any questions about the menu?”

You peer up into the darkness to try to see Steven’s face. He’s standing just outside of the spotlight over the table, only able to be dimly lit from the indirect light reflecting from the tablecloth. Once your eyes adjust, they lock onto a pair of familiar hazel ones.

Oh my fucking god.

It’s got to be fate, or kismet, or some force of nature that keeps bringing you together like this. Steve Harrington’s face hasn’t changed in five years. Maybe he looks just slightly older, a little more filled out in his suit and tie. His hair is a bit shorter at the back but still that same shade of golden brown, neatly groomed and tidy for the formal atmosphere- but you can see it being tousled on his off days, still flopping across his eyes in waves. And those are the same lips you dreamt about kissing, the same eyes you admired in the school hallway, the same nose that you always wanted to grind o-

“No, I think we’re ready to order,” Theo announces, louder than necessary. You throw your gaze at him, your eyebrows raising despite your best efforts to remain calm. 

Is he really going to order for you? Just like that?

“Well, I was going to ask-” you begin, wanting to get a little more specification on how the filet is made, when Theo cuts you off.

“It’s okay, I speak French,” he insists. Not that it makes a difference to what your question was.

You press your lips together in irritation and glance at Steve, who looks back at you stoically. You wonder if he recognizes you like you do him- it’s been long enough, and you’re sure that you look a bit different than you did the last time you saw him. And then you notice the creases around his eyes.

He’s playing it off well enough, sure. But Steve is doing that same look that he did there in the Family Video five years ago, trying to pretend that he’s not affected by you, swallowing back his smile. He sends you a knowing look that says, What a fucking douchebag, am I right?

Suddenly, this date just got way more entertaining. You give Steve a minute roll of your eyes, only enough for him to notice. Tell me about it.

“We’ll start with the Bordeaux,” Theo is already reciting to Steve as you settle back in your seat. Steve pulls a little notepad out of his jacket pocket and begins writing. “For an appetizer, the coquilles. Then for the main, I’ll have the canard montmorency, and she’ll have the mignons de veau.” 

You watch Steve’s hand pause as he’s writing, and he looks to you. He raises his eyebrow, saying everything he needs to with the one gesture. Is that what you really want? “The veal?”

“No,” you say, digging your thumbnail into your palm, where it rests on your lap. “Actually, I wanted to ask about the filet. What brandy is the sauce made with?” 

Steve smiles, leaning a little bit closer to you. “We use Courvoisier.”

“Great. I’ll have that, please.” 

Steve nods encouragingly at you. As he jots down the order, he says, “Wonderful. I’ll get this to the kitchen for you, but before I can bring you the wine, I’ll just need to see the lady’s I.D.”

“Are you serious?” Theo snaps. 

“It’s all right,” you murmur, hiding your face as you dip your head to fish your I.D. out of your clutch. “He’s just doing his job. Right, Steven?”

Steve meets your eye as he takes the card from your hand. “You can never be too careful.” You watch him smirk as he looks over your I.D., his eyes lingering on your name for a second before he hands it back to you. If there was any doubt in his mind that you are who he thought, it’s gone now. “Interesting. We’re the same age.”

You laugh. Probably a little louder than is respectable, but you can’t help it. Leave it to Steve Harrington to remind you of the time you bought porn from him, while you’re on a date. 

You watch Steve write something else on his notepad, and rip the page out before folding it up. He tucks his notepad into his pocket as he says, “I’ll get this started for you. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you, Steven,” you offer just as he starts to walk away. 

Steve shoots you a sideways glance. “Always.”

Your heartbeat pounds in your chest as you turn back to your date. Theo looks disgruntled, but he just lifts his water to his lips.

“So,” you begin, “what do you do?”

“Marketing manager,” Theo says, with a click of his tongue. “For Bowman Wine & Spirits.”

“Oh,” you nod. “No relation, I suppose?”

“My father owns the company.”

“Right.” God, help me. 

Across the dining room, Steve watches you over his shoulder. His jaw sets as he sees you, the girl of his literal dreams, sitting across from some idiot who doesn’t even know that you don’t order for your date without asking her what she wants first, you fucking weasel. 

That’s all right. You seem to have the situation under control, for now. Steve watches you calmly sip your water, staring at your date but not listening to a thing he’s saying. 

Steve sighs. He’s never been much of a schemer, but he’ll just make sure that you won’t leave with this guy if you don’t want to.

His fingers brush the note in his pocket, and he pinches it just as he passes the front of house manager, Taryn. Without breaking stride, he slips the note into her hand, heading toward the back hallway and down to the wine cellar.

As Steve passes by, Taryn unfolds the note he slips her, and raises one eyebrow at the request he’s written.

I can see you in your suit and your necktie, pass me a note saying, “Meet me tonight.” Then we kissed and you know I won’t ever tell…

Overall, you enjoy Sur La Table immensely. The restaurant itself, anyways. The wine is wonderful. The atmosphere is great. The food is exquisite. 

You’re about to jump the waiter’s bones. 

Theo got his second wind sometime after the scallops arrived, and you think he hasn’t paused for breath since. You’ve been calmly eating your food, while Theo tells you literally everything about himself. It’s the best case scenario you can see happening on this date. You enjoy the food, mumble a non-committal acknowledgement now and then, and Theo entertains himself with his own voice the rest of the time. 

You’re gonna kill Shelly for setting you up with him, but that’s tomorrow’s problem. 

Right now, you’re focused on finishing your glass of wine while he talks about camping, of all things. 

“So we got up into the Rockies,” he’s telling you, gesturing with his hands like it’ll make you more engaged. “We ended up freezing our keisters off. No joke, I have frostbite scars.”

“That’s, um… that sounds like fun.”

“No, are you listening? I mean, it was terrible. We couldn’t move for, like, two days. And when the snow stopped we were so tired and cold, we almost died.”  

You knock back the rest of your wine with one gulp, and say with a sticky voice, “Wow. A near death experience must have been really scary, I’m sorry.”

Theo frowns. “No- I mean… It wasn’t… it wasn’t near death-”

“You just said-”

“It was more like a serious inconvenience, you know. But we pulled through. I wasn’t scared. A little snow isn’t gonna kill me,” he laughs incredulously. “It was just-”

Theo stops as Steve approaches the table. You catch him giving the back of Theo’s head the most murderous look imaginable before slowing to a stop and plastering an easy customer service smile in its place. “How did you find everything this evening?”

“It was fine.”

“The food was wonderful,” you tell Steve reassuringly. Your date, on the other hand…

“Yeeeah, could we get the check, please?” Theo asks, finally looking up at Steve. 

You watch Steve’s brow twitch, such a small movement you could have imagined it. “Certainly. But first-” from behind his back, he reveals two white gift boxes and places them on the table in front of you and your date, respectively. “We like to give each of our customers a signature chocolate truffle, as a token of our appreciation.”

Everything in you aches. “Oh, that’s nice. Thank you so much.” You look down at the box in adoration, thinking for a second that it might be the only time in your life that Steve Harrington gives you something similar to a ring box. 

“I’ll be sure to have our hostess come through with the check,” Steve adds delicately, making a gracious exit. His finger just slightly brushes your arm as he passes by- a dangerous move, but one that nearly electrifies your entire body at the single touch. You shiver as he says, “Have a lovely night.”

You watch Steve walk away from you, and your heart sinks into your stomach. You want to chase after him. The 18 year old you, who almost kissed him on prom night, is trying to claw its way out of your skin and bolt after him. 

When Steve disappears from view, you have nowhere to look but at your date. Theo opens the white box in front of him and pops a neapolitan colored truffle into his mouth. “Well, that was underwhelming.”

You don’t want to watch him chewing anymore, like a cow gnawing on grass. You sigh, running a frustrated hand across your forehead, and flip open the box in front of you. The top of it rears up like a clam shell, and you freeze, your fingertips suddenly sticking to the sweat beading on your brow.

You don’t have a neapolitan truffle- you have a single golden chocolate coin. You stare at it in shock for a second before you even notice the note pasted to the lid of the box. 

Meet me outside- the door past the bathrooms. 

“Aren’t you gonna eat yours?” Theo asks suddenly, as the hostess approaches holding the check. 

Your eyes snap up just as your heart shoots back up into your chest. “I think I’m gonna save it for later.” You flash him a smile as you close the box swiftly and shove it into your clutch. “Do you mind if I hit the bathroom real quick?”

“No, go ahead. I’ve got it.” Honestly, it’s the kindest thing he’s done for you all night. You might have to thank him some day. 

Once you’re out of your seat, you chase after Steve like a shot. Around a block of tables and into a tiled corridor, you walk past the kitchen doorway just as another server comes backing out, carrying a tray of dishes. 

There’s a door at the end of the hall, labeled exit. You never actually thought you’d be escaping a bad date through the back door; the notion was too clichéed, you thought that sort of thing only happened in movies. But you find yourself nearly running past the men’s and women’s bathrooms, until your hands slam down on the bar of the back door and thrust it open into the wind. 

The rain has picked up, more of a downpour than a light drizzle now. In your haste, you’d left your umbrella and coat with the coat check. Not that it would have been at all discrete if you’d gone to collect it before running towards the bathrooms. 

The door clicks shut behind you, and you gaze around in the dark. The alley behind the restaurant is only partially lit by a yellow street lamp, making it even more difficult to find him than it was in the dining room. “Steve?”  

You catch movement in the corner of your eye, and turn in the direction of the street lamp. Steve stands up from where he’d been sitting on an overturned crate- apparently the only accommodations the restaurant staff gets during a smoke break. The rain has already soaked into his hair, messing up the tidy style and turning it stringy, falling across his forehead, shining gold in the yellow light. He takes one last puff of the cigarette in his mouth before tossing it into the gutter, and he looks at you. 

He sees you. And it’s all you’ve wanted since the day he first walked into your geography class, freshman year of high school. There’s been some kind of a magnetic pull between you two for years. Something keeps bringing you together, it’s just never been the right time. Until now. 

Finally, you’re running towards him, and Steve’s arms finally come around you, pulling you against his body. Your hands find the back of his neck just in time for his lips to crash against yours. 

You had lost count of the amount of times you watched him kiss other girls in the hallway in high school- not just Nancy, but any and every girl he attached himself to (for a while, it seemed like he couldn’t make up his mind who he was dating at any given moment). All you knew was that it was never you, and you wanted it to be so desperately that it consumed your mind half the time. He looked like a good kisser, and you fantasized about going up to him and testing that theory for yourself.

But you never expected that his lips would slide over yours with an urgency that you could feel through to your very core, probably even more desperate for your kiss than you are for his. Steve’s fingertips press into your body through the thin fabric of your dress, holding you firmly to him like he’s afraid you might disappear on him again if he doesn’t absorb you completely. Your mouth opens with a soft gasp, and Steve’s tongue against yours tastes like tobacco. 

It happens so fast that you can’t even think- and you don’t really want to. You’re tired of thinking everything through, finding reasons upon reasons why it’s not a good time, why it’s a bad idea, why it won’t work. He moans into you, grabbing the side of your face as he stumbles with you to the wall, pressing you up against the side of the brick building. 

You meet his moan with a whimper of your own as his hand slides down over the curve of your ass, and he hikes up the skirt of your dress to grab at your skin with abandon. There’s a ferocity in Steve’s kiss that you don’t know what to do with, like he’s trying to stake a claim to you right there in the rain, with no one around to see it happen but the moths in the street light overhead. Not that he needs to- he’s already got you. You already chose him. 

Steve gives you room to breathe with a soft sigh, his forehead resting against yours. “Been wanting to do that since high school,” he admits, just loud enough for you to hear, before pressing a featherlight kiss just beside your mouth, and again to your cheek.

“Y-you fffucking-?” you gasp when he latches his lips around a sweet spot on your neck and sucks. “I had such a huge crush on you, Steve.”

“I know. I- I should have- I should…” Steve drops his head against your shoulder and groans when your nails rake against his scalp. “Fuck.”  

He grinds his hips up against yours, biting your lip as the hard length of his cock presses up against your core. “Gonna fuck me in this alleyway, Harrington?” 

“I’m seriously considering it,” he growls into your ear. His lips find yours again with a passion, his hand holding your jaw still. A hot breath escapes him, pouring over your skin and making you shiver. You’re lightheaded, so close to just letting him do it, too, when the back door of the restaurant swings open. 

Steve still takes a second to pull away, a little too absorbed in kissing you to really care who sees him do it. If he had his way, he’d have everyone see that you’re his- that you belong with him, and have for a long time. He finally glances over his shoulder to see one of the cooks, Liam, walking off in the direction of the employee parking lot.

“Where did you get the fucking doubloon?” you whisper into his ear, sounding so fucking adorable that Steve can’t help the lovesick look he gives you. 

He brushes his nose against yours. “I sent my manager on a treasure hunt.” You giggle, pressing your forehead up against his, and he can’t help but chuckle along with you. “I wanted to give you one at Family Video, that time.”

“I know,” you say, and he pulls back to look at your face. “I heard you yelling at your coworker in the back room.” 

Steve snickers and turns red with embarrassment, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his rain-soaked hair, a content smile on your face as you feel him grin against your skin and shake with laughter. “Take me home, Steve.”

You don’t have to ask him twice.

What would you do, baby, if you only knew? That I can see you throw your jacket on the floor, I can see you make me want you even more…

The drive to Steve’s apartment downtown is made with light conversation and the heavy, heavy weight of his hand on your thigh, creeping up further with each mile. But aside from the implication of sex hanging in the air, it’s as easy as breathing, chatting about the night with him. Shitting on Theo.

“Did you notice the way he said coquilles,” Steve murmurs to you at a red light. “I thought he was gagging on something. He was just trying to impress you, you know.”

You grunt. Could’ve tried a little harder. “He didn’t even like them. He said he didn’t like shellfish,” you laugh in return as you lace your fingers through Steve’s. “Why the fuck would you order scallops, then?”

“The price.”

“The price.”  

It’s sweet, talking to him all the way to his apartment building, just catching up like old friends. He tells you that he’s going to culinary school now, and he’s been working at the restaurant for a little over a year, just to pay the bills.

“Culinary school? Really?” you say, with a note of awe in your voice. 

“Turns out I’m really fucking good at cooking,” Steve chuckles. “Who’d have thought? Maybe someday I’ll stop waiting tables and work back there in the kitchen.”

“I can see it,” you tell him softly. “I can see you being the world’s best chef. Three stars and everything.”

He scoffs, but a pink blush creeps up the back of his neck. “You have too much faith in me.” 

“Those are fighting words, Harrington.” You wag your finger at him. “Throwing down the gauntlet?”

“You just want me to cook you something,” Steve tuts.

“Absolutely, I do.” You consider him for a moment, in the passing light of a streetlamp. “Am I that transparent?”

Steve tilts his head to eye you meaningfully, and he smirks. “Always have been, honey.” His thumb rubs a little circle on your thigh that has you squirming in your seat.

The first thing you see of Steve’s apartment is the kitchen, and beyond that the dormant living room, but you don’t get that far before you’re sidetracked. Steve throws his keys onto a drop station by the door, and pins you up against the refrigerator before you can even think to ask where to put your shoes.

Your clothes are still damp, your hair still pasted to your clammy skin. Steve’s lips are attacking yours and his hands are grabbing at everything he can touch, but it’s still not enough. He’s not able to feel all of you at once, and it’s driving him insane with every passing moment.

Steve roughly yanks his suit jacket off, throwing it onto the tile floor beside the kitchen island. “Lay down.” 

“What?” you whisper to him as he kisses your neck, guiding you away from the side of the fridge. “Here?” 

“Right here,” Steve states, not joking in the slightest. You wobble on your feet as you kick off your heels, but his hands on your hips keep you steady. “Been waiting too long for this- can’t wait anymore.”

“I- wwhuh-?” you gasp as Steve kneels in front of you, and your knees buckle involuntarily as he lays you down across his discarded jacket. Your hands grab his shoulders as you tumble backward, taking him with you. 

He face-plants into your stomach with a noisy, “Oof.” Cackling, you run your fingers through his damp hair, as he laughs and shoves his blushing face further against your torso. Steve litters your stomach with kisses, giggling against you with a note of nervous energy. He’s adorable.

You pet your fingers down the side of his face and he leans into the touch. “Can’t even wait long enough to take me to the bedroom?”

“Well, I would have fucked you in the alley,” Steve points out as his fingers breach the hem of your skirt and find your panties. He tugs as he says, “Be thankful I even got you home.” 

Your cheeks burn hot. You fidget, trying to press your thighs together to abate the throbbing ache between them. “Careful, baby. You’re starting to sound desperate.”

Steve pauses, his hazel eyes lighting up when they lock on yours. “Call me that again,” he requests, pressing a kiss to your ankle as he pulls your panties off your feet. He tosses them over his shoulder, but you don’t see where they land as he continues peppering kisses down your calf.

You hold his gaze. “Baby?” His eyes flutter, his lips parting as they drag up toward your knee. “You like when I call you that?”

“I like when you call me anything,” Steve admits. “But as long as you call me that, it means I’m yours.”

Your breath stutters in your chest. Steve Harrington is yours. It doesn’t matter if it’s just for tonight- what matters is that you have him now, and he wants you just as badly.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he murmurs quietly against your skin, his voice crackling with brimming need. He’s flushed, his cheeks pink and his hair drying in tousled waves over his forehead the longer he drags this out. 

Nodding your head, you reach down to lace your fingers through his, where they’re bunching your skirt up around your hips. “Yes, Steve.” Always have been.  

He turns his head and sucks a spot on your calf, just below your knee, resting your ankle over his shoulder. Still, despite your desperation, you nervously keep your thighs pinched together.

Steve tuts, “C’mon, baby, you’ve gotta spread your legs for me. You wanna let me see that pretty pussy, right?” 

Still clammy and cold with rain, the air on your exposed skin makes you shiver almost as much as his sweeping hands do when they gently part your thighs. You let go, let him take control as you still and keep your eyes focused on his face, because looking anywhere else would remind you that this is real, and not a dream.

Steve sighs, “There she is. Y’gonna let me taste you, sweetheart?” He bats his pretty eyes at you in a way that makes your heart stop dead in your chest. He can’t keep his mouth off of you, even for a moment, his lips and slight stubble dragging across your skin as he says, “Been wanting to forever, you won’t even believe-”

“Please, Steve,” you start to beg before he even finishes his sentence. “Please, my god, I- I just- I just want you so much-”

“Sh-sh-sh-shh.” His tongue licks wet and hot against your inner thigh before he whispers, “I’ve got you, baby. M’not going anywhere, I’m staying right here ‘til you cum.”

You’re instantly hot all over, your blood fucking boiling beneath your skin and your wet dinner dress. Steve’s fingers dig into the meat of your thighs as he yanks you toward his face, the fabric of his jacket beneath you audibly zipping along the kitchen floor. 

Steve dips his head, and his mouth closes over your cunt right at the same moment that yours falls open with a moan that won’t come out, because you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe. The noise stalls right at the beginning- your lungs stop working and you can’t seem to get them to start again, because Steve’s tongue is everywhere, dripping wet and gentle on skin that’s way too sensitive to handle it right now. Your hips try to jerk away from him in resistance, but he slams his hand down on them, holding you hard and still against the tile floor, his shoulders pushed up against the backs of your thighs to keep them open. 

Steve takes a break just long enough to grin evilly up at you, because he’s been waiting for five years to tell you to, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

“Fffffuck,” you manage to spit out finally, your voice cracking on the word like it didn’t even really want to put in the work to make it happen. Your breath comes back into your lungs all at once, rapid firing with a dozen moans for punctuation. Steve’s lips quirk against you, and he rumbles a noise of satisfaction against your pussy that makes you jolt in his hold again. “Steve…”

He pulls off of you with a slow, slow stroke of his tongue over your clit, making you whimper high and tight in your throat. “That’s it, baby,” Steve whispers, his breath fanning across your slick cunt, his left hand leaving your hip so that he can drag his knuckles teasingly through your swollen folds. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels so right.”

Two long fingers sink into you with ease, stirring the need in you to have him just simply destroy you. You moan loud, your hand shooting out and wrapping around the leg of a bar stool for the kitchen island beside you. 

“Poor thing’s just so sensitive, huh?” Your head arches backwards against the floor, your pussy clenching tight around his fingers as he curves them with practiced accuracy. Steve’s voice is a deep murmur, distant thunder rolling over your nerves, “Relax for me, honey. You’ve waited long enough, just let it happen. Let me give you what you want.”

His lips shine when you look down at him, your hand reaching to run through his hair. Stifling a whine that threatens to come out when he kisses your clit and bends his fingers within you, you stutter out, “J-just want… I- ha-ah! Just want you.”  

Steve purrs. “I know.” The crisp white fabric of his shirt scrapes against your thighs, almost rough in comparison to his tongue flat on your pussy. You can hear the wet, salacious sound of his fingers pumping into you, pulling you toward the edge of oblivion. He hisses through his teeth, shaking his head slightly. “God, I’m so fuckin’ lucky.”

“Y-you-?” you manage a laugh, scraping your nails along his scalp lightly. “You’re lucky? You have n-no… fffucking idea-” You cut off with a sob when Steve wraps his lips around your clit, sucking long and hard enough that your leg twitches, your heel dragging up the back of his pristine white blouse. Your breathing picks up just as all your muscles lock down tight. “Jesus Christ-”  

“There you go,” Steve praises as your orgasm shakes your body, your hand gripping his hair so hard that he groans softly into your damp skin. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, lewd wet noises picking up and echoing through the quiet kitchen. “That’s a good girl. Mmm , felt so nice to let go, didn’t it?”

You don’t know if he really wants you to answer that- you’re still twitching, coming down from your high as he pulls his fingers from your spasming cunt and sucks them into his mouth. The pause gives you a gentle reprieve, sinking back onto his suit jacket beneath you. Then, his mouth finds your pussy again, his tongue delving deep into your entrance and laving up to your sensitive clit. 

You gasp, throwing your hands down into his hair. “Steve-?!”

He moans in response. “Just needed to taste you some more, honey. Taste so fuckin’ sweet, I can’t get enough.” Steve relents, crawling up your body to hover his face over yours. “Still wanna see the bedroom?”

You nod excitedly, your hands finding his smiling face and stroking the hair away from his eyes. With a gentle kiss of his wet lips to yours, Steve gathers your still-wrecked body into his arms and carries you into his bedroom. 

He’s struck by how blissful you are as he sets you down on his bed, so soft and inviting. He encourages your arms up, his hands finding the zipper of your wet dress and finally, finally, pulling it over your head so that he can see you. All your curves and edges on display for him, after all this time imagining what he couldn’t see with the naked eye. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Steve repeats what he told you all those years ago at prom- he meant it then, and he means it now. Maybe even more this time, now that he’s not a stupid teenager, now that he finally has his head on his shoulders. 

You shiver against him when he unclips your bra- black lace that matches the underwear sitting in his entryway. A possessive part of him rears up, knowing that you’d worn them to a date with some asshole who couldn’t treat you right, even for one hour of the guy’s miserable life. Steve dips his head and kisses your breast, so much softer now than he was before, feeling your heartbeat against his lips.

“Hey.” You gently tug him by his tie, loosening it and his collar. You look into his eyes, and his heart melts. “Where’d you go just now, sailor?”

Steve blushes, his eyes flicking down as you remove his tie and start unbuttoning his blouse. “Just thinking...” he trails off, eyeing you thoughtfully. “Just thinking I could have missed you again if I wasn’t careful.”

“Mmm,” you hum, your hands smoothing up his chest and over his shoulders to get his shirt off of him. It drops to the floor with a whisper. “I don’t think so. I think this was meant to happen, eventually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You scrunch your nose cutely, in a way that makes Steve’s pants tighten even more uncomfortably across his hips. “We’ve run into each other too many fuckin’ times, baby. Karma’s on our side.”

He laughs. “Karma.” He shakes his head as he undoes his belt.

You quirk your brow at him as your hands fiddle with the fly of his suit pants. “Don’t believe me?” 

Steve grunts, shifting to lean over you. “I’ll believe anything you say when you’re taking my pants off, honey. I’m easy that way.”

Your nails rake through the hair on his chest- you can’t keep your hands off of him now that they’ve got him. You trace over two blotchy scars, one on either side of his torso that mirror each other. “What happened here?”

He blows a puff of air out of his mouth, rounding his cheeks as he shrugs. “Some… animals decided I looked really tasty, at one point. I know, they aren’t very pretty.”

Steve’s brushing over it like it’s nothing. You search his face, and you decide to do the same. “Actually, I think it’s kind of hot.” You drag your hand up to lay flat over his chest. You whisper conspiratorially, “Plus, I think you look really tasty, too.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Y’gonna bite me about it?”

“Probably.” You wink. “Most likely.”

Your gaze falls indiscreetly to his cock, hard and flushed, glistening with precum and curving up toward his stomach. Girls talk, especially when they’re all trying to one-up each other; you knew that he was big. You’d heard the rumors. You’d seen him wearing those tight fucking jeans all the time, and you didn’t have to have much of an imagination to figure it out.

Still. It’s… a little overwhelming. You reach out a tentative hand, lightly wrapping your fingers around his base. They barely meet. Jesus Christ.

He groans, and kisses you until you can’t speak, resting his weight on top of you until you sink gleefully into the mattress. There’s a smile on your lips that transfers onto his, happiness and ease still flowing between you even as he grinds his hips up against yours. 

“Ready?” Steve murmurs softly into your mouth, stealing your breath when you feel his cock slide through your folds, hot and fat.  

“Dunno,” you tell him teasingly, but there’s an edge of reason to your words. Your hips squirm and you feel him even worse, slippery with your arousal. You whine. “I think you might kill me with that thing, Harrington.”

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers, hoarse in the back of his throat, his voice already shaking. “I’ll make sure you feel every bit of it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree as you reach to line him up properly. “I’m all yours.”

Steve gives a relieved sigh as he slides into you, his head falling heavily to your shoulder. His cock aches, his torso shaking as he tries to steady himself. “Oh my god.”

“Baby,” you coo, choking on a moan when he bottoms out. He’s so thick- your nails dig into his shoulder blades as you try to remember how to breathe. It’s certainly a big stretch to try to fit him, but you can’t help wanting more just as soon as he comes to a stop. You can feel him trying to hold steady, holding himself back as though it’s the hardest thing in the world for him to do. 

Because it is. You can’t see it, the way that his brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyes screwed shut. He didn’t know it would be like this- that he’d be in danger of blowing it just as soon as he started. 

Your heel digs into his ass, and he doesn’t know if you do it purposefully, but he almost whimpers.  

You take a shuddering breath. “Please- please move, Steve, I can’t take it.”

Oh, you can’t take it? “You know what,” Steve says with a hint of strain in his voice, picking his head up to nuzzle his nose with yours, “I think you like me.”

You snort, and kiss him lightly. “What gave you that impression?”

“Y’so fucking cute.” Steve hums and sloooowly pulls his hips back, dragging his cock through your walls so deliciously that your toes curl. “Could be all those times you stared at me in class-” He watches your face as he pushes forward, until his hips are flush with yours and your head arches backwards against his sheets. “Could be when you nearly let me kiss you at prom-” Out. In. Steve runs his tongue up the length of your throat, and bites at your earlobe. He whispers, “Could be that you came on my tongue ten minutes ago.”

He picks up his pace, just a bit. Just enough to have the bed creaking under you with the rhythm, to have you moaning in tandem with him- needy and high pitched, leaping from your throat into the hot, sex-charged air.  

Steve’s lips latch onto your neck, and he sucks hard. He eases up after just a couple seconds, dragging his tongue over the sensitive spot, but you know what he’s just done- he’s marked you, right where you won’t be able to hide it in the morning. 

You want him to do it all over your body.

Your jaw goes slack and you’re losing all integrity. He’s even better than you imagined- sleepless nights wanting, hoping endlessly that you’d find yourself here, under him, couldn’t have prepared you for how perfect it feels. His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, pinning it to the mattress beside your head, squeezing with every slow and purposeful thrust of his hips. 

Steve’s cock finds your g-spot like it’s nothing, like he’s known your body for ages. He barely even has to try before you’re whimpering, raking your nails up his back and leaving long red trails behind. 

Your teeth latch onto his shoulder and you bite, probably harder than you should, but you just can’t refuse the urge to mark him the way that he’s left his mark on you. He moans, a deep and boyish sound in your ear, as you drag your tongue along his shoulder, soothing the bite, tasting his sweat. The salt and the sweetness of his skin, mixed with the heady smell of sex in the room, have you losing yourself in him.

“Biter.” You hear him chuckle dangerously, rumbling along your skin while his nose skirts your jawline. 

“You’re so good, Stevie-” you whine, hot pleasure rearing up in you like a tidal wave. “Oh, you feel so fucking good, I love- love how you feel inside me.”

Steve groans loudly into your shoulder, his teeth grazing your collarbone. You think he has a mind to bite you back- maybe he’d do it harder. You can see Steve drawing blood, when the mood suits him. 

But his hand squeezes yours, his other sweeping broadly up your thigh and hitching your leg up further over his hip. “Yeah?” His voice is rough, bordering on a growl, “What’d’ya say we stay like this forever, huh? Just like this?” 

His pelvis grinds up against yours, his pubes crushing against your clit making you gasp. Everything’s wet- your skin, his skin, the sheets. Sweaty bodies sticking and sliding against each other, your hips meeting his in the middle.

“Like this?” you gasp, your head reeling. His forehead presses against yours, and it’s just about the only thing bringing you back into focus. Steve doesn’t falter, keeping the same pace and rhythm while he watches you try to form a coherent reply. “Mm- I- I, hhuh-”

“C’mon, babygirl,” he breathes against your damp skin, “you can do better than that. You love my cock so much, you wanna keep it warm all the time? Wanna stay in bed with me forever, is that it?”

You nod fervently, your hands grabbing at his neck, his hair, his shoulder- anywhere you can touch. “Yes, yes. God, Steve, I- you’re gonna make me cum, shit-”  

“I know it,” Steve murmurs, tugging your lip between his teeth and making you whine again. Your cunt pulses around him, and he hisses, his hand slipping on your thigh. “Love seein’ you all drunk on my cock- shit, you’re so gorgeous like this.” He pauses to kiss you, making you lightheaded, making you tug at his hair. “Y’look so pretty under me, baby. Pussy feels so good, I wanna stay here, too. I can see us doin’ this for the rest of our lives, huh? How’s that sound?” 

How does it sound? You and Steve Harrington, together forever? Intertwined, knotted up with no way to lose each other, no disappearing and then reappearing years down the line?

“S’that a challenge?” you whimper shakily at him. “Throwing down the gauntlet?” 

“I don’t think I could let you go, now,” Steve tells you firmly, his hand leaving your thigh so that he can grab your jaw possessively, his tongue darting out to trace gently across your bottom lip. “I’m never gonna let you go, baby.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “I don’t want you to.”

“I hope so,” he whispers, his breath mingling with yours.

Steve kisses you long and slow when you cum. You swallow his moans when he does.

What would you? Baby, if you only knew that I can see you, oh, I can see you…

You almost think it’s a dream. When you rouse in the morning, you feel like you imagined it. But you’re surrounded by the scent of Steve, of musky cologne and sweat and sex, and maybe just a little bit of hair gel stuck to his pillows. 

You flop over and stare at the ceiling. You’re alone in a king size bed, fitted with gray sheets and a few too many pillows. The other side of the bed is still warm, but your paramour is nowhere to be found. His bedroom is fairly stark, with a few little things arranged on the dresser top and clothes thrown around the floor. It doesn’t feel like a room he spends much time in, aside from sleeping and dressing in the morning.

You immediately think about what this all means for you. Whether he really meant what he said in the heat of the moment, if he really wants this to be a long-term thing or if it was just pillow talk. It doesn’t take you long to determine which one you want it to be.

There’s commotion on the other side of the closed door. You lean over the side of the bed, searching for something to put on before you just waltz out there naked. Ultimately, you pull on his blouse from last night.

You emerge from the bedroom squinting against the light in the room. The blinds in the living room are open, casting bright sunlight across the room and into the kitchen. You find Steve in front of the stove.

“Hey, there she is!” he announces happily. “Just in time for breakfast.”

Steve looks so comfortable in the kitchen, moving around quickly and efficiently, whereas you tend to blunder about. When you wander over to the island, you notice he’s already picked up his suit jacket, and laid it across the bar stool next to the one you choose. 

Your underwear is nowhere to be seen.

You grin at his back, plopping down onto the bar stool. The metal is cold against your bare ass, nearly making you squeal and jump back up. “Is it a Sex on the Beach?”

He laughs gleefully. “Nah, if only. How was that, by the way?” 

“The ice cream, or the porn?”

He turns to grin at you over his shoulder. “Both.”

He’s wearing glasses. Round wire frames that complement his face perfectly, making him look distinguished in his gray sweats and black t-shirt. Just like that, you’re spiraling. Suddenly, you’re picturing yourself being here, with him cooking breakfast in his glasses and PJ’s every morning, on and on into the future. Doing domestic shit, grocery shopping, dancing around in the kitchen at 3 am, kissing in the rain- well, you’ve already done that one.  

But you can see it. That future, with him by your side, it’s right there. You just don’t know if it’s the one that he wants. You don’t really know how deep this runs for him.

Funny what just an accessory can do to your train of thought.

“Um.” You swallow. What was the question? “The ice cream was great. Still the best sundae I’ve ever had, by the way. The porn was bullshit, I didn’t get through twenty minutes. I just wanted to make you blush.”

“Brat.” He spins around, and plates an omelet right in front of you. You watch his face, tracing the easy smile he wears. “I hope you like it- but if you don’t, you better not say anything. I don’t think I could handle the pain of your rejection.” He looks up at you, hazel eyes shining gold in the sunlight. “You’re staring.”

“I-” you blink at him. You don’t fucking say. You open your mouth to ask- you want to ask what this is, what he feels, did he mean it. Do you want to do this again? Is this serious for you? Because it is for me, if you want it. You just don’t get that far.

“You’ve been staring since we were fourteen,” he chuckles, sliding you a fork. 

That startles you. “Well,” you click your tongue. “I didn’t realize you were looking so closely.”

“Oh,” Steve shrugs, turning to place the pan in the sink. “Just since freshman year. When you read Juliet’s monologue in English class. Remember?”

You tilt your head. Vaguely. It was just a class project, where each person had to choose a Shakespearean monologue to recite in front of the class. You thought he only even became aware of you senior year.

Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee, Take all myself. 

“Are you telling me,” you say, palms flat on the counter as you peer at him incredulously, “you’ve liked me just as long as I’ve liked you?”

“Told you I’d get there, eventually.”

Your brain refuses to compute. You stare at his back, his tousled hair, and want to yank him toward you and squeeze him like one of those fucking squeaky toys that you get at the pet store. The ones the eyes pop out of.

Steve turns to you with a smirk, leaning across the counter to mirror you. He reaches forward to trace the mark he made on your neck, still tender, while mocking your pout back at you. His eyes crease at the corners, like they always do when he’s trying to be coy.

“Eat your breakfast, baby. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

(I see you, I see you, baby.)

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.

On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

He knows you now.

Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.

One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … Not all nights are easy.

Some nights, you wake alone.

You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.    

You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.

He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.

When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.

It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.

The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.

Like maybe he was meant to be here all along. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.

It would be so easy to stay here.

To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.

But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.

Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.

You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?

You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

Until guilt turns into remorse,

Remorse turns into habit,

And habit drags on as penance.

So he made himself useful.

Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.

Diving first. Bleeding first.

Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.

That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.

You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.

Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … You get used to the quiet.

Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.

To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.

To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.

You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.

You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.

Fear.

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.

His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.

He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.

He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist. 

Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.

Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.

That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.

Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.

You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.

He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.

You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s all you have to say. You both remember.

The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.

I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:

I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.

You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

You think back.

To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.

Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.

Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.

But it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.

The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.

But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.

And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve got prep to do for night.

Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.

But for now, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.   

The main problem was, Johnny Storm was nothing and everything all at once. He was the spark that lit every room, the one who made you laugh when you didn’t want to, the one who winked across the lab when Reed was being too serious, the one who leaned just a little too close when you were working on something. 

But Johnny was just a friend, and that was it.

A friend who flirted too much, but never went past that, no matter how much you wished him to. It was the kind of will-they won’t-they thing that made Sue smile knowingly, Ben shake his head, and Reed mutter under his breath about unresolved tension in his lab. 

And the kind of thing that made you want to jump from a high place just for him to come and catch you. 

And then kiss you. 

Yes…you were down bad. 

And then came the gala. The kind of night where champagne tasted like water at some point and the city blurred behind the tall glass windows of the building. You shouldn’t have let Johnny keep pouring into your glass, shouldn’t have let yourself get swept into his orbit more than usual, but you did. 

His warm hand fit perfectly against your waist when he pulled you into a spin on the empty dance floor, your laugh echoing on the walls as he twirled you around. You two looked like a mess. His shirt untucked, hair tousled, your shoes off, dress loosened up on the back where his hands inevitably began drifting lower and lower. 

Everything felt so funny, yet so right. His laugh was loud and golden, his lips too close when he whispered a joke meant only for you, even when there was no one else around. 

You told yourself it was just the alcohol, the dizzy haze of his scent and the music he’d played on the turntable. But his warm hands kept roaming freely, and you couldn’t help yours from feeling every ridge of his muscles either. The night faded into sloppy kisses, his hips snapping against yours as you finally turned that ‘unresolved tension’ into a melody of midnight gasps and your headboard banging the wall, knowing Sue would probably give you hell about it the next day. 

But the night was just like him. Everything and nothing all at once.

Everything because all you’d ever wanted was his body on yours, his groans against your skin, his undivided attention on making sure you were having as good of a time as he was. But it was supposed to mean nothing because that’s what you were. Even when he was buried deep inside you. 

Next morning, you woke up to his warmth. Your legs tangled on your satin bedsheets, his arm slung heavy around your waist. We shouldn’t have, was your first thought. But when you saw his face just inches away from yours, soft and peaceful in sleep, and his golden hair on your pillow…you could picture yourself waking up to that everyday. 

It wasn’t just the alcohol. You knew it. 

And he knew it, but “we shouldn’t have” was his first thought too, and unfortunately he let that be the only one he said out loud. Johnny cracked a joke, like he always did, and you forced a laugh, because for the first time you didn’t find him funny. 

The two of you ruled it out as a mistake. Too much champagne. Too little sense. 

When it was too much stupidity, actually. 

Because it didn’t feel like a mistake, not to you. Never to you. Not when the warmth of his touch still lingered on your body, not when his cologne clung to your pillow even days later. And most certainly not to him, either. When he could still hear your moans, when he could still feel your nails on his back, when he could still remember every thrust he buried his love with. 

But when people said ‘idiots in love’, you two surely loved to focus on the ‘idiots’ part of it. 

Because you let fear rule over your love, because you were nothing, just friends, and friends weren’t supposed to wake up in each other’s beds with their hearts racing. You couldn’t afford to ruin a friendship over what you both thought was a one sided infatuation. 

And the heart I know I’m breaking it’s my own 

To leave the warmest bed I’ve ever known

You thought staying friends was safe…until it wasn’t. 

A month and a half later, you were holding a test that changed everything. Staring in shock at a blue + sign that pulsed on the tiny screen. You felt lightheaded, your pulse skyrocketing  as the world tilted under your feet. Terrified wasn’t even enough to describe it. 

Because you loved Johnny Storm, stupidly, deeply, recklessly. But to him, you weren’t his. You were just…you. A friend. How you came to despise that word. 

Now every day felt like waiting for the inevitable, for the moment you’d have to tell him. For the moment your almost thing would turn into something you couldn’t go back from. 

You thought you could hide it. But then the mornings started hitting harder. The nausea, the way your head gaslighted you into thinking you suddenly hated the smell of coffee. You brushed it off as a stomach bug, as stress, as anything other than what you knew it was. It worked for a while; you became an expert at dodging the family’s concern behind excuses of exhaustion. 

But Johnny…Johnny was trickier. He wasn’t oblivious, not when it came to you. If anything, he watched too closely. He could see when your laugh didn’t reach your eyes, when your smile was more of a mask. He thought it was because of that night. He thought he’d ruined something that didn’t even exist in the first place. So he asked one night, casually, leaning against the doorframe of your room with a bowl of popcorn. 

“Are you waking up earlier? I haven’t seen you around breakfast lately.” He said, a cocky grin on his face to hide the true worry behind his words. “One would think you got tired of my face.” He joked, like always. 

“Got tired of the same cereal.” You joked back, and he feigned offense by putting a hand on his chest. 

He didn’t press further, because the truth was he didn’t want to know if it really was that night, and it was easier to deflect reality with stupid jokes. So that night you ended up watching a movie. His shoulder grazing yours as you shared the popcorn, sat on the same bed he’d made love to you. Your head inevitably leaned on him. And he let you, of course he did. 

You hated that you didn’t mind it. 

As months kept going, your clothes became tighter, so you stole Johnny’s sweaters with the excuse of the weather getting colder, even when it was the middle of August and autumn was still yet to come. But he didn’t mind, how could he when you looked so cute wearing his clothes? 

How naive he was. 

You told yourself you were buying time. That you needed to be sure before you said anything, that you had to pick the right moment. But really, you were scared of the look on his face, scared of turning something unspoken into something real. 

For now, it was enough to live for the hope of it all. 

August slipped away into a moment in time

‘Cause you were never mine

September.

On the day you turned three months pregnant, you left early in the morning for an ultrasound appointment. Your only company was the chilly September air. It was just supposed to be that, a normal day. But as you lay on a medical bed and saw the life growing inside you through a screen, something terrible was happening back in the tower.

A planned attack. 

It wasn’t dramatic in the sense of fire everywhere, or the use of brute force. No, the Fantastic Four were more than capable of dealing with that sort of stuff. In this case, information was more valuable, and unfortunately, more vulnerable. 

The Baxter Building was supposed to be untouchable, layers of firewalls, Reed’s tech securing every inch of the place. But today, someone managed to hack every single file. And what better way to create a distraction than by targeting the innocent little droid first. All they had to do was program H.E.R.B.I.E into thinking his family was the enemy, starting with the two year old that was left in his care. 

Franklin. 

And for a few terrifying hours, the Fantastic Four had to fight an invisible enemy. Franklin had barely left unscathed, H.E.R.B.I.E was shut down until he could be repaired, but the damage was done. Their entire database got transferred to some location Reed kept desperately trying to track. 

Some screens still flickered, the alarms were muted but still ringing in everyone’s heads. Reed’s lab was suffocatingly tense, his quick typing and occasional scribble on the chalkboard were the only sounds. 

Sue rocked Franklin on her hip, she had twice survived someone wanting to harm her child; her bloodshot eyes showing she wasn’t sure she could ever take a third. Ben sat on the yellow couch, occasionally offering reassuring smiles to little Franklin. 

Johnny had been trying to contact you as soon as the hellish situation was over. But tracking you was useless, because you’d left the watch he’d given you in your room that day, since you noticed it messed with the ultrasound machine every time. 

But the worst part wasn’t that he couldn’t find you, no. The worst part was that every single trail of what happened that morning in the building was traced back to you. To that watch Johnny found on your nightstand, and which Reed now held next to his screen. 

And you weren’t even there to defend yourself. 

“Tell me this is a mistake.” Sue’s voice cut through the tension, still bouncing Franklin desperately. She walked toward Reed, leaning over his shoulder. 

He didn’t look at her, his eyes still darting over the evidence scrolling down his screen. “I’ve checked it four times. The data breach is always traced back to an internal device.” His tone was even, but his hands hesitated when holding the watch. Your watch. “Not just internal…hers.”

Ben shifted uneasily on his seat. “Come on, Reed. We’re talking about the kid here…there’s no way she’d pull something like that.”

Reed went through the decryption for the fifth time, and all the incriminating details. Log-ins with your name, encrypted messages sharing information only you would know. It was too calculated, almost like the perfect crime, but they couldn’t see past the fear that morning caused. 

“This is bullshit.” Johnny snapped, walking around the lab shaking his head. “She wouldn’t–she couldn’t do this. Not her, and you all know it.” 

“Johnny, it’s all right here.” Reed looked at him. He didn’t want to believe it either, but he was a man of facts, and they were right in front of him. 

Johnny shook his head violently, pacing like he was going to burst into flames to burn the adrenaline off. “No, I don’t care what your computers say. She’s not like that– you know she’s not.” He defended fiercely. “She loves this family. She loves Franklin. She loves–” He cut himself off, like he still couldn’t say it out loud. “She loves us, okay–Sue? Help me a little bit here.” He looked at his sister, still clutching his nephew for dear life. 

“Johnny, I really wanna believe you.” She said, soft and honest. “But we’re talking about my son’s safety. Your nephew. What if…what if she isn’t who we thought?”

Reed sighed, exhausted. He wasn't an emotional person, but he wasn’t immune either. Pushing past all the logic, all the damning proof on his screens, his eyes reflected his heart trying to cloud his judgment. 

He’d grown fond of you too. You were brilliant, a true delight to work with. And you had always been so caring to the children of the place. Franklin and Johnny. Well, at least that's how it played in Reed’s eyes. The point was, he didn’t see you as just an intern, but as family. 

“I wish it wasn’t this way, Johnny. But we can’t ignore the facts, the evidence–strong evidence. Whoever did this had access to information only available to us…and the trail points to her being the leak.”

Johnny lifted his hands in the air, closing his fists like he wanted to choke the words that came out of Reed’s mouth. “If you think for one second I’m gonna stand here and believe she betrayed us, then you don’t know her like I do.” He tried to sound firm, confident, but his voice cracked. “I just know she…she wouldn’t do this to me.”

“Johnny…” Sue sighed. “This is not just about you…this is Franklin we’re talking about.” 

That set him off. The argument kept going in circles. Reed insisting on facts, Johnny yelling at him, Sue trying to reason with her brother, and Ben caught in the middle, taking Franklin from Sue’s arms to move him away from the confrontation. 

But then Reed’s screen chimed, with the results of the last decryption of information he got from your watch. He froze, making Johnny stop bickering with Sue.

“What?” He asked, leaning over Reed’s shoulder. 

Reed’s hands hovered over the keys as he took in the information. He saw dozens of image files, schematics, and hand drawn maps of the Baxter Building. 

And not just that, but the personal notes you’d made on them. 

At first he tried to find the logic, like he always did. And there was actually a reason behind it. It had been a project you’d worked along with Reed to set up a new security system when Franklin was born. He could see all the key points that he had explained to you alone. Okay, acceptable. But it had extra annotations around Franklin’s nursery, weak points, blind spots, stuff only you had observed and noted. 

But he didn’t know it had been from a place of good. The extra time you took to analyze everything to make sure the new systems would secure the child’s safety. And of course, they couldn’t see past that, because the thing you had used to protect him, was the very same that was used against him. 

And this time, in their eyes, there was no more room for the benefit of the doubt. Not when you weren’t there to explain it to them. Not when Sue couldn’t keep her eyes off Franklin in Ben’s arms as if something would happen to him the second she blinked. 

Johnny just stared in silence, he recognized the notes instantly. He remembered you perched at Reed’s side, stylus scribbling on your tablet as you tried to follow his explanations. He remembered laughing when you drew a tiny flame by his room. “So you don’t get lost, blondie.” 

It was yours, that was undeniable. And the decryption showed those notes had been shared outside the tower a few weeks ago. Far away from the family it belonged to. 

“Tell me someone forged this,” Ben said roughly, as the last thread of hope he had on you had snapped. 

Reed shook his head. “It’s not forged. These are her annotations, this was information I confided in her with…her own observations on the Tower’s weak points.”

“That’s yeah…that’s hers.” Johnny breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s–god, that’s her handwriting.”

Sue pressed a hand to her mouth, tears already spilling. She adored you like a sister, trusted you with Franklin more than anyone. 

Johnny staggered back a step, like the air had been punched from his lungs. His eyes still locked on the little flame doodle. Was that why he couldn’t reach you all morning? Had you ran away and left them to pick up the pieces of everything you broke? 

For the first time, Johnny had no defense, no fiery protest. Just the crushing weight of evidence that seemed to confirm what he feared the most. The girl he loved had been betraying him–no…all of them all along.

And I fell from the pedestal, right down the rabbit hole

Long story short, it was a bad time

You carried the folded black and white print in your bag. Proof that everything inside you was still very real. But for the first time in weeks, you didn't feel afraid, instead you felt a strange kind of calm. 

That’s when you decided you’d tell Johnny. 

Whatever happened after, he deserved to know. He deserved to know you didn't really see him as nothing, that he was actually everything. And that everything, that love, was turning into something beautiful. You’d seen it through a screen today, and you wanted nothing more but to share it with him. Maybe next appointment he’d be there to hold your hand through it too. 

You just hoped he’d be able to forgive you from keeping it a secret for so long. 

When you walked back into the Baxter Building, you couldn’t find anyone. The place was quiet, as if the multiple floors of offices had been evacuated. Your heart raced as you went up the elevator, and walked around the empty halls of the family’s floors with not even a sign of Herbert. You rushed to the lab, the last place you needed to check. The elevator’s door opened, and you sighed in relief when you found your family inside. 

They all turned to you at once, and you were shocked to be met with red, puffy eyes. Sue rushed to stand in front of Franklin and Ben. Reed’s eyes darted between you and the screen, and Johnny…Johnny wouldn’t meet your gaze.

The relief didn’t last long. 

“What is going on? What happened?” You walked instinctively toward Johnny, but halted when you noticed he took a step back before you reached. “The whole building is empty, are you guys okay–“ 

“We didn’t think you’d actually show up here.” Sue’s harsh tone made your brows furrow. It didn’t sound like her, not like the woman who would put a blanket over you and Johnny when you fell asleep watching a movie in the living room. 

“What? Why wouldn’t I?” You asked, completely taken aback with the way she looked at you. “Johnny?” You called to him, but for some reason he refused to lift his gaze from the lab’s floor. 

“There was an attack today. On our…information.” Ben explained, softly. “And on F–“

“Franklin.” Sue finished for him, and your eyes went wide, but before you could ask, Reed rotated the sphere monitor so you could see what they’d discovered 

“The breach came from your device. And these…” He pointed to the screen. “These schematics were used to override our firewalls, and steal all of our information. Including all our safety protocols."

You walked a few steps closer, just enough to see your watch connected to the monitor, and all the information displayed on it. Your notes, your handwriting, your sketches, things you’d only ever shared with them.

“That’s–no, that’s impossible. I never shared that with anyone…I don’t–Reed, you know I never–“ You fumbled your words, nothing could’ve ever made you ready for this type of accusation. “My watch has been glitching lately, Johnny I told you that.” Your eyes darted to him, hoping he’d say something, that he’d defend you. But that wasn’t what came out of his lips.

“But that’s your handwriting.” He mumbled, arms crossed across his chest, but he still wouldn’t look at you. 

“On the plans that put my son in danger today.” 

“Yes, that’s my handwriting, those are my notes. But–” The words tore out of you, panicked. “I don’t know how they got that. I swear to you, it wasn’t me.”

Your eyes burned, your throat tight as you looked around the room at the family who once claimed you as their own, at Johnny, who didn't have it in him to meet your desperate gaze. 

“Johnny, please.”

Finally, Johnny’s head lifted. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red. It hurt you to see him like that, but it hurt you more that his mistrust of you was the reason behind those tears. Still, for one moment you let yourself believe he might leap to your defense like always. And as he looked right into your eyes, he wanted to. God, he really wanted to. 

To this day he could still remember the taste of the champagne from that night, the way your laugh had muffled against his neck, the feel of your fingers brushing his. He could still remember the way he brushed it off as nothing. But it wasn’t “nothing”. You weren’t “nothing”. 

You were supposed to be the one person who saw him, past all the cockiness, the one who always listened to him even when the family didn’t. You weren’t supposed to be the one who lied, who hurt him. He looked at Reed, hoping for a sign, hoping for that impossible “I was wrong”, but Reed only shook his head, because as always, he wasn’t. 

“The watch matches the breach exactly. There’s no evidence of tampering on it.”

“Then find it!” You snapped at Reed, making everyone flinch on their spots. “This is my home, I would never hurt any of you, much less Franklin.”

You couldn’t believe it. Had they really given up on you so easily?

“Johnny, come on,” you whispered. “You know me. Better than anyone.”

He did…or at least he thought he did. But the screen behind you glared back at him, your notes, your access codes, the coincidences. The smoking gun in your own handwriting.

“If this is some kind of mistake,” Johnny said quietly, “then give me something. Anything that makes this make sense.”

“I wasn’t even here, Johnny. I was–“ you cut yourself short, not exactly knowing how to explain you’d been hiding a baby when everything you said already sounded like a lie to them. “Can you just give me a second? I just need to–“

“There’s no time to spare, I need to track where this information has gone. You could at least tell us that.” Reed said, and you blinked in disbelief. 

“I can’t tell you something I don’t know.” You shook your head. “This is not about what you guys are seeing on that screen. This is about you trusting me for who you know me to be.” You fought one last time. 

Reed just sighed, finally daring to say what they’d all agreed on before you arrived. 

“We are shutting the building down. Everything will be changed to make sure the information that got leaked won’t be relevant. I’ll conduct a further investigation, but…I think it’s clear enough for now. You have broken our trust. And if you’re refusing to share information with us, that means we can’t…it’s not possible to have you here anymore.”

Johnny’s head snapped up, but this time it was you who couldn’t meet his eyes. All that was left was the quiet, the heartbreak, and the sound of your breath hitching as the family you loved looked at you like a stranger. You thought of the ultrasound picture in your bag, of the heartbeat no one here knew about. The one they were casting out alongside yours. 

The weight of it crashed down. The lab blurred as tears filled your eyes in disbelief. At this point you didn’t even care about their “further investigations”, because they had already decided it had been you. Their eyes didn’t lie, they didn’t believe you. 

You lost them. And in that moment they lost you.

So you just nodded, and whispered, “I understand.”

But in your chest, your heart screamed I don’t. That’s when you decided to turn to the last person who could give you saving grace. With what little steadiness you had left, you cleared your throat.

“Johnny,” you said softly, not daring to look at anyone else. “Can I…can I at least talk to you? Just once. Please.”

Johnny didn’t answer right away. His shoulders were stiff, his face turned away, but he exhaled, and nodded. “Yeah…okay.”

Sue looked at him, but with the unbearing love she still had for you somewhere inside, she decided you two deserved that moment. So she took Franklin from Ben’s arms and rushed out of the lab, Reed following her, Ben lingered just long enough to give you one last conflicted look before the elevator doors shut closed. 

You were left in the silence of the lab, standing across from Johnny. This was either your last chance, or…your last goodbye. The room felt too big now, like you didn’t belong there anymore, but still you gathered the strength to fight one last time. 

“I can’t change what you saw, and I don’t understand why you would believe that was me. You know how much your family means to me. How much you mean to me.” You started, your voice faltering with the tears you tried to keep from spilling. “Just…think about everything we’ve been through. Every night in this place. Every secret. Every laugh. Do you really think that wasn’t real?”

That got him. His eyes snapped to you, glassy and burning, like your words meant the opposite you wanted them to.

“It was real to me,” he said. “And maybe that’s the problem. Because now all I can think is, what if it was all just part of this? What if you were playing me the whole time?”

“Johnny…”

He raked a hand through his hair, pacing again. “Do you know what it feels like? To look at you and not know if anything you ever said to me was true? To wonder if every smile, every moment, was just you getting closer to what you wanted?” His voice cracked. “What did you even want to get from this? I don’t understand.”

The realization hit worse than ever. He wasn’t questioning the stuff he saw, he was questioning you. He didn’t understand why you’d done it, because he’d already decided in his head it had been you. 

“I–this is my family.” He continued. “Why would you want to do this to my family?” 

The words carved into you. To believe you had come into the building ready to finally confess, to tell him about the baby, to give him the one piece of truth that could not be forged. But the way he looked at you now, made your stomach twist.

“I can’t tell you something I don’t know.” You repeated the same thing you’d said to Reed, blinking back the tears that blurred him out. “But I don’t think it’d matter anyways…it sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

This wasn’t about proving yourself anymore. Not when he’d already decided you didn’t even deserve the chance. 

He didn’t deny it, and that was the moment you knew. The same way Sue protected her child. You couldn’t give yours to someone who didn’t trust you, who doubted the very core of who you were for some made up evidence against you. 

“I will do as your family said, I won’t be a problem to you anymore.” You said. 

His lips parted one last time, like he wanted to speak, to backtrack, but nothing came, instead his eyes went back to the floor. That silence was enough to break the parts of you that once belonged to him.

It was clear to you, that no matter how much it broke your soul, you had lost everything. So it was time to go. You wiped your tears with your sleeves, and decided you wouldn’t spill any more for him. Or at least, not in front of him. You took one last look at Johnny, the coward who couldn't even look at you as he exiled you from his life, his home, his family. 

You didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t deserve it. So you just turned around, walked to the elevator, and didn’t look back as the doors closed. 

That’s when Johnny allowed himself to break. Breathless, broken sobs muffled by his hands soaking with the hot tears spilling. He didn’t know what hurt more, that he never got to confess he loved you, or the fact that everything that made him love you wasn’t even real. He was overwhelmed with emotions, the disbelief, the fear, the anger, that it was so hard to see clearly past all of that. 

All he had left was the facts, the damning evidence on Reed’s screen. Because he didn’t have you anymore. 

Believing that was the biggest mistake of his life. 

By the time the building settled into the darkness of the night, you were already gone. No goodbye note in your room, only your untouched belongings and your heart left behind. As the cab sped away, your mind was a whirl of grief and uncertainty. They had taken your home from you, but they could never take away the last part you had from Johnny. 

The only thing you had left. 

Johnny didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. He sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands and your watch on his nightstand. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. He went to your room that night, trying to find something, a clue, anything that would help him see further the haze of pain that wouldn’t leave him alone. The room was silent, cold, even when he was a walking furnace. 

You’d left the bed made, two drawers half open, but the rest was intact. Picture frames, gifts he’d given to you through the years, records he’d chosen himself still displayed on your shelves. Like you couldn’t bear to bring a single piece of him with you. Only the faintest trace of your perfume lingered, clinging to the air like a ghost. 

The room looked frozen in time, like you just stopped existing. Which, you kind of had. 

Johnny’s chest burned, but not with fire this time. With the void only loss could cause. He leaned on the doorframe, staring into the space that used to be yours, and in some unspoken way, his. He wanted to rage, to scream, to burn the whole damn world down if it meant changing what happened. But nothing would do. 

You were gone.

Because they’d asked you to. Because he didn’t fight for you to stay. The smoking gun was not in your hands, but in his own. 

That night he slept on your bed. Eyes crying acid rain on the pillow where you used to lay your head. He clung to your scent and the good old memories, grieving the fact that he would never get to make new ones. Not with you.

Haunted by the look in my eyes 

That would’ve loved you for a lifetime

Leave it all behind

November.

The city you once loved became unbearable quickly. Every corner of Manhattan screamed their names. Fantastic Four billboards on Times Square, interviews replaying on café TVs, merch stands at every store. You couldn’t buy milk without Johnny’s smile flashing at you from a cereal box. It wasn’t home anymore. It was a wound that wasn’t allowed to close.

So you left New York for good, all to end up in a small southern town in Georgia. 

No flashing billboards, no cameras, no whispers of superheroes. No Fantastic Four influence anymore.

Still, nights weren’t easy. 

You sat by the open window of your small rental, the autumn air freezing against your skin. You stared out at the trees of a world that felt foreign, while you replayed every step that had led you there. 

Some nights you wrote letters. Folded scraps of paper with words you couldn’t say to anyone. Questions, confessions, apologies. Letters to the fire, to him, to the life you used to have. To no one.

It was like standing at the edge of a cliff screaming ‘give me a reason’. 

There wasn’t a clear path set for you anymore. The internship you earned through your hard work had once been an impossible dream, one you got to live. 

You guessed this was the price you had to pay for those few years in heaven. 

And there was one feeling that remained with you through the fall of the leaves. That peculiar ache, the sense that this wasn’t just pain for now, this pain was for evermore.

Hey December

Guess I’m feeling unmoored

Can’t remember what I used to fight for

Tis’ the damn season.

The city became unbearable for Johnny in December. Three months after your departure. 

The Fantastic Four’s Christmas photos were everywhere. Sue smiling with Franklin on her hip, Reed stiff as always, Ben wearing a ridiculous Santa hat marketing forced him to wear but he secretly loved. And Johnny, always the center of attention, always grinning. 

Because he was miserable but nobody had to know. 

Because the world saw him as the spark of every season. 

Because he was Johnny Storm, and he could do it all with a broken heart. 

Even when he hated himself most of the time. For doubting you. For letting the proof shout louder than his heart. So he did what he was best at, and hid behind a smile and his muscles, carrying the weight of believing you’d betrayed them…and the heavier weight of still missing you anyway.

Winter was in all its glory. 

Johnny wasn’t very fond of the snow since he got his powers. It wasn’t enough to affect him, since the cold never bothered him anyway, but it felt different when flying. Different than in any other season. 

But now he liked to see it fall through the large windows of the tower. Because maybe, wherever you were, he hoped you were seeing snow too. He could at least share that with you. 

So that’s what he was doing tonight.  

Johnny stood by the large windows of your room, a place where he found himself often, and thought about you. He always thought about you. Lost in his head, entranced by the way the snow fell, he didn't notice the tiny socks dragging against the blue carpet, until a little hand tugged the fabric of his pants. 

“Uncle Johnny?”

He looked down to find Franklin, clutching the stuffed dinosaur you’d given him on his last birthday. He smiled at his nephew, crouching to his height. 

 “Yeah, buddy?”

“Where is she?” Franklin asked, tilting his head.

His question was innocent, it shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but the words knocked the air out of Johnny’s chest. He stared at his nephew, and the dinosaur tucked under his arm, the same one he’d helped you pick, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Franklin tugged his arm this time, when Johnny didn’t answer right away.

“She was always with you,” Franklin said softly. He always liked to point stuff out. Facts. Just like his father. “But now she’s not here. Mommy said she had to leave…” His little brow furrowed, because he didn’t understand. “Do you know why? Did she stop liking us?”

Johnny shook his head, forcing a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, buddy. She didn’t stop liking you. She…she just had to go away for a while.”

“But I miss her.”

That was it.

The final crack in Johnny’s mask. He wrapped his arms around him and hoisted him up, wrapping him tight in his arms as he walked towards your bed and sat there. He buried his face in Franklin’s blonde hair so he couldn't see his eyes burning. “Yeah, buddy…I miss her too.”

He didn’t notice Sue standing on the doorway. She just watched as Johnny clung to her son, both of them breaking with the absence of the same person.

Back in your little southern town, you stared out the window too, but there wasn’t snow there. You missed it. Missed teasing Johnny about it. Missed laughing until you cried when you tried to make snow angels and he melted the snow into water in a matter of seconds. 

You couldn’t share the snow anymore, but you were thinking about him too. All while in a city miles away, Johnny held a child who wasn’t his, whispering that he missed you too.

You’re not my homeland anymore

So what am I defending now? 

January.

It was the first day of the new year. 

Sue found him in your room again. It was late, hours after she’d put Franklin to bed. Johnny sat in your bed in the dark, the glow of the moonlight painting his somber eyes. His hand was curled around your watch like he still couldn’t let it go.

“Johnny.” Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of someone who’d been watching him break for months.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just mumbled, “Can’t sleep.”

Sue crossed the room, sitting down beside him. She let the silence sit for a moment before speaking. “I know it hurts. More than it hurts the rest of us.” She reached out, resting a gentle hand on his arm. “But it's been months. And for your sake, Johnny…you can’t keep living like this.”

Johnny remembered what Franklin told him that night, and he wanted to use the same argument. ‘But I miss her’. He was sure he’d sound the same as the child, considering how his voice wasn’t as confident as it once was. 

“I can’t stop thinking about her. About that night…about everything I didn’t say.”

Sue’s hand slid to hold his, comforting in a way only a sister could be. “I know, Johnny. But sometimes people make their choices, and all we can do is let them go. You can’t burn yourself out trying to hold on to something that isn’t here anymore.”

Her words cut deep, but he knew they were spoken with love. Johnny sat there for a long time, staring at the watch in his palm. “You’re right.”

“I know it seems impossible now, but it’s time to bury it. Move forward, Johnny, for you.”

And he nodded, even though it seemed impossible. He decided then, to shove it down, to lock it up, to pretend the only fire burning him was the one from his own flames. He had to bury the pain, to bury you, somewhere he could never reach again.

The next day, as much as it hurt Sue, she moved every photo, every souvenir, every memory of you they had in the tower to that room, and put it under lock and key. Because she couldn’t keep watching her brother talk to a ghost. 

Johnny inevitably went back a couple of days after, only to find he could no longer get in. He’d noticed photos of you had gone missing, as well as all of the stuff you’d once given to him, so he figured his sister locked them away in your room. 

In that moment, Johnny wished he’d kept every receipt of the times he’d gone out with you. He would've, if he’d known one day every scrap of you would be taken away from him.

All that he had left was your memories. And he couldn’t help but wonder, What is she doing now?

If I didn't know better, I'd think you were still around

I know better, but I still feel you all around

February.

Six years later. 

The town had become your home in ways you never thought it would. You’d grown to love the main street lined with diners, boutiques and an old movie theater. The way everyone waved and actually made eye contact when you walked by, the rhythm of a place that moved slower than the world you’d left behind. It was like living inside a Hallmark movie. Except…without the love interest part.

By day, you taught at the community college. Your mornings went by as a professor in the science wing, filling blackboards with equations and diagrams, trying to pass on your love for learning and the things Reed had once taught you. Your students adored you, not because you were easy, but because you made them feel like science was reachable, like anyone could do it if they put in the effort. 

By night, your world was your son. 

Leo Spencer. 

He was everything all at once. The spark in your life, the reason behind your smile, and the vivid reminder of the one person you could never outrun. 

Because Johnny Storm lived in your son’s face. 

The same golden hair, the same dashing smile that lit up every room, his charming confidence, his small quirks. The way he drummed his fingers against the table without realizing, the way he tilted his head when he was curious, the way he filled a room with energy without even trying. He was a copy of the man who broke you. 

But not his eyes, no, those were yours. Johnny let you have one thing, at least. 

The only thing missing was the fire. Thank God for that. He never needed flames to shine. At only five years old, his restless curiosity had already outgrown the classrooms around him. Teachers threw around words like gifted and advanced classes, ones that carried dollar signs heavy enough to scare you. You worked extra hours tutoring in the afternoon to afford his tuition in a private school, even picked up shifts at the local bar on weekends, while your lovely neighbor took care of him. Exhaustion became an everyday thing, but you’d do it a thousand times over if it meant Leo had what he deserved.

You weren’t the same person who left New York. You changed your first name, and picked the same last name as your son for you, Spencer. It seemed stupid when you chose it, being Johnny’s second surname and all, but you weren’t really thinking clearly when you did. At least it had helped you tremendously to share it with Leo when it came to signing him up in the advanced programs. It kept people away from making questions since there wasn’t a “father” in the picture. They could only assume he’d divorced you or died. 

It was a place where gossip ran like water, after all. 

Your one story house wasn’t that big, but it was yours. White paint on the porch railing, a garden you kept stubbornly alive, shelves lined with books you actually had time to read again. At night you’d sit on the steps with a mug of tea, watching your son chase fireflies across the yard, laugh bubbling while telling you facts about their wings. 

You’d built this life with your own two hands, out of nothing. You did it with a broken heart, with one truth you carried quietly, tucked deep inside your chest. 

I’m never going to love again.

People tried to show their interest in you; a colleague who lingered too long in conversation, a neighbor who offered to fix the leak on your sink when you’d mentioned it, or even the police captain offering you coffee when you passed by the station in the mornings, but you shut the door on all of it with a polite smile. 

The world had taught you what it cost to put your faith in someone else, to hand over your heart and believe they’d protect it. You couldn’t afford to make that mistake again, not when there was a child depending on you. So you forgot about your big city dreams, at least until Leo was able to have his own. You kept your world small, safe, and put caution tape around your heart. 

Miles away, Johnny wasn’t much different. 

Of course he didn’t have to hide behind a fake name, he was still the golden boy of New York, still the Human Torch. Half naked in calendars, covers of magazines and billboards. He’d leaned into the spotlight harder than ever, laughing loud, burning brighter than his flames. 

But beneath it, the void never filled.

Six years, and he never let another woman close. Flirting, sure, he couldn’t help it, but he never took anyone home. It felt like betraying you, even when you betrayed him first. 

It was absurd, really, that he kept burning for a ghost.

He told himself he'd buried you, like Sue told him to. But the wound never closed. So he researched, quietly, secretly. When the others thought he was sleeping, Johnny sat in Reed’s lab going through old files, things that never quite added up. It had started as punishment, as a way to prove to himself that the evidence had been real, that he wasn’t crazy for believing it. But the longer he stared, the more holes he found. Places where the trail was too clean, where it looked too deliberate. 

He didn’t find proof that you’d done it. He was finding proof that he had destroyed you for nothing. 

That’s when he started looking for you. But your name didn’t show up in any database after that September six years ago. You just vanished into smoke slipping from his hands. 

He was supposed to be the fire, to absorb it before it burned everything down. But this time he had to be the one picking up the ashes left behind, one by one. 

And every night he whispered the same prayer to the stars, let me find something. Let me find her.

And it's been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong

I'm right where you left me

March.

You spent your afternoons tutoring, guiding your students the way you’d wished someone did for you when you were younger. Every bright mind that walked through your door had the potential, you just showed them what they could do with it. 

But some shone brighter than others, like this girl Kate. The darkest long hair, a sharp gaze and even a sharper mind. The kind of mind you recognized instantly. Restless, unable to settle for easy answers. She deserved more than the small town college could give her, and more than you could give her, if you were honest. 

Now, one of the many things The Fantastic Four contributed to the world were their academic programs. Opportunities, grants, financial aid, internships were all part of the things someone could earn through them. Of course, you had to be brave enough to even apply in the first place, and compete with millions of ‘exceptional’ applicants across the globe. 

You had once been brave enough to, and felt like you won the lottery when it landed you an internship with…them.

We all know how that story went. In the end, you lost the game of chances. But maybe Kate would play her cards better. So one day, pushing past your fears and your own trauma, you talked to her about the program that changed your life many moons ago. 

“Have you ever thought about applying to the Fantastic Four First Steps Program?”

Her head snapped up from her notebook, eyes wide. “Me? No way. I mean…that’s for geniuses, right? Not many people get in, only the people from the big cities.”

You smiled softly, even though your chest ached at the name. Fantastic Four. You hadn’t said it out loud in years; it was exiled from your vocabulary the way they’d exiled you. You never thought you’d send another person into that world ever again, but your experiences shouldn’t tarnish the ones others could have. So, even if the words tasted bitter in your mouth, you forced yourself to go on. 

“Kate, that program was built for minds like yours, no matter where you apply from. I seriously think you could get in, I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t.”

She hesitated; she had heard of other people from the college applying, but she thought they were crazy for even considering it, since no one from there ever got accepted. “Well, but…even if I could, which would be crazy…would I even belong in places like that?”

God, how many times had you asked yourself the same thing?

“Listen to me. You belong anywhere your brain can take you. And if you’re worried about the application, I’ll help you, I know what it takes to get in. You don’t have to do it alone.” You reassured, and after some consideration, she finally nodded.

You let out the part ‘because once, I was in’. Because once, those halls were your home. Because once, your whole life had unraveled on the top floor of that tower. But that was a long time ago, and you were starting to live for the hope of it all once again. 

Maybe life would be kinder to her the way it couldn’t be with you. 

So you both worked on her application right away. Crafted it perfectly. It wasn’t a hard task, since she was brilliant and her scores backed her up. You just helped her polish everything, keeping your name out of it, and soon her file was mailed to New York. 

It's been a long time

And seeing the shape of your name

Still spells out pain

October.

Johnny had been sent to represent the family at the Fantastic Four First Steps Program Showcase. Where dozens of students made a presentation on the projects they’d been working on since they got into the program. 

He arrived just in time, wearing a leather jacket over a fancy button down, and the most inappropriate pair of tight pants he found that day. 

“Family representation, Johnny." Sue had said that morning, shoving the itinerary into his hands. “Behave, pay attention, and ask questions.” 

And he tried, he really did…at first. 

But by hour two, saying he was bored wasn’t even enough. He still clapped when everyone else clapped, smiled when a camera panned at him, even threw a wink or two when someone in the audience managed to get his attention. 

He just had to hold on for another half an hour. Then he could sneak out, text Sue “great event!” and pretend he’d been deeply moved by the future of scientific innovation.

He wasn’t even looking at the stage when the next student walked up. Kate Bishop, the host announced. Another young person with a bright future and a nervous smile. Johnny didn’t even notice the accent in her voice or the way her hands trembled holding the slide pointer to the huge screen behind her. His gaze was fixed on the watch on his wrist, until her presentation came to an end. 

“…and I wouldn’t even be here today if it weren’t for my mentor, my professor back home,” Kate was saying. “She pushed me to apply, even when I didn’t think I could make it.”

Johnny looked up absentmindedly, he was ready to clap and give a thumbs up as if he heard the whole thing, but his hands stopped midair when he saw the slide change. 

There you were. On the screen.

Standing in a college lab, radiant as ever, the sunlight from the big windows pouring over your shoulder. The girl on stage was smiling next to you, her head tilted slightly in your direction. Your hand rested on her project model. You looked proud, happy, alive.

You. It was you.

Johnny couldn't clap, smile, or even breathe. He forgot where he was, forgot the rows of interns, the attention from the audience, the cameras pointed at him. The entire world narrowed to that glowing projection of you.

He hadn’t seen you in six years. Not in memories that didn’t hurt. Not even in photographs because Sue had locked them away in your room. His heart started to race, too fast, too painful. He felt it everywhere, in the edge of his ribs, in his throat, his ears.

All he could see was your smile frozen on that screen. The same smile that used to undo him every single day.

“The project began with her, back home in Georgia. She taught me that even if people don’t believe in you, you have to believe in the impact you’ll leave behind.”

Johnny squinted, trying to read the caption under the picture.

Professor Spencer and student Kate Bishop. Thomasville, Georgia. 

Spencer. Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm.

You took his name. His second surname.

You’d vanished, built a life, a reputation. And you chose somewhere quieter, smaller, far from him, far from the city that ruined you. You built yourself back up, became a new person, and still took his name.

But Johnny didn’t have time to spiral, because for the first time in six years, he didn’t just have a ghost, he had a trail. He had a location now. 

Thomasville, Georgia.

He had to find you.

Johnny left the conference building in a blaze of golden fire, without even saying goodbye to anyone, and went back to the Tower.

He stumbled into his room, slamming the door behind him, the rush of adrenaline burning through his shaking hands. He went straight to his nightstand, pulling out the last piece of you he kept, the only one Sue couldn't take away from him because he’d hid it.

Your watch.

He paced the length of his room, the watch clutched tight in his hand, muttering under his breath like that would help calm the storm inside him.

“Six years,” he whispered. “Six years and I finally found you.”

He pressed his palms against his face, but in the middle of his frenzy, the watch slipped from his grasp. It clattered to the floor with a sharp crack, metal case popping open, tiny pieces scattering over his carpet. 

“Fuck…”

He dropped to his knees, scooping the pieces up, but stopped over something that didn’t look like it belonged there. He picked it up carefully, staring at a tiny silver chip, glinting under the light coming from the large windows. It didn’t have the blue number four Reed stamped everything with. 

What the hell…

He scooped the rest of the pieces from your watch, and set them on his bed. Then, without even giving it a second thought, he took off his own watch and closed his eyes as he slammed it against the floor. The casing burst open just like yours, gears and metal scattering on the floor. But all he saw were pieces that were meant to be there, stamped with the tiniest four emblem. No weird chip. 

“No, no, no…” He shook his head, looking all around the carpet to see if he missed it coming out of his watch. But he found nothing. 

He needed answers now.

Johnny didn’t remember running through the halls. His chest burned, and his vision blurred. By the time he burst into Reed’s lab, he was gasping, eyes wet, the small chip clutched safely in his hand. 

“Reed–Reed, I need you to look at this!” 

Sue jumped in her spot, and sat up straighter from where she was leaning over some papers. Reed looked up from his work, brows furrowing at Johnny sprinting toward him. 

“Weren’t you at the education summit?” Reed asked, just as Johnny set the chip in front of him.

“I left early.” Johnny shook his head quickly, catching his breath. “This is more important. You need to analyze this. Now.” 

Reed glared at him for a few seconds, but when he noticed the desperation behind Johnny’s pleading eyes, he reached for the chip with a tweezer. Johnny began pacing, raking his hands through his hair, breathing uneven as Reed studied the component carefully. 

“Are you okay?” Sue finally dared to ask, but Johnny didn’t answer.

He turned to Reed. “Well?” He demanded. “It’s not from here, is it?”

Reed ignored him, and set the chip under his scanner. A pulse of blue light ran over it, as Reed pressed keys, analyzing its composition, code structures, searching for anything familiar. When the machine was finally done with the results, Reed leaned back.

“This isn’t ours.” He announced, and Johnny froze in his pacing. “This is advanced nano technology. ” 

“Johnny, where did you even find that?” Sue asked, but was ignored once again by her brother. 

“Are you completely sure it isn't ours?” He pressed. 

“It is not. I am years away from implementing it on our equipment. I’m afraid I don’t have the capability of building something like this here…yet.”

Johnny just stood in silence, his eyes fixed on the chip glowing faintly under the lab lights. 

“The chip…it was in her watch. The one we got the information from when we threw her out.” He explained, quiet anger threaded in every word. “The one she begged us to believe was glitching.”

Sue and Reed exchanged a wide eyed look, they knew exactly who he was talking about. Sue got up to put a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, but he turned away. 

“Johnny…”

He slammed his hands against the counter, as tears burned the back of his eyes. “She told us. She told us something was wrong, and we didn’t listen. We just–we believed the files instead of her.”

Reed’s expression hardened as he looked back at the chip. His mind piecing everything together. “Nano technology is extremely dangerous. Someone must have embedded it on her device when she was out in the city, stole her information and then transferred the breach into it to cover their tracks. To make it look like the leak came from her.”

“Oh my god,” Sue gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

“This…this could have been planted on any of our watches. But whoever did this chose hers.” Reed added. 

“Because she wasn’t blood.” Sue shook her head. 

“Because she wasn’t officially one of us, which would make it more believable to us.” 

Johnny turned furious toward Reed when he heard that. “She was part of the family! At least back then she was. Don’t you dare imply she wasn’t.”

“Johnny, I’m not implying anything. I’m just trying to reason on how this happened–” 

“We let her take the fall, that’s what happened! You let me believe it was her, when she was innocent!” Johnny snapped, pointing accusingly at him. Reed opened his mouth to argue, but Johnny didn’t even let him speak. “How did that chip get past you? You got all the information of the breach from her watch. How come you didn’t see that?”

That’s when Sue decided to step in. “Johnny, we had no idea. None of us did. There was so much evidence, you saw it.” She reached out, her hand hovering near his arm. “We can only hope to forgive ourselves for believing–”

“Forgive ourselves?” Before she could reach him he recoiled, staggering back offended. “How can I forgive myself? Tell me that, Sue. How can I fucking forgive myself?” His voice cracked. 

That was the moment Johnny couldn’t hold it in anymore. He leaned over the counter, palms supporting him as his eyes drowned in tears with the heartbreaking realization that it wasn’t you. It had never been you.

And he found that out six years late.

Six years of feeling guilty for not hating you. Six years of burying you. Of forcing himself to believe that you were the one who had cut them open, who had put Franklin at risk, who had taken everything they built and sold it out. All those years, all that evidence, the betrayal they’d carved into your name, was a lie. Someone had planted it. Someone had turned the watch he gave you into a weapon against you. 

And he believed it. 

He thought he knew pain before, the loss of his mother, the terrifying day that changed his life on that space mission. But this was a different kind of pain. Because those other things he could have never foreseen, or prevented. But this? He didn’t keep you safe, didn’t protect you, just let you take the blame.

And he could never undo what he’d done to you. This was a fire he ignited himself, a fire he’d let consume you. 

Sue walked over to him, her face pale at the sight of endless tears streaking down her brother’s cheeks. She placed a hand on his shoulder hesitantly, expecting to be rejected once again, but instead stumbled backwards when Johnny turned around and wrapped his arms around her, sobbing into her shoulder. Sue’s eyes swelled with tears too as her brother cried uncontrollably, clinging to her for dear life.

She let him get it all out, one arm hugging him tightly and the other lifted to stroke his hair, just like when he was a kid. Reed just watched in silence, guilt sinking deep into his bones with every sob that echoed in the lab. Johnny was right. He should’ve seen it, he should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt instead of making them think you would do something like that. He hadn't just failed you, he’d failed his entire family.

Johnny’s tears finally came to a stop after what felt like forever, his chest heaved with leftover hiccups. He pulled back from Sue, running his hands violently through his soaked face. He sniffed a few times, gaze lowering on the floor, hands on his hips.

“I let her walk out with nothing. I watched her beg me to believe her and I–” His voice cracked again, but he pressed his palms to his eyes. “I didn’t, Sue. I didn't. For six fucking years I let her believe we hated her.”

“Johnny, we can’t change the past.” Her voice softened, she wiped her own tears with a napkin Reed pulled out from his shirt. “All we have is the now–”

“Now? Now she’s in some small town, working in a community college when she should’ve had the world with us. We stole her future from her.”

That made Reed’s head snap up. “Wait–you know where she is?” 

“Johnny, you found her?” Sue asked, just as surprised. 

Johnny nodded, sighing. “I saw her–not in person. This girl from the program, Kate, showed a picture of her in her presentation today. Said she was her professor at the community college back home.” He sniffed as he forced himself to go on. “In Thomasville. A town in Georgia, she’s there.”

Sue stepped closer, her arms crossed in her chest. “Then we have to fix it.”

She got startled by Johnny’s bitter laughter. “Fix it? How the hell do you fix six years? How do you fix letting someone you love think you hated them?” He shook his head. “I love her, I never stopped. And now I don’t even know if she’d even look at me, let alone forgive me.”

Reed sighed, walking over to Johnny. He placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and spoke to him the way he did when Johnny was younger. “Maybe it’s not about forgiveness, Johnny. Maybe it’s about the truth. About giving her back what was stolen.” He looked over to the chip, regret flickering through his calm voice. 

“So now we try. It doesn't matter if it’s too late.” Sue added. “And it has to be you. It doesn't matter if she slams the door in your face. You try, Johnny, you have to.”

Reed nodded. “We can’t undo what we did. But we can stop letting her carry it alone.”

Johnny stood there, comforted by his sister who’d always been his mother figure, and Reed who, no matter how much they bickered everyday, had also always been there for him in ways only a father could. 

He didn’t know if it was possible, he didn’t know what came next. But he knew he had to try. 

He was coming to get you. 

Guilty, guilty, reaching out across the sea

That you put between you and me

Thomasville, Georgia, was quiet that sunny Sunday morning.

Church bells rang in the distance, families walked out of diners with paper bags of pancakes, the people on the streets moving at that slow pace that belonged to small towns.

Johnny Storm had never felt more out of place.

He could’ve flown there. Part of him wanted to, he loved traveling in that fast, fiery streak across the sky. But he couldn’t risk it. If the news caught him flying in some random town instead of New York and you saw it, you might vanish before he ever got close, and he couldn’t lose you again. So he flew into the nearest big city instead, rented a shiny black pickup truck that in his head looked appropriate for his trip, and drove for hours to your town across red, yellow and orange trees with the windows down, letting the autumn air cool down the heat gnawing inside him. 

He hadn't been able to find your address on public records, so he chose to start by the community college first. The campus was almost empty that Sunday, only a few students lingered by the library steps. He stepped down his huge pickup with sunglasses on, the less flashy pair he owned, and a cap to cover his distinct blond hair. Johnny kept his head down, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, slipping past unnoticed. 

The directory board near the main entrance gave him what he needed. Your office number. He dodged a custodian pushing a cart, and ducked past a pair of students glued to their books. His heart pounded louder with every turn until finally, he found it.

The office.

The door was unlocked, strangely enough since there was no one inside. But when he stepped in, he understood why. The space was…bare. If your name wasn’t on the door, he would've thought no one worked there. He saw a desk, a neat stack of papers on it, and a clean chalkboard. No photos. No plants. No little trinkets to claim the space as yours.

Johnny closed the door softly behind him, his chest aching as his eyes traced the emptiness. There was no warmth, no spark of you. It was efficient, practical, almost…detached. Like you could walk away without leaving a trace. And Johnny realized, with a sick twist of his stomach, that your trauma had a shape. Four walls, stripped bare, a life lived like you might vanish again tomorrow.

“You never let yourself settle,” Johnny whispered to the empty room.

Because six years ago, they had made you leave your home with nothing. Because you had learned the hard way that belonging could be ripped away overnight. The guilt pressed down harder on his chest, almost suffocating. Johnny shoved those feelings away, he was on a mission to try to fix all of that. 

He rounded your desk, and checked the papers on it first. Faculty memos, notes, nothing relevant. His hands went through the drawers, he found more notes, a few bags of snacks, and finally, a folded bill, with your address printed clear at the top.

“Bingo,” he grinned. 

He shoved it in his pocket, then tugged at the next drawer but nothing happened, it was locked. He grinned wider, because if there was anything Johnny Storm liked, was sticking up his nose where he shouldn't. And he’d known you long enough to remember you used to hide things in plain sight. All he had to do was scan the desk until he found a small key tucked inside a pencil holder. 

Typical.

At first, it was nothing remarkable. Just research notes, class grades, tests drafts. But then his hand found envelopes tucked deeper. He pulled them out, and found letters with your handwriting, but no stamps, no addresses. Letters that were never meant to be sent. But his brow furrowed when he noticed his name on the first one.

My Johnny.

He flipped to the next. 

Dear Johnny.

Then the next.

Johnny.

And then the last one. 

For him.

You wrote to him, even when there was no hope, even when he was never going to read them. He clutched the envelopes, his heart fracturing when he realized he went from being called yours to someone you couldn't name anymore, not even on paper. 

He took a deep breath, ready to read what the first one said, but before he could take out the folded letter out of the envelope, the doorknob rattled.

He didn’t even have time to panic. He shut the drawer in a rush, and dropped down to his knees with the stack of the envelopes clutched tightly against his chest, crawling under the desk just as the door creaked open. The sound of heavy footsteps filled the room. Someone was walking up to the desk. Was it you? 

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God–

“Yeah, I’m in your office now,” a man’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Where’s that document you said you needed?”

Johnny’s eyes went wide. That man seemed to be on the phone. With you. He couldn’t make out clearly what you were saying, not from where he crouched, but the knowledge that you were there, so close, closer than you’d been in six years, nearly made him throw up. 

That, and also the fact that someone was on the other side of the desk and if they decided to round it, they would find the Human Torch hiding like a fucking thief.

The man hummed at whatever your response was, rifling through the stack of papers on top of the desk until he found it. “Ah, here. You owe me, Professor.” He chuckled. 

And then, faint but unmistakable, Johnny heard your laugh carrying from the other side of the line. God, he’d forgotten what it sounded like. Six years apart, and the first time he heard your laugh again, it wasn’t for him.

“Lucky for you, I was passing by campus today.” He said. Then his voice shifted, to a more playful tone Johnny knew too well. “By the way…have you thought about that coffee yet?”

Johnny stiffened under the desk. The man had an ease to him, the kind of thing that wasn’t forced. He wasn’t pushing, just…trying. He leaned closer so he could hear what you said to that. And that’s when he heard it again, your laugh. Like he was the funniest man alive, and it twisted Johnny’s insides. 

“John, I’m always flattered with the offer.”

John? Another John?

Jealousy wasn't something Johnny had felt in a long time. But at that moment, a million questions popped in his head in a matter of seconds. 

Who was he? How did you know him? Why did you ask for his help? Why were you laughing so much? Was he blond too? What car did he drive–

“But you know I’m busy, so I’m going to–”

“...Reject me, I know, I know.” John finished your sentence, and laughed under his breath, almost like he was expecting it. Johnny had to cover his mouth before he sighed in relief. “I’m used to it. But it's always worth a try, though.”

Always??

Before Johnny could lose it under that desk, it seemed like this “John” was finally about to leave, but stopped midway. “This may sound weird, but your office feels too…warm. I know it’s autumn, but how much do you crank up the heating?” He snorted, looking around the room.

Johnny cursed in his head. He hadn't even realized his temperature had risen significantly with all the jealousy. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, though.

“Huh, yeah, that’s weird. I always turn it off when I’m not there. Must be your imagination.” You joked.

“Or your voice,” John flirted. If you could even call that flirting, in Johnny’s very humble opinion. He grimaced, and thankfully, you protested too. “Alright, alright sorry. Let me get this to you and I’ll be out of your way.” He joked. 

“Okay…thank you, Captain Walker.” 

Captain Walker? Why did that sound flirty? Why did “John” laugh at that? Was it an inner joke? Was he an actual captain?

Johnny had to see this man right now.

But before he could spiral any further and create scenarios in his head, the line clicked off. He held his breath, waiting for the man to leave. Finally, the footsteps shifted toward the door, and Johnny couldn’t stop himself. He tucked the four envelopes on the inside of his jacket, and then he lifted himself up just enough to peek over the desk. 

He couldn’t see his face as he walked away, but with the way he carried himself, he was probably handsome. His hair was darker than Johnny’s but still blond, most likely with the same blue eyes to match. Taller, broader, the kind of frame that filled a doorway without trying. He wore a dark red flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, worn jeans, and brown cowboy boots. The outfit screamed southern man on a Sunday.

Finally, the guy left the office, leaving him alone again.

Johnny should’ve been glad you’d turned him down, at least for a moment he was. The thought that you’d smiled politely, laughed softly, and still said no soothed the part of him that was still in love with you.

The guy seemed kind, and didn't really come off as a creep. He was a captain, apparently. He sucked at flirting, according to Johnny, but you seemed to laugh genuinely at his attempts…you seemed comfortable. Now Johnny only knew him from that short interaction, but he felt like the type of guy who looked steady, rooted…safe. The type of man who looked like he belonged there. 

The type of man you would've said yes to.

But something gnawed at the back of his head. The delusional part of himself thought that maybe you’d rejected that guy because you still remembered him. But then, the darker part of him whispered in his ear that it was actually because of what he did to you, and you couldn't risk another heartbreak.

The same way you didn’t seem to get attached to spaces, like your office, maybe you didn’t let yourself get attached to people either.

Johnny’s heart pounded in his chest as he drove to your home. He didn’t really have a plan…or words. What could he say after six years? What could possibly fit into a sentence when what he did to you should be a lifetime of apologies?

All he knew was that he had to see you. 

When he finally turned down your street, the world seemed to slow. It was a beautiful place, for sure. Orange leaves fell from the trees lining up the street, landing in the gardens of the houses. It was quiet around, yet it looked so lived in. Johnny parked a few houses down, and he sat there for a long moment, just staring at his shaking hands. He finally gathered the courage to get out of the car, and looked for the house with the same number he found in the bill he got from your office. He finally found it, and he stood right in front of it. 

Your home.

A single story painted in soft baby blue with a beautiful porch. A little rocking white bench sat out front, and plants that looked cared for lined the steps in mismatched pots. 

You built this, he thought. Without us. Without me.

Each step to the porch felt heavier, like he was walking straight into a storm. He ran his hand over the wooden railing, steadying himself, letting the softness of the blue paint calm him down. He paused at the door, looking down at the doormat that said Welcome! 

He chuckled nervously under his breath, but something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Right by the door, there were two pairs of rainboots. One black, the other shiny red. It would've been a normal thing, if it wasn't for the fact that the red ones looked too small to belong to you. Johnny tilted his head, but the nerves running through his body didn’t really let him think clearly. So he just shrugged it off. Maybe some kid from the neighbors had left them there. It seemed like the type of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone and everyone shared everything. 

He took one last deep breath, and finally knocked on your door. 

The time is near

What would he do if he found us out?

He's gonna burn this house to the ground

The knock that would change your life echoed through the quiet of the house. You finished slipping your sports shoes on, frowning at the sound. Sunday afternoons were calm, Leo was already at the neighbor’s so you didn't get interrupted as you got ready for your shift at the bar. You weren’t expecting anyone.

And when you opened the creaky wood door, you certainly weren’t expecting Johnny Storm to be standing right outside the mesh screen.

It felt like a bucket of ice water just got dumped on you. 

The last rays of golden sunlight hit him perfectly, catching on that familiar blonde hair you saw everyday on a smaller version of him. Your eyes went over the sharp lines of his face, ones you had spent years trying to erase from your memory. It was him, without a doubt. A few years older. Real. But somehow missing that boyish spark you were so used to seeing on him.

For a moment you didn’t move, you didn’t breathe, you couldn’t even if you tried. It felt like the air had been stolen right out of your lungs.

And Johnny? He was no different. Because even though he knew he was seeing you that day, he wasn’t prepared for this version of you. The one whose eyes told him you were still haunted by everything he had taken away from you. And you were so real, not a memory, not a brief visit in his dreams, not a picture on a presentation yet he looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

Because that’s what you were, his ghost, his lost six years.

The mesh door separated you like a thin wall, but the weight of lost time pressed through it. Your face was stunned, eyes wide like you were seeing death itself. Because that’s what he was to you.

But this time what died didn’t stay dead, and it was standing on your porch, right in front of you. 

The pain of it all hit you immediately, like it never left. You remembered the way he’d said everything all those years ago, his voice harsh and determined. Words that had followed you through every lonely night, every rock of your baby’s cradle, every time you told yourself you’d never trust again.

And now he dared to show up at the house you built with the bricks they threw at you.

Your heart rushed, panic replacing your anger. The only thought racing in your head was Leo. He came for Leo. He found you somehow, and now he was going to take your son away.

“J…” Your voice broke trying to say his name; it had been buried in your throat for years. But saying it felt wrong, unnatural, like dragging open an old wound. 

His own breath hitched, his eyes getting glassy before he could stop them. “God…” He whispered. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You stared at him as if he might vanish like he always did in your dreams. He would be doing you a favor anyways, you’d much rather be safe and stranded, than giving someone the chance to hurt you again. 

Your fingers gripped the edge of the doorframe to ground you, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them, sharp and defensive. 

“What are you doing here?”

Johnny flinched, just slightly, like the sound of your voice had cut him. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said softly. “For a long time.”

Your stomach twisted. Panic and fury knotted together in your chest, and you shook your head. “You shouldn’t have.”

He took a small step closer, seeing the fire in your eyes, yet still he dared to ask. “Can I…come in? Please. We need to talk.”

“I don’t think you should.” The answer came firm, unhesitant. 

The firmness in your voice startled even you. His face fell, taken aback, like he hadn’t expected you to stand so solid, to draw a line in the sand. Six years ago, you’d begged. Six years ago, you’d folded under the weight of their disbelief.

But not anymore.

Johnny cleared his throat, his voice breaking as he tried again. “Just–just a conversation. I swear. We really need to talk.”

For a moment, you wanted to shut the door. To bolt it and keep the small, safe world you’d built intact. But his eyes…always those eyes. Wide, glassy, unguarded. And against every instinct, against every scar, you found yourself unlatching the mesh door. It creaked open, and you stepped aside.

Johnny crossed the threshold like he was walking into another world.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him standing awkwardly in the small living room. Johnny’s eyes darted everywhere at once, taking it all in. The scent of lemon freshness, the warmth of afternoon light across your light cream walls, the faint clutter of everyday life, papers stacked on the table, faint scuff marks on the wooden floor, a blanket folded neatly on the couch. It wasn’t the Baxter Building. It wasn’t glass and striking colors and grandeur. It was a home. Your home.

And Johnny Storm stood in the middle of it, stunned, feeling like he had no right to breathe the same air.

“You can uh…sit,” you said quietly, gesturing to the couch near the door, trying to keep him from looking closer and finding something that could hint at a child living in the house. 

He obeyed without question, lowering himself onto the cushions. They sank beneath his weight, too soft, too comfortable. Nothing like the Baxter couches, firm, pristine. This one probably carried the wear and tear of movie nights and lazy weekends. He wasn’t sure the last time he had something like that. Still, no matter how comfy, Johnny sat stiffly, hands clasped trying not to fidget.

You hovered nearby, nervous, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Do you…want something to drink?”

For a second, he softened. The offer was familiar, like the ghost of old times when you’d fuss over whether he wanted a soda or coffee before turning into your assistant for long nights in the lab. His lips twitched, almost a smile, but the nerves won out.

“No. I’m fine.” He said, voice awkward.

You crossed your arms, finally steadying yourself enough to meet his gaze. “Then say what you came to say. I don’t really have much time.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I have to go to work.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Work? On a Sunday night? Classes aren’t–“

“It’s not college. I have something else on the weekends.” You didn’t elaborate further, you didn’t need to.

Something in his chest sank, knowing you had another job, a side job. You, who once had the whole future wide open in the palm of your hand, who got everything promised when you were selected to work on Reed’s lab, becoming one of them, now pulling late shifts somewhere just to make ends meet.

Johnny swallowed the lump in his throat, understanding without you spelling it out. You needed the income. The silence stretched until it strangled him, until he couldn’t keep those words inside anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, then leaned forward, voice already breaking. “I’m so goddamn sorry for everything. For not believing you. For letting you walk out of that tower like you were nothing when you were–when you were everything. I know it wasn’t you. I know now.”

Words…how little they mean, when they’re a little too late. 

Johnny dragged a shaking hand down his face when you just blinked at him. “I found the root of the leak…some nano chip that was hidden inside your watch. I know you told us–you said it was glitching, that it wasn’t you. Someone planted it there, got your information and used you to cover their tracks. And we–” He stopped for a moment to breathe, to steady his voice. “We let them. We handed you over without a fight. I–I did.”

Hearing Johnny say those words should’ve made you jump into his arms and kiss the tears away. Should’ve shattered you into granting him the sweet light of your forgiveness. Six years ago, you would have. Six years ago, you would have fallen to your knees just to hear them, would’ve clung to the smallest scrap of his belief.

It was the apology you had begged for in the dark, the one you had prayed might come. For years, you had whispered those words into your pillow, written them down in letters addressed to the fire, waited for the day he would arrive and tell you what you already knew.

But that day never came.

Not until the years had worn the edge off the pain. Not until you’d forced yourself to move forward. For your sake…for Leo’s. Still, that didn’t make it any easier for you. 

You could see it in him…the wreckage. His eyes wet, voice cracked with regret, chest rising and falling too fast. He was crushed under the same weight you’d carried alone for so long. As his chest ached with the same heartbreak yours once did, you stood still, lips sealed tight, arms crossed to protect yourself. 

That silence killed Johnny. And he had no one else to blame but himself. 

“I should’ve believed you.” His last choked apology came in a whisper, barely audible. 

Johnny stood up from the couch, but didn’t get closer. His fire buzzed under his skin, begging to flare to burn the ache down, but he forced it off. The last thing he wanted was to scorch this place, your place, the home you had built from the ashes he’d left you in.

You swallowed hard when he did, but you said nothing. You didn’t uncross your arms. Didn’t break…not yet. 

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t just look at me like that.”

When you said nothing, again, he staggered back a step, his hands dropping to his sides like he was keeping himself from reaching for you. 

“God, I deserve this,” he mumbled, more to himself. His eyes glistened, fixated on some mark on the floor. “Six years. I–” His throat closed, he had to force his voice out. “Six fucking years, and you won’t even say my name.”

No. You couldn’t. 

“I would’ve died to hear those words back then.”

His head snapped up. The sound of your voice, steady but laced with ache, tore through him like fire.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh made its way out. “I waited…God, I waited. For you to reach out, for any of you to show up at my door and say you didn’t believe it, that you hadn’t given up on me. But nothing came.”

Johnny’s lips parted, eyes wide, but this time it was him reeling in silence.

“I wrote letters,” you whispered, arms still crossed. “Letters addressed to no one. Words I knew you’d never read…just so I could breathe. Just so I could put the pain somewhere.”

Tears clouded Johnny’s eyes, he could almost feel the papers in your hands, the ghost of your handwriting spelling his name. My Johnny. Dear Johnny. For him. 

The last one when you couldn’t even withstand the thought of his name anymore. 

“And still…I couldn’t make it go away by making you the villain. I tried–believe me I did, because out of all of them I expected you to be the one to stand by me. But you just–” Your voice faltered when tears finally found their way out of your eyes. “You didn’t believe me.”

The little sobs you tried to muffle with your hand were unbearable for him. For a moment, he looked like he might collapse under the weight of your words, but he pushed through. He had to make you understand his side of the story. 

“I didn’t give up on you, not at first.” He said, words coming out desperate. “I studied it…in secret. Every night, I went over the reports, the logs, everything I could get my hands on. I couldn’t–God, I wouldn’t believe it. Not you. Not the girl who lived in the tower with us, who was family, who was…who was everything to me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing once before turning back toward you. “But the evidence was there, every file, every trace led back to things only you would know, and I was too blind to see past that. But all this time–” He reached into his jacket, fingers brushing the broken edges of your old watch. “It was sitting on my nightstand…the proof–that fucking chip inside your watch. It was right there all along…and I didn’t see it until six years too late.”

The revelation that he kept your watch on his nightstand shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. He’d kept a piece of you close to him…next to him. Yet still, he decided you weren’t worth the benefit of the doubt. 

“The problem,” you said dryly, “is that you needed the evidence at all. If you’d just listened to me–” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “If you’d just trusted me back then, everything would be different today.”

“I wanted to,” he rasped, too unsteady, too quickly. “God, I wanted to believe you more than anything. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to choose my heart over proof and I hate myself for that…I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. “You’re asking for something I can’t give you now,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I ever can.”

“I’ll take it.” He whispered back, wiping the tears away with the back of his sleeve. “Whatever you’ll give me, I’ll take it. I just needed you to know I was sorry. That I was wrong.”

Silence stretched, until you finally forced yourself to ask what you’ve been dying to know since you saw him at your doorstep, your arms tightening across your chest. 

“How did…how did you even find me?”

Your stomach twisted, braced for the answer you feared most. That he wasn’t here for you at all. That the apology was just some excuse. That he was here to rip Leo from your arms, to take the only piece of safety you had left.

“Through one of your students…Kate. She showed a photo at a presentation. You were there…next to her.” He explained. “I thought I’d gone insane. I thought I was seeing ghosts. But it was you.”

Kate.

Shit.

You swallowed hard. It had been you who’d told her to apply, who’d guided her steps closer to the program you should’ve kept far away from. You had been so careful with her application, keeping your name out of it, yet it was a variable you couldn't control that made your face find its way back to him. 

It still felt like your fault. 

The walls of the house suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier, warmer but not in a good way. Suffocating. For six years you’d kept yourself invisible, careful to erase every trace, and now you’d been found…because of your own slip.

Johnny saw the realization hit your features. Your frantic eyes told him how much you didn’t want to be found, how he was considered a danger to the little world you lived in now, and it ripped his heart more. He took a shaky step back, his hands half raised like he needed to show he wasn’t a threat. 

“God, I knew it. After everything I did, after what we put you through, of course you don’t want me here…and you don’t owe me anything, but I’ll take whatever scraps you’ll give me. Just–” He ran his hands through his already messy hair. “…Just don’t be afraid of me.”

You just stood there, letting your gaze drift over him. His posture a little heavier, his face more lined, but still so unmistakably Johnny Storm. Still handsome in that way that made your stomach twist…like seeing an ex. 

And the resemblance…God. It was astounding.

Your throat tightened as your eyes flicked from his face to the memory of your son’s. The same blond hair, the same damn smile when he was feeling mischievous. Leo was a mirror of him, down to quirks he didn’t even know he shared.

You knew if Johnny looked too long into your eyes, he might see the fear was not for you, but for Leo. So you forced yourself to blink, to pull the thought back into the cage where it belonged. Johnny didn’t know. Couldn’t know. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said at last, steadying your voice. “It’s just…shocking. Seeing you after all these years.” 

“Yeah…feels the same way for me.”

For a moment, Johnny let himself breathe, let himself believe just being there with you was enough, that he’d gotten farther than he thought he would. He sat back down on the couch, trying to steady himself from the weight of it all, but the silence stretched, and something gnawed at him. A pang in his chest, a whisper at the back of his mind.

Something was missing.

He tore his gaze from you, eyes drifting quickly across the place like answers might be hiding in the corners. It wasn’t like the tower, not polished, not curated. This house showed it was lived in. The open small kitchen was the room that first caught his eye. On the breakfast counter that faced the living room, three different kinds of cereal sat half open. A small wooden stool sat beneath the sink on the counter by the window, and in the drying rack, a mug and an orange plastic cup with a built-in straw sat side by side. A metal lunchbox was nearby, plain, blue, nothing flashy, but it didn’t quite fit as yours alone.

That’s when he remembered the tiny boots at the entrance. Everything lined up too perfectly, too unmistakable. Johnny came to the conclusion that someone else shared this space with  you. Someone with smaller steps, different routines than a normal person…it was a family’s home, without a doubt. Johnny’s chest tightened, and his eyes darted again, searching for just one more clue…

And then he saw it.

By the small tv center, half hidden in the corner, a toy box. Brightly painted, clearly well loved by the scratches on it. From the top poked the unmistakable shape of a toy car, the front wheels worn from too many races across the floor. His eyes widened, locked on the toy poking out, his entire body going still.

You followed his line of sight, dread flooding through your body. He’d seen it.

The toy. The truth. And you knew in that second there was no taking it back.

Johnny’s gaze stayed fixed on the little car. He didn’t say it right away…he couldn’t. The truth pressed the back of his throat, suffocating, but if he spoke it aloud, it would be real. So instead, he gaslighted himself for a little longer, forcing his voice to come out.

“Didn’t know you had a nephew,” he said, nodding faintly toward the corner. “Guess I missed a lot.”

It was subtle, almost casual, not accusatory. But you could hear the crack beneath the words, the real intention under his tone. He was pretending not to know. Pretending, maybe for both your sakes.

You hesitated, lips parting before closing again, thinking you could lie. You could nod and let him believe it, let the moment slip away. But his eyes…God, his eyes were already on you, glistening, waiting for you to tell the truth he couldn't. 

“It’s not a nephew.” Was all you said. 

No lie. Not the full truth either.

And what once was a forgotten night of too many drinks between two idiots in love, turned into two strangers, standing inches apart, knowing damn well what that child was.

Johnny pushed up from the couch, his legs unsteady but determined. He couldn’t sit any longer, he needed to be closer. To force that truth face to face. But when he stepped closer to you, his eyes caught on something on the corner of his eye.

A wall that led to a hallway, covered in frames. He drifted toward it instinctively, drawn like a moth to flame.

You moved quickly, your hand half reaching for his arm to stop him, his name tumbling out of your lips in desperation. “Johnny–”

But he pushed past you, and soon was standing there. Right in front of the wall of photographs. Dozens of them. A curated display of moments of a little kid. 

A newborn in a hospital blanket, tiny fists curled tight. A toddler, grinning wide as frosting smeared his cheeks at a birthday table, a number two on the cake. A four year old, probably, holding up a plant with proud little hands. And the one where he looked the oldest, standing proudly next to an experiment with a “winner” badge at a science fair. It could’ve been that same week for all he knew. And multiple more, across all stages of his little life.

The kid’s face looked back at him like a mirror from the past. His past. Just younger, innocent. Same hair, same smile, same spark. He reached out, fingertips shaking as they hovered over the glass.

All the paths led there. To that house. To that wall. To that smile.

To you.

Johnny’s mind went to that gala night. That one damn night. Too much champagne, too much fire, laughter and kisses that blurred into a night he could never forget. But it had been just one. One night you'd both decided it was a mistake, an impulse, a result of recklessness. 

And yet here, before his eyes, was proof of everything that night had left behind.

“God…” he whispered, barely audible.

An entire childhood he had missed.

Your son.

His–?

Johnny’s hand lingered on the frame. His own reflection in the glass, overlapping with the kid’s smile, and it felt like a cruel trick. His chest heaved, his head spinning.

“No,” he said under his breath, shaking his head. “No, it was…it was just one night.” His voice cracked in denial. “That gala, that was all it was. Just one night.”

His eyes darted across the wall again. Newborn, toddler, child, and every photo twisted the knife deeper. He staggered back a step, and finally, he forced himself to turn to you, his gaze pinning you to the spot.

“Tell me he’s not who I think he is.” He begged. “Please. Tell me I didn’t miss it–tell me I didn’t miss the most important part of your life–” His voice cracked, devastated, “–of mine.”

The plea rattled the air between you, thick with panic, with grief, with the sharp edge of a truth he couldn’t bear to face. His eyes glassy and desperate, burning with fire he couldn’t control, the heat searing just beneath his skin. And you couldn't, for the life of you, say anything. 

“God, please,” he whispered, his throat closing around the words. “Don’t let it be true. Don’t tell me I’ve lost all those years I'll never get back. Don’t tell me he’s–”

He cut himself off, choking on the last word.

And you knew. You knew the cat was out of the bag. No turning back, no denying it, no hiding Leo in the corners of your little world anymore. His father stood right here, breaking, begging you to undo what couldn’t be undone.

Johnny stared at you. He’d begged, he’d pleaded, he’d prayed you’d deny it. That you’d laugh, shake your head, shove him out the door and tell him he was insane. That you went out and had a child with someone who looked exactly like him as revenge. 

But you didn’t. 

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” Was all you could say. 

He blinked the tears away, and with a shaky exhale he finally claimed what was undoubtedly his. “He’s mine.”

You couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t force the words out. All you could do was nod, slow, aching, like it was tearing you apart to admit it.

“He’s my son,” he said, voice breaking again.

His eyes darted back to the wall of photos, all the years he’d missed staring back at him. Six years of a life he should’ve known. Six years of first steps, first words, laughter, birthdays. Johnny looked like the ground had opened beneath him. Face pale, stunned, his lips parted but no sound came out. Your instincts told you to grab Leo, to run, to keep him safe. But Johnny’s face…it was wrecked. It wasn’t fair for him.

So instead, you grabbed his arm lightly, steadying him, and guided him back toward the couch. He sank into the cushions without resistance, his hands shaking on his knees.

“I’ll get you some water,” you whispered.

You set the glass down in front of him, but he didn’t touch it, just stared through it like it wasn’t there. The shock ran like a chill through his body. 

Johnny was part of a family that had been torn apart when his mother passed. Every time he thought about having his own, he prayed for something complete. Not broken, not tarnished, not…this. Not a son who didn’t know he existed. 

Of course he remembered the name from the application. Leo Spencer. Still, he had to ask, he needed one more confirmation. 

“What’s his name?”

You took a deep breath, and said that same name he was dreading. “Leo.” Your voice cracked, so you cleared your throat. “…Spencer.”

There it was. Spencer. 

“When was he born?”

“February 18th," you said quietly.

Johnny’s head snapped up. His head doing the math quicker than he ever thought he could. You must've been around three months when everything went down. 

“You knew,” he said, voice accusing now. “You already knew. Before–before we…” He trailed off, gathering the strength to continue.“Why?” He blurted. “Why didn’t you tell us? Tell me?” He shook his head. “It could’ve changed everything. God, you should’ve told me.”

You couldn't even look at him, because you had asked yourself that same question a thousand times in the dark. Your hands twisted together, nails biting into your palms as you forced yourself to meet his eyes. 

“I didn’t tell you because…because before that night, we were nothing,” you said. “Just two idiots who got too drunk and crossed a line. You said it yourself, it was just one night. You joked about it.”

The words tasted like lies, because you knew damn well you were in love with him. Still were, no matter how hard you tried to burn it out of yourself. But it was easier to paint it as nothing than to admit how much of you had always been his.

“And after what happened? After Reed found that so called evidence, after he told me I had to be gone, after you–” Your voice broke, eyes burning. “After you didn't fight for me? I wasn’t going to raise my child in a house that didn’t hesitate to throw me out like I was nothing. I wasn’t going to let my baby live in a place where family turned on me without blinking.”

Johnny just listened, because he didn’t have an argument for that. 

“I wanted him safe,” you mumbled. “Safe in a way I wasn’t. And I tried–I swear to God, Johnny, I tried to tell you when I asked to speak to you. But you wrecked me before I ever got the chance. You wouldn’t even look at me without that look…like I’d betrayed you.”

Your throat closed, but you forced the last words out.

“So I didn’t say anything. Because you didn’t deserve it.”

He realized just how much he’d really lost. Not just six years, not just the kid on the wall, but the pieces of you that he never had the courage to claim as his, long before that night. For a heartbeat he sat frozen, but when his hands went to cover his face, he broke.

The sound just ripped out of him, raw, sobbing. His shoulders hunched forward, his body folding in on itself as if he could hide from the truth but he couldn’t. Not from this. Not from you.

“God, I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve–” He cut himself off, a sob tearing free. “You were right there, and I–I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe–I should’ve fought for you.” Tears streamed hot down his face, his chest heaving. “You tried. And I–” His hands dropped uselessly to his lap.“I destroyed you. I destroyed everything.”

Before he could stop himself, his hand reached out to your figure in front of him. His hand hovered in the air, hesitant, fingers almost brushing yours, asking for something he knew he had no right to.

Still, he asked. “Please. Just let me hold your hand. Just–just for a second. I don’t care if it’s the last time.”

The man who always stood cocky and unshakable in front of the world was reduced to this. Broken, sobbing, begging at your feet for the smallest piece of forgiveness. And in his blue eyes, through the tears, you could see the guy you had loved with all your soul. The guy who had been yours…kind of.

So you let him hold you, just for a moment. Johnny’s warm hand shook against yours, his fingers curling carefully, like he was afraid you’d pull it back if he held too tight. His breathing evened out, his sobs softening until the room fell heavy again with silence. But then his lashes lifted, his eyes still wet as they flicked toward the hallway. 

“…Is he here? In his room?”

Your whole body stiffened, and he felt it with the way your hand tensed against him. 

Johnny took a deep breath, thumb brushing your knuckles as though he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I just…I need to see him. Please.”

That was when you yanked your hand back, shaking your head profusely. “That’s not happening.”

Johnny froze, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

“You can’t see him,” you said firmly. “You can’t take him away. He’s all I have, Johnny. The only thing I have.”

And Johnny sat there stunned, gutted that you’d think that, realizing he wasn’t just fighting for your forgiveness anymore, but fighting for the right to see a son he hadn’t even touched.

“No. God–no. I would never take him from you.” He shook his head, pleading for you to believe him. “I swear on everything I am, I would never do that.” He reassured, pressing a hand to his chest. “But I need to see him, please. I have to. He’s mine. He’s my son.”

“But he’s my whole world, Johnny. And I can’t let anyone risk that.” You shook your head, stepping farther away from him.

Johnny couldn’t exactly blame you. He understood where the fear came from, but he’d be damned if he managed to find you and his son only to be told to go back to his life. 

This was his life now.

“I have a right to see him. To know him. To look at his face and not just through pictures on a wall.” He pressed, his eyes searched yours as you forced distance between you. “I’m his father.”

You had spent years building a wall around you and Leo, years convincing yourself you could keep him safe by keeping the world out, by moving to a small town where the Fantastic Four were nothing but big city superheroes. But now Johnny was sitting here, away from his big city, claiming that word like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Father.

Johnny’s lips parted, trying one more time. “I…I don’t want to take him from you. I just want to see him. Please, I’m begging you.”

You wiped at your cheeks quickly, forcing yourself to stand taller even as the word father rang in your ears. You drew in a shaky breath, keeping your tone as steady as you could.

“He’s not here,” you confessed. “My neighbor takes care of him when I’m working late shifts at the bar.”

Johnny blinked. The bar. The image of you, the woman who once lived and laughed in the tower, now pouring beer for drunk men on a Sunday, broke him. 

You glanced at the clock on the wall, your face scowling. “Shit.” You reached to grab your jacket from a chair. “I’m so late. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow if you want to see him.”

You stepped past him, toward the door, until his hand closed around your wrist. The warmth of his touch froze you in place.

“I can’t wait anymore.” His grip on your wrist was not tight, not forceful, just begging. “I’ve already lost so much. Please don’t make me lose another day.”

“Johnny–”

“Don’t go.” His voice cracked as his eyes searched yours. “Please. Don’t go.”

“I can’t just ditch work,” you snapped, panic rising in your throat. “I need it.”

“I’ll figure something out,” he said quickly, desperate. “Whatever it takes, I’ll fix it–I’ll cover it. But please. Not tonight. Not when I just found you again.”

The plea broke something in you. His hand on your wrist, his voice hesitant, the way his eyes begged. Your pride told you to yank your wrist back like you’d done before and tell him no, but the whole encounter had taken a toll on you, and you weren’t sure you could withstand a shift like that. So you exhaled, then finally gave the smallest nod. You pulled your wrist gently from his hand, not harsh, just needing space to breathe. 

“I uh–I need to make a call first,” you announced, and he nodded, stepping back so you could walk to the telephone on the wall.

Johnny watched as you gave him your back, and dialed the number with shaky fingers, the line ringing a few times before someone picked up. By the looks of it, it was your boss most likely, from the way you stumbled over a lie about Leo being sick. Johnny flinched when he heard the scolding from the other side of the line as you mumbled apologies for the short time notice. 

God, he needed to fix all this mess. 

You set the phone back with a sigh, and turned to him. “I’ll bring him home,” you said, then walked closer to him to plead just like he’d done before. “But you have to promise me you won’t take him away, Johnny…please. Don’t make me regret this.”

He stepped closer, hands raised in surrender. “You won’t,” he assured. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone to do this by yourself. I’ll never stop being sorry. But I can promise you this, I won’t take him away. Not from his mom. Not from you.”

You nodded, choosing to believe, slipping your jacket on to walk into the cold of the night. “Wait here,” you said. “I’ll go pick him up from my neighbor’s.”

Johnny only nodded, shoulders hunched, his hands lowered and clasped together like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you again. His eyes followed you to the door, until you slipped away. 

You’d forgotten how warm a room became when Johnny was in it. The night air hit you as you stepped outside, crisp and cool, making you shiver. The street was dim, only the soft glow of porch lights guiding your path as you walked to the house across from yours. Your eyes went to the huge fancy pickup truck parked just a few houses down, which had to be Johnny’s, for sure. You rolled your eyes, of course. Rubbing your arms as you walked, legs moving on autopilot, every voice in your head screaming to scoop Leo up and vanish before it was too late. But it was already too late. Johnny was inside your house. His ridiculous truck outside. Johnny had seen the photos. Johnny knew.

Back at your place, behind the curtains, Johnny couldn’t sit still. He’d told himself he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t intrude, but his chest was on fire with longing. So he drifted closer to the window, pushing the curtains just enough to peek past the glass.

There you were, on your neighbor’s porch, exchanging a few words with a lovely old lady who looked at you worriedly. Johnny’s breath fogged the glass as he watched you. His heart ached at the sight. You looked so small, so breakable, carrying all of this alone.

You went inside only for a moment, and then you stepped out, cradling a bundle against your chest. The porchlight painted your silhouette in gold, and just beneath it, faint but unmistakable, was the glow of that blonde hair.

Johnny stopped breathing. 

My God.

He scrambled back from the window, clutching the pearls he didn’t have, and set the curtains back in place hoping you hadn't noticed him. By the time you reached your porch, he had forced himself back onto the couch, his hands braced on his knees, trying to look like he hadn’t just witnessed his entire world change in an instant.

The door opened with a quiet creak, and there you were. Your arms wrapped protectively around your son–his son, head resting on your shoulder, lips parted in soft sleep. Johnny shot to his feet immediately. His eyes, glassy and wide, locked on the child in your arms. You nudged Leo’s body only slightly, to see if he realized he was home, but Johnny’s hand twitched forward before he pulled it back, hesitant. 

“Don’t wake him,” he whispered quickly, his voice breaking. “Please–don’t. He looks…peaceful.”

You nodded, shifting only to hold Leo tighter. Johnny stepped closer, just enough to see. His eyes fell on the little face pressed into your shoulder, cheek squished, small eyebrows relaxed. Johnny’s hands stuck at his sides, aching to reach out, but terrified to cross that line.

“He’s… perfect,” he breathed. His knees nearly gave out, but he clung to the sight, drinking it in as if he could catch up on six years in a single heartbeat.

Your son–his son.

Perfect.

“C–can I…?” He mumbled, the words barely making it past his lips, more a plea than a question. His hand lifted a little, hovering helplessly over Leo’s little back, asking for permission to touch the sun.

He wasn’t Johnny Storm, the cocky Human Torch, not here, not now. He was just a man staring at his son for the first time. 

“Careful. He’s a heavy sleeper, but…”

Johnny nodded frantically, like he’d do anything, anything, not to ruin this chance. His hands shook as you carefully, reluctantly shifted Leo into his arms. The kid’s head fell against Johnny’s shoulder, his little hand curling unconsciously into the fabric of Johnny’s shirt.

And Johnny’s whole world stopped.

His arms tightened instinctively, protectively, as his body nearly buckled beneath the weight– not because six year old Leo was heavy, but because he was real, warm, breathing. Not an application form, not a picture…his son. 

Johnny’s lips quivered as he pressed his cheek lightly against the crown of his son’s head, his tears falling into soft blonde hair. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “God, you’re perfect.”

He rocked a little without realizing, clutching him as if he’d disappear. Six years of missed moments collided in his chest all at once. And for the first time since that night at the gala, Johnny felt whole and broken in the same breath. Johnny swayed gently, cradling Leo like he’d done with Franklin a thousand times before. His lips brushed Leo’s hair, a soft kiss he couldn’t stop himself from giving. His chest ached with every quiet breath the child took against him.

You stood frozen, watching them. The sight was enough to undo you. There he was, Johnny Storm, holding his son on a random Tuesday, right in that small town you called home. And the sight unlocked a longing on you that had been buried a long time ago. So you spoke, softly, because the silence was too heavy.

“He wonders about you, you know.”

Johnny’s head jerked up, his glassy eyes wide. “What?” His voice caught between awe and disbelief.

“Leo…he’s brilliant, I think the word smart is too small for him. He’s a little wonder,” you said proudly, trying to smile. “And he asks a lot of questions, about everything, about his dad…about you.”

Johnny’s eyes went wide. “What kinds of questions?” He asked, shifting Leo in his arms just slightly, like he was grounding himself his warmth. “Please, tell me what he wanted to know about me.”

“Everything.” You exhaled, shrugging, eyes dropping to the floor. “If you had the same hair as him. If you liked the same foods. If you could build things the way he does. If you were…funny.” A chuckle slipped out of you. “He even asked once if you were a superhero, I’m not sure why. I told him no, of course, because, well…obvious reasons. Guess I just wanted him to know you’re human. Just human.”

Johnny’s chest caved in, he pressed his lips against Leo’s hair, whispering. “Oh, buddy…”

Your eyes went to the floor, clearing your throat before confessing the last part. “And then he…he asked why you weren’t here. And I–I didn’t know what to say…so I just told him you live far away, and had a very demanding job. That your life is there. And his is here…with me.”

The hesitation in your voice made Johnny’s arms tighten around Leo instinctively. You still looked away, biting down on your lip, but you kept talking, because it was the truth. 

“I couldn’t lie to him. But I couldn’t tell him, either. So I just…I kept you as a distance. An idea. Someone too far away to reach, because that’s what you were to me.”

Johnny, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring at you. But once again, he didn’t have an argument against that. He shifted, his eyes roaming over Leo’s little face like he was trying to memorize every curve, every eyelash. And then he finally whispered the question that had been clawing at him.

“Does he…?” His throat bobbed, his voice hesitant, almost afraid. “Does he have it? My–my powers?”

You shook your head quickly. “God, no.” Your hand pressed protectively to your chest. “No fire, nothing like that. I watched him like a hawk for years.” You let out a small, nervous laugh, one that carried your relief. “His only superpower is being too smart for his own good.”

Johnny smiled at that, oh he knew. 

“He’s a genius, Johnny. Top of his class. Public school said he needed advanced courses. So I–I work myself to the bone to pay for that private school because he deserves it. Every single opportunity I can give him, I’ll give him.”

Johnny’s arms curled tighter around Leo. “I could've given him so many more opportunities. I could've helped you, he’d have the best teachers in the world right in his own house. But you decided to keep him from me.”

You flinched, clutching your arms tighter around yourself.

“I get it–you didn’t trust my family. Fine. You didn't have to. But me?” His voice cracked, his chest heaving. “You didn’t even give me a chance. You didn’t let me know I had a son. You didn’t let me decide if I could protect him. You just–” He looked down at Leo in his arms, “–you just shut me out.”

“Well, you shut me out first, Johnny!” You whisper shouted, doing your best to not let your anger disturb Leo’s sleep.

“I know,” he whispered, broken. “God, I know I did. But six years–” He shook his head. “Six years I could’ve been here. Six years I could’ve loved him…and you didn’t let me.”

For the first time, it wasn’t just guilt suffocating Johnny. It was grief for the life he’d been denied, the life he might never get back. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, the words came tumbling out, because you couldn’t hold them anymore.

“You really want to know why I didn’t tell you about him?”

Johnny’s lips parted, but no sound came.

“Because I was terrified,” you admitted. “Terrified that if you knew, you’d take him away the second you held him. Because you didn’t trust me. Because you already proved I was disposable.”

“You weren’t–God you weren’t…” He shook his head. “And I would’ve never taken him– but you thought I would. And that’s on me.”

Leo stirred in Johnny’s arms, a soft little whine slipping from his lips as he shifted against his chest. You straightened immediately, your arms twitching as if to take him back.

“He needs to go to bed,” you whispered.

Johnny’s eyes shot to yours, desperate but gentle. “Let me. Please.”

For a long, taut moment you hesitated, torn between instinct and the look on his face. You had already allowed him so much today. But you had also denied him so much already during those years, so you could let him have this at least. 

Together, the three of you walked down the hallway, guiding Johnny, who moved slowly like he was carrying glass. You pushed the door open, and Johnny froze on the threshold.

You turned on a little lamp, the room glowing soft in the warm light, painted in baby blue, with tiny white stars scattered across the ceiling like a sky waiting for wishes. A low bookcase ran along one wall, stacked neatly but already overflowing. It reminded Johnny of Franklin’s back home, except his nephew’s was bigger, neater. This one was fit to Leo’s size. 

He saw multiple posters on the walls. Beautifully illustrated and educational, with names of insects, dinosaurs and galaxies. A half solved massive puzzle was scattered across the carpet, the edge pieces already put together, and in the middle a scattered constellation of tiny hopeful starts. He could tell it was a rocketship mid launch. Next to it was a tower of lego blocks mid construction, like Leo couldn't decide which one would be more fulfilling to finish. In a corner of the room, boxes stored little cars, stuffed animals, and more books. 

His son's little kingdom.

Johnny stepped inside, dodging the puzzle on the floor. He bent carefully, guiding Leo down onto the small bed with its soft, solar system patterned covers. He eased Leo onto his back, smoothing his hair gently, brushing a stray lock off his forehead. The child sighed in sleep, lips parting, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Johnny’s chest crumbled.

He leaned down and pressed a small kiss to his son’s forehead, lingering there, his lips hot with tears he couldn’t stop. When he pulled back, his eyes drank in the little face now tilted upwards in the glow of the night light.

So small. So peaceful. So perfect. So his.

And he couldn’t look away. Not from the child he’d just tucked into bed for the very first time, six years too late. You stayed in the doorway at first, leaning against the frame, your arms wrapped around yourself as you watched Johnny kneel by the bed. He was so careful, so gentle, nothing like the energetic golden retriever you once knew. 

As Leo shifted in his sleep, a soft sigh slipping from his lips, you finally stepped into the room. Without a word, you reached past Johnny to pull the little blanket up over your son, tucking it around his shoulders the way you always did. Your fingers brushed Johnny’s hand for the briefest moment.

And for just that moment, just a delusional, fragile second…Johnny let himself picture it.

You, beside him at bedtime. This little room, these blue walls, these stars on the ceiling. A ritual of small hands reaching for him, bedtime stories, goodnight kisses. Not a stolen moment after six years, but your life. The life he should’ve been here for. The life you should’ve had together.

In another universe, it was probably like that. In another universe, he didn't doubt you. In another universe, you didn't have to run. Johnny’s throat ached, trying to keep the dream from spilling out. For one heartbeat, he let himself believe it. 

You adjusted the blanket one last time, smoothing it over Leo’s chest until he let out a tiny snore, and you almost smiled. Johnny’s hand still hovered near the edge of the bed, his eyes glued to the child’s face like he couldn’t believe he was real.

“I’ll never get tired of saying it…I’m sorry,” he whispered, so low it almost vanished in the air. His eyes flicked to you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for him. I should’ve been here. For the first step, the first word… all of it. I missed everything, and he doesn’t even know I exist.”

“I’m sorry you missed that too,” you whispered back. 

His gaze lifted to you, and he decided not to speak as the man who betrayed you, but as a father. “I promise you…I’ll never let him feel like how I let you feel…alone. I swear it.”

You gave him a nod. That promise wasn't just to you, but to his son.

You flicked off the little lamp by Leo’s bed and the two of you stepped out, leaving the door cracked just a bit. When you reached the living room again, Johnny stopped in his tracks. The room wasn’t just yours anymore. Now that he knew the truth, every detail shifted, every corner sang a different story.

The boxes of cereal on the counter? Leo’s. Not the quick snack of a busy professor, but his kid’s favorite breakfast. The fridge, though he hadn’t really looked at it before, had drawings pinned there with mismatched magnets. Crayon rockets, wobbly stick figure heroes, a very accurate representation of a T-rex. His son’s talent staring him in the face.

The blanket on the couch, the one he’d first seen, wasn’t just yours. It was small, soft, patterned with stars and comets, clearly a child’s. He pictured Leo curled up there, dozing while you graded papers late into the night. Even the stack of books by the TV wasn’t just random clutter. Johnny crouched a little, his breath hitching at the sight of colorful hardcovers. Stories picked by little hands, read again and again. And a huge detail he'd missed, an unmistakable pair of tiny sneakers under the coffee table.   

This was his son’s world. A kingdom built out of your sacrifices, your sleepless nights, your stubborn refusal to let him grow up with less than he deserved.

As Johnny explored, you lingered by the edge of the living room, your arms crossed, eyes flicking uneasily toward the door like you expected it to burst open at any second. What now? The question pressed heavy in your chest. You could almost see it, the rest of the family arriving in the morning, wanting answers, deciding Leo’s fate. The thought made your stomach knot.

You rubbed at your temple, fighting to stay upright, but the weight of the day dragged at you. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only bone deep fatigue. You yawned before you could stop yourself, covering it quickly with the back of your hand.

Johnny caught it. His brows furrowed, his eyes softening in that way you hated because it made you feel seen. His gaze lingered on your tired shoulders, on the dark circles you’d tried to hide, on the way you still stood like you’d go work another eight hours if you had to.

“You were really gonna work like this?” He asked softly, borderline accusatory. “Dead on your feet. With class tomorrow, too?”

You shrugged, too tired to build your walls back up. “I don’t have a choice.”

Johnny’s stomach twisted. He wanted to scoop you up, tell you you’d never have to push yourself like this again, and tuck you under the covers of your bed. But he knew he didn’t have the right…not yet. So instead, he swallowed the words down, forcing the fire back down. 

“I better get going.”

You blinked at him, surprised.

“Yeah, you uhm–” Johnny started quietly, glancing at the hallway that led to Leo’s room. His voice softened even more. “You need to sleep. And…we’ve got a conversation pending. A big one…but not tonight.”

You were too tired to argue, so you nodded.

“Thank you, for letting me…for letting me see him.” He forced a smile, not cocky, just soft. “It’s more than I thought I could.” He chuckled nervously. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Not in the morning,” you blurted, before you could stop yourself. “It’s always chaos,” you explained quickly. “Getting Leo ready for school. Breakfast, answering his questions, all of it. Just–don’t. Please.”

His eyes softened, his shoulders easing a fraction.

You exhaled and added, “If you want… you can come by the college, after classes…there’s this coffee shop right outside campus.”

Johnny nodded slowly, like he’d been given more than he expected “College…coffee,” he repeated, committing it to memory. “Alright.”

For a moment he just stood by the door, drinking in the sight of you in this beautiful, lived in space that was never meant to carry all this history. 

“Tomorrow after classes,” he whispered again, like a vow, before finally stepping out into the night. The door closed softly behind him, leaving you in silence.

You didn’t know if you were more terrified or relieved that Johnny Storm had found his way back to you.

Did I close my fist around something delicate?

Did I shatter you?

Johnny drove to the hotel on autopilot, barely remembering the turns he took, barely noticing the glow of passing streetlights. His mind was still spinning like the world had been knocked off its axis.

Because it had.

Leo’s weight had been in his arms. He looked at peace sleeping on Johnny’s shoulder, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. Now, in the dim silence of his hotel room, Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows braced to his knees, his face buried in his hands, caught somewhere between joy and grief. 

He pressed his hand hard to his eyes, but the images came anyway…Leo, smaller, toddling through the tower halls, Sue fussing over him, Ben sneaking him cookies, Franklin pulling him into games, Reed insisting on checkups. His family.

It should’ve been like that.

Instead, Leo’s bookcase was small because Johnny hadn’t been there to build it bigger. His shoes by the door were scuffed because Johnny hadn’t been there to buy him new ones. His mom worked extra shifts on a damn Sunday because Johnny hadn’t been there to shoulder half the weight.

His son. His brilliant, perfect, wonder of a kid. The one he should’ve known since the very beginning.

He thought about calling Sue. His fingers even hovered over his repaired watch, her name right there. She’d been waiting for him to call and tell her everything. And he knew she’d tear it out of him the second she heard his voice.

But the thought alone made his heart sink.

Telling Sue meant telling everyone. Meant deciding what came next. Meant pulling you into a storm you clearly weren’t ready for. And after tonight, after the way you begged him not to take Leo away, after you let him tuck his son into bed…he couldn’t betray that fragile thread of trust. Not yet. Not when you hadn’t even talked about Leo’s future. Not when you still looked at him like you were half a breath away from running all over again.

So he swallowed the urge, locked it down, and typed out a simple message instead.

Didn’t find her today. I’ll try again tomorrow.

A lie. But one he could live with.

He leaned back against the headboard, and stared at the ceiling for a while, until he decided it was better to rest if he wanted to be ready to face whatever came the next day. He got up to shrug out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the hotel chair, but it landed heavier than it should have.

The letters.

He turned back, snatching the jacket up, shaking the inner pocket until the stolen envelopes spilled onto the bedspread. He sank down beside them, remembering he hadn’t had the chance to read them in your office before “Captain Walker” barged in.

He reached for the first envelope, the oldest. The one dated just weeks after you’d been cast out. He unfolded the page with care, your handwriting staring back at him.

My Johnny

I don’t know why I’m writing this, maybe to remind myself I’m not crazy, maybe to hold onto some piece of what I thought we had. I really want to hate you. God, I know I should. But all I can think about is the way you looked at me before it all went wrong. The way you smiled at me that night at the gala. The way you made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in that big building.

But now I am. Completely alone.

I wanted to tell you about our little miracle, but you hurt me Johnny, before I even had the chance to say it out loud. You couldn’t even look at me without that fire in your eyes, and not the kind that used to warm me, the kind that burned.

That was the moment I chose to leave, instead of fighting for something that you had already decided I didn't deserve. I can’t pretend I understand how everything ended, but it did, and now your life is there, and mine is wherever you aren’t.

Those words felt like a punch to the gut. You did try. You reached for him, but he had turned away.

‘You hurt me, Johnny.’

“Fuck,” he cursed, shaking his head violently. “Fucking hell.”

Johnny’s hands shook as he set the first letter down, his breath ragged. His chest hurt, but still he reached for the next.

He unfolded it with trembling fingers, the paper softer, the ink smudged like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times before. 

 Dear Johnny.

Today he turned four. He asked me if his dad would come to his birthday, and I told him no, because you live far away. He didn’t cry, but he looked at the door all afternoon like he was hoping you’d walk in, even if he doesn’t know what you look like. I don’t know how to explain to him that you don’t know what he looks like either. But he is so much like you.

When he smiles, when he makes his silly faces, when he figures something out quicker than anyone else. It’s you. Every day I see you in him, and every day I tell myself I’m doing the right thing keeping him away, that I’m protecting him, but it feels like a lie, because sometimes I think I’m just protecting myself. Protecting myself from you breaking me again. 

The worst part is you were never really mine, and it embarrasses me that sometimes I can’t get out of bed because I miss something I never had.  

I guess that hurts more on days like these. 

For what felt like the millionth time that day, Johnny found himself crying. Leo’s fourth birthday. The one he should’ve been front and center at, not a ghost in the background of his mother’s fears.

Not even a curse left his lips this time, just his ragged breathing. But his eyes flicked to the pile again, as his trembling fingers reached for the last envelope. The one dated five years after you’d been cast out. A year before tonight. 

For him.

I’ve realized something I should have long ago, you’re not coming. I convinced myself I hated you, yet I still waited every day, hoping you’d find something. It’s eaten me alive, night after night, I feel like I fight with you even in my dreams. 

And I keep asking myself, if clarity is in death, then why won’t this die? Why can’t I let it go? Why do you still haunt me even after all these years?

I wish you would give me back my peace. It was mine first.

I miss who once was my best friend, but more than anything, I miss who I used to be. So I can’t be like this anymore, I can’t keep writing letters to a ghost. Five years Johnny, five years of wondering if you ever saw me in a different light, if you ever saw beyond the lies. But I have to stop for my sake, for his sake.

This is the last time I’ll write to you, this is my goodbye. There was happiness in my life because of you, and I can only hope there’ll be happiness after you. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re happy too, and I hope you’ve forgotten me, because I need to forget you. I need to let you go before I lose myself completely, I need to live without waiting for a door that will never open.

So I’m closing it myself.

Yours once, never again.

Fuck.

Of course he hadn’t forgotten. He had never stopped thinking about you. He had tried to find proof, investigated, and spiraled in dark nights in his room with papers stuck to his windows. And all the while, you had written this, your goodbye, your surrender, your heart breaking onto the page while he was too blind.

You had given up on him. And now, a year later, he was here, only to realize he’d arrived far too late to be the man you’d once waited for.

Johnny barely slept. Every time he shut his eyes, the words of those letters screamed at him. The thought of you sitting alone, hiding from Leo to write that with shaking hands, giving up on him. It hollowed him out until there was nothing left but determination to make things right.

To give you back your peace.

So before dawn even touched the sky, he was already moving. He slipped into the college campus while the halls were still dim and quiet. Not that easy now, since it was Monday.  Students, staff, early professors buzzing everywhere, far different than the hushed emptiness of the day before. It was a risk, and his chest pounded with every step, but he had to do it.

He couldn’t have you finding out the letters in your desk had gone missing the same weekend he showed up at your doorstep. 

Your office door creaked faintly under his hand. He moved quickly, carefully, as he slid the papers back into the drawer, tucking them in place exactly where he’d found them and locking it again. 

By the time he slipped out into the hallway, the building was alive with movement. He kept his head down, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, wearing that same sunglasses and baseball cap combo to make himself look like just another visitor until he made it outside.

And then…he waited. 

Will you forgive my soul

When you're too wise to trust me and too old to care?

The hours until your little meeting felt like years. He wandered the campus for a while before he realized some people were looking too suspiciously at him. He then drove around the college block more times than he could count, and since he was inside a window tinted black Ford truck, he was sure some student must’ve thought some mafia members had come to kidnap them. 

Now, he’d been waiting outside the cafe for exactly fifty four minutes. He tried to stay inside the truck to avoid getting seen, but his nerves and inner spiral didn't let him sit still. So he stood by the truck, cap still on and head ducked low, his eyes glued down the street so he wouldn't miss the moment you showed up. 

As your unmistakable figure appeared around the corner of the cafe, Johnny’s breath hitched at the sight of you finally emerging, walking slowly with a folder hugged against your chest. 

The autumn air was crisp, brushing against your skin, but the moment your eyes found him leaning by that ridiculous, shiny rental truck, you suddenly felt like sweating.

Johnny straightened the second he saw you, his whole face lighting up like he’d been waiting for this all day…which he had. But the closer you got, the more his confidence faltered. He shoved his hands deep into his jean’s pockets, suddenly awkward.

“Hi…Johnny.” You said, standing a few feet away from him, chin lifted, your voice steady. “Leo’s not out of school for another hour.”

Johnny nodded, quick, like he’d been expecting the wall. “...Hi.” He greeted, and you gave him the slightest curve of a smile.

“I know you want to see him again,” you went on, the folder pressed tighter against your chest, “but we need to talk first.”

He nodded again, softer this time. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. You’re right.”

There was an uneasy pause, until Johnny cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I–uh…can I get you a coffee?”

This type of nervous awkward interaction was so strange to Johnny. He was so used to smooth words just flowing out of his mouth, making a joke out of everything. But his life had changed so drastically in just a matter of days, that he wasn't sure he could go back to his default ‘Chill Johnny’ setting. 

You studied him a moment, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

His shoulders loosened instantly, and he finally allowed himself to smile, then gestured toward the little café’s glass door with a red frame. He held the door open for you, and you muttered a thank you as warm light and the hiss of an espresso machine welcomed you. The bell above the door jingled when you stepped in, Johnny following carefully behind.

You chose a booth by the window, close enough to the door if you needed an exit, far enough from others to keep voices low. Johnny slid into the seat across from you, the baseball cap finally coming off. His knees bounced under the table, his hands fidgeting with the paper menu though he didn’t read a word.

For a moment, it was just silence. Awkward, heavy. You stared down at your folder on the table, and he stared at you, neither of you knowing where to start. A waitress came by, and Johnny ordered two coffees, remembering your exact order from all those years ago. 

That made your heart skip a bit. 

The silence stretched again until Johnny cleared his throat, his voice softer than you remembered. “So…Leo.”

Your eyes flicked to his, nodding slightly. “Leo.”

The clatter of cups and the murmur of conversation around the cafe made the tension between you feel sharper. The drinks arrived but Johnny’s coffee sat untouched, steam curling up between you as his eyes finally lifted to yours.

“What’s his favorite cereal?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Of all the questions he could have asked…’Why this, why that?’ that was not the one you expected.

“Cereal?” 

“Yeah…you’ve got, like, three boxes on the counter. He has to have a favorite.” Johnny shrugged. 

Your chest ached at the innocence of it, the way his voice cracked with soft curiosity. 

“Lucky charms,” you said. 

Johnny’s eyes softened instantly. He nodded, filing it away like it was the most important piece of information in the world. Then, an idea lit up his face.

“Did he get the human torch figur–?”

“They don’t have the one with your face on it here,” you cut him off, almost apologetic.

The truth is, one of the many reasons you’d picked that town was the lack of the Fantastic Four’s influence. Johnny understood that.

“Right.” He nodded, not exactly sure how to feel about it. “And his favorite color?” he asked quickly, before you could redirect.

“Blue…” you answered, ‘like your eyes’ your mind whispered. “Like the summer sky,” you said instead.

Johnny smiled. He wanted to ask a thousand things at once. About his laugh, his quirks, the bedtime stories he loved, the little words he mispronounced when he was smaller. But each answer cut and healed him in equal measure, so he asked them slowly.

“What makes him laugh the most?”

“Who’s his best friend?”

“What does he want to be when he grows up?”

You sipped your drink, watching Johnny soak in every answer like he’d been starving for it. He wanted to know everything, like each detail was a thread stitching him closer to the the kid he’d missed for so long. And for a moment, you let him have it. For a moment, it almost felt right.

“I could talk about Leo’s favorite things all day,” you admitted softly, tracing the rim of your mug with your fingertip.

Johnny smiled faintly, but when he looked up, your eyes had shifted.

“But there’s something else,” you said, daring to look up. “A question that’s been eating me alive. One I can’t keep inside anymore.”

His brow furrowed, the smile gone instantly.

“What exactly do you plan for him now, Johnny?” You sighed. “Now that you know he exists–what happens to Leo? Because last night…last night I slept with him safe beside me. I couldn’t close my eyes without imagining someone walking through that door to take him away.”

Johnny froze, the color draining from his face. You didn't think he was safe. He reached for the mug he hadn’t touched, gripping it just to anchor his hands, but he didn’t drink.

“I need to know,” you pushed on, your stare burning into him. “What do you plan to do with my–with our son?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His mouth opened, then closed, like the words weren’t ready, like nothing he could say would be enough. 

“I don’t know,” he said, honest.“I don’t know what the right move is,” he went on, his eyes flicking up to yours. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do, or how to fix six years I’ll never get back. But…the only thing I do know is that I want to be part of his life. However you’ll let me. I can’t…I can’t pretend I don’t know him now.”

The conviction in his words fought with hesitation. He wasn’t demanding, wasn’t trying to take. He was still begging for a chance, clumsy and terrified, but utterly certain of one thing.

“I want to know him,” Johnny added, more firmly now. “And I want him to know me.”

You leaned back against the booth, your chest tight, but his words lingered. I want to be part of his life. The way he said it…shaking, terrified, but sure, chipped at the walls you’d built so carefully.

“Do you think he’d…want me in his life? I mean, if we told him who I am. Would he hate me for not being there?” He asked, hesitant, tracing the rim of his mug.

The question knocked the air out of you more than you expected. Not because you hadn’t thought about it, God knows you’d lost sleep over it, but because of how honest he sounded asking it.

“He’s a smart kid. He sees things. Asks questions I can’t always answer…I don’t think he’d hate you, but…he’d have more questions. And I’d like to give him answers that don’t hurt.”

Johnny nodded slowly. “I just…I want to do right by him. Even if it’s late.”

You looked at him in silence for a few seconds, before humming. “You can start,” you said softly, “by meeting him…like really meeting him”

Johnny blinked, startled. “Like–now?”

The look on his face of wide eyed disbelief, made you huff out a laugh you didn’t expect. 

“Yes, Johnny. Now.” You tilted your head to check the time on the clock by the barista. “It’s just in time to pick him up from school.”

For a second he just sat there, frozen, like he hadn’t prepared himself for the possibility that you’d actually let him do that today. His hands gripped the edge of the table like he needed to hold on to something solid before the floor crumbled under his feet.

“God,” he whispered. “I don’t even know if I can breathe right now.”

You chuckled and shook your head, standing up from the booth. “You’ll manage, come on. I promised him yogurt ice cream after school. He aced a test on Friday.”

“Doesn’t he, you know…always ace them?” Johnny asked, the doubt in his voice almost made you laugh again.

“He does. But I don’t want him to think it’s his duty to excel every single time. I want him to know that little victories matter too even if I didn't take him much effort. He deserves to feel celebrated, not pressured because he thinks he has to fulfill other people’s expectations."

Johnny stared at you, floored. He thought of his own childhood, of expectations that had weighed on him since the day Sue took over his raising, when his mother passed away. It wasn’t because his sister pressured him directly, but because he always felt like he owed her excellency. Things that took all his effort, sweat and tears. But to this day, Johnny felt like he'd failed her on that, because the bar had always been set too high for his little hands to reach. So in his head, that kid inside him didn't deserve yogurt ice cream, because little victories had never mattered in his big world. 

But his son’s did. Because you made sure of that. 

So he just glanced toward the window to blink away the tears threatening to come out of his eyes. All he could think was his son had the best mom he could've had. 

Once you walked outside, the late afternoon sun shone across the street. Johnny headed toward that absurdly shiny rental truck, but when he glanced back, you were unlocking your modest sedan.

“I’ll pick him up from school. You can meet us at the yogurt place.”

Johnny nodded, though something in him ached at the distance between your cars, your lives. But he didn’t fight it, just asked for some directions on how to find said yogurt place. 

“Alright,” he said softly, eyes lingering on you as you slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be there.”

The yogurt shop was painted in cheerful colors, with a bell jingling as Johnny stepped in. He scanned the room, with only a couple of tables occupied by groups of high school students. His chest rose and fell too fast, his palms getting ridiculously damp. Since when did he sweat?

Calm down, Storm, it's just ice cream…oh right, and you are also meeting the most important person in your life. 

“Welcome in!” The teenage girl behind the counter gave him a friendly wave. 

Johnny nodded too quickly. “Yeah, hi, thanks, just–uh, table for three? I’m waiting for someone.” He said, then immediately panicked. 

Did he really just ask for a table for three? In front of a bunch of teenagers that were totally giving him a side eye? He couldn't exactly blame them, what was this, some fancy dinner restaurant from New York? Was he really so out of touch that he didn’t even know how to be a normal person anymore?

Before he could keep overthinking over that single interaction, he cleared his throat, then pointed around the place. “I’ll just find one myself…yeah.” He smiled nervously, darting toward the empty tables, away from the groups. 

It didn’t matter though, because they were still watching him over their shoulders, because Johnny tested each empty table like a maniac. Too wobbly. Too close to the trash can. Too far from the door. Until he finally landed on one by the window where the afternoon sun spilled in. Steady, perfect lighting, perfect line of sight to the door.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, yanking the chairs out and back in again to make sure they weren’t squeaky. “Aaaand we got a winner! This is the table.”

Then, he went toward the counter where he could see the list of flavors on the wall, because he couldn’t look like a fool not knowing what to order in front of his family. He scanned the labels, as the girl behind the counter stared at him curiously. 

Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate swirl, cookies & cream, birthday cake, mango, passionfruit. 

“What’s the most popular?” He asked, placing a finger on his chin as he tilted his head. “No, wait–what’s the healthiest? Do you guys do like…sugar free? No, kids don’t care about that. Uh…”

“Sir…would you like a sample?” The girl offered, lifting tiny spoons in the air. 

Johnny nodded so quickly, that the girl let out a chuckle, before turning to the yogurt machines to get a sample of the most popular flavors for this weird guy to try. He was handsome though, she was totally telling her friends about him. 

By the time the judgy teenagers had left the establishment, Johnny Storm, Human Torch, beloved public figure that no one seemed to recognize in this small town, was sitting on the table he’d meticulously picked with five pink sample spoons sticking out of his jacket pocket. 

Okay, so if he likes chocolate, I’m set. But if he’s a fruit kid? I’m screwed.

The bell above the yogurt shop door jingled, snapping him out of his thoughts, and that’s when the golden light of late afternoon poured in behind you. Johnny looked up, and the world stopped.

There he was.

His son. Your son.

Leo stood beside you, his small hand clasped in yours, his little uniform neat. A navy pullover stretched just slightly at the sleeves, crisp white polo peeking out at the collar, khaki shorts, and the cutest polished shoes that Johnny knew you’d spent extra to make sure he looked perfect in.

He looked like a polite kid, yes, but his energy buzzed right through the surface, his body practically bouncing at your side like he couldn’t decide whether to walk or skip into the shop. His hair glowed blonde in the light, catching that same golden halo Johnny had seen in the mirror his whole life. The shape of his smile,as he was tugging at your hand, was his. Unmistakable. The resemblance knocked the air straight from Johnny’s chest.

It was a mini him, except better, softer…pure.

By the door, you crouched slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you spoke gently to Leo. Your voice was steady, but Johnny could see the way your hands twitched with nerves.

“Leo,” you said softly, brushing a hand over his sleeve, “I want to introduce you to someone.”

Johnny’s heart hammered so loud he thought the whole shop could hear it. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. And Leo, with wide curious eyes, looked up at you, then followed your gaze toward the man waiting by the window.

“Baby,” you squeezed his hand, getting his attention back. “I want you to meet a…friend.” 

His eyes flicked from you to Johnny again, studying him with all the seriousness a curious five year old could muster. Leo tilted his head, eyebrows knitting.

“A friend?” he said, and Johnny almost fainted from how cute his little voice was. “From where?”

“From a long time ago,” you replied.

Leo squinted at Johnny, the way only a child could, unfiltered, curious to the bone. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he let go of your hand and marched right toward the table. You followed anxiously. 

And Johnny? Johnny was toast. He forgot how to move. His heart jackhammered as the kid–his kid–stopped in front of him and just stared, unblinking, like he was scanning him for answers.

“You look like me, mommy’s friend.” Leo said matter of factly. “We have the same hair.”

Johnny panicked, and for a terrifying second he thought his legs were going to give out when he stood up from the table. He managed a shaky disbelieving laugh, crouching to meet him at eye level.

“Yeah, buddy,” he exhaled. “I guess we do.”

Leo grinned, quick and bright, satisfied with his own observation. “Cool.” Then, as if that settled everything, he spun around and tugged at your sleeve. “Can we get ice cream now, Mom?”

“Yes, baby. Let’s do that.” You nodded quickly, letting yourself be guided by his little hand to the counter. 

But Johnny was frozen in his crouching position for a few seconds, blinking fast, the word Mom echoing in his head as he stared at Leo, who was already more like him than he’d ever dared to imagine.

He took a deep breath.

There was no way back from this. Only forward, into the storm.

To be continued...

Part Two will be posted these days!

Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated and it helps a lot, so don't be shy to share your fav moments 🫶🏼

Lil funny extra -> Johnny jealous of Walker

Lovely dividers by @lobster-graphics