kwazii-kat

[kwazii-kat]

toothache

summary: Steve gets his wisdom teeth removed. You dote from his bedside, even if, post-anaesthesia, he seems to have completely forgotten you’re his girlfriend.

[3.6k + established!relationship + fem!reader]

There’s a faint beep from a machine tucked in the corner, but other than that the room is quiet.

As quiet as it can be, at least. Hospitals are never truly silent, you think. The whole building hums with the coursing thrum of rushing doctors and the buzz of fluorescent lights; a hive for busy bees.

Steve’s room is decently tucked away from any of the busyness of the some of the more frantic floors, thankfully.

Occasionally, a nurse does a round and you spy them walking by through the slats in the blinds. But besides that, it’s just you and your twiddling thumbs to keep yourself company until Steve wakes up.

The nurse who’d let you in left maybe 20 minutes ago — about how long she said it would take for Steve to wake back up. You don’t have a watch on, but the room has a big clock that ticks silently, the second hand juddering around the clock face.

You’ve been watching it, waiting to put said twiddling thumbs into action the moment Steve stirs.

And if you’re not keeping track of the time, you’re studying your boyfriend’s face.

Steve looks a bit silly and a bit lovely all at once.

He’s out cold in the hospital bed and his cheeks are stuffed with cotton, making him resemble a chipmunk, to stem the bleeding in his mouth. His face is lax and his cheek is slightly squished against the pillow.

There’s a touch of drool from the corner of his mouth. Well, just a touch is generous of you to say.

You’d wiped it away initially, doting and caring, but Christ almighty, he’s definitely out cold. It’s a river of slobber.

Your search for tissues was futile and after the second time you’d wiped it with your sleeve, you decided the pillow is soaking it all up just fine.

He must be on something really strong. Deep roots, the doctor told you whilst explaining why Steve was under so much anaesthesia.

Your lips purse worriedly as your eyes roam over his face. You hope the whole procedure won’t hurt him much.

Steve’s been through the wringer these last couple years, so much that one would expect something as minuscule as a wisdom teeth removal shouldn’t warrant too much worry — except it has the opposite effect on you. Left on your own, your worry grows exponentially.

You eye the clock again.

How long since that nurse left again? How long before Steve’s been asleep for too long? He's had one too many concussions, which you did tell the doctors about, but maybe they missed something. Maybe you should hit the call button anyway.

The clock ticks forward.

A nurse passes by the window.

On the bed, Steve’s fingers twitch.

A breath of sigh presses its way out your lungs, warm relief flushing through your chest, and you reach forward to click the call button in an instant. You’re on your feet quickly, crowding in closer.

The cool bar of the bed presses into your upper thighs as you reach across it to hold Steve’s hand.

Evidently groggy, Stave’s eyelashes flutter open. You’d think he looks like a Disney princess if his mouth wasn’t gaping open and drooling with blood. He groans, long and languid, reeking of pain and the subsequent painkillers.

Before he's even opened his eyes, he's shifting about. The muscles in his neck tense as he tries to lift his head.

“Hey, hey," You speak softly, thumb rubbing gently across the back of his hand. Your other hand brushes against his forehead, urging him to lay back down. "Just take it easy there, tiger."

Steve makes another gravelly groany noise but relents against your touch, sinking back into the pillow in one magnificent slump. His eyes are open, hazel peering at you curiously as he blinks slowly.

"Wuh?" He manages to say, his jaw barely moving.

Despite how you try to resist, an endeared smile pulls at your mouth.

They did say he would be a little dopey when he came to. You're just now finding out how dopey that means.

Glancing at the door, you wonder how long you should wait before hitting the call button again. You're pretty sure Steve, proactive as ever, is gonna start pulling the cotton out of his mouth as soon as he realises its there.

"—Wuh 're 'ou?—"

To Steve, perhaps, those were real words. You're not entirely sure what he's meant to say, though you hazard a guess he's asking who you are.

In the same moment you go to answer, Steve's eyes drift off to the ceiling, unfocussed.

He raises the hand you aren't holding and bumps it against his jaw, then releases a long, drowsy owwwwwww in response.

Are you gonna lose good girlfriend points for laughing at this? Your lips purse together once more, this time buttoning in your laughter.

You rescue Steve from himself, reaching out and grabbing the other hand before he can prod himself in the face again.

"Wah 'appened?" He says, his eyes sluggish as they drag back over to you. It looks like it takes immense effort and you reward him with a loving squeeze of his hand.

"Your wisdom teeth, baby. You got them taken out."

Steve's eyebrows rise at a snail's pace, his face slowly forming an astounded expression.

"My teef?" He says, baffled. "'Ey took them?"

He extracts his hand from yours, raising it back up as if he's going to search his mouth for the very missing teeth.

You capture it midway up, tugging it back down. "Careful, you don't wanna touch it again. It'll be very sore."

Steve, bamboozled by just how exactly his hand rapidly changed course, takes a long moment to register your words. He blinks, one eye at a time, like a frog.

"Ow?"

You can't resist a little grin, nodding. "Yeah, baby, ouch."

That seems to get the message across. Steve doesn't try to raise his hand again, however, instead he realises that you're holding both of them. He's very unsubtle, half-lidded eyes peering down the bed with a suspicious squint to them.

Then, very slowly, he begins to pull both his hands away.

You let him do so, amusedly releasing your soft grip. Maybe hand-holding — usually one of Steve's favourite things — isn't so nice when you're high as a kite. You only want your boyfriend to be as comfortable as possible.

Except, when you glance back up at Steve's face, the narrowed, suspicious gaze is now directed at your face.

"Y'ur nice." He slurs, the compliment completely at odds with his sceptical demeanour. His hands are still pulled to his chest, tucked up awkwardly. "'N gongeous. But—"

He manages to raise one finger up straight, the only movement of his hands.

"Am—"

The end of his sentence is stolen by the hiss of the door, pushed open by the same nurse from earlier. You didn't catch her name.

She's a nice looking woman, dressed in green scrubs, and she smiles upon seeing Steve up and awake on the bed.

"Why hello there, Steve," She greets casually, sidling up to the other side of Steve's bed with a clipboard in hand. "How are we feelin'?"

Steve's turned to face her but you can see the clear hesitation in his face, evidently searching for any hint of recognition.

The hands held up against his chest sway a bit. Steve blinks slow.

"Who 'r 'ou?" He repeats the same question he asked you in the exact same cadence.

The nurse smiles at that, which is a nice way of letting your anxiety know you're not allowed to be too worried.

"I'm your nurse, Marissa. We met a few hours ago before your surgery. Do you remember that?"

It's a careful probe, seeing just how much Steve's recall is working. He thinks about it real hard, eyes staring in the distance as his tongue poking out a bit in concentration, before he moves his head in a way that's probably a no.

"That's okay, Steve. Everyone reacts a little differently to general, but it shouldn't last longer than a few hours." She reassures him.

The clipboard in her hands has a few pieces of paper clipped to it and she flicks through them. You sort of wish you had Steve's hand to hold, just to comfort yourself. The bar on his hospital bed will have to make do.

When Marissa speaks, she glances over at you, talking to both of you. "Looks like everything went to plan, no hitches or issues. You'll be free to take him home in another 20 minutes or so—so long as nothing crops up."

You nod, grateful to hear that. Though, you're not looking forward to wrangling your loopy boyfriend out the door and to the car when he's in this state.

"Thank you very much." You express the gratitude for both you and Steve, knowing he's hardly thinking of manners at the moment. He'll thank you for it later. "I did have a—"

"—pssssssst."

You stop talking at the abrupt interruption, both you and Marissa surprised by Steve's interjection.

His attempt at a psst doesn't quite work to the normal effect and instead, he's painted his bottom lip in a bit of blood.

He's looking at Marissa, not you. One of his bunched up arms raises up to his mouth as though he's trying to cup it and hide his words. You resist the urge to pull it back down, worried he'll knock his jaw again.

Marissa, sharing a playful glance in your direction, smiles kindly at Steve.

"Yes, Steve?"

"Can 'ou tell th' nice lady," He's trying to whisper but failing miserably. "That I'm.... I'm..."

Steve scrunches up his face to try to think of a word. He regrets it quickly, another hissed and sluggish owwww leaking out as pain radiates through his face.

Your fingers curl tighter around the bar. It takes effort not to reach for his hand again — or jump in and ask Steve what he wants to say to you. He's clearly trying to be stealthy for a reason, even if it isn't working.

Marissa's pager beeps. She flashes a quick look at it, silences it, then turns back to Steve.

"I'm... 'ot bullshit." He finally spits out.

That surprises you.

Marissa, conversely, seems to be undeterred by such a proclamation. You wonder what else people have said whilst coming back up from anaesthesia. She pats Steve on the arm gently.

"No you aren't."

Steve appears to be bolstered by her agreement, his own head giving a slow nod. He's still speaking in that groggy way, not at all helped by his cotton-stuffed mouth. "Yuh, and I 'ave a— a girlfiend."

Huh?

Marissa catches on a moment before you do, a certain cheek creeping into her smile. She checks her watch, then focuses back on Steve and nods.

"Uh huh, big guy. Your girlfriend's actually here, did you know?"

As her words sink in, Steve's eyes blow wide. He looks equal parts stunned as he does excited.

You realise why he asked who you were and withdrew his hands all at once.

Your smile dissolves into a giddy grin, entirely too endeared by Steve's unbreaking loyalty to you, even if he is barking up the wrong tree.

"S'e is?"

"Yep." Marissa says. She nods in your direction. "And she's gonna take good care of you, alright?"

You wonder if this is the most fun part of her job.

"My girlfien'..." Steve sighs quietly, his eyes hazy. You don't think you're meant to hear it.

Marissa smiles at that and finally begins to backtrack towards the door. She checks her watch again, then says to you, "15 minutes. Then you're free to go."

She waves at Steve as she's disappearing through the door. "I hope you feel better soon, Steve."

Steve makes a valiant attempt at a wave back, but his hand barely hovers above the sheets for a second before he's dropping it back down.

He sighs loudly and a little more blood freckles his bottom lip. He reaches up for his face again and you intercept.

"It'll hurt more if you touch it." You say to explain, then quickly let go of his arm.

It slumps back down and you watch as Steve's face morphs through several different expressions, from frowning distaste to a disbelieving awe.

"Are 'ou..." He asks, slurring out the word. His hand picks up off the bed to curve up, pointing a finger back at his chest. "My girlfiend?"

It comes out tinged with astonishment. You laugh without meaning to.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

Steve struggles to compute your response, given by how his eyes shift away lazily, then slide back to you, still wide.

"Yurrr lyin'," He lolls out the words. He waves one hand up, as if brushing off the joke you're supposedly telling.

"Am not!" You laugh. Then just to prove your point, you reach out and take his hand in yours, cradling it between your palms. "We're pretty serious, baby."

"Yo're 'etty," Steve counters, though pretty comes out strangely as he tries to not move his lips much.

The fact he can flirt back whilst so out of it is a feat, though it proves some of his charisma is just that inherent.

You notice, as he gazes at you, the surprise from earlier has somewhat sapped away but the awe in his face remains.

Steve's hand in yours turns over and he grips one of your thumbs tightly.

"I s'love... bein' a boyfiend," He says, deadly serious. Another roll of dribble escapes the corner of his mouth, yet somehow you're entirely captivated by his small admittances. He loves being a boyfriend.

"'ut dunno if 'mmm good at it. Am I?"

He wants to know if he's a good boyfriend. There's a little wobble in your heartstrings at his genuine concern.

You curl your fingers back around his hand tighter and nod. "Definitely."

Steve exhales a big sigh of relief, his eyes slipping shut as he gives your thumb a half-hearted squeeze.

"S'good." He mumbles.

As you soothe your fingertips over his hand, you hope his loopy mutterings aren't a manifestation of some constant worry you don't know about. It's normal to want to be a good partner. But Steve's own mention of bullshit is enough to make you unsure.

Is this what worries him? Are you not doing a good job at communicating back just how happy Steve makes you?

On the bed, Steve's eyes open again, seeking you out in languid, sleepy blinks. Upon finding you, he smiles. Well, you think he smiles.

What really happens is his face twitches and then he's making another drawn out owwww as he moves around his fresh wounds too much.

"Try not to move too much," You remind him. "It will keep making it ow, baby."

Despite what you've said, Steve continues to shift about—though you realise he's merely trying to inch closer to you. He's twisted a little, his shoulder curving towards you, but his head still laid flat.

"Can I 'it up?"

His speech is clearing up a bit, the words coming out better formed now. You nod at his request and shake off his grip on your thumb to hold his forearms, gently urging him up. It takes a moment, but he manages.

He's curved over like a shrimp, slumped and struggling to support himself.

You quickly stack the pillows behind him into more of a support and lead him to lean back against them. Steve lets you, gripping your forearms tightly as if he's afraid you'll drop him.

One settled, he releases his tight grip and gives another loud sigh. You're not fast enough to intercept his hand this time, Steve raising the back of it to wipe his mouth with.

It comes away with a smear of blood and saliva.

The volume of it must surprise Steve because he's dragging his hand back from his face, that same suspicious squint back on his face. He spots what he's wiped from his face and his eyebrows crease.

"Eeeew."

A giggle titters out of you. Steve is instantly distracted from his gross hand, his expression smoothing out as his head swings toward you.

"Hafta tell you somethin'," Steve says. His head sways a bit unsteadily as he thinks hard.

His groggy gaze draws down and up your face intently and you realise after a moment, he may have just checked you out.

"Yeah? What do you have to tell me?"

Steve nods as though he's the one who's spoken.

"Yea," He murmurs, then holds his hand up like he wants you to take it. It's the non-slobbered one, thankfully. You do take it, resuming the same soothing hold from earlier, this time intertwining your fingers.

Steve does another frog-blink, staring at your interlaced fingers. He drags his gaze up and slurps a bit as he inhales. "There waz... another lady here. But I tol' her. Tol' her."

He nods seriously, staring at you like he's waiting for you to nod along.

Your mouth twists into a poorly restrained smile. You wonder if he's talking about Marissa or if he's forgotten you were the other lady here earlier too.

"Told her what?"

"Tol' her," Steve repeats surely. He squeezes your hand and then shifts, not liking the intertwined fingers. He resumes his hold around your thumb. "I speaken."

Okay, you're getting a little bit better at decoding loopy Steve-speak, but this one? Lost on you.

You wiggle your thumb in his hold and furrow your brows a bit exaggeratedly so he can catch on that you don't quite understand.

"I," Steve slurs. He's moved his other hand up to jab himself in the chest, referring to himself — then he casts it in the direction of the door. "Taken."

It takes a moment, but his gesture is enough to clue you in. Another sugary, giddy wave singes your nerves. God, he's sweet.

You grin at him adoringly, leaning in to brush a piece of hair back from his face. Steve's skin is warm beneath your touch.

"You're told her you're spoken for, huh?" You coo softly, petting his hair back.

Steve preens at your understanding, managing a nod and a bright-eyed adoring gaze at you.

You run your hand over his hair again because he seems to like it and his eyes flutter under your sweet ministrations. His head nearly lolls back to dip into the pillow, but he catches it at the last moment.

"Yuh," He says absently. He nods again, focusing hard on meeting your eye. "Tol' her." He repeats again.

It seems it's very important to Steve that you know he would never ever think about cheating on you — even if it's with, well, you.

"Thank you, baby," You say, meaning it completely.

Steve smiles as much as he can, a sluggish half-motion that somehow makes him look even dopier. His eyes wander and he catches sight of the glob of blood and spit atop of his hand.

His eyes widen almost comically. He frowns worriedly and picks his hand up, holding it out in front of him, "Oughhh, wuh 'appened?"

The genuine concern in his words and his apparent very short-term memory makes it hard not to snort in amusement. Squeezing his hand again, you try to remain composed.

"Your wisdom teeth, remember? They took them out because they were hurting you."

"You're s' nice," Steve says, dropping his hand limply, the blood on it quickly forgotten. His fingers around your thumb tighten, giving another weak squeeze. "'M glad you're my girlfiend."

"I'm glad you're my boyfriend." You assure him sweetly.

"Yea?" Steve's gone back to that slow blink. He leans forward, shoulder hunched over, the whole motion seeming conspiratorial. He tries to whisper again. "Have'a 'nother secret."

Your brows raise. Another secret?

"Wanna tell me it?" You ask.

Steve nods sagely. He beckons you in closer with a limp wave of his hand, tugging slightly on your thumb. You lean in closer, unable to hide your grin at his antics.

"I," Steve pauses for a long, long moment. You watch as his eyes track back and forth sluggishly, very clearly trying to put his rapidly disappearing thoughts into order.

"I t'ink," He finally says, sounding more sure this time. "I lov' you. But shhhhhh. S'itsa secret."

Oh. Now, that is a secret. You and Steve have been dating for a while now, like you said it's serious, but not quite long enough to exchange any I love you's. Not just yet.

Only it's not really secret after all. You know.

You know in the same way you already know Steve's favourite perfume of yours and the way he likes his coffee in the morning. How he loves to hold your hand and doesn't ask, but loves it when you kiss him on the temple.

You've never asked. Enough time spent together and you just know these things.

Like how you love Steve and he loves you.

You grin brazenly, not even trying to stop it now.

"I'll keep your secret safe," You promise him. "Wanna hear one of my secrets? I love you too."

Steve clings to your hand preciously and his face takes on an expression which you can only describe as utterly starry-eyed. His hazel eyes, bright and less foggy now, stare at you owlishly. You'd give a handful of pennies to know what he's thinking right now.

"S'good," He finally says. Which makes you bark in laughter, as if he's saying glad that's settled.

"Yea' s'good." He inhales a big, slurping kind of breath and exhales. His shoulders sit a little more relaxed now and you wonder how long he's been waiting to tell you that.

You wonder more how he'll react when you tell him he spilled the beans while high out of his mind.

Then, just to spoil it — or sweeten it, depending on how you see it — he leans back over and whispers, "Wha's your name again?"

[kwazii-kat]

MAE! I have a request… <3 reader finds out Steve keeps Polaroids of her around different spots, like tucked in his wallet or the sun visor of his car or in his bathroom mirror

Thanks for requesting!

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 728 words

“You look like you just came from the movies,” you say. 

Steve turns his head to look at you over the top of his sunglasses. You grin. “I’ll have you know, these are Ray-Bans.” 

“Are you sure? Because they’re just like the ones they gave out for Jaws 3D.” 

Even with the dark lenses, you can sense your boyfriend rolling his eyes as he turns back to the road. “You’re just jealous because you didn’t bring any.” 

Caught. “If you were a gentleman, you’d give me yours.” 

“Sorry, baby. Driver needs to see the most.” 

“Fine,” you sigh, putting a bit of theatrics into it. You reach for the sun visor. “Don’t think I won’t remember this the next time you want a blanket at my place.” 

You flip the visor down, and a little plastic square flutters into your lap. You pick it up. 

“Hey,” says Steve, “that’s totally different. If you ran your heat, neither of us would need blankets. But if you want me to start bringing my own—” 

“Stevie.” 

“Oh, it’s Stevie now,” he mutters. 

You turn to him, holding up the picture. “When did you take this?” 

Steve glances away from the road for a second. “Oh. Don’t you remember? That was at the lake last summer.” 

You do remember, now. Steve’s no master photographer—the light refracts off the water, fuzzing the picture and obscuring parts of your face—but it’s clearly you. You’re standing waist-deep in the lake, clearly trying to splash Steve while cheesing into the camera. You remember the day, but not the moment. 

Steve brings that polaroid camera everywhere. You know where it is now, stowed in the glove box right against your knees. He takes pictures with it sometimes, but always stows them away immediately so they can develop somewhere dark. You haven’t ever thought to ask about them. Haven't seen one until now. 

“Why do you have this here?” you ask. 

“I just like to keep them where I can find them,” Steve says. “Hey, put that back when you’re done, will you?” 

You blink at him. “You mean there are more?” 

“Yeah, of course.” He looks at you again, eyebrows flicking up at the open curiosity in your expression. “You wanna see some?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Alright. Put that one back.” He shifts in his seat, reaching into his back pocket. “I don’t need any getting lost.” 

You feel your lips tilt bemusedly. “You keep them in random places, but you don’t want them to get lost?” 

Steve digs out his wallet. “Nothing random about it. There’s a system, okay?” You reach for the wallet, but he holds it away. “Put it back.” 

“Okay, okay.” You grin, stowing the polaroid back where you found it before grabbing for Steve’s wallet. The worn leather parts for you easily. “Oh.” 

There are a few pictures in here. You holding flowers at the farmer’s market, you decorating cupcakes, you on your bed at home. Some have you looking into the camera, others not. In all of them you look happy. You think that’s probably how you look most of the time when Steve’s with you. 

“Steve.” Affection aches in the back of your throat. “This is so sweet.”

“It’s nothing,” he says. When you look at your boyfriend, you can see the faint tinge of a blush beneath the frames of his sunglasses. 

You gather the pictures carefully in one hand, using the other to link your fingers through his. “Why did you keep all of these?” 

Steve makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “What, I’m not allowed to want to look at you? Why would I take them just to get rid of them?” 

“I don’t know.” Your voice softens. “I just didn’t know you had all these. It’s cute.” 

Steve grins. He glances over at you once, then again, leaning over for a quick kiss. 

“Hey!” you laugh. “Eyes on the road.” 

“You’re cute,” he says.

“Yeah, you must think so.” 

“Don’t go getting a big head.” Steve uses your joined hands to tug on your arm teasingly. You let it draw you closer to him, smitten.

“Too late for that. You’re like my own personal paparazzi. You know I’m gonna have to start taking a bunch of pictures of you too, now, right?” 

“I don’t think you have to.” 

“Oh, I definitely have to.”

[kwazii-kat]

fall right into me

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.

word count: 13.6k

warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!

a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)

𝜗𝜚

Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”

You’re not quite sure where to start.

Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.

The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.

You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

-

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

-

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

-

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

-

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

-

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

-

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

-

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

-

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

-

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

-

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

-

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

𝜗𝜚

thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3

[kwazii-kat]

too violent for tears | s.r.

in which you get a Secret Service agent assigned to you after receiving a threat against your life

who? spencer reid x fem!reader content: angst content warnings: death threats, jealous/protective!spencer, blood, guns, snipers, emetophobia warning, anxiety, trauma/shock. word count: 3.53k a/n: this was supposed to be like 1k, not sure what happened there.

You were tapping the toe of your shoe against the carpeted floor in the elevator, the fibers stomped down by FBI agents over the years. When the door dinged, Felix, your newly assigned Secret Service agent, nudged you behind him, leading the way out of the elevator and to the bullpen.

Giving a wave to the familiar face who held the door open to you, you and your escort quickly garnered the interest of the BAU. Members had started trickling out for the day, but the A-team was still around. The last to leave, as always.

Your boyfriend was flipping through a book when he glanced up to see you, his expression softening at your arrival but morphing into confusion when he noticed the well-dressed man who would under no circumstances let you walk in front of him. Instead, you followed him single file until you could lean up against Spencer’s desk. “Hey,” you greeted him casually, hoping he’d ignore the six-foot former football player standing in his midst.

He peered up at Felix, sizing him up before rising to his feet, “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m borrowing a member of the president’s goon squad,” you offered, half-heartedly trying to make a joke.

Shifting on your feet, you watched as the two men reached across the desk between them and shook hands. “Agent Felix Sheffield, United States Secret Service. I’ve been assigned to Miss Y/L/N’s detail for the foreseeable future.”

“Detail?” Spencer responded quizzically, raising a brow at you as if to say What the hell is he talking about?

Your shoulders slumped forward helplessly. “You didn’t answer your phone when I called,” you tried to explain yourself. In your defense, you’d called his cell three times before deciding to put it off.

Knowing Spencer, his cell was probably buried somewhere, covered by enough papers and pens to fully muffle the sound of your ringtone. “What is going on?” He asked, glaring at your assigned agent as if he was the enemy.

“So, I was checking my email this morning, and I found an email that made me laugh, so I showed it to my boss, and it turns out it’s a death threat, and they take that stuff seriously,” you told him, your voice fading to a whisper toward the end. Even with your hushed tone, you felt the eyes of every member of the BAU train on you. To your embarrassment, Hotch and Rossi were now peeking out of their respective offices, trying to see what was going on.

Spencer’s eyes shifted to you. “You showed a death threat to the White House Press Secretary because you thought it was a joke?”

“Actually, she showed it to the Chief of Staff,” Felix interjected, playing the devil’s advocate.

You frowned at the Secret Service agent. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

“I’m just supposed to keep you safe,” he clarified, nodding as if he was proud of himself. He smoothed out his suit jacket, fixing the button before he looked back to Spencer. “Don’t worry, I’ve got her.”

Spencer crossed his arms in front of his chest, straightening up and staring Felix down. “Well, you don’t need to stick with her while she’s here,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket so his firearm was visible.

Felix tilted his head to the side. “I have orders.”

You took a step back, wary of the turf war that was beginning—over you, no less. “Hey, guys—”

“I understand that,” your boyfriend interrupted, “but your UnSub isn’t going to get in here.”

The invading agent gave Spencer a dubious look. “No one armed has ever gotten in here when they weren’t supposed to?”

You cringed, recalling a few stories Spencer had told you about people in the bullpen, including an incident where the glass door needed to be replaced. “I’ll keep her safe,” Spencer assured him.

He didn’t like that answer. “My orders are not to leave her unless she’s safe inside her home.”

“And when I go to the bathroom, hopefully.” You tried to get yourself back into the conversation, but the two men had resorted to glaring at each other.

You glanced over your shoulder, sending a pleading look to JJ, but she didn’t seem any more ready to jump in than you were.

Mercifully, Felix’s phone rang just when you thought he was going to break. You took the opportunity to get closer to Spencer. “I thought you guys were seconds from breaking out the ruler.”

“What?” Spencer asked, furrowing his brows.

You shook your head. “Nothing. Hey, it’s just an email, but they have to take this stuff seriously. I was visible in a briefing today, and people had things to say.”

Spencer didn’t respond, waiting for you to elaborate on the content of the email you received.

Swallowing thickly, you shifted on your feet as you recalled the message that you would not soon forget. “I just… we made a statement about the NRA, and they took it personally. Sent some photos of a rifle and what they wanted to do to me,” self-consciously, you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. “People get, uh, creative,” you told him, though you were sure it wasn’t new information to him.

Spencer looked pale, but if he had any concerns, he didn’t voice them to you. He didn’t have time because once Felix was off the phone, he was back to torment him. “I definitely recognize you from somewhere,” he said, pointing at Spencer with his cell phone.

Hesitantly, you sat down on the edge of Spencer’s desk, his warm hand resting casually on your shoulder. “He scored the winning runs at the FBI-Secret Service game last year,” you said.

Felix’s smile dropped from his face, recalling the loss that had been personal to many on the opposing team. “Are you ready to go?”

To his chagrin, you ended up sticking around the BAU for another hour, waiting for Spencer to finish some paperwork before the Secret Service drove you home. You’d been warned against the metro. You’d been warned against most public places.

Ditching Felix at the front door, you were introduced to Caleb and Sally, who would be positioned at your front door and balcony, respectively. In an exhausted haze, you and Spencer ended up on the couch, pressing yourself against him so closely that you were practically sitting on his lap.

You were supposed to be reading; that’s what you usually did after dinner. Your book lay open in your hands while you stared at the jumble of letters on the pages, next to you, Spencer turned yet another page, keeping his place with his fingertips.

Nothing was making any sense to you; even the familiar leather of your couch felt foreign beneath your legs. Things like this were never supposed to happen to you. You were a low-level staffer in the White House, but the one time you end up on camera, it turns into a case.

Spencer turned another page, so invested in his book that he hadn’t noticed your bookmark was still in place.

Your eyes flickered to the balcony. Sally was facing the street, and you knew that Caleb was right outside the front door. Thumbing the worn corner of your book, you considered asking Spencer if you could just go to bed, but his eyes seemed so affixed to his book that you didn’t want to interrupt him. You didn’t want to go alone.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you tried to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything. People in the public eye received them all the time. If you ever wanted to further your career, you’d have to develop a thicker skin.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you repeated to yourself, shifting slightly on the couch. You moved away from Spencer, cheeks warming when he moved his placeholder hand to pull you back to him. Squeezing your thigh before returning his fingertips to the page he was on.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you leaned your head on Spencer’s shoulder, smiling despite yourself when he placed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You relaxed into him, looking back at your book when it happened.

A loud popping sound came from the street. You practically tossed your book in the air in panic, looking around for a place to hide while Spencer calmly set his book down on the side table. “Hey,” he said with no harshness in his tone. His voice was so gentle that it was almost a coo. “It’s okay,” he put his arms around you while you watched Sally talk into her radio, “It’s just a car backfiring.”

You tried to take a deep breath, air catching in your throat and leaving you to choke on nothing. You erupted in a fit of coughs, covering your mouth with your arm while Spencer rubbed your back.

“You’re safe in here,” he whispered, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “No one’s going to get in,” he reassured you, propping his chin on top of your head, enveloping you in him.

Feeling like a fool, you’d forgotten that your first line of defense was Spencer. He wasn’t going to let you get hurt. “I’m okay,” you muttered, keeping your eyes wide open when all you wanted to do was close them.

He hummed like he didn’t believe you, and he was right to think so. “It’s alright to be scared.”

You shook your head, pulling away from him and wiping a hand down your face. “I’m not; it’s just a guy with a sniper rifle,” you said your mantra out loud this time.

Spencer’s gaze narrowed at you. “Just a guy with a sniper rifle?” He was clearly bothered by your lackadaisical attitude toward your current set of circumstances, but letting him think you were indifferent was better than letting him know you were terrified. “You do know what sniper rifles do, right?”

His question was rhetorical, but that didn’t stop you from lifting your chin to respond, “They’re like giant party poppers.”

Relaxing his posture, you watched as recognition flashed in his eyes. You didn’t mind the fact that he was actively profiling you, so long as it meant he’d stop asking questions. You were afraid that with too many more questions, you’d break, and that was something you couldn’t afford right now.

So, he let you deflect, leading you into your shared bedroom with both hands, keeping your fingertips in his. You wondered, not for the first time that night, if asking to get his gun from the safe and leave it on the nightstand was too much.

Refraining, you laid down on the bed, sighing as Spencer dragged his hand up and down your spine, waiting for you to fall asleep before he considered it for himself.

“Really?” Felix asked, putting his hands on his hips while you crouched to tie the laces on your shoes for the nth time that day. “You’ve spent more time tying your shoes than we have walking,” he observed.

You hummed in response, “They keep getting untied.”

“Double knot them,” he suggested unhelpfully.

Rising to your feet, you took your coffee cup from the Secret Service agent and took a sip. “Then I wouldn’t be able to get them off. They’re new; the laces just need some grip.”

He didn’t look impressed with your explanation. “You should’ve worn different shoes then,” he chided you, turning around when you motioned for him to keep moving through Quantico.

Unfortunately, these were the only non-work shoes you owned, and they’d be easier to run in than any of your heels. That was, after all, the reason why you elected to wear them today. “Have you always been this way?” You asked begrudgingly, “Or have you been jaded by years on the job?”

“I’m not jaded; I’m just doing my job,” he responded, looking out warily for any sign of danger. Oddly enough, you felt safer here than you did at work; the presence of people you’ve known for years brought you comfort. It helped that your boss suggested you take a day off—a rarity in your line of work.

You stumbled slightly, a flash of light out of the corner of your eye disoriented your vision, exacerbated by your untied shoelace. “Wait,” you said to Felix, getting him to turn around and handing him your coffee again, but he refused to hold it, leaving you to set the cup on the pavement.

Crouching again to tie your shoe, you were pulling on the laces when you heard a sharp whistle. It’s only ever been described to you before, but you looked up from your shoes to see Felix just before he toppled over. You ducked out of the way of his body, frantically holding your hands over the fresh wound on his chest before you realized he wasn’t moving.

If you had been anywhere else, you would’ve been surrounded by chaos, but all around you were agents pulling their weapons from holsters and looking to the sky. You stood on shaky legs, allowing them to carry you to a corridor. You stumbled over your shoelace and rounded a brick column, gripping the cold stone as you hurled into the bushes, the distinct burn of coffee poisoning the foliage in front of you.

Dry heaving, you slid down the column, covering your hyperventilating chest with your palm and trying to listen to the cacophony of the world behind you. Everything was muffled, and your eyes had blurred despite the lack of tears in them—why couldn’t you cry? Someone had tried to kill you; you should be inconsolable. Instead, you were numb, so remarkably unfeeling that you might as well be dead. Your nose stung, and you moved your hands, the blood covering them had begun to dry, sticking a violent handprint over your heart.

You started to hear things, your name being called, familiar pet names thrown into the wind, but it all felt so far away. People were speaking in an entirely different universe than the one you were currently residing in. You tugged your skirt over your knees, your eyes pausing on the dried blood, encrusted between the ridges and fine lines of your hands. It was like you’d been through some sort of gruesome fingerprinting ritual.

Brown hair curtained in front of you; someone ducked their head behind your column, relief flooding her eyes as she knelt next to you. It took you a moment to recognize that Blake was speaking to you. “Huh?” Your voice felt like it was coming from someone else; a doppelganger sat on the concrete next to you.

She held her phone to her ear, inspecting your eyes as she talked on the phone. Her fingers pressed to your wrist, checking your heart rate. You weren’t sure if it was racing or slowing, you wanted to ask, but it felt as though your mouth had been filled with cotton.

You couldn’t get yourself to stand; the dexterity that you’d developed as an infant escaping you while you sat limply on the ground, flinching when footsteps seemed to shake the earth around you.

The golden eyes in front of you glowed in the sunlight, your cheeks cupped by familiar palms, forcibly pulling you out of whatever hell you’d buried yourself in. The world seemed to move very fast before it completely stopped, your head lolling to the side for a moment before Spencer righted it for you.

You didn’t remember much of the interim, and somehow, you’d ended up on a bench. Spencer was on the ground in front of you, gingerly cleaning debris from scrapes on your knees before bandaging them.  

“Do you guys need anything?” JJ stopped by to ask. You knew everyone was trying to keep their distance from you, giving you space to breathe. Rossi draped a blanket over your shoulders in silence.

Placing a gentle kiss on your knee, Spencer looked up at you before responding, “Could you try to find a water? Or juice, something cold.”

The blonde nodded, giving you a concerned look before walking back into the building, taking Penelope with her. The technical analyst had come out after the all clear was declared; everyone wanted to check in on you. Even Matt Cruz was out, over by an ambulance talking with Hotch and some agents that the Secret Service had sent out.

You took off your shoes, sock-covered feet touching the concrete in an attempt to ground yourself while Spencer tried to take one of your hands in his. You had a death grip on the bench beneath you, and he peeled your fingers off of the metal one by one so he could start to wipe off the dried blood. “He said he always had to be in front of me,” you spoke, your voice nothing more than a mumble, but Spencer had years of practice decoding it.

“That’s protocol,” he reminded you softly. Of course, you knew that. Somewhere in your trauma-addled mind were the rules that the Secret Service had presented you.

You pursed your lips, “But if he’d—”

“Honey, you’ll drive yourself crazy if you try to think of what could’ve been different,” he told you. A sharpness emerged in his voice, one you only heard when he was worried about you.

When your instinct was to run, you hadn’t thought what it would be like for Spencer to run outside and find your protection dead and you missing. He hadn’t yet had the opportunity to read the initial email, but he’d likely figured enough to know that the person who was after you had no interest in keeping you alive. “I didn’t…” You gasped, “I wasn’t…”

Spencer’s face fell, pulling himself up so he was sitting next to you on the bench. “Hey, it’s okay,” he hummed. “Just breathe, I’ve got you.”

You looked around frantically. “Did they get the shooter?”

He nodded. “You’re completely safe.”

Behind him, Felix’s body remained under a sheet, preventing anyone from taking photos, but outside of the cover, you could see his blood. It had seeped out of his body, mixing on the concrete with the coffee you had knocked over during your escape. When Spencer reminded you not to look, you went back to watching him meticulously clean your hands. “I threw up,” you told him, why you felt it was pertinent, you weren’t entirely sure, but you told him anyway.

“That’s okay,” he reassured you. “It’s a manifestation of stress when you go into fight-or-flight.” He didn’t add the fact that you hadn’t consumed anything other than coffee, which likely didn’t help your nervous stomach.

Confused, you frowned at him. “I didn’t fight.” You corrected him, “I ran.”

He paused for a moment, squeezing your hand even though feeling hadn’t returned to your extremities, “You told me you tried to help Felix before you hid, and that’s a fight in and of itself.”

“I did?” You asked, not remembering that prior conversation.

Spencer was solemn in front of you. “You’re in shock,” he observed as if your question had been the final clarification he needed to diagnose you.

You shook your head. “I’m not bleeding.” Though, looking at all of the blood that had gotten on your clothes, it would be easy to make that assumption.

“Emotional shock, baby,” he reminded you gently. “That’s why you can’t feel your hands,” he said.

The memory of telling him you couldn’t feel your hands evaded you, trying to think of the moment you’d told him you were numb, but nothing rose to the surface. You couldn’t even remember the moment your hearing had returned; at some point while Spencer and Morgan helped you walk to the bench, you thought. “My head hurts,” you murmured, shifting uncomfortably on the bench.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you hit it when you fell?”

“I don’t remember,” you admitted. You didn’t even remember falling until Blake had brought Spencer bandages for your knees.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer set down the damp towel he had been using and looked at your eyes, probably checking your pupils before he carefully wrapped his arms around you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck while he spoke to you gently, “I’ll keep an eye on it. You don’t have to worry about anything, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

You hiccupped back a sob, moving your face to allow for easier breathing. Tears seared your lash line before you finally blinked them out, quiet cries muffled by Spencer’s shoulder as your body finally felt the release it had been seeking.

“Oh, honey,” Spencer cooed, pulling you closer to him. He didn’t care about who was watching; he only worried about being there for you. “I’ve got you.”

His words rang in your ears as you sobbed, your trembling arms reaching around him, pins and needles striking your fingers as you gathered the fabric of his jacket in your hands. Oddly enough, a sigh of relief escaped your lips.

[kwazii-kat]

im the bravest ever

[kwazii-kat]

oh my god…. MY SHAYLA

[kwazii-kat]

Don't Fall for this scam.

Transgender community, please please please do NOT use this product! It will kill you if used, please do not use it whatsoever.

Please reblog and spread the word

[kwazii-kat]

Reminder for when he “saves” it. He was the one who wanted this, and now he gets to be the hero and win favour with young constituents. Don’t give him the credit for fixing his own problem.

[kwazii-kat]

Hi 👋, My name is Mohammad, and I’m reaching out in a moment of desperate need. I’m a father of three young children living in Gaza, and we are caught in the midst of a catastrophic war. Our home is no longer a safe haven, and the future here seems increasingly uncertain. 💔

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If anyone is able to, consider donating!

[kwazii-kat]

PSA! you don't have to have smut in your fic to make it good.

[kwazii-kat]

[kwazii-kat]

Blood Root (Daryl Dixon x Reader)

summary: bonding with daryl over your cooking

note: another @caseylicious request!! this quite a while in the making and i hope you enjoy, even if it did take forever!! also highkey recommend MF DOOMs special herbs albums because i listened to them on loop while writing this

WC: 3.7k

--

Since the start of the camp at the Quarry, you had the job of cooking and making food to go around. You volunteered to do it and loved it, not to mention it made things feel somewhat normal. But, with supplies running low and resources scarce, it got hard to make things for everyone. 

It seemed meat was always in stock; thanks to the Dixons’ hunting and the Harrisons’ fishing, you never really had to worry about losing that. But spices and herbs were difficult to come by, with only a few of you knowing how to identify herbs. Not to mention, spices aren’t a priority when it comes to necessity runs. It was disheartening you had to admit. All you wanted to do was make appetizing food, or at least something better than cooked, unseasoned rabbit. 

Doing research on herbs and plants before the fall through books and such, you knew how to pick out edible plants, including fungus like mushrooms too. With that came the knowledge of harvesting and cooking, which was your favorite part no doubt. But going out into the woods was a difficult task, not because of the potential danger but because you were always needed elsewhere on camp. 

Finding herbs was tough in general, a lot of them blending in with the other plants in the woods. Luckily, mushrooms came easy with how they stuck out like sore thumbs against the green grass and dark trees. The trick was knowing what was edible and what was toxic. Everyone was always skeptical about the mushrooms, not wanting to run the risk of getting sick. Thankfully, Shane could vouch for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bitter that no one took your word for it. But you couldn’t dwell. 

And now you’re here, stressing about the low stock of your cooking supplies and ingredients. A lot of the group was out on a run, meaning you had to pick up the slack when you weren’t cooking. Ultimately meaning you couldn’t go out and look for ingredients yourself, which upset you even more. Sitting with the thoughts racing in your head, making attempts to think of a way to get the things you needed. 

An idea soon struck, and it was honestly a shot in the dark. But it could never hurt to at least ask. 

Daryl Dixon was an expert in those woods, and thankfully the mushrooms you needed were located there. The shaggy mane mushrooms ironically sprout on game land trails, and the oyster mushrooms on fallen trees. It was almost perfect, but the hard part was getting Daryl on board. 

The Dixon’s were loners, and it was respected for the most part. They both had tempers, Daryl being more explosive than Merle. Merle had his moments too, but he was more condescending and somehow irrational than his brother. It was common for everyone to avoid them so as to not piss them off and risk an explosion. And maybe you were risking getting a bad reaction from the younger Dixon, but you couldn’t care at that moment. Desperate to restock the makeshift inventory you had, you would try anything. 

Scanning over the camp to find Daryl, you managed to spot him talking to Shane about the hunt he was about to go on. Bingo. 

When the conversation ended between them, you bolted over to Daryl. Projecting a loud “Hey,” in which he didn’t hesitate to turn around and look at you. Catching up with him, you stopped and caught your breath before cutting to the chase. “I wanted to ask if you could grab some mushrooms while on your hunt? If you see them of course.” Handing him a piece of paper, it had attempted drawings the mushrooms you needed as well as small important details to pick them out. Getting nervous, you attempted to explain yourself, “I would go out myself but with a bunch of people out, Shane has me running around this place like crazy.” What you said was followed by a nervous laugh, watching Daryl as he gave an intense side-eye to Shane. 

Taking the paper from your hands, he looked over it and nodded, “I’ll see wha’ I can get.” Nodding back you handed him a small container, “In case you find them.” Taking the container he offered you a respectful nod before walking off and disappearing the blur of the woods. 

The days dragged on while he was gone, getting antsy to see if he found anything out there. So many bland meals have come and gone, feeling helpless and upset with yourself you couldn’t do better for the group. Amongst all the thoughts, part of you had to wonder if Daryl had even done what you asked in the first place. What if he just said he would get you off his back? What if he actually didn’t find anything? All you could do was wait and dwell on those intrusive “what if” thoughts. 

Right as you started to get lost in your brain, the archer emerged from the woods, a bunch of squirrels roped around his body. Trying to focus on cleaning from that night's dinner, all you did was hope he would make his round toward you. And luckily he did, as soon as you looked back to spot him, he was coming toward you with his bag. 

Glancing at him, you muttered a fast greeting before he placed his bag on the ground and reached into it. “Found the shrooms, got some herbs too. Remember ya talkin’ to Carol about ‘em.” Daryl handed you the container full of the mushrooms and well as a dry rag that held the herbs. Your mouth was agape, in shock he did this for you. Blinking rapidly, you mustered out a speedy “thank you.” Maybe you didn’t show it, but you were ecstatic. 

Dinner the following day was much better than you anticipated. It made you feel like yourself again, the food wasn’t five star quality but you did it. You made it, and the compliments from the group added to your radiant joy. There was one thing that damped your spirits though.

And that was Daryl not coming to dinner. Him and Merle never ate with the rest of the group, usually just grabbing food and leaving, tonight was different. He didn’t come over at all. With Merle being out with the run group, he was all alone. Peeking over at him, Daryl just sat at his spot working on something you couldn’t really see. Unsure if he ate something, you made the choice to prepare a small portion of what you made for the group for him. 

Considering he was nice enough to go out and help find the ingredients, he deserved to try some. And you were going to make it happen. Approaching his space, you stood there for a minute, unsure if you should disturb him or not. It didn’t take Daryl long to notice your presence, stopping what he was doing to look up at you. No words were spoken, just simply handing him the bowl. And he ended up taking it, investigating what exactly was in there. 

Taking in a breath, you finally spoke, “You didn’t come to dinner, didn’t know if you ate or not.” Crossing your arms, you watched as Daryl nodded along and took a quick bite. “Good, it's good.” Daryl's words surprised you, even if they were muffled by the food in his mouth. “Oh, thanks.” Pausing for a minute, you continued to sneak glances while he ate. “Want more?” And by the time you asked, he was a few more bites in, perking up at the question. “Got more?” Nodding, you grabbed the bowl from him and took it to grab him more food. 

As you walked away you smiled fondly to yourself, absolutely thrilled you made the most stubborn person in the group at least a little bit happy. He may not have had a ‘happy’ expression, but you could feel the energy off of him. 

And from that point on, the relationship you had with Daryl bloomed into something more. A sort of friendship, but you weren’t entirely sure if he would’ve agreed with that. 

Nonetheless, since that day at the Quarry, you had grown accustomed to talking to Daryl about random recipes you had made in the past. Or showed him beat-up cookbooks you’d found. Just going on and on about what you could do if you had the ingredients. 

And like clockwork, Daryl magically found an ingredient or two that you talked about on a run. It would always make your day, knowing he was thinking of you and about what you talked about while out there. And without a doubt the dinners were always better. 

Hence, the dinner routine started. Daryl always got to try what you made first, your way of showing gratitude to him. He’d always take what you handed him, sometimes begrudgingly. To him, it felt like you were sort of “babying” him. Also known as, feeding him decent food. 

He tried to act all stubborn and tough, but all the walls came down the minute he tried what you made. More times than not, he would be right over as soon as the group started eating. 

After arriving at the prison, soon came the new opportunities with an almost gated off “community” you all had created. The change was good. Even if it was stressful to get used to at first. As the days went on, the more and more improvements you had made. And the more people that joined. One of the improvements was livestock and gardens. With the help of Hershel and Rick, maintaining both of them was easy and rewarding. 

Meals got better too, suddenly having so much more food and ingredients at your disposal to mess around with. And with that, came Daryl too. 

The so-called dinner routine that had been created between the two of you blossomed to something more than you letting him try the food. Once everybody’s routines got solidified, so did the time for meals. With that came Daryl always somehow being around and getting first plate was given out. 

It was adorable, you had to admit that. Daryl would never outright say it was because he enjoyed your cooking. But all of the signs were there, not to mention he’d try and play it cool every time he stuck around while you cooked. The nonchalant act he was putting out didn’t work on you at all. Not even for a single second. 

“You can just say you like my cooking, you don’t have to race for first plate everyday to show it.” Shooting him a cocky look, he just scoffed in response. “Not tha’. Jus’ got nothin’ better to do,” as you worked you sneaked fast glances at him, a smirk just on your face. 

“Really? Everyday, you have nothing better to do?” Daryl just gave you a “Please shut up” look, which caused you to eventually drop the subject. But an indescribable joy filled your heart every time you saw him waiting, even if he was so stubborn about it.

As the weeks went past, the relationship you had with Daryl grew. It sprouted into something so much more than what you would have ever thought. Amidst all the times he’s helped find ingredients or hang around you while you worked, a new feeling ignited in your chest.  You liked him, and it was a feeling you really couldn’t deny any longer. 

So, you did something about it. A feeling within you told you he felt the same, but the man was so hard to read that you were unsure. And With all the confidence you could muster, you asked him out before dinner one day. A ping of nervousness was there, thinking you misread the signs he was giving. Thankfully thought, you were right. The relationship the both of you had basically remained the same, but with more touches and kissing now. It made you happy, and it made him happy.  

Somehow within all the moments of disappointment and sorrow, you finally had something amazing. Something you never thought you would be able to have.

But like all good things come, they also go. For once you wished everyone would stay the same, thankful for the change you had. but now the prison was gone, and now you all were on the road. After being separated and being held at Terminus, everyone had changed. In one way or another. 

To you, Daryl’s was the most notable, especially after Beth. He was always stubborn, but it wasn’t like him to be so closed off and quiet. The going off by himself worried you as well, but he never wanted you to go with him. Not wanting you to see him in such a way. 

Just as everything seemed to get worse, a man named Aaron came along. Speaking of a community called “Alexandria”. It sounded too good to be true and no one believed it was true. 

No amount of pictures or “brochures” could convince the group otherwise. But Aaron was a man of his word it seemed, ultimately taking you to Alexandria to show you the real thing. 

It was a dream, you swore you had to be imagining the whole thing. Sure you had running water in the prison, and you had other “normal” things. But electricity and hot water was something you never thought could be possible again. And here it was. 

After the interviews, all of you were accepted. Getting jobs or “earning your keep” as they say. Even getting offered a home, which Aaron was kind enough to show you to.

Finally stepping into the new home, it felt even more unreal. Looking around you weren’t sure how to exactly feel about it. Aaron bashfully followed you in, Daryl sicking outside with his crossbow. Aaron slowly inched his way to be up beside you. Looking at him you gestured toward the kitchen. “You weren’t shitting us right? All of this works?” as you spoke you pointed at the oven and stove. Aaron laughed as he crossed his arms, “Take a look for yourself.”  Raising an eyebrow, you did what he said. And to your surprise, it did work. 

“Holy shit?” Aaron laughed at your amazed tone, causing you to laugh with him. “This whole place is for you and Daryl, if he ever comes inside that is,” peeking at Daryl outside you could barely see the top of his head as he sat on the deck. Shaking your head, you muttered a quick thank you before following Aaron outside. 

“There's a welcome party at Deanna’s tonight, all of you are invited. If you want to go,” looking at Daryl, you could see in his face that it was a hard ‘no’ from him. “Think we’ll just stay in, adjust to everything you know,” Aaron nodded in agreement. “I understand, but Daryl,” his head shot up as Aaron addressed him directly. “Stop over at my house at some point, have something to ask and show you,” you could see Daryl’s blank stare as Aaron spoke to him. And as if on cue, Aaron quickly made his leave, waving a goodbye before walking off to his home. 

Walking over to Daryl, you made your place right beside him. Sitting there in silence, you rested your head on his shoulder causing him to wrap an arm around you and pause working. Bringing your hand up, you captured his hand in yours. 

“I know this isn’t what you want, but I think this could be good,” you whispered quietly, causing Daryl to let out a breath. “Judith needs a roof, so does everyone else,” he couldn’t even look at you, almost ashamed. “What about you?” shaking his head, he finally looked at you. “Don’ know,” wrapping your arms around him, you let him bury his face in your neck. Letting your hand play with his hair, you began to speak again. “You should go in the house, get cleaned up. I’ll run to the pantry and I’ll make us dinner,” he grunted quietly but obliged. Placing a kiss on your head and letting himself into the home. Waiting a few minutes, you eventually got up and made your way to the pantry. 

Walking through the streets of Alexandria, it felt peaceful, like nothing can hurt you anymore. It felt silly to think such things, but maybe this place was the safe shelter you’d always strived to have. This was your fresh start. 

Once grabbing everything you needed for your dinner, without any delay you made your way back to the house. Ready to relax after days on the road. 

Entering the home the sound of running water filled your ears, signaling Daryl was in there. Smiling fondly to yourself you walked to the kitchen, ready to start dinner. Just deciding to make plain spaghetti, it was easy and something you haven’t had since the fall. Plus it was romantic in a way, or at least it was considered that in your opinion. 

Cooking up the sauce and meat, you let them simmer together while you start the noodles. Putting on the pot and letting the water boil, and while waiting you lifted yourself up on the counter and sat there. 

Sitting there for a few minutes, Daryl emerged from the hall. His hair was still wet, but he was cleaner and had a fresh set of clothes on. A gleeful smile painted your face as he walked toward you, standing still beside you. 

“Whatcha makin’” his gruff voice broke the silence, him shyly looking up at you. “Just some spaghetti, change of pace from stew and jerky,” you laughed as you spoke, even getting a chuckle out of him. Reaching your hand over to his hair, you ran your fingers through it. “How are you feeling?” 

You could see Daryl biting the inside of his cheek before responding, “Fine, don’ worry 'bout me.” Not wanting to start a bigger conversation he didn’t want to have, you dropped it. Much to your own dismay though.  

As if saved by the bell, the water had started boiling. Hopping off the counter, you placed the pasta in the pot and letting it cook. Daryl remained in his place, watching you work. 

After about a few minutes, you fished out a noodle and rinsed it off so it was cold. Putting it in your hand, he looked at you confused. “Wanna try it? See if it's done?” still holding the noodle, he went to grab it and swiftly ate it. He looked unsure and all you could do was giggle at his demeanor, “Never taste tested a noodle?” Shaking his head with a “no” your face subtly dropped, but you didn't let it ruin the moment. 

“You know, if you throw it at the wall and it sticks. Means it’s done,” getting out another noodle and washing it off, he took it from your hands. Raising his eyebrow looking at you, he threw it at the nearest wall. 

“They’re done,” he pointed at the noodle stuck on the wall. Giggling softly, you made quick work of straining the noodles and mixing them with the sauce. You took the pan with the spaghetti and set it on the table, towel under it so as to not burn the table. Daryl took it upon himself to set the table with plates and silverware, before you could even think about it. 

Both of you sat down at the table across from each other, sitting there for a moment you gestured for Daryl to take his portion first. “Shouldn’t ya? Ya made it,” pointing at him, you quickly shut him up. “That’s exactly why you get the first plate. Now, eat,” Daryl put his hands up in a surrendering motion before making his plate. As soon as he was done you got yours, prompting you to both start enjoying your dinner. 

It was silent, almost a little too silent for you. Daryl’s expression was one that signaled to you that he was thinking about something. Staring at your plate, you waited for Daryl to finish eating before you asked anything. It definitely looked like something was wrong or at least bothering him. And you were tired of waiting. 

By the time he was finished eating, he had noticed you staring. His hand waving in front of your head caused you to look at him, a questioning look on his face. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself to speak.

“Daryl, tell me what's on your mind,” instantly freezing, he looked down at the cloth napkin on his legs. Obviously debating with himself on what he should say. “Jus’, thinkin’ about us,” setting down your fork, you took your hand in his. “What about us?” 

Daryl cleared his throat, stalling, still looking down. “No one’s ever done anythin’ like this for me before. Don’ know wha’ I did to deserve it,” his voice was quiet. Looking at him softly, your thumb rubbed his hand, drawing soft shapes into it. Staying quiet, he continued to speak. Just opening up to you at that moment. 

“When mom died, Merle took over cookin’. It was never like this, it’s why I liked ya so much back then.” Looking at his face, the tears in his eyes were obvious. The memories from his childhood were painful, it was a known fact between the both of you. It was rare for him to be so open like this. But it meant he felt safe. 

Bringing up the hand you weren’t holding, he wiped off his face. Sniffling in the process, he apologized for how he was acting, almost ashamed. Reassuring him it was fine, you stood up and hugged him from behind. Planting a soft kiss on his head, and after staying like that for a minute, the both of you separated. 

As you walked away you rubbed his back, picking up the dirty dishes in the process. He was quick to follow you, wanting to help with the cleanup. You almost protested, wanting to tell him you could do it, but he was already washing the dishes. As you watched him, the thought of the change in him creeped into your mind. You knew you might never fully know what was going on with him, and that was his choice, but today was a step forward. And you were thankful for that. 

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Maybelle Elizabeth Colter AKA “Black Belle” from Red Dead Redemption 2

Probably my favorite side character in the game, gonna try and draw some of the others too. Suggestions are welcome!

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The sillies

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are they REAL?

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Just finished Arthur’s Chapter in #RDR2 . Not sure what life is anymore

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face me towards the west