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"Okay, Seaweed Brain," you whispered, your chin resting on his shoulder. "Left hand on the neck. Don't squeeze it like you're trying to choke a Hydra. Just light pressure."

"I feel like I'm going to break it," Percy muttered, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. "Strings are way thinner than Riptide."

You chuckled, your breath hitching a little as you reached around him. You covered his large, calloused hands with your own, guiding his fingers to the frets. You pressed his index finger down on the second fret of the fourth string, then positioned his middle and ring fingers.

"This is an E-minor," you explained, your voice soft against his ear. "It’s the easiest one. Now, strum."

Percy took a deep breath, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth—a habit he had whenever he was trying really hard—and ran his thumb across the strings. A low, melancholy chord rang out, vibrating through both of your chests.

"Whoa," he breathed, a wide, goofy grin breaking across his face. "I did it. I’m basically a son of Apollo now."

"Don't let Will hear you say that," you teased, moving his fingers to a G-major.

For the next hour, as the sky shifted from a deep navy to a bruised purple, you stayed like that. You guided him through the transitions, your fingers dancing over his as you taught him the basic anatomy of a song. There was something incredibly grounding about the way his back rose and fell against you, and the way he leaned into your touch every time you adjusted his grip.

As the first sliver of the sun began to peek over the horizon, turning the Long Island Sound into a sheet of liquid gold, Percy decided he was ready for a solo.

"Okay, okay," he said, shifting slightly to give himself more room. "I’ve got this. This is the Percy Jackson Original Debut."

He started to play a simple four-chord progression you’d been practicing. For the first few seconds, it was actually decent. He had the rhythm down, and he was humming a little tune under his breath. But then, as he tried to transition to a tricky C-major, his finger slipped, hitting an open string that let out a loud, discordant twang.

The moment the sour note hit the air, a small, playful wave suddenly surged up the beach. It didn't just wash over his feet—it arched upward like a liquid hand and slapped him square in the face.

Percy sputtered, his hair instantly dripping into his eyes. He sat there, soaked and stunned, while the guitar (which you had shielded with your arms) remained perfectly dry.

He wiped the salt water from his eyes and looked out at the vast, shimmering expanse of the Atlantic. “Really, Dad?” he shouted toward the horizon in genuine disbelief. “I’m not that bad!”

As if in response, a second, smaller splash hit him right on the top of his head.

A peal of laughter escaped you, loud and bright in the quiet morning. You doubled over, your hand resting on his damp shoulder for support. "I think the Lord of the Seas prefers the harp," you managed to say through your giggles.

Percy turned to look at you, ready to offer a sarcastic retort about his father's lack of musical taste, but he stopped mid-breath.

The sun had finally cleared the horizon, flooding the beach with a brilliant, blinding light. It caught in your hair, turning the strands into threads of spun gold and creating a soft, ethereal halo around your head. To Percy, you looked like a goddess—not one of the terrifying ones from Olympus, but someone kinder, warmer.

He felt a strange, fluttering sensation in his chest that had nothing to do with adrenaline or quests. For a heartbeat, he genuinely thought he’d died and ended up in a particularly beautiful corner of Elysium.

"You're glowing," he whispered, his voice losing its teasing edge.

You stopped laughing, your cheeks flushing a soft pink that matched the sky. "It's just the lighting, Percy.

"No," he insisted, moving to sit in the sand directly in front of you. He discarded the guitar carefully to the side. "It's definitely you."

You leaned back against the driftwood log, your legs stretching out beside him. Feeling bold in the quiet of the morning, you gestured for him to come closer. Percy didn't need a second invitation. He crawled forward, reclining so his head rested in the center of your chest, his damp curls soaking into your hoodie.

You began to run your fingers through his messy, salt-crusted hair, the strands catching between your fingers. It was peaceful—the kind of peace that was hard to find when you were a demigod.

Percy craned his neck just enough to look up at you, his chin hooking over your ribs. He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the line of your jaw, his skin still cool from the ocean spray.

"Thanks for bearing with me," he murmured against your skin. "I know I’m a disaster at anything that isn't a sword, but... thanks for teaching me anyway."

"Anytime, Seaweed Brain," you whispered, leaning down to press your forehead against his. "Even if your dad thinks I need earplugs."

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Because if it were real, then… that would be something.

And you don’t do “something.” You don’t like “something.”

Because “something” has weight. Teeth. Expectations.

And Steve? Well.

Steve is—

He’s lonely.

That’s what this is.

No, seriously. That’s the whole thing.

You didn’t clock it at first. Thought maybe he was just hot and bored. Smooth in that lazy, practiced way that makes everything feel like a dare. He flirts like he’s handing out candy. Smiles like it’s a reflex.  

But it’s not boredom.

Steve Harrington is lonely.

The kind of lonely that clings to skin like summer sweat.

The kind that seeps in slow—after years of being everybody’s something and then, suddenly, nobody’s anything.

The kind that turns touch into a transaction. That turns you into a distraction.

He speaks in half-jokes and full smiles. Loose shoulders, quick grins. Charm so polished it starts to sound like an echo—hollow, if you know what to listen for.

But when he touches you—god, when he touches you—

It’s like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s scared he won’t get another chance.

And somehow, that’s what keeps bringing you back.

Not the sex. Though—yeah, okay. The sex is good. Annoyingly good.

The kind that makes you forget your name. That has you laughing one second and gasping the next. The kind where he holds your hand through it and whispers ridiculous, tender shit into your neck. Nonsense, really. Things no one should find hot, and yet… you do.

But that’s not why you stay.

It’s not the sex.

It’s what happens after.

It’s the way he presses a hand to your lower back when you shift beneath the covers, like he’s making sure you’re still there. It’s the way he gets up first, hair a mess, pulling on flannel pajama pants that hang low on his hips while he makes you scrambled eggs.  

Burnt edges. Drenched in pepper.

You wrinkle your nose and grumble about having breakfast at 2 PM.  

He slides the plate toward you with a smug little, “You’ll eat what I give you and you'll like it.”

You always grin.

“You’re lucky I’m easy,” you tell him, mouth full.

He shrugs, sips his coffee (three sugars, no shame), and says, “Yeah. I am.”

You think that’s a joke. Maybe. Hopefully.

You don’t ask.

You don’t ask a lot of things.

Like why he waits to kiss you until your hands are under his shirt. Or why he pulls you in like he wants to keep you there, and then lets you go as soon as the sun comes up. Why his eyes go distant when he thinks you’re not looking.

You tell yourself he just needs the connection. That you’re just a body. A placeholder. A habit.

But he gets so quiet sometimes. After.

That strange, suspended kind of quiet, when the sweat’s dried and the room’s gone still. When his arm is still slung over your waist and his gaze is locked on the ceiling like it's got answers he doesn’t.

Not asleep. Never asleep.

Just still.   

Like he’s bracing for impact.

Once—just once—you asked, “You good?”

And he said, “Yeah.”

But he said it in that voice. The soft one. The one he uses when he’s lying.

You could’ve pressed. But you didn’t.

Because this isn’t a real thing.

It’s just comfort.

Borrowed heat. Mutual use. Skin and breath and the occasional earth-shattering orgasm.

That’s it.

Until one night, he says something.

And it changes everything.

…

Steve Harrington is a leaner.

You noticed that before anything ever happened between you.

Before the late nights. Before toothbrushes and t-shirts that weren’t yours. Back when he was just a name, a familiar face at parties with warm drinks and bad music. The guy with the hair and the reputation.

One night, you ended up on the same couch.

By accident. Well, mostly.

You’d had one too many drinks and slumped into the cushions like your bones had melted. Someone handed you a bottle of water and asked, “You okay?”

That someone was Steve.

He didn’t say much else. Just sat next to you, a respectful distance away, not even close enough for your knees to brush.

You said something dumb. He laughed. Asked a follow-up question.

And that’s when you noticed it.

The lean.

Steve Harrington leans like it’s instinct. Like gravity doesn’t pull him down, it pulls him toward. Like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to resist it.  

But then when your hand brushed his thigh while reaching for a bowl of chips—

He froze.

Just for a second. A flicker. A sharp inhale. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.

But you didn’t miss it.

You noticed.   

…

It started stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.

Especially when you’re staring at yourself in his bathroom, brushing your teeth with the toothbrush he bought you, trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing.

It was stupid. An accident, really.

He called one night. Said, "I can’t sleep."

You said, "That sucks."

Then: "Can I come over?"

And: "Sure."

Just sex. That was the deal. No strings, no expectations.

There were rules, in the beginning.

No cuddling. No staying over.

No kissing unless clothes were already off.

That one lasted exactly one round.

Because on the second night, he kissed you first. Before either of you had taken off a single layer. Like kissing was the point, not the sex.

And afterward? He held you. Just an arm across your waist, skin warm, breath steady. Like you were his favorite teddy bear. Or a security blanket that talks back.

And he didn’t ask you to stay, but when you fell asleep there, he was already awake by the time you opened your eyes. Lying there. Watching you.

Like he hadn’t slept at all.

It was fine. Totally fine.

“Just friends,” you’d said.

And he nodded. “Yeah. Totally.”

But his fingers were laced through yours when he said it.   

…

Sometimes he says things you don’t know how to hear.

Like that weekend after finals. Both of you a little drunk. Loose-limbed and grinning for no reason. Buzzed on cheap beer and end-of-term freedom, on the promise of summer stretching out like a dare. You were parked outside your place, engine off, windows fogging in the humidity. Music low, the kind of old-school ballad Steve pretends to hate but knows every word to.

You kissed him over the console of his Beemer. Messy, open-mouthed, like the world was ending and tongues were currency—a last-ditch effort to spend everything before it was too late. He laughed into your mouth, and you felt it everywhere.

Then, soft and slurred:

“Missed you this week.”

You smiled. Didn’t answer.

He kissed your neck like he could hide into it.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t ask if he meant your mouth or your body or just the convenience of you.

You just climbed into his lap.

Straddled him.

Ground down on him like you were trying to forget how soft he’d sounded. How scared.

And he let you.

Because Steve Harrington always lets you.

…

Tonight, it’s raining.

You show up at his door soaked to the bone, hoodie dripping, pajama pants clinging to your legs. There’s water in your eyelashes, in your socks, probably in your dignity.

Steve opens the door like he’s been waiting. Like he knew.

“Jesus, get in here,” he mutters, tugging you inside by the wrist. “You’re soaked.”

He peels off your jacket, pushes your hood down. His knuckles brush your cheek.  

His hands feel warm. Or maybe cold. You can’t tell anymore with him.

…

He makes soup.

Chicken noodle, way too much pepper.

You sit on the counter in dry clothes that smell like him while he stirs in silence; barefoot, bedhead, wearing sleep pants and an old Hawkins basketball tee with a hole in the collar.   

He hands you the bowl and watches you blow on the steam.

Then he puts on a movie neither of you ends up watching.

He sits close, arms touching from shoulder to elbow.

It’s nothing.

Except, with Steve, nothing always feels like everything.

Because he doesn’t move away.

He leans.

…

Touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Steve Harrington is affection-starved. Love-starved. He’s been handing his heart out to people for years and getting scraps in return.

He was the king of a kingdom that left him stranded in his own tower.

Now, he wields proximity like armor. Like glue. Stick close, so maybe they won’t leave.

You sit next to him, he leans. You stand near him, his fingers brush yours. You yawn, and suddenly he’s cradling your head, smoothing your hair like you’re going through something traumatic.

You’re not.

You’re yawning.

And it would be funny, if it wasn’t all so completely, irreparably fucked.

…

The rain's louder now.

Not quite a storm, but loud enough that it fills the room with its own kind of hush. Soft and constant, like white noise between thoughts.

Steve leans back against the couch, head tilted, throat exposed. The light from the TV paints him in soft blues and grays.

You look at him too long. Then say, quietly:

“You don’t let people touch you much.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I mean, you do,” you say, glancing at his hands. “But not really.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Okay, detective. What’s that mean?”

You shift, pulling your knees up.  

“It means…” you pause. “That you act like it’s natural. Like touching’s easy for you. But it’s not.”

His eyes drift away. His throat bobs.

Then, a low chuckle. Pained and impressed in the same breath. “Jesus. You should be a therapist or something.”

“So I’m right?”

He goes quiet for a bit. Just tugs the blanket higher over your knees.

“People think I’m good at it,” he says eventually. “Being… I don’t know, flirty.”

“You are,” you say, like it's a fact. And it is.

He laughs, soft and empty. “Yeah. Well. I’ve had a lot of practice.” 

He starts picking at a loose thread. Doesn’t look at you.

“But that’s all it is. Practice. I think… I think I just got good at pretending.”

A pause.

“My parents weren’t really... around. You know? And when they were, it was all rules. Appearances. Be polite. Be perfect. Don’t embarrass the family.”  

You stare at your lap. “That sucks.”

He stiffens a little. “I’m not saying it for pity.”

“I know,” you bump your knee against his. “And don’t worry, you’re not getting any.”

He snorts, soft and real.

But then his hand stirs in his lap, tightening around the blanket, white-knuckled. It’s subtle. A detail most people wouldn’t notice.

But you do.

You always notice.

So you reach out. Slip your fingers between his like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Laced together, palm to palm, thumb brushing over the tense tendons in his wrist.

He freezes. Just for a second.

Then his hand twitches. Loosens. Curls back around yours.

He holds on.

…  

Steve Harrington has always been golden.

Golden boy. Golden skin. Golden smile. The kind of person who walks into a room and soaks up all the oxygen without even trying. The kind people fall for in flashes, bright and fast and dizzying.

They love parts of him. The hair, the grin, the effortless charm. The storybook confidence that makes everyone else fade to grayscale. But if they looked closer—and most don’t—they might notice a flicker of something else. Something dimmer. Something tired.

You notice.

You always notice.

You see the way his smile stutters, the half-second where it slips before he wrestles it back into place. The way he shrugs off compliments like they sting. Laughs off praise like it doesn't fester in his chest long after it’s said. Like he doesn’t believe a word of it, even when it’s true.

He’s used to it, you think. Being loved for the surface. Wanted for being golden.

Never seen for what’s underneath.

But that’s not the Steve you want.

You want this Steve—sleepy-eyed, soft-voiced, weirdly-good-at-playing-with-your-hair Steve.

The one in faded sweatpants and mismatched socks, slurping soup too loudly and pretending your knee against his isn’t the most intimate thing that’s happened to him all week. 

The one who sings along to bad radio ballads in the car and gets quiet when you ask him about childhood birthdays. The one who never learned how to ask for love—only how to give too much of it away.

You want the mess. The ache. The scared little boy behind the golden grin.

You want to know what song he hums when he’s doing his laundry. What memory makes him smile when no one’s watching.  

The parts of him that aren’t polished, the cracks that run through the gold. The ones he tucks away because he's convinced no one could ever love them.

You want the parts he hides.

…

You don’t remember how your shirt came off.

One minute you were doubled over laughing—some dumb line from the movie, something even dumber from Steve—and then he’s just there.

Mouth hot on your neck. Hands everywhere. Greedy and reverent in the same stroke, in the way only Steve Harrington can be.

He kisses down your throat, mumbling something against your skin. Something that sounds like, “You’re so beautiful,” voice so full it cracks a little.

Your fingers sink into his hair.

“Steve,” you breathe. “You’re shaking.”  

He lifts his head. Eyes wide and round and glassy.

“I just…” He swallows. “Wanna make you feel good. Let me?”

You nod, throat tight.

You’d let him do anything.

…

He eats you out like he missed you.

Like this is the only way he knows how to say it.

You’re sprawled across his couch, thighs over his shoulders, his arms hooked under your hips. Holding you open as he devours you. Sloppy, desperate, like he missed this, missed you, even though you were here just two nights ago. He groans into you like this is worship, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice wrecked. “You taste so good. So wet for me.”

Your fingers twist harder in his hair. He moans at that too; loves it when you tug him closer.

"Steve—"

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles, mouth full. “I got you.”

You arch into him, thighs clamped tight around his head.

“I—fuck, I’m gonna—"  

He groans like he’s the one coming. Eats you through it, grinding his hips into the carpet, riding it out with you. Stays through the twitching and the aftershocks, still licking, like he can’t bear to stop, can’t bear to let you go.

And even when you’re spent, legs trembling, chest heaving, he doesn’t move away.

Kisses your thighs. Your stomach. Your breasts.

Soft, wet little marks. Greedy, but not in the way that takes. In the way that keeps.

You breathe through the haze, arm flung over your eyes because it stings too much sometimes, looking at him.

“You wanna fuck me now?”

…

He fucks you like a confession.  

Slow. Deep. Forehead to forehead. Breathing into your mouth. Nose bumping with each stroke, his breath hitching every time you moan.

Like he’s making love, even though that’s not what this is.

The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of skin on skin, and the soft hush of your name as he passes it from his lips over to yours.

“So good,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”

You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, pull him closer.

“I think about you all time,” he whispers, hips rolling into you. “All the time. Can't—can’t stop.”

You tense, just slightly. Barely a hitch in your breath.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and just barrels forward anyway, words spilling faster than he can catch them. He’s shaking again.

“Can’t get you out of my head. Fuck, you’re all I think about, I—”

And then—

He says it.

The thing.

The one thing you can’t undo.  

“I love you.”

…

Everything stills.

Steve stills. You still. 

He pulls back, blinking fast. Searching your face, fingers twitching against your waist.

You can’t breathe. 

“Steve…”

You say it like it hurts. Like it’s an apology. Like you didn’t mean to hear it, and he didn’t mean to say it.

He sees it, whatever’s written on your face. Sees it and folds in on himself.

His mouth twists, words souring on his tongue.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

You kiss him before he can finish.

Messy. Desperate. Mouth open, teeth clashing. Like you’re trying to shove the words back down his throat. Like if you just kiss him hard enough, they’ll sink back into him and never make it out.

He kisses you back, fast and clumsy. Picks up his pace again, thrusts turning erratic, rhythm gone. He comes like that—hands gripping too tight, teeth in your shoulder, breathing like he’s drowning.

He doesn’t say it again.  

Not out loud.

…

You told him once, weeks ago—maybe during the eighth or ninth time, when things were still light enough to float. You were lying in his bed, naked on blue linen, post-coital and quiet. You were staring at the ceiling. He was tracing circles on your arm.

“I’ve never said it,” you murmured.

He turned, frowning. “What do you mean, never?”

“Like… out loud. To anyone.”

“Not even to, like, a boyfriend?”

You snorted. Gave him a look. He just frowned deeper.

“I mean, it’s just words, right?” you shrugged. “Doesn’t really mean shit. Not unless you show it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, like he was filing it away.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess.”   

…

The scariest part isn’t that he said it.

It’s how little changes after.

He pulls out. Kisses your forehead. Disappears for a towel, water, wipes, the whole post-sex routine. He wraps you in a blanket, like always.

He sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless and quiet. Still catching his breath.

But he won’t look at you.

You’re staring at the ceiling now. Body still buzzing, your mind a blur. Your chest feels raw, like you’ve swallowed glass and it’s still cutting on the way down.

Finally, you speak.

“You’re an idiot.”

His head turns, brows knit. “What?”

You sit up a little. “You’re an idiot. You can’t just say that mid-fuck and expect me not to spiral.”

He laughs, caught off guard. It’s soft. A little broken.

“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… came out.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

He starts fidgeting with the blanket again.

“I can take it back, if you want.”

You pause.  

A long, slow beat.

Then you shake your head.

“No. Don’t.”

…

He’s sitting on the bed when you come out of the shower.

Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, a line of steam following you out the bathroom. You’re toweling off the ends of your hair, not really expecting conversation. He’s quiet—bent forward, elbows on his knees, bare foot tapping a slow rhythm into the floorboards.  

Then, without looking up, he says:

“Do you want to stay over?”

You almost drop the towel. Frozen mid-motion, terrycloth bunched in your hands.

It’s not the first time he’s asked that. Not really.

There was one night, early on, when you came over to his place, still a little nervous about the whole thing. He’d made you come three times, then followed you out of bed, shirtless and flushed, and said:

“You could, uh… stay. If you want. It’s late. I don’t—sleep great. And I just…” He’d swallowed it. “Forget it. Never mind.”  

You’d made it exactly two steps before turning around.  

But that was then.

Now, five months in, you’ve never needed the words. Your toothbrush is in his medicine cabinet. Your hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. You spend most nights here anyway—falling asleep during half-watched movies and waking up tangled in limbs you no longer bother to count.

So the fact that he asks—now, of all nights—makes you pause.

“Sure,” You say quietly, then walk past him to grab the lotion off his nightstand like it's nothing.  

He doesn’t smile, not really. But his shoulders soften. His eyes go from holding tension to holding you.

He looks tired. Relieved in a way that makes your chest ache.

You slip under the covers, the way you always do. He follows. And for a beat, everything feels normal. Familiar. Easy.

He’s warm. He always is.

Your body knows the choreography—roll away, let him pull you in, slot your legs together until he’s all but spooning you. But tonight, for reasons you can’t name, you end up facing him instead. On your side. Eyes open. Nose to nose.

Close enough to feel the soft rise of his chest. To smell his shampoo. The expensive one you always make fun of, the one you pretend not to use.

Close enough to catch the exhale when he speaks.

“Can I—?” he stops.

You wait.

He licks his lips, gaze darting down to the space between you.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Your stomach drops, fluttering like a trapped bird.

Because what kind of person asks to hold your hand after they’ve had their hands everywhere else?

And why does that make you feel more vulnerable than anything he’s ever done?

You say, “Sure,” because you don’t know what else to say.

And then you do it. You reach out, he meets you halfway—fingers slotting between yours like they were made to be there.

His thumb skates slowly over your knuckles. His hand is warm, a little rough in places. Callused in a way that reminds you he’s probably fought for things—for people—before. Real things. Hard things. Love-shaped things.

Eventually, he shifts closer. Not pulling you into him. Just… aligning. Until your knees touch. Until your breaths sync.

He’s so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes. 

Then, quietly:

“I meant it. What I said.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because something in your chest lurches and twists and stretches like it’s never been moved before. Like it’s being made into something new. 

“I know,” you say eventually, voice soft as worn cotton.

He swallows. Starts again, then stops. There’s a crack in his voice when he says:

“You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s not fair. That I said it like that. I just—” He looks down. Shrinks in on himself a little. “I couldn’t not.”

You reach out before he can spiral. Fingers to his jaw, steady and slow.

He flinches instinctively, then stills beneath your touch.

And god, he looks so young like this. Eyes glassy. Lips bitten raw. Desperate crease between his brows like he’s bracing for impact.

“Steve,” you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m not mad.”

He searches your face like it might change mid-sentence.

“I just… I need time. That’s all.”

He nods. Once. Then again.

“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like breathing for the first time in days. “Okay.”

He squeezes your hand, like a question.

You squeeze back, like an answer.

…

You don’t plan it.

There’s no perfect moment. No grand confession. No string quartet swelling in the background, or a slow-motion kiss in the rain.

There’s just a Tuesday.

Or maybe a Wednesday.

One of those in-between days that doesn’t really exist. Gray sky. Light drizzle. Everything muted and quiet, just a little smudged around the edges.

When you open your door, Steve’s already there.

Curled into the corner of your couch in fuzzy socks, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching a rerun of something he’s already seen three times. His hair’s damp. Probably showered at your place again because its closer to the gym, or maybe he just likes your shampoo better than his.

You don’t even ask anymore.

He grins when he sees you. Tosses a Cheerio in his mouth and says, “How was hell?”

You toe off your shoes and shrug. “Corporate’s an absolute dream. Only cried twice in the break room today.”

He opens his arms without a word. “C’mere.”

You go.

He pulls you in without pretense, folding you into his chest like he’s been waiting all day just to do it. You melt into it, cheek pressed to his collarbone. He smells like your body wash. It does something to your ribs. Cracks them open. Lets the light in.

You sit like that for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.

Eventually, he gently nudges you off him.

“I’m making tea,” he says. “Don’t move.”

You do, of course. You follow him.

He's humming something tuneless, drumming his fingers on the counter while the kettle boils. And when it whistles, he moves automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times. Two mugs. Two tea bags. Your chipped dinosaur mug and his plain blue one. He insists it’s “just a mug” even though he always reaches for it first.

He doesn’t have to ask. He knows. Honey in both. Lemon in yours. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. From caring.

He hands it to you without looking. You take it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into your palms.

And for some reason, that’s what does it.

Not the cuddling. Not the hand-holding. Not the sex, or the sleepovers, or the toothbrush he bought without asking

Just—this.

This moment. This man. This stupid kitchen and this cup of tea made exactly how you like it.

It hits you like a low tide: gentle, inevitable, impossible to ignore.

You’re still holding the mug when you say it. Still standing in the half-lit kitchen in your sad little apartment with the flickering stove light and the perpetually leaking faucet and the love of your life stirring a teabag like it’s the most serious task in the universe.

Soft. Barely above the whistle of the kettle.

“I love you.”

His spoon stops mid-stir.

He doesn’t move for a second. Doesn’t look up.

You think maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe you should repeat it. Louder. Clearer.

But then—he smiles. 

Not the charming one. Not the grin he uses when for baristas or strangers or people who don’t know any better.

This one’s smaller. Like it snuck up on him.

He sets the spoon down carefully.

“Yeah?” he asks, still not turning around.

You nod.  

Then, braver: “Yeah.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in his lungs since February.

And without looking at you—like looking might make it collapse—he just says:

“Okay.”

Then, a beat later, with a kind of awe:

“I love you too.”

You step closer. Lean your head against his back, arms circling his waist just to feel him. He goes still under your touch, the way he does when something matters a little too much.

Then he relaxes. Covers your hands with his. Holds you there.

And the thing is, nothing else changes.

You still drink your tea. Still argue over who gets the remote. Still end up half-asleep on the couch with pretzel crumbs all over the upholstery and Steve mumbling nonsense into your shoulder.

But later, when he takes you to bed, he says it again.

Not in the heat of it. Not as a plea. Just a soft, quiet:

“I love you.”

You don’t panic.

You don’t question it.

You just say it back. Steadier, this time.

“I love you.”

He grins against your mouth. “About time.”

You roll your eyes.

He kisses your nose.

…

“I just—I’m sorry, but I really think this one tastes the same as the other one.

Steve’s in an argument with the beekeeper lady at the farmer’s market. About honey.

She gasps like he’s insulted her bloodline, then launches into a spiel about how wildflower honey tastes completely different from clover honey—something about the blossoms and the weather and the bees' mood.

You, standing ten feet away with an armful of Honeycrisps, don’t even try to save him. You just lean against a crate of pumpkins and watch the disaster unfold.  

This is your Saturday now.

Groceries and small-town drama. Coffee stops and joint laundry loads and dumb little errands that somehow feel like sacred rituals because he’s there.

He jogs back to you a minute later, holding a jar of orange blossom honey.

He's grinning like an idiot. “She loved me.”

“She called you ‘boy.’”

“Exactly. Affectionate.”

You bump his hip. “You’re a menace.”

“And you love that about me.”

You glance at him, lips twitching.

You do.

You really do.

…

It’s been eight months.

Eight months of toothbrushes side-by-side. Of his socks in your drawer and your hair ties in his bathroom.

Of grocery lists that say things like “Steve’s weird granola” and “that cinnamon roll candle" you've been dying to try.

Of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed because he carried you. Of him saying “morning, baby" in that morning-after voice then smirking when yours is too hoarse to respond.

Of fights that don’t break things, just bend them. Of learning how to disagree without flinching. How to apologize without pride.

Of knowing it’s safe now. Not perfect, not painless, but safe.

…

One night, he’s reading beside you in bed.

Trying to, at least.

The book’s open in his lap, but he’s clearly dozing off mid-paragraph. Lips parted, breath steady.

You’re on your side, just watching him.

You don’t let yourself stare too often, but he’s so soft like this. Soft in a way he only is at home. With you.

There’s a scar on his collarbone you’ve never asked about.

You probably could. He’d tell you.

You think you will, someday.

But right now, you're happy just tracing it with your fingertip. He stirs, nuzzling your shoulder like he’s chasing warmth in his sleep.

And then, half-conscious, he murmurs:

“You’re it for me.”

You go still. Heart in your throat.

And then—just as simply, just as truthfully—you say:

“You are too.”

He hums at that. Smiles against your skin.

Wraps an arm around your waist and lets the world fade out.

…

In the morning, you’ll make him coffee the way he likes it: three sugars, no cream, no shame.

He’ll kiss your shoulder while you pour it, thank you with a sleepy voice and wandering hands.

You’ll sit on the couch, eat burnt toast, and laugh at some dumb segment on the morning news.

He’ll offer to fix your car. Again.

You’ll roll your eyes and say no. Again.

He’ll grin.

He'll drive you to work.

And just like that, the day will begin.  

Like it did today.

Like it will tomorrow.

Like it will every day after.

a/n: when I tell you I took a super long nap yesterday and then stayed awake the whole night... this is what came crawling out of my brain at 4 am... wrote this in like 3 hrs so i'm sorry if this is all over the place 🥲

i always love hearing your thoughts abt my silly little stories! feel free to reblog/comment/come find me in my inbox :)

even outside of a romantic sense, whether he's engaging in a public duel with the god of war, or casually transporting medusa's head straight to olympus, his actions have never exactly been discreet.

yet, it's you who has caused him to reach a new low when it comes to his subtlety, or, the lack of it thereof.

when percy jackson falls in love, it's like plunging into the ocean. in fact, to say he "falls" is inaccurate—since the moment his gaze first met yours, he immediately knew you were the one.

the initial sight of you, battling a minotaur with a confident grin, shoelaces undone, and wielding a weapon on the brink of disintegration, nearly elicited a scoff from him. how problematic, how messy, how utterly captivating.

since then, oh he's been absolutely whipped—there's no other way to describe it. he's completely enthralled, beyond captivated. no matter how you word it, percy jackson is absolutely in love.

his feelings are so downright obvious that everyone, Mr. D included, (who makes sure to exit the premises every time he sees percy approaching you because he knows it would be too painful for him to watch) knows how he feels about you, so what's holding him back? simple. it's you.

you're the one holding him back.

it frustrates him because he's conquered feats deemed nearly impossible by most, yet he practically melts at the mere sight of you! and the worst part is, you don't even seem to notice!

percy feels like he's laid it all out there, i mean, how much more obvious can he really get? he's kissed your hands with a tenderness that bordered on reverence, emptied his wallet to stock up on your favorite snacks as if each were a precious treasure, and shadows you around camp like a lost puppy!

each attempt seriously feels like an arrow straight though his heart. take, for instance when he presented you with the grandest, most elaborate bouquet of blue flowers, carefully chosen from the demeter kids' gardens. (though that's a problem he dealt with later) he spent hours clumsily striving for perfection, weaving delicate ribbons and lace until he fashioned a bow worthy of your attention, only to receive a casual, "those are some nice flowers, percy!" in return. then there was the time he knelt down to tie your perpetually untied shoelaces. from his position, on one knee and looking up at you, you seemed almost transcendent to him, like an angel descended to earth. but the spell was quickly broken as you remarked, "you're such a great friend, percy!"

and who could forget the painstakingly detailed confession of his feelings for you? he watched in agonizing slow motion as your smile widened, caught in breathless anticipation only to be met with a simple "thanks!" from you. just carve his heart out at this point, why don't you? it's genuinely painful—not just for him, but for everyone at camp forced to witness his embarrassing antics and your completely dense reactions. you've got to know, right? isn't it glaringly obvious? a simple glance from you and his face turns crimson, his hands go clammy. haven't you noticed how he edges closer when you're beside him? how he constantly invents reasons to be nearer to you, any chance he gets? there's no way you don't know at this point! but each time you respond so innocently, as if you might genuinely not be aware of his feelings, he second-guesses himself. maybe you really are just painfully oblivious. blissfully unaware. yes, percy jackson is undeniably in love with an absolute idiot.

©heartss4val — do not steal, edit, or repost my works. plagiarism is prohibited.

"I have to leave, Percy."

"Nooooo!" Perch whined, his voice raspy from sleep. His arms tightened like a steel band around your waist, but not enough to hurt. He was always mindful of his strength around you. His face was pressed against your spine, shaking side to side to emphasize his displeasure. You two had been back from your little vacation---saving the entire world from Gaia's awakening---for nearly three weeks now and hadn't left his bed.

At first your lazy closeness was justified. You were both traumatized as hell (Literally. You went to Tartarus). Given that, if one of you were too far away or gone too long from the other, you'd spiral into a panic attack or worse. This applied to sleep. That first night was terrible, everything felt wrong. Your cabin was too warm, your sheets too rough, then your mind began to conjure up terrible atrocities happening to Percy. The worst part was most of them were real. Memories of what the both of you went through one right after another. It had not even been a year after Kronos's attempt to rise that Gaia followed. Who's to say it another Olympian affair would not happen tonight? What if a god had stolen him again? What if he was still infected with that poison in Rome and it was just slow acting? Maybe something egregious was happening to him right now and you didn't know?

You weren't suprised when you saw Percy walking across the green to get to your cabin as you were to his. Neither of you said anything. You ran into his arms, your own wrapping tightly around his neck. Your head fell onto his chest and you could hear his frantic heart beats. Beating. Alive. From the way he held you---his fingers digging into your sides in a tight fearful hold like you would slip out of his grasp---he had experienced similar fears about you. Percy's hands slid under your thighs and he picked you up, carrying you back to his cabin.

From there, everything was better. You melted into his blue, sea-creature bed sheets and pillows. It smelled just like him. Warm sand and salt water. He followed you into his bed, his hands never leaving your body like he needed a physical tether to you. The both of you slept for virtually two days. When you and Percy finally left his cabin to get dinner (with his hands still on you), Chiron turned a blind eye. It was against the rules but you had both been through so much. It was deserved.

This had gone on for weeks. Percy would never leave your side and you both would rarely leave his cabin. You neglected your duties as your cabin's councilor in favor of Percy's warmth. Your days were filled with his sea-green eyes and voice soft like the ocean breeze. Leo had tried to get Percy to go out for "Bro's night" once but he was back at your side in an hour saying how they were annoying anyway and he missed you (though how much he was shaking you suspected it was due to other reasons). It was cute at the time since you were missing him as well, but in hindsight you realized how this was bothering everyone around camp. You hadn't seen your friends in weeks--- hadn't even thought about them. Your cabin was likely a mess from your absence. One of the older campers had probably stepped up, but they shouldn't have to. That was your responsibility. So you had decided to finally go back to normal life. Your break had been relaxing and much needed, but it couldn't go on forever. Percy seemed to have a different opinion given your current situation.

"Percy, we can't say in here forever." You whispered, your hands wormed under his arms to force them off you. Percy shook his head again your back again with a muffled whine. "You haven't talked to anyone but me in two weeks. Come ooonnn. Don't you want to see Grover? Leo?"

"Don't care." He muttered, he held you tighter for another moment then finally let go, flopping into his back. He was shirtless, scars littered his toned body a shade lighter than his tan skin. His hair was a serious mess, sticking up all directions and the white streak didn't help. Somehow, even in his disheveled state, he was incredibly attractive. You forced yourself to look away before his ego got any larger from catching you staring. He watched you get up, giving you those big green sad puppy eyes. "Its not fair. We saved the world. Twice. We deserve to do nothing for the rest of our lives."

"Its our last year at camp! We should have fun with our friends, not say inside- a- and- Would you stop looking at me like that!" You huffed and he grinned lazily. "You love fun, dummy. Why are you being so mopy?"

"Everytime we try to be normal and have fun, the world tries to end itself." He grumbled and reached out for you with a grabby motion. You put your hands on your hips at his depressing response. You knew it was from his trauma (and was true to an extent), but you couldn't let him bury himself in here for eternity. You were so caught up in his ridiculous answer that it took you a moment to notice how his gaze had drifted down to your body. You were wearing one of his shirts, an old swim team jersey with his number on it and nothing under it. When you placed your hands on your hips it emphasize your curves. His bright green eyes lingered there---from your waist to your thighs.

"Percy?"

"Hm?" He eyes slowly trailed back up to your face. "Just admiring." The langour and confidence in his smile made you feel all warm inside. You had always been just friends. You can't pinpoint a moment when you became this physically intimate, but it was slow and causal. Comfortable. It was a certain autonomy that had developed from your shared experiences. Yet, it was nothing heated like this usually. You brushed it off. Hes just tired. He was too dorky and oblivious to flirt with a girl anyway.

You grabbed one of Percy's hands and pulled him off the bed forcefully. He groaned dramatically and leaned onto you heavily, causing you to stumble under what felt like two hundred pounds of muscle.

"Stop being a big baby."

"Waaa."

---

You managed to get him up and out around camp. Little by little, you got used to life again. Percy was always there (obviously like the clingy sea-urchin he was), but you learned to handle the separation anxiety better. Percy also did, but he used it as an excuse for his purposes. At first, it was reasonable. He was lonely at camp. He didn't have any half-siblings who stayed here, so he followed yours. You took your cabin to archery. Suddenly, he wanted to practice his skill with a bow. Arts and crafts? He needed to make a present for a friend. Battle training? He could be your practice dummy! At capture the flag, he would "accidently" get lost again to happen to find you. He was always around. He gradually became more physically close to you in public. He was always connected to you in some way. At meals, he had a hand on your knee or holding yours. When sparring, he would purposely mess up so you would correct him. Adjust his stance yourself. Even walking, his hand was in yours, or his arm was around your waist. It was that soft intimacy you had become so used to with him. But, you felt it was starting to become something more.

One day, you were sparring with this boy from Ares cabin just before dinner. He was handing your ass back to you for someone a year younger. Great potential. You were talking to him as you took of your training gear when Percy came up behind you. You knew he was watching earlier. He had been catching up with Frank (they were stopping by before they left for some minor quest) and waiting for you so he could walk to dinner with you like always. Only this time, his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you against his chest firmly. His head fell to your shoulder and he pressed a quick kiss to your neck.

"Ready to go, babe?"

The Ares boy was shocked and disappointed. He mumbled some sort of excuse you didn't really take in and rushed out of the amphitheater. You felt Percy smirk against your neck. You grumbled and smacked him playfully.

"That was mean!"

Then it happened again.

You were having lunch one day (at Percy's lonely table obviously) when a boy came up to you. A few others---who you guessed were his friends---gave him cheers and thumps up to give him courage. It was cute. The boy's face was red. His camp t-shirt showed his cabin. The Caduceus---Hermes. Then Percy noticed, leaning closer to you with a not so subtle pitying expression at the boy.

"Hi! Oh- um, is he your boyfriend?" He asked, quite downtrodden. You quickly shook your head, but Percy somehow got more smug. His hands came up to your shoulders, resting there possessively.

After the boy, went back to his friends. You smacked Percy's arm.

"Seriously?"

"What?!"

"Stop doing that." You told him sternly. He grumbled and pushed around the food on his plate. "Percy, its not fair. Boys are allowed to talk to me. They rarely do to begin with... I won't leave you if I get a date. I'd choose my best friend over a silly boy anytime. Tell me you know that..." Percy didn't respond. His beautiful sea-green eyes focused on his lunch.

But it kept happening! Like he didn't even listen to you. You cherished his friendship and his closeness and everything between, but this was getting ridiculous. Honestly, it was starting to hurt. You told him how you finally felt it was safe to find a partner, settle down, and go to college. You were finally ready to start life again. But instead of supporting you, he was rejecting everyone who talked to you! Some best friend. Now, his recent stunts compiled with how close you two were around camp naturally led everyone to think you were a couple of they hadn't before. Anytime the rumors got back to Percy, he didn't deny them.

---

It wasn't his fault, really. Percy just didn't like that guy talking with you.

Or the other one.

Or the one after that...

Oh, come on. You were being dramatic, He thought. His little stunts work perfectly. The guy goes away, and you keep your attention on him... Okay, maybe it is a little unnecessary, but he thinks it's a fair measure to keep you by his side. He really couldn't handle it if you left him. You were his everything. He went into Tartarus for you. He held up the sky for you. Heck, he gave up literal immortality to stay with you! If you left him for another guy, that would be a big blow.

But you were right. He was starting to be a jerk. You were allowed to have your own feelings. If you wanted someone else...

"Percy?" Your pretty voice called, tired yet still melodic. It was midnight. He escaped from his cabin once you were asleep to come down to the dock. The lake always helped him clear his head (when the naiades weren't unwilling telling him gossip that is). Tonight, they were---thankfully---no where to be found. The sky was almost inky black only broken up by tiny speckles of stars and the bright crescent moon. Her dreamy light was cast onto the rippling water highlighting its ebbing peaks. He heard your light footsteps on the creaky wooden dock as you drew nearer. You sat down beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder. His heart melted. That was all he needed. You close to him and the calming sound of the lake. "Why'd you leave?"

He sighed and leaned into your embrace, pressing his face into your neck and breathing in your wonderful scent. He should just be honest. If you were mad, it was justified.

"Wanted to think." He muttered into your skin.

"You never do that." You replied, unable to stop yourself.

Percy grumbled, pulling away slightly to look at you with puppy eyes.

"Im trying to be serious, you jerk." He whispered your name with such reverence it sobered up your tiredness within seconds. "... I've been an asshole. I know you're trying to just have a life. But you are my life. You're my everything. Gods, I love you so much, and I can't stand you being with someone else - I know you'd wouldn't really leave me, but you wouldn't be mine. I wouldn't be able to have you- its selfish, but fuck- I've waited for so long..."

You weren't saying anything. Simply staring at him with a dazed and mesmerized expression. It was scaring him. You were never this quiet. His heart was pounding. This was it. He'll have to move across the country, change his name, and start afresh-

"You love me?" You whispered, your eyes searching his desperately.

"Always have."

You kissed him. It was unexpected and something new, but he melted into it. His hands moved to your waist as yours tangled in his hair. It was messy but happy. A simple little joy finally connects you together completely. He pulled away, staring at you with his big stupid grin.

"Does this mean I can say you're my girlfriend now?"

"I dunno... maybe.." You gave him a similar smile and shoved him off the dock, into the water with a loud splash. You laughed as he yelped your name. Cold water speckled your face, making your skin pebble with goosebumps. Before you could celebrate, a wet hand grabbed your ankle, pulling you down into the watery depths. Familiar hands found your waist and cheek, and then the son of poseidon's lips were on yours again. This time is more intense than before.

---

You’re completely caught off guard from what the teenager sitting on the couch next to your oldest son just said to you.

There’s a collective intake of breath around the lower level of the house - all eyes flashing to Steve for his reaction, who’s frozen by the front door - looking like he’s absolutely ready to strangle the kid.

Your eldest boy looks horrified at his friend’s comment while your oldest girl who’s sitting at the kitchen island working on homework looks disgusted. Your ten year old twins who are lounging on the living room floor pause the board game they’re playing - sensing the sudden tension in the room.

Your four year old boy who was trailing the stairs behind you slams into your legs- not expecting you to have stopped. It causes you to stumble as you’re still two steps above the floor.

You panic instantly, worried about face planting with your youngest babe in your hands - but Steve’s there in a heartbeat, hands slithering around your waist to steady you. The movement forces you into his chest, lone earring clattering to the floor and your boy falls to his butt behind you.

“You alright, baby?” Steve murmurs gently by the shell of your ear, and you nod slightly - pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss of thanks.

Your boy that’s fallen on the stairs starts crying at the impact, and Steve carefully lets go of you to scoop him up into his arms.

“Why are you crying buddy? You’re the one who nearly steamrolled into Mommy,” Steve teases lightly, thumbs already brushing away his boy’s tears.

“That scared you, huh?” You ask him tenderly, rubbing at his back - knowing he’s physically fine, just startled.

He sniffles and nods, hiding his face in his daddy’s neck.

Your middle girl pushes herself off the floor, comes over and grabs the earring you dropped, “Do you want me to put this in for you?”

“That would be great, babe, thanks,” you smile at her, and she climbs the stairs to stand behind you - securing the piece of jewelry in place.

She steps back before grinning, “You look beautiful, Mommy.”

“She always does, doesn’t she?” Steve agrees, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

Your girl nods before hugging you from behind, “Do you have to go tonight?”

You pat her hands that are linked around your middle, “We shouldn’t be out too late, sweetheart.”

You and Steve were headed to Hawkins High for a banquet that the graduating class of ‘85 was hosting. You’d honestly rather stay in and spend time with your babes, but with Steve being a teacher at the middle school, it was expected that he be in attendance.

Steve looks particularly handsome in his dress pants that hug his legs perfectly, paired with a white long sleeve button up and black tie wrapped loosely around the neckline. If you were alone, you wouldn’t have let him leave the house without getting a taste of the skin that’s exposed at his neck.

You’re practically drooling over him, and the reality of the moment comes crashing back when your oldest boy’s friend stands up from the couch, hands tucked into his pockets and compliments your appearance again.

“I mean really, that dress is killer on you,” he smirks, and Steve’s mouth drops open at the audacity.

You put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, trying to ground him - reminding him not to make any rash decisions.

Steve clears his throat, “I’m sorry, what did you just say about my wife?”

You bite your lip in amusement, because he’s defending your honor against a hormonal teenager that can’t get his emotions in check.

At Steve’s voice, the kid looks a bit meek, but not lacking total confidence when he says, “Like you look great, Mrs. H, stunning even.”

Steve turns to you with a baffled expression before whispering, “Is he serious right now?”

You huff out a disbelieving laugh, “Steve, he’s a child.”

“Bullsh-,” he cuts himself off, remembering the two littles in both of your arms, “He’s seventeen. He’s old enough to know what he’s saying, baby,” he grumbles quietly.

His eyes flick over to the boy - standing there awkwardly now, since it’s obvious that you’re purposefully avoiding his praises, “Ought to teach him a lesson about how to treat women since his parents clearly haven’t done it.”

But Steve doesn’t need to do that, because your oldest boy is already on it, “Dude, are you, are you flirting with my mom?”

“No! No, definitely not,” but the way he’s spluttering the words proves otherwise.

“You totally were,” your girl calls out from the kitchen.

Your twins start giggling at the absurdity of it, and Steve watches proudly as his son reams into his friend.

“That’s my mom, man. Have some respect,” he chides angrily, folding his arms across his chest.

The boy’s mouth flounders, embarrassed now at being called out, “Uh, sorry Mrs. H, Mr. H. I’m just, yeah, I’m gonna go.”

He scrabbles for the exit, leaving the rest of you stunned at the ridiculousness of what just happened.

“Great choice in friends,” Steve quips, raising his eyebrows at your boy.

Your boy defends himself, “How was I supposed to know he was going to say that? You do look really pretty, by the way, Mom.”

You smile, “Thanks, hun.”

“Seriously though, don’t think I want you inviting him back over here,” Steve mumbles, and you laugh lightly before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

With your free hand, you reach up to brush back some of the strands of hair fighting to fall into his eyes, “No need to be all pouty about it, baby.”

“I’m not being pouty, I just don’t need a bunch of teenage boys thinking it’s okay to hit on you,” he says with a frown still on his face.

You smile fondly at him, swiping your thumb over the creases that his drawn in eyebrows are making.

“Whatever you say, babe,” you tease, before walking into the kitchen.

Steve falls quiet as his eyes wander the expanse of your legs as you move, appreciating the view of the tight dress hugging your curves.

“Dad,” your oldest scolds when he realizes what Steve’s doing.

“What?” Steve snaps out of it, recognizing that he’s been caught, “Don’t give me that look. I’m allowed to check out my wife.”

You hand your toddler off to your oldest girl, who puts up a brief fight at you letting her go. You watch your girl bounce and console her younger sister easily - effectively distracting her.

“Are you sure you and your brother got this? The babysitter said she was free tonight,” you ask again, wanting to double check.

The plan was never to purposefully have children with such large age gaps.

Steve’s plan was to always have six if you’d let him, but yours was to take it one at a time before deciding if you wanted more since you had once been unsure about children. When you had your oldest though, you immediately knew you wanted another when you took one look at him - at seeing this perfect little being that you and your husband had created together.

Then your eldest girl came next, and you were pretty sure two was enough - but life happens, and years later your twins came along with the rest of the littles; and soon six Harrington children were filling up the space in your home and the crevices in your heart.

People often joked that the age gap meant free babysitting services - which never failed to make you frustrated for your oldest two, because that was definitely not their responsibility.

You were grateful however, that you had children who loved their siblings deeply. It meant that sometimes your teenagers wanted to take care of the younger babes for you without you having to ask.

“We’ve got it, Mom,” your oldest boy confirms, who’s now holding your youngest boy after taking him from Steve.

Steve catches the emotion clouding your eyes at seeing them together and curls you into his chest - giving you a tight squeeze of affection.

“See, baby? Told you they’d be fine,” Steve hugs you closely, before steering you towards the door - trying to get you out before you change your mind about leaving them. You hug the twins goodbye, pressing a kiss to each of their heads.

“Call us if you need-,” you start, but are interrupted by your oldest girl.

“Anything, we know. Now go, before she starts throwing a hissy fit about you two leaving,” she jokes, stroking softly at her sister's hair.

You finish saying goodbye to all of your kids, and Steve starts tugging your hand to pull you into the night air.

“Really, if you need anything, call,” Steve echoes your previous words.

Once you’re settled in Steve’s truck, you watch as your babes wave to you through the front window, and you lean over the middle console to place a hand lovingly on Steve’s knee.

“God, how did we get so lucky, Steve?” You wonder out loud.

“You mean how did I get so lucky? Shit baby, have you looked in the mirror today?” He says playfully, grabbing your hand that rests on his knee to bring it to his lips.

“Steve,” you smile warmly, feeling the familiar flush of heat creep up your neck.

“Kinda just wanna rip that dress off you and skip this damn thing,” he kisses the palm of your hand, before littering kisses up the span of your arm.

“That would be a lot more fun,” you hum out, savoring the feeling of his lips on your skin.

Steve turns to face you, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, honey.”

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, gently nipping at the skin there and you whimper at the touch.

“Probably shouldn’t be on the verge of making out when our kids are still watching,” you tease, eyes cutting to the window to see the oldest two trying to shield the eyes of your youngest ones.

You cup Steve’s chin, tilting his head so he can look at the sight, which makes laughter spill from those pretty pink lips of his.

“You’re right, we should probably go park down the street first before making out,” he smiles coyly at you.

You push lightly in jest at him, “Just start the car, babe.”

Steve places one last kiss at the sweet spot below your ear before backing out the driveway, “Yes, ma’am.”

The banquet was in full swing, and you and Steve were currently taking a break from the buzz of constant socializing when you make eye contact with Tommy Hagan from across the gym.

“Oh, god,” you mumble under your breath.

Neither of you had seen him since senior year, as Steve had cut off contact with the guy completely, but heard that he left Hawkins and dropped Carol Perkins along the way.

Tommy immediately grins wickedly, before stalking closer to you and Steve.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Steve inquires, arm tightening around your waist.

Your hand that’s hooked around his bicep grips a little tighter, “Incoming.”

Steve follows your gaze and groans in annoyance - doesn’t want to have to deal with the onslaught of surface level questions Tommy will have.

“Harrington! Good to see you, man. What’s it been, like twenty years since graduation? And Hargrove, looking good as always,” Tommy sends a wink your way.

You smile tightly, pressing yourself closer to your husband - uncomfortable with the way Tommy’s eyes drag up and down your figure.

“Hey, Tommy. Yeah, it’s been a while,” Steve forces a small smile, hand that’s on your hip holding you a bit more protectively.

“Didn’t realize the two of you were together,” Tommy notices the way Steve’s arm tucks you towards him.

You hum in acknowledgment, before flashing your left hand at him, allowing him to see the rock next to the wedding band that rests on your ring finger.

“Oh shit, so you’re like together, together,” Tommy’s eyes widened.

The phrase makes you want to laugh, because not only have you been married for seventeen years, but you’ve got six children at home to show for the life you’ve built together.

“Mhmm,” you nod politely, and Steve can’t help but place a possessive kiss to your temple at seeing the way Tommy’s eyes linger on you.

They catch up briefly - jobs, sports, reminiscing about high school. The topic of kids doesn’t come up, which isn’t surprising because Tommy has been droning on and on about his bachelor lifestyle in Indianapolis.

There’s a sudden commotion as a few of Steve’s previous students run up to him; in high school now themselves and are at the event to get volunteer hours with their clubs.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt Coach Steve, but Ms. Kelley asked us to move some tables and we could use help,” one of the boys asks.

It’s clear Steve’s fighting an internal battle, doesn’t want to say no to the kids but also doesn’t want to leave you alone.

“You good, honey?” Steve checks with you.

Tommy answers for you, “She’ll be fine, man. I’ll keep her company.”

Which is exactly what Steve doesn’t want. He ignores the comment, staring intently at you.

“Go help, babe. I’ll be okay,” you assure him, lifting your hand to cup his jaw - thumb brushing delicately against his cheek.

His eyes close briefly at the touch, still hesitating - not sure what to do.

“Come on, don’t leave them hanging, Stevie,” Tommy throws the nickname in as a jab - knew that Steve hated it in high school; which he still does, unless you’re the one saying it.

Steve’s decidedly ticked off with Tommy and makes a point to shut him up by kissing you. He leans forward to slot his lips with yours, pulling you to him by clasping his hands behind your lower back.

You instantly wrap your arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of him pressing his mouth eagerly to yours which makes your head fizzy - bubbles of want pooling in your stomach.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” he breathes out, nose nudging yours, kisses you one last time before going to help the high schoolers.

Tommy stands there a little awkwardly, and you hoped maybe he’d scram after that public display of affection, but he seems to be like a roach you can’t squash.

You watch Steve hopelessly from across the room, desperate for him to come back to you quickly - tired of making small talk with Tommy.

“You and Harrington are pretty serious then?” Tommy wonders.

“Yep,” you reply, tone clipped.

“But I mean, you know he was never the settle down type of guy, right?” Tommy goads, referring to the “King Steve” era.

You huff a breath of irritation - hating that people still put Steve in a box when they know nothing about him anymore, “He was never like that, Tommy. He just needed the right person to love him.”

Tommy barks a laugh, “And that’s you?”

You narrow your eyes into slits at him, blood starting to boil at his flippancy, “Why don’t you ask my six children?”

He chokes on his drink, inhaling it wrong at the shock of that information, “And you’re sure they’re all his?”

“Oh my god, you’re still a pig you know that?” You lash out, turning to storm away, but he follows you.

“Come on, didn’t mean it like that, princess,” he calls out, and you freeze at the name he once taunted you with.

You whip around and seethe, “Do not, ever, call me that again.”

Tommy raises his hands up, “Woah, just trying to make conversation. No need to be so defensive.”

You glare at him, arms crossed, breathing angrily.

“I’m sorry, really. I guess I’m just a little envious," he shrugs.

“Envious?” You ask in disbelief.

“I mean, yeah. Being honest with you, I totally had a thing for you in high school. I just never acted on it because of you know, Billy,” he trails off before continuing, “And seeing you here with my old best friend of all people, guess it just shocked the hell out of me.”

He actually kind of looks bummed out, which makes you feel just a tiny bit guilty - but then he instantly ruins it when he takes advantage of your quietness.

Tommy steps forward, “Don’t you ever think about it?”

“Think about what?” You inquire, confusion lacing your tone.

“Me and you?” He asks smugly, obviously out of touch with reality.

“No, I don’t. I’m happily married,” you refute.

“Sure, but like don’t you ever get bored?” He tries to get you to crack.

You grit your teeth, “Steve loves me, and I love him. What are you not getting about that?”

Tommy steps into your personal bubble, hand sliding down your arm, grabbing onto your wrist, “You know, if I had the balls to ask you out back then, things would’ve been different.”

Your jaw drops at his gall, “They would not be, now let go of me.”

“Admit it, Hargrove. I could’ve made you just as happy,” he replies cockily, and you just about slap him in the face for that when you thankfully feel Steve’s arm snake around your shoulder.

“It’s Harrington, now get your hands off my wife,” Steve roughly bites out, thoroughly done with Tommy’s gross behavior after watching him stalk you from across the gym.

Tommy drops your arm swiftly, “Just making sure she was okay, man.”

“No, you were trying to make a move on a married woman, real classy,” Steve snorts in aggravation.

Steve doesn’t give Tommy the opportunity to reply, simply guides you away - heading straight for the exit sign.

“Wait, Steve, don’t you have to be here?” You ask, trying to get him to stop.

“Don’t care. Not letting you stay anywhere near that pathetic creep any longer,” Steve breathes out sharply through his nose.

He shoves the doors open, hightailing it out of the school, and you’re struggling to keep up in your high heels.

“Babe, slow down, please,” you plead, clutching onto his arm.

Steve notices you’re straggling behind, and he makes the split decision to haul you up in his arms.

He crouches slightly, swiftly brings his left arm up and under your thighs, while his right arm secures itself around your back.

Your arms scramble for purchase around his neck at the sudden movement, “What’s going on in that head of yours, handsome?”

“Shouldn’t have left you alone,” he fumes.

You understand then that he’s blaming himself, “Steve, it’s not your fault.”

“He put his hands on you,” Steve grates out, holding you closer to him.

Your legs sway in the air as he furiously makes his way through the parking lot to get to the car. You hate seeing him upset, but can’t lie that it doesn’t turn you on with how territorial of you he’s being.

One of your hands moves to card through the back of his hair, “You don’t need to be jealous, baby.”

“Oh, I’m jealous all right. But I’m more pissed off that he thought it was okay to touch you, and livid with myself for leaving you with him,” his breathing is erratic from how upset he is.

“Then make it up to me, we don’t have to be home for another hour,” you remind him, tucking your head into the junction of his collarbone.

That’s how you found yourself curled up next to him in a booth at Mel’s Diner, the place you used to frequent when you were still just dating.

You were sharing your favorite - breakfast food for dinner, chatting about Steve’s summer baseball league he was coaching. Your legs are pulled up sideways on the leather seat, and Steve has a hand hooked under the back of your knees.

You were letting him vent to you - loved that you had the privilege of being his safe space to do so, when you’re interrupted by one of the fathers of the children that your son goes to Pre-K with.

He’s a single dad, and you can’t deny that he would boldly flirt with you when your paths crossed - which you were always honest with Steve about.

“Hey! It’s so good to see you outside of day care pickup,” he says enthusiastically, seemingly to purposefully ignore Steve.

Steve swallows harshly, picking up on the fact that this must be the guy who’s trying to weasel his way in between your marriage.

“Um, yeah. Good to see you too. This is my husband, Steve,” you introduce him, and the guy visibly deflates at that, even though he already knew you were married.

“Right, you’re the husband,” he trails off, avoiding eye contact.

Steve rolls his eyes, “Of seventeen years.”

You softly hit him with your elbow, because you don’t want things to be weird when you see the man at your son's school.

“Anyways, you look beautiful, by the way,” the guy tries, even though Steve’s right there.

“Oh, thanks,” you reply cordially, trying not to be rude but also are a little irked that he’s blatantly making a move in front of your man.

Steve clears his throat and makes it obvious he wants him to leave, “We’re kinda in the middle of something.”

“Sorry, my bad. Nice to meet you, man. See you later, beautiful,” he bids you goodbye arrogantly.

Steve’s got a sulky look on his face as he watches the guy leave.

Your lips pull in an amused smile, “What’s wrong, Stevie?”

He groans at the teasing, turns back to you and drops his head into the crook of your neck.

“Baby, you realize that was the third time,” he whines.

You giggle lightly at the feel of his lips on your skin, “Third time for what?”

“The third time you’ve been hit on in one day by someone that wasn’t me,” he grumbles.

“And none of them mattered, because they weren’t you,” you remind him, gently playing with the wedding band on his hand.

Steve sighs in frustration, “Did you see the nerve of that guy though? It’s like I wasn’t even sitting here.”

“Steve,” you say calmly, “I don’t even remember his name, honey.”

He pulls his head up, “Really?”

Your hand comes up to fiddle with his tie, and you yank him closer to you, “Only got eyes for you, baby.”

Steve’s eyes drop from your eyes to your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them, desperate to get you out of the public view to be able to ravish you.

You have the same idea - glancing down at the watch on your wrist before asking, “We still have twenty minutes. Wanna go makeout in your truck?”

“God, yes,” Steve breathes out excitedly, throwing down a wad of cash and nearly trips over his own feet as he books it out the diner with you on his heels.

When you get back home, you find your children spread out on the living room floor, back to playing the board game.

Your toddler is sleeping though - curled up in the lap of her ten year old brother, while his twin has her head resting against your oldest girl's stretched out legs. Your oldest is staring intently at the game - determining his next move, and your four year old is the only one with enough energy to get up and throw himself at you.

You swing him up easily, kissing his cheek, “Hey, buddy. Missed you.”

He mutters out a reply, and as you and Steve move into the room, your children clock Steve’s attitude right away.

“Dad, why do you look grumpy?” your ten year old boy asks him quietly, not wanting to wake up his sister.

Steve looks offended at the comment, “I do not look grumpy.”

“You do,” your oldest chimes in, before scratching his head - still deciding what to do about the game.

“Well apparently, Mom’s got more than just teenage admirers,” Steve says, looking over at his oldest son.

“I swear I didn’t know he had a crush on Mom,” your boy groans.

“Dad, I feel like you should’ve already known that. Mom’s gorgeous,” your eldest girl says it like a well known fact, fingers working on braiding her sisters hair.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” you smile, a little shy at all the compliments you’ve been receiving from your children today.

“I know Mom’s gorgeous, believe me,” Steve smiles, then mumbles something about that being the reason there’s six of them.

“Ugh, Dad, that’s revolting,” your eldest girl complains.

“Why’s Daddy revolting?” Your middle girl asks curiously, blinking sleepily from her spot.

Your oldest boy laughs, “He’s not revolting, he’s just in love with Mom.”

Your children continue to poke fun at their father when you join them on the floor, and you can tell Steve’s mood lifts at the lighthearted atmosphere.

You’re resting against Steve’s bare chest later that night in bed, fingers trailing through the coarse hair there when he finally asks you what’s been bugging him all evening.

“You sure you don’t get bored?” Steve asks you with a trace of worry behind his eyes.

Your lips part in shock, “You heard that?”

“Tommy’s voice carries, unfortunately,” Steve gripes.

You’re about to respond, when your door slowly creaks open, and it’s your youngest babe - clattering in with your high heels on her tiny feet that you’d kicked off in the hallway earlier.

You giggle affectionately at watching her stumble in - hands planting on the floor to catch herself from falling.

“What are you doing out of bed, sweet girl?” You ask her.

You had to get her a floor bed since she was actively climbing out of her crib once she learned how to, which meant she frequently found her way to your room in the evening.

“Mommy, shoes,” she pushes herself back up, smiling cheekily at you.

“Wow baby, you look beautiful in Mommy’s shoes,” you coo at her, sliding off the bed to pick her up - the high heels stay hooked on her toes, dangling from the edges.

She points to them, “Daddy, shoes.”

Steve gets up to join the two of you, “Gorgeous baby, just like your Mama.”

She starts babbling, trying so hard to form full sentences and your heart squeezes at the sight of Steve nodding along, gazing adoringly at her.

You slip your free arm around his naked back, traveling your arm up and down the warm skin in assurance, “Could never be bored with the life we have, Steve.”

Steve leans his forehead against yours, “Thank god, gorgeous.”

There’s a gentle knock that interrupts you, turning to see your oldest, who looks a little guilty.

“Hey, Dad?” He says.

“Yeah, bud?” Steve replies.

Your boy shifts his feet, “I just wanted to apologize for before. I don’t wanna be friends with anyone who’s going to be disrespectful towards you and Mom’s relationship, so he won’t be coming over again.”

You smile sweetly at your boy, knowing he’s got a heart that’s just like his dad’s.

Pride washes over Steve’s face, “That means a lot to me. Thanks, bud.”

“Even though it’s a little crazy that you were jealous over a literal teenager,” he ribs his dad, and it makes you cover your mouth in amusement at the witty remark.

Steve scoffs in jest, “Great, I’m being targeted in my own home.”

“Only because we love you,” you hug him with your toddler squished in the middle, and Steve rests his head against your own.

Your oldest bids the two of you goodnight, and you let yourself melt into Steve’s arms - thankful for a love that still warrants petty jealousy and soft declarations of assurances that you’ll forever be each other’s.

Taglist: I’ve gotten some requests to get a tag list going for this series, so if you’re interested lmk in the comments section or message me!