VERO

Finally, it's Friday after a long and exhausting week. You've already washed off your makeup and are getting ready for bed. You're brushing your teeth, leaning over the sink to rinse your face, when suddenly you feel Gator come up behind you. His hands, resting on your waist, slide lower and lower, and you feel him leave a few wet kisses on your neck. You straighten up, water streaming down your cheeks to your chin and dripping onto your t-shirt. You give Gator a deliberately stern look in the mirror, then splash him with water to get him to stop rubbing against you before it becomes a problem.

"Hey! I'm not a dog!" Gator exclaims, wiping his face with his palm. Oh, now he's going to do that defenceless expression, the one you find so hard to resist. Those big brown eyes drive you crazy, and he looks like innocence personified.

"Then puppy dog eyes definitely won't help you. I'm really tired. Not tonight, okay?" You pat his back and head toward the bedroom. You change into a clean oversized t-shirt and finally get into bed. A few minutes later, Gator comes in, huffing adorably, not angrily, and you stifle a laugh. Of course, he turns his back to you. Sometimes Gator acts like a child, but he just wants the love he was so deprived of before you came into his life. And if you're talking about love languages, it's always easier for him to show than to say, so physical intimacy is his universal way of expressing his feelings. He cares about your pleasure and never pressures you into anything you don't like. Actually, you were even surprised at how quickly he changed his habits when you brought something up, and you always try to find a compromise.

A funny thought crosses your mind. Maybe...

"Goodnight." Gator mutters. He spoke first, which means he's starting to worry that he might have offended you with his persistence. How can you leave him without a reward? He tries so hard.

"Do you want me to scratch your head?" You ask and immediately hear the rustle of sheets. Gator lays his head on your chest, and you kiss the top of his head several times, then stroke his hair, enjoying the softness of his locks without several layers of gel.

You like this arrangement of things. But for variety, it's not a crime to have some fun sometimes, right?

And you decide to start small.

After breakfast, you plan to drive to the store so you can cook a proper dinner later, since you've been ordering takeout almost all week: you were swamped at work, and Gator had too many night shifts. While Gator is getting ready, you grab the car keys from the shelf and put on your shoes. When Gator comes downstairs, he looks confused.

"So you've always been able to get dressed faster or is this a one-time thing?" Gator comments, searching the shelves for the keys and even checking under his caps.

"Is that what you're looking for?" You twirl the keys on your finger, then close your fist around them when he reaches for them. "Nope, I'm driving today."

"Alright. But something's definitely off." You leave the house, and Gator, like a true gentleman, opens the door for you. You sit proudly in the driver's seat, waiting for Gator. You want to laugh because it's so absurd, but you hold it together, and with a serious face, you turn to Gator.

"Don't forget to buckle up, princess." You cough into your fist, hiding a smile.

"First you steal my keys, and now my lines? Am I even needed here?" Gator looks even more bewildered, but he fastens his seatbelt, and you start the car. Gator turns on the radio, and you chat about something unimportant. When his guard is down again, you make your next move. You pretend to switch the radio station, then place your hand on his thigh near the knee.

"So what did he say?" You ask in a completely nonchalant voice, continuing the conversation.

"And then he says... Damn, I've completely stopped understanding anything!"

"What are you talking about?" You slow down at a traffic light and look at Gator, batting your eyelashes.

"All of this... This!" He makes a vague gesture in the air and moves his leg, nodding toward your hand.

"What, you don't like it?" You slide your hand along the inside of his thigh, moving higher until he stops your hand. "You wanted it yesterday."

"Not here!"

"We already had sex in the car before." You remind him with a chuckle.

"But that was on an empty parking lot, at night, not in broad daylight near a shopping mall with crowds of families with kids!" Now the sheriff in him has kicked in.

"Okay, okay, I keep my hands to myself. In crowded places." You remove your hand, giving his thigh one last pat. Of course, you weren't actually going to do anything. At least, not now. And you can't wait to get home to continue your little game.

But Gator, as it seems, is already melting. Every time your fingers linger on his palm a moment longer than necessary, when you hand him a chocolate bar, or when his shoulder brushes yours in a narrow aisle, he swallows and looks away. His usually confident, calm demeanor gives way to a slight awkwardness. There he is, studying a yogurt label too intently, though he's clearly not reading a single word. You hand him some bread, and he follows your hand, leaning forward, inhaling the scent of fresh pastry. Then he pauses for a moment, and you feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. He silently places the bread in the basket.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" He asks, struggling to keep his tone indifferent, but you can see how genuinely pleased he is, even if he doesn't know exactly why. Gator shoves his hand into his jacket pocket. He's anticipating...

"Maybe." You shrug and continue walking down the aisles. You're looking at the cookie shelves when you feel him creep up behind you to kiss the back of your head, then rest his chin on your crown. You raise your hand to stroke his cheek. Gator loves your hands. And now he reflexively tilts his head, pressing his cheek into your palm, and closes his eyes. Just for a moment. That's enough for you to understand that he's allowing himself to be vulnerable.

Actually, Gator's tactility was a revelation to you.

It's his language when words seem unnecessary. He can be silent all evening, but his fingers, threading through your hair, or his knee, accidentally pressing against yours under the table, will tell you more than any words.

And the most dangerous part is that he doesn't realize how transparent he is. His habit of slightly tilting his head when you touch his chin, guiding your fingers to slide to his neck – this isn't a game for him. It's pure truth that he doesn't know how to hide.

It's his confession: three thousand "I love you"s per square centimeter.

He treats you like something incredibly precious. He carries the heavy bags to the car and only lets you open the trunk. You even forget that you wanted to drive, but you hand him the keys when you get into the passenger seat without any objection.

At home, Gator continues to follow you everywhere, asking for affection. He slips into the room while you're changing into your home clothes and pulls you onto the bed so you're on top of him.

"Gator, dinner first." You kiss him, and he doesn't want to break the kiss, so he follows you when you stand up. He smiles at you, kisses your knuckles while you stand between his legs. Gator waits, he's incredibly patient. He'll wait as long as you want, because for him, every touch from you is already a promise fulfilled in the future.

"Whatever you say, baby. I'll roast the meat, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll chop the vegetables."

You head to the kitchen and you two work smoothly as a team. He sharpens the knives while you wash the vegetables to cook them for the side dish. You choose the right pan for him, and he passes you the salt and pepper after marinating the meat. You put the vegetables in the oven, and Gator stays to roast the steaks while you take care of other things around the house: dusting, gathering dirty laundry to start a load, wiping smudged mirrors.

When you're done, you decide to catch Gator off guard one more time.

You quietly approach from behind, hoping he won't hear you coming, because you're more cautious than a tigress in ambush. At first, you just want to slap his butt, but then you change your mind, wanting to play for high stakes.

"Well, what do we have here that's so tasty?.." You whisper passionately. Gator opens his mouth, probably about to boast about how well he's cooking the steaks, and at that moment you wrap your arms around his ass and squeeze, just like he does when you're washing dishes or cooking. "I bet this is the finest ass in all of Dakota, am I right?" You have to stand on your tiptoes to speak directly into his ear, and you tease him by running your nose along the curve of his neck. He swallows hard and holds his breath for a second, and you'd swear you felt him shiver from the wave of goosebumps.

"What are you..." He trails off and lowers his head slightly to hide the blush creeping up. You manage to make him blush quite often, even from the simplest and sweetest compliments. And you squeeze him a couple more times, then wrap your arms around his waist, swaying from side to side.

"Cat got your tongue, Tillman?" You smirk. "It really does look appetizing. And I'm not talking about the steaks." You quickly kiss his jaw and walk away. And if you had looked down just a little, you would have seen that he had a boner.

Gator likes to play like this sometimes, breaking up the routine with simmering desire, stoking the interest so you can love each other until your knees tremble and he's in that pleasant state of exhaustion, then fall asleep happily, with tangled limbs, breathing steadily into your collarbone where he's left his marks.

All of this is his way of showing you how much he needs you.

It takes Gator a few minutes to calm down and start setting the table. His father would look at him like he was worthless if he knew his son was doing "woman's work". But Gator doesn't care, because he can cook and set the table for you. You split the household chores, because you both work and get equally tired. It's fair. It's convenient. That's what a family does.

You two sit down to dinner, and you occasionally tease Gator, touching his ankles under the table to make him smile from the tickling, until he traps your leg between his, and you both laugh.

Half an hour later, you're in the living room on the couch, watching some movie that's playing on TV. A bottle of beer, covered in condensation, pleasantly cools your insides after the hearty dinner, and the bubbles slowly go to your head. Gator sits on the edge of the couch while you lie sprawled across the rest of it. You finish your beer and set the bottle on the coffee table.

The alcohol has emboldened you a little. You've been playing pretend all day and have settled into the role well. Dominant, commanding, in charge. Warmth spreads through your body. You glance at Gator: he's sitting with one leg tucked under him, and his profile is clearly outlined in the dim light of the TV.

Relaxed. Soft. Yours.

Suddenly, you kick him in the thigh with your toe, lazily, without warning. You didn't mean for it to be rough, you just miscalculated the force and straightened your leg too abruptly. Your heel digs into the bony prominence of his hip, and you immediately realize – that's too much.

Gator flinches. His face twists in unexpected pain for a moment, which he quickly hides by clenching his teeth, but you notice. How he freezes, waiting for something else to happen, how his shoulders tense, how his palm reflexively presses to the spot where the impact has been, and he rubs the bruised area, looking at you from under his brows with a questioning look.

Something warm, a familiar apology, gets stuck in your throat. But for some reason, you don't let yourself say it. Instead, you just pull your leg back, and your gaze darts back to the TV screen. Your face remains impassive, and you remember what you originally wanted to ask.

"Bring me one more beer."

"Yeah, sure." His Adam's apple bobs. Gator rubs his side again as he stands up, thinking you can't see, and his movements are slower than usual. He returns a minute later with one bottle. Not two. He walks around the couch to approach you from the other side and hands you the open bottle. Always polite and courteous. You know how much he loves to please you, even at his own expense, which you try not to allow.

You sit up, pulling him closer, gripping the collar of his t-shirt in your fist. He's pliable under your touch, but he neither leans into you, nor pulls away. You fool him and don't kiss him. You just lick his dry lips and let go.

"Good boy." You take a sip.

Gator sits back down, but can't last more than ten minutes before he stands up.

"Where are you going?" You ask, tilting your head.

"Going to take a shower, I guess." He replies without even turning around.

Gator goes into the bathroom and leans his back against the door. This is stupid. All of this is stupid.

But why does it bother him so much?

And a voice in his head answers in his father's voice: "Because you're a wuss and you let her do whatever she wants with you, and then you whine. It's your own fault.

Your own.

Gator steps under the cold shower, hoping it will wash away the anxiety, but it only surges stronger, and a hundred more questions race through his mind that he can't find answers to.

You didn't do it on purpose, right? But then why didn't you apologise? You always apologise. He always apologises. Why did you play cat and mouse with him all day? Just teasing for laughs? It's not funny to him.

Water streams down his face, mixing with what he doesn't want to admit. He's not crying. It's just... wet.

A door click pulls him from his thoughts. You playfully tap your fingers on the frosted glass of the shower door and open it, but Gator slams it shut again, holding it in place. The last thing he wants right now is for you to see him like this: vulnerable, pathetic, naked.

"Gator?" You ask, surprised by his reaction.

"Please leave." He doesn't like how his voice trembles, betraying him.

"Are you okay?" The remaining alcohol evaporates in seconds. Is he really this shaken because of you?

"Just get out, okay?" Gator sits down. For a few minutes, he just watches the water swirl down the drain.

He comes out of the bathroom. The TV is no longer flickering. You're gone too. You're waiting for him in the bedroom, but he deliberately avoids you. Gator sits on the couch, pulling his knees up to hug them. He hasn't even turned on the light. And it reminds him of those evenings when his father was displeased with something and sent Gator to his room to think about his behavior. Maybe he should think now too.

You quietly walk across the soft carpet, stopping in the doorway. You look at him. The light from the hallway falls on the couch, illuminating his figure: huddled, almost childlike in this pose of hugged knees. Your heart clenches at the sight you never wanted to see. You dare to come closer, sitting half a meter away from him, watching carefully so as not to miss permission to speak or touch. But he doesn't move, as if frozen in this pose of despair and confusion.

"I didn't mean to..." You say quietly, and it seems like the darkness swallows the words before they can reach Gator.

"I didn't like it." Gator looks up at you, and his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "I thought it was going to be like usual. You know, our foreplay. But when you... nudged me, and then you... my whole mood just..." He curls up even more, as if afraid to admit that something could hurt him, because he was taught to be thick-skinned, unapproachable. And now he thinks he looks like he's upset over a game. But you always had a rule: it should be enjoyable for both.

"I wanted to joke, I thought it'd be funny, you know, to mirror how you treat me sometimes." You want to touch him, stroke his back, take his hands in yours, comfort him, but he probably doesn't want that.

"You always tell me: let's talk about it. If I hurt you, tell me, don't try to teach me a lesson." Gator thinks something's wrong with him, that you decided to show it in such a way, that you can do everything he can yourself, so what's the point of him? Why do you even need him? He's told you many times that he's happy in calm relationships with you, without dominance games, without tests of patience and strength. You're the quiet harbour he comes to after rough work, where he might get beaten, where his father yells at him. He comes to you for tenderness and understanding. And neither of you two lashes out, you don't take your anger out on each other. Just a warm reheated dinner, a shared shower without hints because you're both too tired but want to be together, a bed with a few chocolate cookie crumbs under you, and lazy kisses that feel like mere lip touches.

"You didn't do anything wrong." You lean in to look into his eyes, and he sees a plea in them. "Everything was going well at first, right?"

"Yeah. Everything was good until dinner. I thought you were..." Gator pauses, as if embarrassed to say he was naively expecting something from you. "I don't know, preparing a surprise for me or something nice, I don't know..." He shakes his head and looks away.

"Gator, I'm sorry." You slide your hand across the couch, and your palm touches his pinky.

"It reminded me of my father. The way he always..." Gator squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together. "I wouldn't want that to happen between us. I don't want to doubt you or your feelings for me, because too often everything around me turned out to be an illusion."

"We'll do better. I'll... I'll be better." You wipe a tear from your cheek, trying to smile at Gator. "From now on, I'll make sure we're both enjoying and understanding each other. No matter what it's about."

"I don't want to constantly live in anticipation of a pitfall either. You know I trust you completely. And I... I forgive you, if I haven't said that yet. It wasn't so much the physical pain as it was a trigger for the anxiety and everything else." He looks at you, and you're about to cry. He can't stand your tears. "Don't cry, come here." Gator lowers his legs, and you climb into his lap.

You just sit there like that, hugging, and he lets you stay in his arms as long as you need, so you soak up his warmth and tenderness.

your boyfriend, gator, on the other hand, could not for the life of him understand why you consumed so much of these “shitty shows”. he’d groan whenever he’d come home and find you laying on the couch watching one of your shows.

your current reality tv hyper fixation is jersey shore. you watched it when you were younger, probably way too young, but it was one of your favorites. so you were doing a rewatch of it.

like any other night after dinner, gator is sat in his usual spot on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table as he scrolls through his phone absentmindedly. your laying on the opposite end, feet resting in his lap beneath a blanket.

remote in hand, you navigate to the streaming service and hit play on the next episode. gator barely glances up through his lashes before he’s grunting and rolling his eyes.

“don’t be so grouchy. i know you secretly love my shows.” you tease, poking his thigh with your foot.

gator scoffs, shaking his head. “i don’t like this dumb shit. i dunno how you fuckin’ watch it.”

you roll your eyes, smiling as you settle into your blanket. “when you have a better tv suggestion, we can talk.”

gator mumbles under his breath and you drown him out by turn up the volume a couple of notches.

every once in awhile, you steal a glance or two at gator and find his thumb had paused where it hovered over his screen and his eyes were cast towards the tv screen. you hide your smirk behind the blanket, filing away that bit of information.

another thing you notice was how gator who scoff quietly every time rob would be on the screen. eventually, you brought it up.

“what’s your problem?” you tease and gator looks up at you from his phone.

“guy’s a douche. dunno how you can stand watchin’ this.”

it made you laugh because gator was right and it surprised you that he paid attention enough to know that rob was an ass.

“it’s entertaining, gate. c’mon, you can’t tell me that you don’t find the drama at least a little entertaining.” gator just shakes his head.

he keeps his eyes on his phone for a while longer, until you let out a soft gasp and reach for the remote. his gaze lifted up curiously as he watches snooki and jwoww walk into a cyber cafe on the screen.

“this part is so good.” you say, mostly to yourself, as you turn the volume up a few notches.

“what’re they doin’?” gator mumbles, trying to sound disinterested.

“they’re about to make shit hit the fan.” you say with a grin.

gator’s phone sits forgotten in his lap, screen locked from inactivity, as he watches snooki and jwoww write a letter to sam about rob’s behaviors at the club.

“they just gonna give that to ‘er? in a letter? why can’t they just tell ‘er?”

“just wait.”

gator grumbles. then he watches as they don’t, in fact, hand deliver the letter to sam, but leave it in her dresser anonymously.

“wait, so they’re just gonna put that shit there not signed and she don’t even know who it’s from?”

“yup.” you reply, popping the ‘p’.

“but ain’t they her friends? why would they not just tell her?”

“because they don’t want to be targeted by rob, baby.”

gator is bewildered. and then the episode ends. you sigh and reach for the remote again, turning off the tv. you swing your legs off of gator’s lap as you sit up and stretch. gator doesn’t move.

“wait, what’re you doin’?”

“going to lay in bed. it’s late and i wanna cuddle. get your ass up.” you say like it was obvious.

“so we’re just gonna stop there? we ain’t gonna watch the next episode?”

you make a face. “i was watching. you were on your phone.”

“but wouldn’t you rather go to bed not on a cliffhanger?” gator scoffs nonchalantly. but you know him too well. he doesn’t convince you one bit.

“i already know what happens.” you shrug, collecting your water cup and phone from the coffee table.

“yeah, well i don’t and it’s gonna piss me off not knowing. so sit your ass back down and play the next episode.”

you gaze down at gator, fighting the amused smile on your face as you cross your arms.

“admit that you like jersey shore then we can watch one more.”

“i don’t like this fucking shit. i just wanna know what happens. ‘s different.” gator crosses his arms, avoiding your gaze. something he does when he is lying. you roll your eyes and set your things back down.

“fine, but we’re laying down and cuddling.”

gator scoffs and rolls his eyes but immediately moves to lay down, tossing his phone next to yours on the table.

The second time steve hears an out of tune kazoo badly play Jingle Bells (In May, which is a crime itself) he figures fine he'll finally check the room next to him.

Look, he has one sided beef with the last art teacher, who constantly plastered children's photo's against the walls, overlapping posters for jazz club and marching band (both of which are severely understaffed and more of punchline of joke but that's neither here nor there, he guesses) so sure, he still has one sided beef.

And look, he's heard good of you. Of this new teacher who's changing things up, the kids aren't skipping the class anymore, less fights and more figuring it out-how kids are practically dying to be in your class

And that's fine. Really, it's fine. He's happy, even. Less fights to break up in hallways and if it means he has to look at a shitty picture that a kid insists is abstract again, sure-he'll go through it.

And then there's you.

There you fucking are.

It's hard to hide the smile on his face, even if he's trying to hide it as he wraps his cardigan closer around him, uses his knuckle to push his too large glasses up his face-

you're in the room, alone, in the middle of a large room-your overalls are broken, one strap is over the shoulder, a tie dye shirt under-and your hair is in high space buns-two dirty paintbrushes are shoved through them, and there's fucking paint all over your face, on your cheeks and your neck-he thinks about brushing it off of you before shaking that idea from his head-fucking stupid.

"I can feel someone watching."

Your voice comes back light, even if you're back is to them, kazoo still in your mouth.

You turn, expecting a kid to be there, backpack on their back and a large smile on their face-

"Oh," You're smiling, shoving the kazoo in the front bib over the overalls, "You aren't a kid."

He rolls his eyes:

"Excellent observation, can tell nothing gets past you."

And while most people would be put off by this, something radiates off of him-the hard ass exterior he's putting on is obviously a defense mechanism, something he put up as a young, second year teacher.

"Nice to meet you!" You're at his side, all smiles offering your hand, "You must be the music teacher, Harrington, right? The second graders redemption of hot cross buns on the recorder is getting better by the day."

A smile threatens to pull on the curve of his lips for a second, before he's shaking his head.

"I just have to ask," He sighs, "Jingle Bells? In May?"

You bite your lip, rocking back and forth on your heels.

"Yep!"

steve rubs his forehead at the headache that's threatening to form behind his eyes; your brick walls are painted a bright yellow, a rainbow on the opposing wall, the other has different colored handprints from children that come through your class.

"I heard good about you," You smile widely, going to your desk and grabbing a paper off of it, holding it up to him, "The kids love you."

If steve squints, he guesses he can see what might be a portrait of him as a teacher, his large glasses on his face, a mop of unruly hair and a guitar on his lap.

"Don't lie to me."

He accept the photo, and a smile threatens to form in the corner of his lips as he rubs his finger over the hard edges of the paper.

He goes to hand it back and you wave it off, "Keep it for a rainy day."

The smile never leaves your face and steve doesn't know if it's annoying or endearing yet.

Face red, he goes to turn around and leave before he can make an ass of himself, when you stop him instead.

"Hey," You say, taking the kazoo out of your pocket again as he turns to leave, "If you want, I'm free for lunch. Beats sitting alone in your room."

It takes everything in him to not stop at that. Have you seen him during lunch? When he walks up and down the halls, a crumbled brown paper bag in his hands-at first, he was searching for a friend, a friendly face someone to welcome him in, but slowly it evolved to going to the cafeteria as quickly as he can before retreating to the safety of his room, shoved in the corner, lights out-it's a lot like how he spent his own elementary school experience.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. harrington!" You call back, your voice is light and sincere, he knows your smiling without saying anything back. "Come back anytime."

And that's how the rivalry starts.

inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, while the endless rows of corrugated metal doors stretched into the dim distance.

shift work here was mind-numbing at the best of times. tonight, with the storm raging outside and only the two of you on duty, it felt like the world had narrowed down to this one quiet corner of the office.

you leaned against the counter, orange t-shirt sticking slightly to your skin from the humidity. travis was a few feet away, fiddling with a clipboard even though nothing needed checking. his grey t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the sleeves rode up every time he moved, revealing the edges of tattoos that snaked down his forearms.

you’d been here a couple of weeks, long enough to get used to him. at first, he came off a little awkward, but you got used to the constant yapping, and, if you were being honest, you found it kind of cute. he always had some dumb story ready whenever things got quiet, and somehow they never stopped making you laugh.

unfortunately, you’d spent more time than you’d like to admit ranting about your ex. travis would just sit there, listen, then hit you with, “dude sounds like a walking red flag,” like it explained everything. he never understood why you stayed with him when every story you told ended with your boyfriend doing something that annoyed you.

after sitting with it for a couple of days, you finally decided to end the relationship.

“i finally did it,” you said suddenly, voice cutting through the rain. “broke up with him a couple days ago.”

travis’s head snapped up so fast the clipboard nearly slipped from his hands. his eyes widened, that soft hazel color catching the light. “wait—seriously? like, done done?” he set the clipboard down, then immediately picked it back up, nerves making him fidget.

“i mean, that’s… shit, that’s good. not good like ‘haha your relationship exploded,’ but from what you told me-yeah, he was kind of an asshole. not that breakups aren’t rough. if you’re sad or whatever, i get it. i’ve been there. well, not exactly there, but close enough. you okay? you don’t look okay. or you look okay, but like, quiet -okay? fuck, i’m talking too much.”

you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “i’m not sad. i’m just… kinda numb, i don’t know. it feels like it should hurt more, but it doesn’t.”

he nodded a little too quickly, his hair falling into his face again. “numb makes sense. totally valid.”

you almost laughed. travis was always a little awkward, but you’d noticed how flustered he got whenever you stood too close or paid him a compliment. it wasn’t exactly hard to figure out he had a thing for you. and, if you were being honest, he was really attractive. maybe it was the conversation, or maybe it was just the way he was looking at you, but that night, something between you felt… different.

travis gave you a sideways look. “so… was there anything about him that was actually worth sticking around for?”

you opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. you thought about it for a second, then huffed a laugh.

“honestly?”

he raised an eyebrow.

then, almost without meaning to, you found yourself saying it.

“he wasn’t even good in bed. that was probably one of the biggest reasons. always felt like i was just… there.”

travis froze mid-reach for his water bottle. his ears went pink. he opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “damn. that’s— i mean, yeah, no wonder you were annoyed by him. you deserve way better than that. i mean you’re too—” he cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck, tattoos flexing with the movement. “you’re too fucking sexy to be dealing with half-assed shit like that. someone should be making you feel it, you know?”

the words hung in the air, heavier than either of you expected. your pulse kicked up, heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it.

you met his eyes, a playful challenge slipping into your voice even as heat pooled low in your stomach. “you wanna fuck me, travis?”

you asked it teasingly, more as a joke than anything else. even as the words left your mouth, you couldn’t believe you’d been bold enough to say them.

he didn’t laugh. didn’t deflect with another nervous ramble. his gaze darkened, dropping to your mouth for a beat before coming back up.

“yes” he said, voice low and steady. the silence that followed crackled. you could hear your own heartbeat over the rain.

“i’m gonna go check the alarms downstairs,” he muttered after a moment, clearing his throat. it sounded more like an excuse than anything else, a way to escape the confession before he had to hear your answer. but he didn’t move right away, like he was giving you an out. or an invitation.

before you even realized it, you were following him.

the stairwell was colder, the metal steps echoing under your shoes. the lower level was all shadows and rows of locked units, the big roll-up doors gleaming dully under emergency lights.

travis stopped in front of one, pretending to check the panel, big hands hovering uselessly. you stepped close, close enough to smell the faint scent of his soap and the fabric of his green shirt.

he turned. you didn’t give either of you time to overthink it. you kissed him first, rising up on your toes and pressing your mouth to his. he made a surprised sound that melted into a low groan, and then his hands were on you, those big, warm palms sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

the metal door was cool at your back as he walked you into it, the contrast making you shiver. his long hair brushed your cheek when he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, tongue teasing yours with a confidence that made your knees feel unsteady.

“fuck,” he breathed against your lips, voice rougher now. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this.”

his hands moved down, gripping your hips, then sliding under the hem of your t-shirt. his warm fingertips traced your skin like he was memorizing it.

you tugged at his shirt in return, feeling the hard lines of muscle. he was still talking, breathless compliments between kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, with his lips brushing your ear.

you arched into him as his hand slipped beneath your leggings, fingers finding you already wet. he groaned at the discovery, pressing two thick fingers inside with a slow, deliberate curl that made your breath hitch.

the metal door rattled faintly behind you with every shift of your bodies. rain pounded overhead like white noise, drowning out everything except the sounds you were making for each other.

travis dropped to his knees just long enough to yank your leggings and underwear down your thighs, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before standing again. he freed himself from his orange work pants, hard and heavy in his hand, and lifted one of your legs around his hip.

the first push inside stretched you perfectly. slow enough to feel every inch, deep enough to make your head fall back against the cold metal with a quiet thud.

“shit—travis…” your fingers tangled in his blonde hair, gripping tight.

he rocked into you with steady, deep thrusts, one hand braced on the door beside your head, the other holding your thigh higher. his shirt was rucked up, skin hot and slightly damp against yours. every time he bottomed out, a low and satisfied sound escaped him.

“you feel so good,” he rasped, with his forehead pressed to yours. “so damn perfect. look at you—taking me like this. fucking gorgeous.”

the angle hit just right with every thrust, building that sharp, coiling pleasure fast. his free hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit with surprising precision. the contrast was dizzying, this sweet, silly guy who rambled about everything suddenly fucking you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, whispering filthy, sweet praise against your mouth.

when you came, it hit hard, legs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, a broken moan swallowed by another deep kiss.

he followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name like it was the only word he remembered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

for a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the relentless rain.

travis pressed a softer kiss to your temple, still inside you. his arms wrapped around your waist like he didn’t want to let you go yet. “you okay?” he asked quietly, that familiar nervous edge creeping back into his voice.

you smiled against his neck,“yeah. im ok.”

he tilted his head, listening for a moment. “it stopped raining.”

you let out a quiet hum, your fingers absentmindedly tracing his arm. “i don’t wanna leave now.”

he smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He reaches the car and bends to toss his duffel into the backseat. It lands with a heavy thud - clothes, probably, and a laptop, and the thousand small things he's carried through airports and hotel rooms and green rooms for weeks. He straightens, meets your eyes again, and this time his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.

"Hey," you say. Soft. Simple. Just your voice, no pressure behind it.

"Hey." His voice cracks on the single syllable, and he clears his throat, looking away. He pulls the door closed, and the overhead light dies, plunging you both into the dim glow of the dashboard. The seatbelt clicks into place. The silence settles around you like something physical, something you both have to adjust to.

You don't ask how the flight was. Don't ask if he's hungry, if he needs anything, if the press tour had been brutal, if the fans at the gate had been overwhelming.

Not yet.

You just put the car in drive and pull away from the curb, merging into the airport traffic with the ease of someone who's done this route a hundred times.

Beside you, Joe lets out a breath. Long. Slow. Like he's been holding it since he stepped off the plane.

The motorway unfurls in front of you, a ribbon of wet asphalt reflecting the red taillights of the cars ahead. Streetlights pass in rhythm, casting shadows that move across his face - illuminating, then hiding, then illuminating again. His profile. The slope of his nose. The dark circles under his eyes that you can see even in the fractured light. The way his fingers rest on his thigh, motionless, not tapping, not restless - just still in a way that feels wrong on him. Joe's hands are never still. They move when he talks, when he thinks, when he breathes. These hands are dead weight.

You glance at him. Look back at the road. Say nothing.

You pass an exit for a roadside restaurant you'd been to together once, months ago, before the tour had swallowed him whole. You remember him laughing at something you'd said, remember the way his knee had pressed against yours under the table. That version of him feels distant now, like a photograph of a person you used to know.

But you don't reach for the old version. You don't try to pull him back to a memory. You just drive, letting the silence be what it is - not empty, not heavy, just a space you can both exist in without performing.

Fifteen minutes pass. Maybe twenty. The motorway gives way to residential streets, familiar turns, the oak tree with the twisted branch, the corner shop with the flickering sign. Home territory. The last mile.

Joe shifts in his seat. You feel him looking at you before you see it- the weight of his gaze on your profile, studying you the way you'd studied him.

"You're not going to ask," he says. Not accusatory. Just observant, like he's testing a theory.

"I'm not going to ask," you agree.

A pause. The heating hums.

"Why?"

You consider the question. Take the last turn onto your street, the tyres crunching over gravel and fallen leaves. The headlights sweep across your garage door - closed, waiting, familiar.

"Because you'll tell me when you want to," you say. "And right now you look like you need to not talk more than you need to explain anything."

He doesn't respond. But you hear him breathe again - that same long exhale, like you've given him permission for something he didn't know he was asking for.

The garage door creaks open as you pull into the driveway, the automatic light clicking on, illuminating the cluttered space - your bike leaning against the wall, a stack of boxes you still haven't unpacked from when he'd moved in, the dusty shelf of tools he'd promised to organise. You pull in and cut the engine.

The silence changes. The absence of the road noise, the absence of movement - just the two of you, sitting in the dark garage, the engine ticking as it cools. The garage light hums overhead, fluorescent and unflattering, casting everything in a pale, washed-out glow.

Joe doesn't move to get out.

You don't prompt him. You sit, your hands still on the wheel, your gaze fixed on the wall ahead. You can feel him beside you - the heat of him, the weight of his presence, the small sounds of his breathing. You wait.

His hand moves. You see it in your peripheral vision - his fingers uncurling from his thigh, reaching across the centre console, finding your arm. His touch lands light, his palm resting just below your elbow, his thumb brushing a slow arc across the fabric of your jumper.

You turn your hand over, palm up, an invitation.

He takes it. His fingers intertwine with yours, cold from the airport, from the hours of holding nothing. His grip tightens. Holds.

"I missed this," he says, so quiet you almost miss it. "I missed-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "I missed being able to just... sit. And not have to be anything."

You squeeze his hand. Your thumb finds the inside of his wrist, the place where his pulse beats steadily against your skin. "You don't have to be anything here."

He nods. A single jerky motion. His jaw is tight; you can see it now - the muscle jumping along the line of his cheek, the way he's holding himself together by sheer force of will. You don't call attention to it. You just hold his hand, letting the silence do what conversation can't.

Two more minutes pass. The garage light clicks off, sensing no movement, plunging you into darkness for a beat before clicking back on. The cycle of it. The patience of it.

Finally, you hear him unbuckle his seatbelt. The sound is loud in the quiet - a sharp metallic click that signals a shift. But he doesn't move to get out. He just sits there, his hand still in yours, his gaze fixed on the garage wall.

"I'm glad you were the one picking me up," he says. His voice is rough. Tired. Real. "I don't think I could have done the small talk. The smile-for-the-camera routine. Not tonight."

"I know."

He turns to look at you, then - really look, his hazel eyes finding yours in the dim light. There is something raw in them, something unguarded, like he's forgotten to put the mask back on. You meet his gaze and hold it, letting him see that you see it, letting him know that you aren't afraid of what he's showing you.

"Come on," you say softly. "Let's go inside."

He nods. His hand slips from yours, and the absence of his touch feels like a small loss, a thread cut. He reaches for the door handle. Pauses.

"Hey."

You wait.

"Thanks. For not-" He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the car, the drive, the silence, the whole evening. "For this."

You smile. Small. Warm. "Always."

He pushes the door open, and the cold air rushes in, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of wet leaves and winter. You watch him step out, watch him walk to the back of the car to grab his duffel, watch the way his shoulders straighten as he stands - not in performance, but in preparation. The small gathering of himself before the next threshold.

You unbuckle your own seatbelt and follow.

The cold hits you the moment you step out - a January bite that finds the exposed skin at your wrists and the back of your neck. You pull your jumper tighter around yourself, the wool scratchy against your palms, and round the front of the car. Joe stands at the back, his duffel slung over one shoulder, his other hand resting on the open boot as if he needs something to anchor himself to.

The garage light hums above you, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Your bike leans against the wall, a spiderweb glistening in the corner, the stack of boxes still waiting to be unpacked. You'd meant to organise them while he was gone. Hadn't found the energy. Now you're glad - the familiar clutter feels like proof that life has continued here, ordinary and unglamorous, waiting for him to return to it.

You walk towards him, your feet silent on the cold concrete. He doesn't look up until you're close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his stubble has grown past careful into something rougher, less tended to. He'd stopped shaving mid-tour, probably. You've seen the photos - the carefully curated scruff that looks good under studio lights. This is different. This is neglect. This is a man who's stopped bothering with the small rituals of upkeep because he's too exhausted.

"You want me to grab anything?" you ask, nodding at the duffel.

He shakes his head. "Got it."

You don't argue. You step back, giving him room, and watch as he closes the boot with his free hand. The sound echoes in the garage - metal meeting metal, final and dull. He stands there for a moment, hand still resting on the closed boot, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. You see the crease between his brows, the one that appears when he's thinking too hard, when he's trying to solve a problem that doesn't have a solution. It's deeper than she remember. More permanent.

You wait.

His hand drops from the boot. He turns towards you, and for a second, something passes across his face - a flicker of uncertainty, as if he isn't sure what comes next, as if the script he's been following for weeks has run out of pages. You know that look. Have seen it before, in the early days, when he'd first started staying over and didn't know the rhythm of your place yet. He's learning a new space again. The space of being home.

"The light," he says, gesturing with his chin toward the automatic sensor. "It keeps turning off."

You glance up at the fixture. "Yeah. The sensor's been acting up. I keep meaning to replace it."

"I can do that."

"You don't have to."

"I know." He shifts the duffel on his shoulder. "I want to."

It's such a small thing - replacing a light sensor. But you hear what he isn't saying: he wants to do something useful. Wants to feel like he belongs here again, like he has a role to fill beyond the one he's just left. You understand. You feel it yourself, after long trips, the need to reassert your place in your own home by touching things, fixing things, making them yours again.

"Okay," you say. "We'll drive to the hardware store tomorrow."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. There and gone. But you see it.

The garage light clicks off, plunging you into darkness for a moment before the sensor catches your movement and clicks back on. You think about how many times you've stood here alone, waiting for the light to come back, and how different it feels with him beside you.

"Ready?" you ask.

He takes a breath. Lets it out. Nods.

"Yeah."

You turn towards the door that leads into the house - the familiar wood with the scratched paint near the handle, the one you've been meaning to repaint for a year now. You read for the knob, and behind you, you hear Joe's footsteps on the concrete, following.

The key turns in the lock. The door swings open, revealing the dark hallway beyond, the faint outline of the coat hooks, the pile of mail you'd left on the entry table. Home. Waiting.

You step inside and hold the door open for him.

The door clicks shut behind him, the latch settling into the frame with a sound you've heard a thousand times but never noticed until now. The hallway light is off - you hadn't switched it on, relying on the spill from the garage through the small window near the top of the door. It casts a thin, bluish rectangle across the floorboards, illuminating the dust motes that drift in the still air.

Joe stands just inside the threshold, his duffel still slung over one shoulder, his free hand resting on the doorframe as if he needs to brace himself against the act of crossing. The garage light flickers behind him, the faulty sensor cycling through its familiar rhythm - on, off, on - before finally settling into a steady hum.

You toe your shoes off and let your keys fall into the ceramic dish on the entry table. The sound is small, ordinary, the kind of noise that belongs to this house and this life. The pile of mail you'd left there - a utility bill, a flyer for a new pizza place, a postcard from a friend travelling in Portugal - shifts slightly under the weight. You don't look at it. You look at him.

His eyes are on the floor, on the worn boards near his feet, on the spot where the finish has worn thin from years of footsteps. His chest rises and falls with a breath that seems to cost him something. The duffel's strap cuts into his shoulder, pulling his shirt collar askew, revealing the edge of a collarbone you want to touch but don't.

You turn to face him fully. The movement is unhurried, a rotation that brings your shoulders square to his, your feet planted on the cold floor. Your socks make no sound against the wood. The house is quiet around you - the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, the distant tick of the wall clock in the living room, the small settling sounds of a building adjusting to the winter night.

You open your arms.

No words. No explanation. No "come here" or "it's okay" or "let me hold you." Just your palms turning upward, your elbows bending, your chest opening in an invitation that asks for nothing in return. The gesture is simple, almost casual - the same way you might reach for him on the couch or in bed - but there is a stillness in it that makes it something else. Something deliberate. Something offered.

He stares at your hands.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. His gaze travels from your palms to your face, and you see the question in his eyes - the wariness of someone who's been performing so long he's forgotten how to accept something genuine. His jaw works. The muscle along his cheek jumps once, twice. His hand tightens on the doorframe.

You don't lower your arms. You don't fill the silence with reassurance. You just stand there, your palms open, your breath steady, your body saying the only thing that matters: I'm here. I see you. You don't have to earn this.

The duffel slides off his shoulder.

It hits the floor with a heavy thud - the sound of clothes and a laptop and the accumulated weight of weeks on the road landing in a heap on the entryway floorboards. He doesn't look at it. Doesn't reach for it. He just lets it lie there, a discarded shell, and takes a step towards you.

The distance between you closes in increments you can measure in heartbeats. One step. His hand leaves the doorframe. Another step. His shoulders curve forwards, the posture you'd seen in the airport, the one that says he's trying to take up less space than he needs. Another step. His breath hitches - just once, a small catch in the rhythm of his breathing, the kind of sound a person makes when they're trying very hard not to fall apart.

You hold your ground. Your arms stay open. Your palms stay turned towards him, empty and waiting.

He crosses the last inch of air between you.

His body meets yours with a force that surprises you - not impact, but surrender. The full weight of him falling forward, his chest pressing against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist with an almost desperate grip, his face burying into the curve of your neck. His knees buckle slightly, and you feel him sag against you, all the tension he's been carrying for weeks finally finding somewhere to land.

Your arms close around him.

The fit is familiar - the width of his back, the slope of his shoulders, the way his head fits perfectly into the hollow of your throat. You've held him a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, but this is different. This is a homecoming. This is him trusting you with the part of himself he shows no one else.

His hands press flat against your lower back, fingers spreading, gripping the fabric of your jumper as if he's afraid you might disappear. His breath is warm against your neck, uneven, coming in jagged fragments that you feel more than hear. He isn't crying - not yet - but there is a tremble in his body, a fine vibration that runs through his muscles like a current, the aftermath of holding himself together for too long.

You rest your cheek against the side of his head. His hair is soft against your skin, still carrying the faint smell of airport air - recirculated oxygen and jet fuel and the synthetic freshness of a plane cabin. But underneath it, there is him. The familiar scent of his skin, the one you've missed in the weeks he's been gone, the one you've caught yourself searching for on his pillow when you can't sleep.

Joe's forehead finds your shoulder. The gesture is instinctiv - a seeking, a settling, a final surrender of the last defences he's been holding. His nose presses into the fabric of your jumper, and you feel the warmth of his breath through the wool, a rhythmic pulse that begins to slow as the seconds pass.

Your hand moves up his spine, fingers trailing over the ridges of his vertebrae, counting them the way you've done a hundred times before. You reach the nape of his neck, where his hair grows softer, and the skin is warm, and let your palm rest there. A grounding point. An anchor.

He makes a sound against your shoulder. Not a word. A small, broken thing, half exhalation and half sob, muffled by the wool of your jumper. You feel it more than hear it - the tremor that passes through his chest, the way his arms tighten around your waist, the way his body presses closer, as if he's trying to climb inside your ribcage and live there.

You don't say anything. Don't shush him. Don't tell him it's okay. You just hold him, your palm warm against his neck, your other hand resting flat on his back, feeling the rhythm of his breathing against your palm. Letting him take what he needs.

A minute passes. Maybe two. Time loses its edges in the dim hallway, the only light the pale rectangle from the garage window, the only sound the soft rustle of his breathing and the distant hum of the fridge. The duffel lies at your feet, a dark lump on the floor, forgotten. The pile of mail remains untouched on the entry table. The coat hooks cast a long shadow against the wall, and somewhere in the living room, the clock ticks forward, measuring time you aren't paying attention to.

Joe's grip loosens. Just slightly. His hands relax from fists into flat palms, the tension draining out of his fingers in stages. His forehead stays pressed against your shoulder, but his breathing has steadied, the jagged edges smoothing into something closer to sleep than distress.

You turn your head, just enough to press your lips to his hair. The kiss is light, barely there, a brush of warmth against the crown of his head. You let your mouth linger for a moment, breathing him in, before pulling back to rest your cheek against him again.

His hand moves. The one that had been gripping the small of your back slides around your hip, his fingers finding the hem of your jumper, slipping underneath to touch the bare skin of your waist. His palm is cold - the cold of the airport, of the car, of the walk from the garage - but it warms quickly against your body, his fingers pressing into your skin with a gentleness that feels like a question.

You answer by pressing closer. By letting your hand slide from his neck to his jaw, your fingertips tracing the line of his stubble, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the soft skin beneath his eye. He closes his eyes at the touch - you feel the flutter of his lashes against your fingertips - and lets out a breath that seems to carry the last of the tension from his shoulders.

The duffel lies on the floor. The door is closed. The garage light has clicked off, finding no movement, and the hallway is dark except for the thin seam of light beneath the door. You stand in the shadow, two bodies learning each other again, the silence between you filled with everything you haven't said and don't need to.

His thumb traces a slow arc across the skin of your waist. A single motion, repeated once, twice, three times. A pattern. A reassurance. A way of saying I'm here without using words he doesn't have.

You let your fingers drift into his hair, combing through the tangled strands, working out a small knot near the base of his skull. He leans into the touch, his weight shifting further into you, and you feel the last of the resistance leave his body - the final surrender of a man who has finally, fully, come home.

His forehead is warm against your shoulder. His breath is slow and even, warming the fabric of your jumper. His arms are loose around your waist, no longer gripping, just resting, just holding.

You hold him back.

The duffel waits on the floor. The mail waits on the table. The rest of the house stretches out behind you - the kitchen with its unwashed dishes, the living room with the blanket still draped over the couch where you'd slept some nights, the bedroom with the bed you'd made that morning, not knowing when he'd be in it. All of it waiting. All of it patient.

But here, in this dim hallway, with his weight against you and his breath in your hair, nothing else exists. Just this. Just you. Just the slow, steady rhythm of two people breathing together, the silence holding you like a room with no walls.

His voice comes finally - rough, barely above a whisper, muffled against your shoulder.

"Can we stay like this?"

Your arms tighten around him once - a squeeze, a confirmation, a promise sealed without words. Then you pull back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding from his back to his shoulders, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone before coming to rest on his chest. His eyes are still closed, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the column of your throat. You let your gaze travel over him - the dark crescents beneath his lashes, the slight part of his lips, the way his features have softened into something almost childlike in their surrender.

"Yes," you say. The word is quiet, barely more than a breath, but it lands in the space between you like a stone dropping into still water. "We can stay like this."

Joe's hand presses flat against your lower back, a small acknowledgement, a thank-you spoken through his palm.

You let the silence hold you for another moment - one more breath, one more heartbeat, one more second of the world reduced to the warmth of his body against yours. Then your hand moves. Slides from his chest to his shoulder, down his arm, your fingers trailing over the fabric of his jacket until you reach his wrist. You wrap your hand around it - not gripping, just holding, your thumb resting in the hollow where his pulse beats steady and slow.

"Come with me," you say.

He opens his eyes. Lifts his head. Looks at you with that raw, unguarded gaze that makes your chest ache. There's no question in his expression, no hesitation - just a quiet trust, the kind that comes from knowing he doesn't have to understand where you're going, only that you're leading.

You tug gently. A small pull, an invitation. His feet move, following your lead, his hand turning beneath yours so his fingers can intertwine with yours. The duffel lies forgotten on the floor behind you, a dark lump in the dim light. You don't look back. Neither does he.

You step past him, turning towards the living room, your fingers still laced with his. The hallway is narrow - familiar, worn, the walls close enough that your shoulder brushes against the textured wallpaper as you pass. A photograph hangs crooked on the wall, a candid shot of you at a farm shop last summer, his arm around your waist, your head thrown back in laughter. You meant to straighten it. Never have. Now it feels right, that small imperfection, that proof of a life lived without posing.

Joe's footsteps follow yours, unhurried, the soft scuff of his sneakers against the floorboards. His grip on your hand is loose but present - a connection, not a restraint. You can feel his gaze on the back of your head, on your shoulders, on the curve of your spine as you lead him forwards. You don't turn around. You let him look. Let him find his way back into this space through the shape of you.

The hallway opens into the living room, and you feel the shift in the air - the change from the narrow corridor to the broader space, the warmth of the radiator clicking in the corner, the faint smell of the candle you'd burned earlier that evening. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in the pale glow of the streetlight, casting long rectangles of gold across the hardwood floor. The room is quiet in the way only a room that has been empty for weeks could be - a stillness that feels like waiting, like the furniture has been holding its breath for Joe's return.

The couch sits against the far wall, the same one you'd bought together at a thrift store two years ago, its faded blue upholstery worn soft from use. The blanket you've been using is draped over one arm, a cream-colored throw that has pooled on the cushions when you'd gotten up for water and never folded. A mug sits on the side table, cold now, a ring of coffee staining the wood. You'd left your book face-down on the armrest, spine cracked, page marked, a life paused in the middle of a sentence.

You stop at the edge of the rug - the threadbare Persian one you'd found at a car boot sale, the one with the faded medallion pattern that Joe always says looks like a target. He'd laughed the first time he saw it. You remember the sound. Remember wanting to bottle it.

You turn to face him.

He stands a step behind you, still holding your hand, his shoulders curved in that posture you've come to recognise as his default after long days. The streetlight catches the side of his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the way his hair falls across his forehead in tangled strands. His eyes are on you, soft and dark and full of something he isn't saying.

You lift your joined hands and press a kiss to his knuckles. The gesture is small, almost unconscious, but you feel his breath catch - a tiny hitch, a moment of surprise at being touched so gently, at being treated like something precious.

"Sit down," you say. "I'll get you some water."

He shakes his head. "Don't-" His voice cracks again, and he clears his throat, looking down at your hands. "Don't leave."

The words hang in the air between you. Simple. Bare. A confession of need dressed as a request.

You let go of his hand and reach up, your palms finding his cheeks, cradling his face with a tenderness that makes his eyes flutter closed. His stubble is rough against your skin, unfamiliar after weeks without touching it, but his warmth is the same, the fit of his face in your hands as natural as breathing.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say.

He leans into your touch, his hands coming up to cover yours, pressing your palms more firmly against his cheeks. A long exhale escapes him, carrying the last of the tension from his shoulders, and you watch him soften - watch the rigid lines of his posture melt into something pliant and trusting.

"Okay," he says. The word is quiet. Resigned in the best way, the resignation of someone who has finally stopped fighting.

You guide him backwards, your hands still on his face, your steps slow and deliberate, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch. He drops onto the cushions without resistance, his hands falling from yours, his body sinking into the familiar dip of the seat you've spent hundreds of evenings on. The blanket pools against his hip, and he reaches for it instinctively, his fingers finding the edge of the fabric and holding it like an anchor.

You stand in front of him, looking down at the way the streetlight paints shadows across his features. He looks smaller here, in this room, in the context of your shared life - not diminished, but relieved of the weight of performance. The couch is too soft, the cushions too worn, and he's wearing the same band t-shirt he'd worn on the flight, the collar stretched, a small stain near the hem. He looks like he belongs here. Like he'd never left.

You move around the coffee table, your feet silent on the rug, and settle onto the couch beside him. Not too close - you give him space, let him decide how much contact he needs. But close enough that your knee brushes his, a point of connection he can choose to deepen or ignore.

He chooses to deepen.

He shifts, turning towards you, his hand finding your thigh and resting there with a weight that feels deliberate. His palm is warm through the fabric of your joggers, his fingers curling slightly, gripping the softness of your leg as if you're a fixed point in a world that has been spinning too fast.

"Can I-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "Can I put my head in your lap?"

The question is small, almost shy, and it undoes you in a way you don't expect. This is the same man who commands stages, who holds the attention of thousands, who has been photographed and interviewed and analysed from every angle. And here he is, asking permission to rest his head in your lap like a child seeking comfort from a nightmare.

"Yes," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you'd intended, thick with an emotion you don't try to name.

He moves slowly, the way a man moves when he's running on empty, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He shifts his weight, twists his torso, and lowers himself onto his side, his head finding your thigh with an accuracy that speaks of practice. He'd done this before - in the early days, when you'd spend whole Sundays on this couch, reading and talking and falling asleep in the afternoon light. His body remembers the shape of this position, the way his shoulders fit against the cushion edge, the way his spine curves to accommodate the length of the seat.

His head settles in your lap, the weight of it familiar and grounding. His hair spills across your thigh, dark against the cream fabric of your joggers, and you watch his eyes close as he lets out a breath that seems to carry the last of the day's defences with it.

Your hand finds his hair before you consciously decide to move it. Your fingers comb through the tangled strands, working through a knot near his temple with a patience that feels like a prayer. His hair is longer than it had been when he left - he hadn't gotten his usual trim before the tour, and it shows in the way it curls at the ends, brushing against his collar and falling across his forehead in waves you have to push back to see his face.

He makes a sound. A small, hummed note of contentment, the kind of sound a person makes when they're finally, truly comfortable. His hand finds your knee, his palm resting against the joint, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on the fabric.

"I forgot what this felt like," he says, his voice muffled against your thigh. "Being cared about by someone who-" He pauses, searching for words. "Someone who isn't getting paid to do it."

You don't laugh. Don't brush it off with a joke. You just keep your fingers moving through his hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a rhythm you've learned from trial and error, from the nights he'd come home wired and unable to sleep, from the mornings he'd woken up with his head in your lap and asked you to stay there a little longer.

"I thought about you," he says. The words come out fragmented, like he's testing them as he speaks. "On the road. In the hotels. Between interviews. I'd lie in bed and try to remember what it felt like to just-" He gestured vaguely, his hand waving near his chest. "To just be held. Without the performance. Without having to give anything back."

"And?"

He's quiet for a long moment. His thumb stops moving on your knee. His breath evens out, slowing, deepening into something that sounds almost like sleep.

"I couldn't," he says finally. "I couldn't remember. I knew it existed. I knew I'd felt it before. But I couldn't-" His voice cracks, and he stops, pressing his face harder against your thigh. "I couldn't feel it."

You feel the wetness before you understand it - the warmth of a tear soaking through the fabric of your joggers, spreading against your skin. You don't look down. Don't call attention to it. You just keep your hand moving through his hair, your fingers steady, your touch soft.

"I'm here now," you say. "You don't have to remember. You can just feel it."

His hand finds yours, pulling it from his hair, pressing your palm against his chest. You feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt - steady, strong, alive. His fingers curl around your hand, holding it there, keeping you anchored to the rhythm of him.

"I love you," he says. The words come out raw, scraped clean of performance, bare in a way that makes the air in the room change. "I don't say it enough. I don't- I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I-" He takes a shaky breath. "I don't know how to be the person who deserves the way you love me."

You lower your head, pressing your lips to his hair, letting the kiss linger. Your thumb traces the line of his collarbone, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric.

"You don't have to deserve it," you say. "You just have to let yourself have it."

His hand tightens on yours, and you feel the shudder that runs through him - a release, a surrender, a letting go of something he's been carrying for longer than you could know. You hold him through it, your body a container for his grief, your presence a promise that he doesn't have to carry it alone.

The clock ticks on the wall, measuring time in increments that feel both infinite and irrelevant. The streetlight shifts as a cloud passes overhead, dimming the room for a moment before brightening again. Somewhere outside, a car passes, its headlights sweeping across the curtains before fading into the night.

Joe's breathing slows. Deepens. His hand relaxes around yours, his grip loosening into something more like resting than holding. His body settles against you, his weight becoming heavier, more trusting, as the tension of the last weeks slowly bleeds out of him and into the cushions beneath you.

You watch his face in the dim light - the way his features soften in sleep, the way the lines around his eyes smooth out, the way his lips part slightly as his breath evens into the rhythm of rest. He looks younger like this. Lighter. Like the version of himself that existed before the cameras and the crowds and the constant pressure to be someone other than who he is.

Your hand continues its slow path through his hair, your fingers mapping the familiar territory of his scalp, the curve of his ear, the soft skin behind it. You don't stop. Don't slow. You keep touching him, keep proving that he's here, that he's home, that the world hadn't ended while he was gone.

Minutes pass. The clock ticks. The radiator clicks and hums. The streetlight throws its steady beam across the floor, and the dust drifts in the pale light, suspended and unhurried.

His hand moves. Not much - just his fingers curling around the hem of your joggers, holding the fabric like a child holding a blanket. A small gesture. An unconscious seeking of comfort.

You cover his hand with yours, threading your fingers together over your thigh, and let your eyes close. You don't sleep - not quite - but you let yourself drift in the warm, quiet space of having him back. The weight of his head. The warmth of his hand. The slow rhythm of his breathing, syncing with yours in a cadence that feels older than words.

The book on the armrest waits to be finished. The cold mug of coffee on the side table waits to be washed. The unpacked boxes in the garage wait for another day. None of it matters. None of it exists beyond the boundaries of this room, this couch, this man sleeping in yur lap.

You press another kiss to his hair, letting your lips linger, and feel his hand tighten around yours in response - a reflex, an acknowledgement, a small confirmation that even in sleep, he knows you're there.

"Welcome home," you whisper against his hair.

You feel the shift before you hear it - a change in the weight of him, a small tension returning to muscles that had been slack with sleep. His fingers curl against your thigh, not quite gripping, just moving, a subconscious return to awareness. His breath changes, deepens, and you feel the precise moment he surfaces from sleep into the grey space between dreaming and waking.

You don't stop the motion of her fingers through his hair. Keep the rhythm steady, your nails grazing his scalp in the same slow pattern, letting him find his way back at his own pace. The streetlight has shifted, the rectangle of gold on the floor now stretching towards the wall, and the room has grown cooler, the radiator's heat fading into the winter night.

Joe's hand moves from your knee to your shin, his palm sliding down the curve of your calf, his fingers wrapping around your ankle like he's checking that you're still there, still solid, still real. His thumb presses into the bone, a small pressure, an anchor.

You look down at him. His eyes are still closed, but there's a wakefulness in his face now, a subtle shift in the set of his jaw. His lips part, close, part again, as if he's testing whether he has words ready.

"Hey," you say. Your voice is quiet, a thread of sound in the dark room.

His eyes open.

They find yours immediately, as if he'd known exactly where you would be. His gaze is soft, still blurred with sleep, but there's something else in it now - a warmth that had been buried under exhaustion, surfacing like light through receding water. He looks at you for a long moment, his hand still wrapped around your ankle, his head heavy in your lap.

"Hey," he says back. His voice is rough, sleep still clinging to the edges of it.

You smile. Small. Just for him.

He doesn't smile back. But his hand moves - sliding from your ankle up your calf, over your knee, coming to rest on your thigh. His palm is warm through the fabric, and his fingers press into the softness of your leg with a weight that feels like intention.

You watch his hand. Watch the way his fingers spread, gripping your thigh with a new possessiveness that hadn't been there in the sleepy vulnerability of the past hour. His thumb traces a slow arc on the inside of your leg, the pressure firm enough to feel through the joggers.

You look at his face. His eyes are on your mouth.

Something shifts in the air between you. The room doesn't change - the same streetlight, the same dust motes, the same ticking clock - but the quality of the silence alters, thickens, becomes something you can lean into.

Joe's hand tightens on your thigh. A small pull, a request.

You lower your head towards him, your hair falling forwards, brushing against his cheek. You pause an inch from his mouth, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the slight part of his lips, the way his eyes are dropped half-closed, waiting.

"Tell me what you want," you say.

His hand slides up your thigh, over your hip, finding your waist. He tugs, a gentle but insistent pull, drawing you down towards him. You let yourself be moved, your body bending over his, your hands finding the cushions on either side of his head.

His hand comes up to your face. His palm presses against your cheek, his fingers threading into your hair, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. He looks at you like he's memorising you, like the light in this room is the only light he trusts.

"I want to kiss you," he says. "I want to feel you. I want to remember what it's like to want someone without performing it."

You hold his gaze. Let the words settle.

Then you close the distance.

The kiss starts soft - a brush of lips, a question asked through pressure rather than sound. Joe's mouth is warm, slightly chapped from the dry air of planes and hotels, and he tastes like the faint residue of coffee and exhaustion. You keep it gentle, your lips moving against his with a slowness that feels like reverence, your hand finding his jaw and cradling it the way you'd done earlier, in the hallway.

He makes a sound. Small. Lost. A noise that starts in his chest and escapes through his nose, a vibration against your mouth that you feel in your own ribs.

His hand tightens in your hair. Not pulling, just holding, like you're something precious he's afraid of dropping. His other hand finds your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your jumper, bunching it in his fist.

You deepen the kiss. Press harder. Your tongue traces the seam of his lips, and he opens for you without hesitation, a surrender so complete it makes your breath catch. His mouth is warm and familiar and new all at once, a taste you'd been missing without knowing how much.

His hand slides under your jumper. His palm presses flat against the small of your back, his fingers spreading, pulling you closer. The contact is skin on skin, his hand warm against your spine, and you feel the shudder that runs through him at the touch.

You break the kiss. Just far enough to look at him. His lips are slightly swollen, his eyes dark and open, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that's faster than before.

"Come to bed," you say.

It isn't a question.

Joe's answer is in the way he moves - sitting up, his hand finding yours, his body turning towards the hallway without letting go of you. The blanket falls away from his lap, pooling on the cushion, forgotten. His hair is a mess, tousled from sleep and your fingers, and the streetlight catches the hollow of his throat as he swallows.

You stand, and he stands with you. His hand stays wrapped around yours, and you lead him through the living room, past the coffee table with the cold mug, past the book face-down on the armrest, past the photograph hanging crooked on the wall. The hallway opens in front of you, narrow and familiar, and you feel his gaze on the back of your head, on the curve of your spine, on the way your hips move as you walk.

The bedroom door is open. The room beyond is dark except for the thin seam of light from the hallway, cutting across the foot of the bed, illuminating the corner of the dresser and the edge of the frame holding a photograph you can't quite make out. The bed is made - you'd done it that morning, a small ritual, a gesture of hope that he would be in it tonight.

You step inside, pulling him with you. The door clicks shut behind you, and the darkness deepens, the only light the faint glow from the window where the curtains haven't been fully drawn. The streetlight filters through, casting long shadows across the floor, painting the room in shades of silver and grey.

You turn to face him.

He stands in the dark room, a silhouette against the pale light from the window. You can see the outline of his shoulders, the way his hands hang at his sides, the slight forward tilt of his posture. He's waiting. Not for permission - for direction. For you to tell him this was real.

You reach for the hem of your jumper. Pull it over your head in one motion, letting it fall to the floor. The air is cool against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, and you stand before him in just your bra, your skin warm in the dim light.

Joe's breath catches. Audible. A sharp intake that he doesn't try to hide.

He steps forward. His hands find your waist, his palms sliding up your ribs, his thumbs tracing the underwire of your bra. He doesn't unhook it - just touches you, his fingers mapping the curve of your breasts through the fabric, his gaze fixed on the place where his hands meet your skin.

"You're so beautiful," he says. The words are quiet, almost to himself, as if he's surprised by the truth of them.

You reach for his shirt. The hem is worn, the fabric soft from a hundred washes. You lift it, and he raises his arms, letting you pull it over his head. It joins your jumper on the floor, a pile of dark fabric in the shadowed room.

His chest is pale in the dim light. Lean, the muscles defined but not exaggerated, the kind of body that comes from movement rather than the gym. A scar you remember from a childhood accident, a thin white line near his collarbone. A scatter of freckles across his shoulders. The hollow at the base of his throat, where his pulse beats visibly against his skin.

You press your palm to his chest. Feel his heartbeat beneath your hand, strong and quick. His skin is warm, warmer than the air, and you let your hand slide down, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his jeans.

His hand covers yours. His fingers intertwine with yours, pressing your palm against the button of his jeans.

"I want to feel you," he says. His voice is rough, the words scraping past something raw in his throat. "I want to feel all of you. I want to-" He stops. Swallows. Starts again, his hand tightening around yours. "I want to be close to you. As close as I can get."

You unfasten his jeans. The button gives easily, the zipper sliding down with a sound that cuts through the silence. You push the denim down his hips, and he steps out of them, kicking them aside, standing in just his boxers in the pale silver light.

Joe's hands find your waist again. This time, he doesn't stop at your bra. His fingers find the clasp at your back, unhook it with a practised ease that makes you smile in the dark, and the straps slide down your shoulders. You let it fall, let it join the pile on the floor, and stand before him bare from the waist up.

His hands come up to cup your breasts. His thumbs brush across your nipples, once, twice, a touch so light it makes you shiver. He watches his own hands, watches the way your breath hitches at his touch, and you see something shift in his expression - a hunger surfacing, raw and honest and unguarded.

"I missed your hands," you say. The words come out before you can stop them, a confession you hadn't meant to make.

He looks up at you. His eyes are dark, the pupils wide, the hazel nearly swallowed by black. He doesn't say anything. He just pulls you closer, his mouth finding yours, and the kiss is different this time - harder, needier, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperation that borders on bruising.

His hands slide down your back, over your ass, gripping you through your joggers. He pulls you against him, and you feel him - hard, pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of his boxers. The evidence of his desire, unguarded, unmistakable.

You break the kiss. Step back. Your hands find the waistband of your joggers, push them down along with your underwear, and step out of them. You're naked now, standing in the dark room with the streetlight painting your body in silver, and you watch his gaze travel over you - your thighs, your hips, the curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs.

Joe's boxers follow. He pushes them down, kicks them aside, and stands before you in the same silver light, his cock hard and waiting, the tip glistening in the dim glow.

You reach out. Your fingers wrap around him, light at first, just a touch, a greeting. He's warm in your hand, solid, and you feel the tremor that runs through his body at the contact. His head falls back, his eyes closing, his hand finding your shoulder for balance.

"I want you inside me," you say.

The words hang in the air, simple and direct, and you feel the effect they have on him - the way his breath catches, the way his cock twitches in your hand, the way his hand tightens on your shoulder.

You lead him backwards to the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and you climb onto it; the sheets cool against your skin. You lay back, your hair spreading across the pillow, your legs parting in an invitation that needs no words.

He follows you onto the bed, his body covering yours, his weight a familiar pressure. His elbows bracket your head, his forearms taking his weight, his chest brushing against yours with every breath. He looks down at you, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching your expression for something you can't name.

"Are you sure?" he asks. The question is quiet, almost fragile, the vulnerability from earlier resurfacing.

You reach up. Your hand finds his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

"I've never been more sure of anything," you say.

Joe lowers his head, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes close. He breathes you in - a long, slow inhale that seems to fill him with something he'd been missing. When he opens his eyes, they're soft, full of a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

He shifts his weight. His hand moves between you, guiding himself, and you feel the head of his cock press against you - not inside yet, just resting at your entrance, a question waiting for an answer.

You lift your hips. A small motion, a yes.

He pushes inside you.

The stretch is familiar and new at once, the way your body opens for him, the way he fills you. He moves slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You feel every increment of his entry, every ridge and vein, the heat of him spreading through you like warmth through cold glass.

When he's fully inside you, he stops. Just stops, his body still, his eyes closed, his breath shivering against your lips.

"I forgot what this felt like," he whispers. "Being this close to someone. Being-" His voice cracks. "Being wanted like this."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Your hands find his back, your nails tracing light patterns across his skin, feeling the muscles shift beneath.

"You are wanted," you say. "You're needed. You're mine."

Joe makes a sound - a low, broken groan that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest — and begins to move.

The rhythm starts slow, a gentle rocking that feels more like grinding than thrusting, a back-and-forth that lets you both find the pace. His mouth finds your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your throat, and you feel the vibration of his moans against your skin. His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his movements.

You arch into his touch, your fingers gripping his shoulders, your breath coming in gasps that match the rhythm of his hips. The pressure builds slowly, a warmth spreading from your core through your limbs, and you feel the familiar coil tightening in your belly.

He lifts his head. Looks at you. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and wet.

"Look at me," he says. His voice is rough, a command wrapped in a plea. "Please. Look at me when you come."

You hold his gaze. Feel the weight of him above you, inside you, the heat of his body and the depth of his need. The coil tightens, tightens, and then breaks - a wave that crashes through you, your body clenching around him, your mouth falling open in a sound you can't contain.

He watches you. His eyes never leave yours, not even as his own climax builds, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, less controlled. He follows you over the edge, his body shuddering above you, his face buried in your neck as he comes with a sound that's half groan, half sob.

His weight settles on you. His breathing is ragged, his heart pounding against your ribs, his cock still inside you, softening. You wrap your arms around him, your hands cradling the back of his head, your fingers threading through his damp hair.

You both lay still, the only sound your breathing, the only movement the rise and fall of your chests. The streetlight casts its steady beam across the bed, illuminating the tangle of sheets, the curve of his spine, the way your hand rests on the back of his neck.

Joe lifts his head. Looks at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, not from crying but from the proximity of it, the closeness of the tears he's already shed and the ones still waiting.

"I love you," he says. The words are simple, stripped of everything but their truth.

You press your lips to his forehead. A kiss, soft and lingering.

"I love you too."

He lowers his head again, his cheek resting on your chest, his ear over your heart. His hand finds yours, your fingers interlocking, and you feel the last of the tension drain from his body - a long, slow exhale that seems to carry the weeks away with it.

The clock ticks in the living room. The radiator clicks. Somewhere outside, a dog barks, distant and irrelevant. The streetlight holds its steady watch, and the dust drifts in the silver light, suspended and unhurried.

Joe's breathing slows into the rhythm of sleep, his hand still holding yours, his body curled around you like you're the only safe harbour in a world that has demanded too much of him.

You press another kiss to his hair, let your eyes close, and hold him through the night.

dividers: saradika-graphics

Steve Harrington had always been the first one to reach for your hand.

Crossing the street.

Walking through the Family Video parking lot after closing.

Waiting in line at the movie theater on Friday nights.

It didn’t matter.

Somewhere between point A and point B, his fingers always found yours.

The first time it happened, you’d looked down at your joined hands before glancing back up at him with a teasing smile.

“You know I can cross the street by myself, right?”

Steve had blinked, following your gaze like he’d only just realized what he’d done.

“Oh.”

His ears turned pink.

“Yeah.”

For a second, you’d thought he’d let go.

Instead, his fingers curled around yours just a little tighter.

“…Humor me?”

You laughed.

“I guess I can do that.”

After that, neither of you ever mentioned it again.

You didn’t have to.

It became one of those quiet things that simply belonged to the two of you.

As natural as Steve opening every door before you had the chance.

As predictable as you stealing fries off his plate because they somehow tasted better than yours.

As familiar as the kiss he’d press against your forehead whenever one of you had to leave, no matter how short the goodbye.

Loving Steve had never felt like work.

It had felt easy.

Comfortable.

Safe.

The kind of love you stopped noticing because it had quietly become part of your everyday life.

Maybe that was why one Friday night felt so ordinary.

A movie neither of you had been paying attention to played quietly in the background, the living room lit only by the flickering television and the lamp tucked into the corner beside the couch.

Steve had insisted on stopping for ice cream on the way over.

“Movie nights require dessert,” he’d said with complete confidence, as though it were some universally accepted law.

Now he was standing in front of your freezer, staring inside with a seriousness usually reserved for life-changing decisions.

“You want chocolate or vanilla?”

You looked up from where you’d been fluffing the throw pillows.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“You’ve asked me that three times.”

He frowned.

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I asked once.”

“Three.”

He reached in anyway, pulling out both cartons before shutting the freezer with his hip.

“I still think chocolate.”

“I always pick vanilla.”

“Exactly.”

He carried both over to the couch before handing you the vanilla with a dramatic sigh.

“Which is why every once in a while I have to make sure you haven’t come to your senses.”

You laughed.

“I like vanilla.”

“You tolerate vanilla.”

“I love vanilla.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“And what makes you the expert?”

“Because…” He pointed his spoon at you. “…you always steal mine.”

You opened your mouth to argue.

Then closed it again.

“…I hate that you’re right.”

“I know.”

His grin was impossibly smug.

By the end of the movie, your spoon had somehow wandered into his carton more than once.

Steve caught you the third time.

“I’m just saying…”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“…if someone likes chocolate ice cream…”

“I don’t.”

“…they probably shouldn’t eat half of mine.”

“I’m quality testing.”

“For an hour?”

“Mhm.”

“So what’s the verdict?”

You took another bite before answering.

“…Needs more testing.”

Steve laughed.

Really laughed.

The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his shoulders shake.

“I can’t believe you.”

“You love me.”

“I do love you..” 

Steve froze.

For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the television neither of you had been watching.

His cheeks turned pink.

“I…”

He blinked.

“I mean… I just said that out loud didn’t I?”

“You did.”

You couldn’t stop smiling.

“So…”

“So…”

“You gonna take it back?”

His expression softened.

He reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before letting his hand rest gently against your cheek.

“Not a chance.”

His thumb brushed softly across your skin.

“I love you.”

Your heart melted.

“I love you too.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Steve’s smile turned suspicious.

“…You know.”

“Oh no.”

“I think this calls for a celebration.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It absolutely does.”

Before you could stop him, he scooped a small spoonful of chocolate ice cream.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

“You don’t know any look.”

“I absolutely know that look.”

“You should be worried.”

“I’m already—”

Cold ice cream landed right on the tip of your nose.

You gasped.

Steve doubled over laughing.

“Steve Harrington!”

“What?”

“You did not just—”

Another tiny dab.

This time on your cheek.

You shrieked, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and smacking him with it as he laughed harder than you’d seen in weeks.

“You brat!”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“You have chocolate ice cream all over my face!”

“I noticed.”

“You put it there!”

“Allegedly.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Then slowly reached for your own spoon.

Steve’s laughter immediately stopped.

“…Don’t.”

“Oh?”

“I know that look.”

“You don’t know any look.”

Vanilla landed squarely on his chin.

He blinked.

You blinked.

Then both of you dissolved into laughter so hard neither of you could breathe.

By the time the ice cream had somehow ended up on your noses, your cheeks, and even the sleeve of Steve’s sweatshirt, neither of you could remember who’d started it.

Still smiling, Steve reached toward you.

“You missed one.”

“I did?”

“Mhm.”

He brushed his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth.

Instead of wiping it away… He leaned forward and kissed your cheek.

Then your nose.

Your forehead.

The other cheek.

Every tiny spot he’d gotten ice cream on.

Each kiss lingered just long enough to make you laugh again.

“There.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“All better.”

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling.

“I can’t believe that’s your solution.”

“It worked.”

“It did not.”

“No?”

“No.”

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours.

“You still have ice cream on your face?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

He kissed you before you could.

When he finally pulled away, his smile was softer than before.

“…Now it’s all better.”

Sometimes you wondered if loving Steve Harrington had always been this easy or if you’d simply gotten lucky.

People talked about relationships like they were hard work.

Compromise.

Patience.

Choosing each other over and over again.

But with Steve…loving him felt as natural as breathing.

You never questioned whether he loved you.

Not once.

Not until he gave you a reason to.

Looking back, maybe that was why it took you so long to realize something had changed.

It wasn’t sudden.

There wasn’t one fight.

No forgotten anniversary.

No whispered phone calls or lipstick stains.

No single moment you could point to and say, There. That’s when everything started falling apart.

Instead…

It happened in pieces.

So small they hardly felt worth noticing.

Steve stopped finishing movies.

The first few times, you blamed Keith.

“He keep you late again?” you asked one Tuesday evening after realizing Steve hadn’t looked at the television in nearly twenty minutes.

He blinked, his attention snapping back to the living room as though he’d only just remembered where he was.

“Hm?”

“You’ve been staring at the wall.”

His eyes drifted toward the blank stretch of paint behind the television before a sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

“Guess I have.”

You nudged his shoulder.

“Long day?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t ask him to.

Instead, you curled a little closer beneath his arm, smiling when he instinctively kissed the top of your head.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“Zoning out.”

“You missed the entire second act.”

“I did?”

“Mhm.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Think you could catch me up?”

You laughed.

“I suppose.”

So you spent the next ten minutes explaining every scene he’d missed while he listened with his chin resting on top of your head, occasionally asking questions that proved he’d been paying even less attention than you’d originally thought.

By the time you finished, he looked almost… embarrassed.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean earlier.”

You smiled.

“I figured you were just tired.”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

“Yeah.”

His voice was quiet.

“Just tired.”

The excuses came easily after that.

Steve was tired.

Work had been busy.

Robin had mentioned inventory week more than once.

Keith was probably being impossible.

Everyone got overwhelmed sometimes.

Everyone had off weeks.

So when Steve canceled dinner the following Friday with nothing more than an apologetic, “Something came up,” you simply smiled into the phone and told him not to worry about it.

When he showed up the next afternoon carrying your favorite candy from Family Video because he’d “felt bad,” you kissed his cheek and let it go.

When he disappeared halfway through a conversation because something outside your apartment window had caught his attention, you gently called his name until he looked back at you.

Each time…he smiled.

Each time…you believed him.

Because this was Steve.

The same Steve who reached for your hand without thinking.

The same Steve who kissed chocolate ice cream off your nose.

The same Steve who looked at you like you were the easiest decision he’d ever made.

People didn’t change overnight.

They just… got tired sometimes.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Until one Friday evening, nearly a month after your impromptu ice cream war, a knock sounded at your apartment door almost forty minutes later than you’d been expecting.

You opened it ready to tease him.

“You know, Harrington, most people call when they’re—”

The words caught in your throat.

There was a fresh cut just beneath his hairline.

Another disappeared beneath the collar of his sweater.

His knuckles were scraped raw, tiny scabs crossing over bruised skin.

And he looked…

Exhausted.

Not sleepy.

Not overworked.

Just… worn down in a way that made something deep in your chest twist painfully.

The smile he gave you was familiar.

The boy behind it wasn’t.

“Hey.”

Your eyes never left the cut above his eyebrow.

“What happened?”

His hand lifted instinctively, fingertips brushing the edge of the bandage before dropping back to his side.

“Oh.”

He offered a shrug that was far too casual.

“Nothing.”

You stared at him.

The word hung between you.

Nothing.

Lately…

Everything seemed to be nothing.

You stepped aside without another word.

Steve hesitated for only a second before stepping into your apartment.

The familiar scent of butter and garlic still lingered in the air from the pasta you’d pulled out of the oven nearly half an hour earlier. 

Two plates sat waiting on the small kitchen table.

Two glasses.

Two candles you’d lit more because Steve liked them than because either of you needed the extra light.

His eyes found the table almost immediately.

“Gonna guess…” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “…that wasn’t for one?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“No, really.”

“I know, Steve.”

He looked down at the grocery bag in his hand like he’d forgotten he was carrying it.

“I brought dessert.”

You glanced inside.

Your favorite cookies.

The little bakery across town that always sold out before noon on Saturdays.

“You drove all the way over there?”

“They had one box left.”

“You hate driving across town.”

“I know.”

“You waited forty minutes to apologize with cookies?”

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“…Maybe.”

You couldn’t help it.

You smiled back.

“You’re lucky you’re cute Harrington.”

“I’ve been told.”

“You’ve been told by yourself.”

He laughed softly.

“Guilty.”

For a moment…it felt normal.

Like the last month had only existed inside your imagination.

You ate dinner at the kitchen table.

Steve asked about your day.

You asked how Robin was.

He complained about Keith with enough dramatic storytelling to make you laugh so hard you nearly spilled your drink.

It was…easy.

So wonderfully, painfully easy…until it wasn’t.

Halfway through telling you about a customer who’d insisted The Terminator belonged in the romance section, Steve stopped talking.

Mid-sentence.

His fork hovered halfway to his mouth.

His eyes shifted toward your apartment window.

Not looking through it.

Listening.

Every muscle in his body went still.

You followed his gaze instinctively.

There was nothing there.

Just darkness.

The occasional passing car.

A porch light flickering across the street.

“Steve?”

Nothing.

“Steve.”

This time his shoulders jerked.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

He blinked.

Then looked at you as though he’d forgotten you were sitting across from him.

“Yeah.”

“You just…”

You searched for the right words.

“…left.”

Confusion crossed his face.

“I did?”

“You’ve been staring out the window for almost a minute.”

His expression tightened so briefly you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Then… it disappeared behind a smile.

“Sorry.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

You nodded slowly.

“Maybe.”

Silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just…heavier than usual.

Steve reached across the table a moment later, his fingers brushing against yours.

“I’m okay.”

You turned your hand over, intertwining your fingers with his.

“I know.”

It wasn’t a lie.

You believed him.

Or maybe…you wanted to.

Later that night, after the dishes had been washed and the movie credits rolled across the television for the second time, Steve stretched his arms over his head with a tired groan.

“I think I’m officially eighty years old.”

You laughed.

“You’re twenty.”

“My back disagrees. My back has seen things.”

He froze.

The words slipped out so casually you almost missed them.

Almost.

His smile vanished.

Just for a second.

Long enough for regret to flash across his face.

“…Playing sports,” he corrected quickly. “Basketball. You know.”

You frowned.

“You haven’t played basketball in years.”

“I know.”

The answer came too fast.

Too rehearsed.

He stood abruptly, gathering empty popcorn bowls before you had the chance.

“I’ll take these.”

“Steve—”

“I got it.”

You watched him disappear into the kitchen.

The faucet turned on.

Cabinet doors opened.

Anything to stay busy.

Anything to avoid the conversation that had almost happened.

Standing in the doorway, you watched his shoulders rise and fall with one slow breath.

He didn’t know you were there.

For just a moment…

He looked tired enough to fall apart.

Then he heard your footsteps.

And just like that…

The smile was back.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey...you should probably get some sleep.”

You studied him for another second before he offered a small nod.

“…Yeah.”

You watched him rinse the last plate before setting it carefully in the drying rack.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The apartment felt strangely quiet.

Steve dried his hands on the dish towel before reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

“I should probably get going.”

You frowned.

“It’s getting late.” he said quietly.

You glanced toward the clock.

It wasn’t.

Not for the two of you.

Steve had stayed over more nights than either of you could count.

Sometimes because the weather was bad.

Sometimes because one movie turned into three.

Sometimes for no reason at all except that waking up next to each other felt better than saying goodbye.

“You don’t have to.”

He hesitated.

You caught it.

Barely.

“I mean…” you continued, trying to sound casual despite the knot growing in your stomach. “You can stay if you want.”

His eyes met yours.

For just a second… You saw it.

The hesitation.

The debate happening entirely behind his eyes.

Like staying wasn’t as easy a decision as it used to be.

Your heart sank before he’d even answered.

Then… a small smile.

“I’d like that.”

The relief that washed over you was immediate.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You smiled back.

“I’ll grab you one of your shirts.”

“You know…” Steve laughed quietly. “At this point I think half my wardrobe lives here anyway.”

“Probably because you keep leaving it.”

“I keep forgetting it.”

“You’ve forgotten three hoodies.”

“They look better on you.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“You flirt. You used to be smoother.”

“I peaked in high school.”

You laughed.

“There he is.”

Steve tilted his head.

“Who?”

“My Steve.”

The words left your mouth before you thought about them.

His smile faltered.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then it returned.

Smaller this time.

“…Yeah.”

He disappeared down the hallway to change while you busied yourself straightening blankets that didn’t need straightening.

Fluffing pillows that were already perfectly fine.

Anything to ignore the tiny voice in the back of your mind whispering that something about tonight still felt…off. 

Later, the room settled into darkness.

The only light came from the moon spilling softly through the curtains.

Steve lay beside you on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head.

You rested against his shoulder, absentmindedly tracing circles across his forearm.

Neither of you spoke.

You’d always loved nights like this.

No television.

No music.

Just existing together.

“You awake?” you whispered.

“Mhm.”

“I like when you stay.”

His breathing caught so quietly you almost missed it.

“…Yeah?”

“Makes the apartment feel less empty.”

Silence.

Then Steve turned his head just enough to press a kiss against your hair.

“I like staying too.”

You smiled into his shoulder.

“Good.”

Within minutes, his breathing finally evened out.

For the first time in weeks…

He looked peaceful.

You watched him for another minute before closing your own eyes.

You never saw the moment his expression changed.

The way his brow pulled tight.

The way his breathing became uneven.

The nightmare had already begun.

You weren’t sure what woke you.

For a moment, you lay perfectly still, blinking up at the ceiling as your eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The apartment was silent.

The clock beside the bed blinked 2:17 a.m.

Rain tapped softly against the bedroom window.

You almost rolled over and went back to sleep.

“No…”

The whisper was so quiet you weren’t even sure you’d heard it.

Your head turned toward Steve.

Moonlight spilled across his face.

His brow was pulled tight.

His breathing had changed.

Uneven.

Too fast.

“…No…”

Your stomach tightened.

“Steve?”

He didn’t answer.

His fingers twitched against the blanket between you.

Another whisper.

“So… sorry…”

You pushed yourself onto one elbow.

“Steve.”

Nothing.

His breathing hitched.

Like he was trying to outrun something only he could see.

“Run.”

The word was barely louder than a breath.

Your heart lurched.

“…Steve?”

His head turned sharply against the pillow.

“No…”

Another breath.

“Get away from—”

His voice cracked.

You reached for his arm.

“Steve, wake up.”

He didn’t move.

His jaw clenched.

“…Robin.”

The name came out broken.

Almost pleading.

“Steve.”

You squeezed his arm a little harder.

“Wake up.”

His breathing turned frantic.

His whole body tensed beneath the blankets.

“No!”

This time it came out loud.

His eyes flew open.

He bolted upright so quickly the blankets slipped to his waist.

For one terrifying second…

He wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking through you.

Scanning the room.

The windows.

The doorway.

His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

“Steve.”

His eyes snapped toward your voice.

Recognition didn’t come immediately.

It happened slowly.

Like someone surfacing from underwater.

Then…

Without warning…

He grabbed both of your shoulders.

Not hard.

Just…desperate.

His hands shook.

His eyes searched your face with an urgency that stole the breath from your lungs.

Your forehead.

Your cheeks.

Your neck.

Like he was making sure every part of you was still there.

“…You’re okay.”

His voice was barely audible.

You frowned.

“…Yeah.”

He kept looking.

Still checking.

Still searching.

“You… you’re okay?”

“I’m okay.”

The words finally seemed to reach him.

The tension left his shoulders all at once.

Before you could ask another question…

Steve pulled you into him.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly you could barely breathe.

You froze for only a second before hugging him back.

His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

Fast.

Far too fast.

You rubbed slow circles against his back.

“It’s okay Steve….its okay I’m here. I'm here and I'm okay.”

You weren’t sure whether you were comforting him…

Or trying to convince yourself.

After what felt like forever, Steve finally pulled back.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I woke you.”

“You had a nightmare.”

He looked away.

“…Yeah.”

“You’ve been having them a lot?”

Silence.

“Steve?”

“Sometimes.”

You studied him.

“You said Robin’s name.”

Steve’s expression changed so quickly it almost hurt to watch.

The walls came back up.

Brick by brick.

“It’s nothing.”

There it was again.

Nothing.

The same word he’d used for the bruises.

The same word he’d used for the cuts.

The same word he’d used for every question you were beginning to ask.

Nothing.

You nodded slowly.

“…Okay.”

Steve looked relieved.

You weren’t.

Not anymore.

When you woke again, sunlight was spilling through the curtains.

For one blissfully disoriented moment…

Everything felt normal.

The other side of the bed was empty.

You frowned.

“…Steve?”

Your apartment answered with the quiet clatter of pans from the kitchen.

A smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it.

You padded down the hallway wearing one of Steve’s old Hawkins High t-shirts, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

The smell of coffee met you first.

Then butter.

Steve stood at the stove with his back to you, one hand balancing a spatula while the other reached for the coffee pot.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the doorway, “I was starting to think you’d finally burned my apartment down.”

Without turning around, he smiled.

“I’ve only almost done that once.”

“It was twice.”

“The smoke detector was being dramatic.”

“You set a dish towel on fire.”

“It was a very small fire.”

“It was a fire.”

He laughed.

You crossed the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind.

He relaxed instantly.

One hand found yours where they rested against his stomach.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You simply stood there while pancakes sizzled quietly in the pan.

The nightmare from a few hours ago felt impossibly far away.

Like maybe daylight had chased it off.

“I made pancakes.”

“I can see that.”

“I even remembered the blueberries.”

“You forgot them last time. You put chocolate chips in instead.”

“I thought it was a good recovery.”

“It was.”

He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“You weren’t mad.”

“I wasn’t.”

You laughed.

"I think you married me in that moment.” he said smirking.

You snorted.

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“You definitely looked at me like you were considering it.”

“Oh, I was considering whether I’d have to teach you how to follow a recipe.”

“I follow recipes.”

“You do not!”

“I… interpret them.”

You laughed, resting your forehead lightly against his back.

The sound echoed through the quiet apartment.

Steve closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Like he was memorizing it.

“You laugh less lately.”

His shoulders stilled beneath your arms.

“So do you.”

Your smile faded.

“I guess.” He flipped the pancake.

“You should.”

“What?”

“Laugh more.” you say gently.

Silence settled again.

You squeezed him a little tighter.

“You know…”

“Hm?”

“I miss you.”

Steve’s hand tightened around yours.

“I’m right here.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

He never turned around.

Never looked at you.

You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek.

Then fall.

“I’m trying.”

The words were so quiet you almost didn’t hear them.

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

You let the conversation end there.

Not because you wanted it to.

Because neither of you seemed to know what came after.

The pancakes cooled between you as the morning drifted on. Eventually, Steve insisted on washing the dishes despite your half-hearted protests, and before long the apartment settled back into the familiar rhythm the two of you had always shared.

For a little while, it almost felt normal again.

Almost.

The next couple of weeks slipped by in pieces.

Some days were good.

Really good.

He still kissed your forehead before he left.

Still pulled your chair out when the two of you grabbed dinner.

Still remembered exactly how much cream you liked in your coffee.

The Steve you knew was still there.

You saw him in flashes.

Little moments that reminded you everything hadn’t disappeared.

Only…those moments never seemed to last.

You started noticing things you hadn’t before.

How his eyes always found the nearest exit whenever the two of you walked into a restaurant.

How conversations sometimes stopped halfway through because he’d gone quiet, listening to something you couldn’t hear.

How he’d apologize for little things that didn’t need apologies.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“I’m sorry I forgot.”

“I’m sorry.”

As if he were constantly making up for something you didn’t understand.

You stopped asking about the bruises.

Not because you stopped noticing them.

Because every answer was the same.

Nothing.

One afternoon, the two of you wandered through downtown Hawkins. 

The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sidewalks gold as people drifted between storefronts with shopping bags swinging gently at their sides.

You were halfway through telling Steve about a little girl you’d seen earlier that day who’d been absolutely convinced a pigeon had been following her for three blocks.

“…She finally spun around, pointed at it, and yelled, ‘I know it’s you again!’”

Steve let out a quiet laugh.

“The pigeon?”

“The pigeon.”

“It was a repeat offender?”

“According to her? Absolutely.”

“What’d it do?”

“It looked at her… and kept walking.”

A real smile spread across Steve’s face.

“I think I’m on the pigeon’s side.”

You gasped dramatically.

“Steve Harrington.”

“I’m just saying, maybe it had somewhere to be.”

“It was stalking a six-year-old.”

“It was minding its business.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself.

“For the record, you’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

For a moment…there he was.

Your Steve.

You smiled to yourself as the two of you reached the crosswalk.

Without thinking, you reached your hand toward his.

It had become second nature.

Something neither of you had ever needed to think about.

Your fingertips brushed empty air.

Steve stepped off the curb, already halfway across the street.

His attention wasn’t on the traffic.

It wasn’t on you.

His eyes swept across the rooftops.

Then the alley to your left.

Then the line of parked cars.

His shoulders were tense.

Waiting.

Watching.

You slowly lowered your hand.

The light changed.

People moved around you.

Steve had made it halfway across before he realized you weren’t beside him.

He stopped so suddenly someone nearly bumped into his shoulder.

When he turned and saw you still standing on the sidewalk, confusion flickered across his face.

Then…realization.

His expression crumpled.

He crossed back toward you immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked down at the space between you before lifting your eyes to his.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m—I don’t know where my head was.”

He hesitated before reaching for your hand.

His fingers intertwined with yours so naturally that anyone watching would’ve thought nothing had happened.

But you noticed.

Because for the first time since you’d known Steve Harrington…

He hadn’t been the one to reach for you.

The walk home was quiet.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full of things neither of you seemed able to say.

When you reached your apartment building, Steve leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You smiled.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I love you.”

The words came easily.

Automatically.

Like they always had.

“I love you too.”

You watched him walk away.

He turned once at the end of the block and lifted a hand.

You waved back.

Then he disappeared around the corner.

You let yourself inside.

Locked the door.

Set your keys in the little ceramic bowl by the entryway.

The apartment was still.

Too still.

You leaned back against the door and closed your eyes.

For weeks, you’d told yourself he was just tired.

That work had been stressful.

That everyone went through difficult seasons.

That tomorrow would feel more like yesterday.

Tomorrow.

You’d been holding onto that word for weeks.

Tomorrow he’d laugh more.

Tomorrow he’d sleep through the night.

Tomorrow he’d tell you what was wrong.

Tomorrow he’d come back to you.

A tear slipped quietly down your cheek.

Then another.

You covered your mouth before the first sob could escape.

Not because you thought Steve had stopped loving you.

That somehow would’ve been easier.

No.

The truth hurt far more than that.

He still loved you.

You knew he did.

And maybe that was what made it hurt so much. You took a shaky breath. For weeks, you’d been waiting for things to go back to the way they were.

Now… you weren’t sure they ever would.

it had just gone midnight, but you and joe were yet to settle down for the night.

you'd been non stop for over an hour, joe bringing you orgasm after orgasm in so many different ways before you eventually tapped out after you'd lost count.

laying on your stomach, a pillow under your hips, the duvet was all bunched up around where you were gripping it.

sweat slicked your skin, making your hair that had fallen half out of it's original bun stick to the back of your neck.

your head was pleasantly fuzzy, limbs heavy and eyes tired as you turned your head to press your cheek into the pillow.

joe collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you in a deliciously comforting way.

"fuck you did so good for me baby"

you felt his lips on the back of your neck, his hand coming up to move some stray hairs out the way.

"you okay doll? talk to me" joe breathed against your shoulder.

"mm yeah" you smiled, turning your head even more to look at joe.

"there she is"

his hand found your jaw as he kissed you, heat still simmering beneath it, fading slowly into something softer.

"you’re so fucking hot" you hummed with a seductive tone, still drunk on the aftertaste of him.

"why thank you" he laughed against your mouth. "let's get you sat up"

carefully and slowly, he separated himself from you, holding your hips as he did, thumbs rubbing over the skin tenderly.

he rolled you over, propping up pillows behind you as he did before reaching over to the bedside to fetch a bottle of water.

"drink baby"

you wrapped your lips around the straw of the bottle that he was holding, looking at him dead in the eyes.

"stop looking at me like that" he shook his head smiling, taking back the bottle.

"you love it" you leaned up to kiss joe again, starting to shift over onto him.

"mhmm, wait there"

"no joe-"

"baby i'll only be a second"

he left the bed, pulling the duvet over your legs as he did before padding into the en-suite bathroom, pulling on a pair of shorts as he did.

you heard the faint humming of the bath starting, then the sink taps, then joe reappeared holding a small, damp towel.

knowing what he was coming to do, you laid down slightly, kicking the sheets back.

"you know you don't have to do all of this?"

"yes i do"

he kissed your temple as his hand made its way between your legs, gently cleaning up any hard evidence of the evening.

"yeah but-"

"i want to, it's important to me"

he wiped the insides of your thighs and up over your lower stomach before throwing the towel blindly in the direction of the bathroom.

he sat back on the bad properly, back against the headboard as he pulled your body into his lap, arms locking around you.

"i started the bath"

"i heard, thank you"

"should go pee in a second doll"

you grumbled into his neck, beginning to press open mouthed kisses there.

"princess"

pulling back to look up at joe with all intention of saying something teasing, the words got caught in your throat as a yawn teared through you.

"what was that hmm?" joe said with amusement.

"shut up"

joe chucked under his breath as he cupped your cheek with his whole palm, leaning forward to kiss you again.

you got lost in his lips, only breaking the kiss when joe gasped, remembering the bath was still running.

scooping you up effortlessly, joe lifted you out the bed and carried you across the bedroom to the bathroom, setting you on the toilet to turn off the bath taps after pausing halfway to flip the record that had been forgotten about hours ago.

whilst testing the water temperature, and adding more bubble bath, you joined him, wrapping your arms around his body from behind.

you moved with him as he leant over the tub, lighter in hand to light the collection of candles that decorated the side.

pressing your cheek into his shoulder, your hands roamed his upper body, finger tips brushing through the hair on his chest, following it down to his lower stomach past his bellybutton.

"it's ready princess"

he turned in your hold, pressing a kiss to your forehead before holding your arm as you stepped into the tub.

he helped lower you down, the warm water lapping around your body as you sat, bubbles settling over you, the heat seeping into your skin.

stepping back, joe removed his shorts as you rested your arms on the edge of the tub, watching him with wide eyes, smirking when he finally dropped the shorts.

"stop that" he warned, stepping closer to the tub.

"but you look so good" you hummed.

he shook his head as you leant forward to make room for him to step in behind you.

once he was sat, resting against the back of the tub, his hands found your sides, pulling you back to rest against him.

the water rippled around you, eventually settling over you like a heavy warm blanket as your heartbeat began to calm at the feeling of joes skin against yours.

"it smells nice" you observed.

"used the new stuff that you got from that fancy brand"

"i really like it"

"same, smells like you" he nuzzled into your shoulder, lips absentmindedly kissing your damp skin.

his hands rubbed soapy bubbles into your skin, massaging your shoulders, bringing the warmth down your arms and back up over your chest.

as he grazes over your boobs you arch into his touch, dropping your head back onto joes shoulder.

kissing your head, temples and anywhere over the side of your face that he can reach, joe continued to feel all over your body, each muscle relaxing under his touch.

you fell into a comfortable silence, the faint music of the record playing at the doorway just reaching round the corner to where you and joe lay, entangled in each other.

before you could stop it, your eyes fell shut and your body was pulled under into sleep, safe, content and warm in joes arms.

when you opened your eyes again, thinking it had only been a few minutes since closing them, you found yourself in bed, the duvet being pulled over you.

"joe?"

"shh princess" he whispers as he knelt down by your face. "go back to sleep"

"but when did-?"

"it's alright, i'm just going to get water okay?"

he stroked your hair, fingers brushing your forehead as he spoke so softly, your eyes threatening to fall shut once again.

joe was back before you knew it, slipping into bed behind you, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling you into his warmth.

"all good baby?"

"so good, i love you"

"Don't talk bad about your body like that." he scolds.

"'m not," you mumble, "Just saying. At least you don't have to deal with that."

"Well, can you do anything to help it?"

You shrug, peeking out from underneath your arm. "Sometimes I put lotion there."

"Yeah?" Gator asks, moving onto his stomach, chin flat against his hands.

"Yeah, but that's usually after I'm in pain."

"I can still do it now, though," he offers, already sitting up. "Which lotion do you use? Is it in your nightstand drawer or in the bathroom?"

A gentle smile curls at your lips. "Bathroom. It's the green bottle."

Gator quickly returns with the lotion in hand, kneeling down on the bed and shuffling between your legs. He taps your right thigh and uses the other hand to pop the cap open.

"Open up, pretty thing," he instructs with a small smirk, and you roll your eyes. "Lemme get between these gorgeous thighs of yours, yeah?"

"Should've known where this was going." you mutter, nevertheless following his directive and bending your legs at the knee, allowing him to apply the lotion to the insides of each of your thighs.

Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore. 

It was practically perfect.

You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.

The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.

Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.

“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.

You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.

Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.

Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.

“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”

The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation. 

Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.

“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively  the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”

Intense.

You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.

That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.

You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.

“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”

Inside was not fine.

At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.

“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”

“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.

“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that.  “You need something undeniable.”

“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.

“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”

Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”

You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement. 

The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to  the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.

They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance,  you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.

Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.

He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.

His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.

King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.

Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.

“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”

Leah, unfortunately, looked too.

“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight

“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.

You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”

“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”

Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”

“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”

The words landed before the joke did.

You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.

A whole identity built on being wanted.

The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years. 

You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.

Leah's  brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”

You rolled your eyes at that.

“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.

There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.

At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.

“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided. 

“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's  right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”

Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential. 

“And Harrington?”

You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.

“Steve is the case study.”

You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.

—

You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.

He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out. 

Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.

You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more. 

“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.

“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.

“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”

That got him.

A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.

You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you. 

“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being,  strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”

You gave a low hum in response.  “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”

“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”

The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.

You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”

Now, he seemed a bit confused,  his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two. 

“With?”

You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.

“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.

His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”

“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.

You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.

“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”

Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”

“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”

You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.

You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.

Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.

You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.

Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”

His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.

“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”

“Seven.”

“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”

You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.

“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”

You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships,  but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study. 

Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.

You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.

—

On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.

He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.

Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.

"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door. 

You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl.  “Do you do that for all your dates?”

Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale,  the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”

You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.

He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.

“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.

He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”

“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.

His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Not really.”

“Why?”

He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I told you. Inquisitive.”

“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”

The words fell between the two of you in a hush.

You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.

“What?”

“You’re shivering.”

Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not fine.”

Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.

“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.

Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”

Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”

“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle. 

You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.

The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.

“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control. 

You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him.  They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words.  “That’s not true.”

He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”

You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”

The words had you faltering from the truth it held.

Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”

Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”

He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”

Nancy.

There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't  one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.

What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.

You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”

“She is.”

The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it. 

You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.

“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”

You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”

His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.

What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.

You didn't. You didn't stop him.

You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.

His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.

For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.

Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.

Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side.  He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was,  and didn't know how to navigate it.  “So. Did I help?”

You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't. 

“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong,  small and breathless. “You did.”

You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated.  The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly. 

The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.

—

In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that. 

Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.

“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”

You shut your locker too hard.

“Can we not do this right now?”

His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.

“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?

“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”

People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.

Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.  

Keyword, tried.

His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”

His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”

“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”

You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.

You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”

Steve blinked.

His jaw tensed with movement,  your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant. 

“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.

“I don’t need you to fix it.”

“Then tell me what you need.”

His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.

And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.

You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.

At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.

He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.

You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.

Even detached on paper didn't feel right.

— 

The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.

The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.

It was a rough start to say the least.

When you got there, he came around to open your door.

You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.

The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was. 

The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.

For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.

Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.

“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”

Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.

He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him.  “Does it look terrible?”

“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve. 

His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”

“I mean it.” you did. 

He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.

The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.

You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that. 

“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”

The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.

You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.

You just remembered things instead.

You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.

You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.

And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.

It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.

You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.

His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.

The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric. 

Neither of you moved away. 

“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.

You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”

“It’s big.”

Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”

He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”

You understood what he meant.

Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.

You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”

“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”

You didn't like how his eyes dimmed.  “And you?”

“I stay.”

The word sat between you.

He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine.  “God, that sounded pathetic.”

“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower. 

“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked.  “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”

Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them. 

The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.

“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips. 

He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor. 

“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”

He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down. 

His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you. 

You reached for his hand quickly.

He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you,  but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.

You shifted closer.

That was all it took.

He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”

His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering.  The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.

You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.

He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.

“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped. 

Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely  impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.

But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.

The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.

You kissed him back.

Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story

You wanted to, you truly wanted to..

You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours

He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.

“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.

“Shut up, Steve.”

His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."

For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.

—

The article sat unfinished for two days.

You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.

So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean. 

No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.

You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.

The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.

You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.

“Working late?”

You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”

His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”

“No.”

“So yes.”

You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”

He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”

“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.

Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.

“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”

“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly. 

You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.

If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.

You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.

Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.

It was the worst version, the sharpest version.

The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.

Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.

By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.

A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”

You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.

There it was.

Your article.

Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king

Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.

The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.

But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him

When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.

Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.

You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't,  you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.

You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.

You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.

But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.

He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't. 

His eyes were red.

Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.

“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind. 

“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live,  this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that. 

“Was any of it real?”

You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue. 

He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly. 

“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true.  And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”

“No!”

“No?”

“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”

His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.

He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”

“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”

“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”

Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything,  wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.

“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked  nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”

“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.

Steve flinched back.

The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.

He was the one that came back sharp and strained.

“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it.  “you just used me for a headline.”

The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue. 

He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.

Then he turned and walked out.

The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.

The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.

You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.

With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven. 

— 

For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.

You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.

That hurt like a stab to the heart.