#Stranger things fic

[randomsuggesteduseername]

So you’re telling ME…that after Steve got a job he hated at Scoops Ahoy, his college dream completely unattainable, no future in sight… he went out and bought a pair of blue Adidas Spezials to match his cute little sailor uniform?

that he put in the effort to make sure he’s matching from head to toe? I’m sorry but that’s so cute and completely something he would do…

like, never mind the fact that he absolutely loathes the job and that he’s mostly forced to attend it… he had to make sure he looked good doing it!

….

excuse me while i think about it for a while…

(thank you costume crew for that little detail so i can make up scenarios about Stevie shoe shopping with his uniform in hand, looking for what would match it best)

[bumblebeeswrite]

how about

“I’m too tired to fight anymore” with Eddie 🥹🥹

Static & Silence | Eddie Munson

summary: you’re left behind in Hawkins while Eddie lives his dream.

Word count: 2,956

CW: smut, angst, burn out, emotional exhaustion, relationship strain, fame, physical distance, hurt/comfort, loneliness, anxiety, breakdown

this has been done a hundred times before but enjoy anyway, also hated the bottom half of this but spent hours on it so enjoy 🎉😭

Hawkins felt suffocatingly quiet tonight. Not the eerie quiet of past dangers, but the hollow silence left by absence. Your shared apartment- the one you'd finally been able to afford after Corroded Coffin's advance came through, the one that was supposed to be your haven- felt cavernously empty without Eddie. His spare guitars leaned silent in the corner, his collection of horror movie posters seemed to mock you from the walls, even his perpetually messy pile of D&D manuals felt like a monument to life pausing while he was gone.

Eight months. Eight months since the band had exploded, and eight months of him living out of a tour bus and cheap hotels, chasing the dream across state lines while you stayed here, tethered to the life you'd built together, now feeling frayed at the edges.

You glanced at the clock on the microwave. 11:17 pm. Which meant it was.. what? 9:17 in Denver? Maybe 8:17 if they were further west already. Keeping track of the time zones had become a dizzying chore. He was supposed to call after their soundcheck, before the show tonight. That had been three hours ago.

Your stomach twisted with a familiar knot of anxiety and resentment you hated feeling. You were proud of him, fiercely proud. Seeing videos from fans posted online of him commanding stages, unleashing that wild, magnetic energy that you adored- it filled you with so much joy. But the joy was increasingly replaced with the sharp ache of loneliness and the frustrating static of disconnection.

Phone calls were rushed, often interrupted by roadies shouting or his manager needing something. Conversations felt like navigating a minefield of exhaustion on his end and carefully suppressed neediness on yours. You tried to be understanding, you really did. This was everything he ever wanted. But god, you missed him. You missed the easy intimacy, the shared jokes, the feeling of his hand instinctively finding yours in the dark. You missed Eddie, not the increasingly distant rockstar whose voice sometimes sounded like a stranger's over the crackling long distance line.

The phone finally rang, startling you out of your melancholy moment. You snatched it up before the second ring finished. "Eddie?"

"Hey," his voice came through, rougher than usually, muffled slightly by a low thrum of background noise; muffled music, indistinct chatter. He sounded far away, not just geographically.

"Hey," you replied, trying to keep your tone light, pushing down the 'three hours late' comment bubbling forward on your tongue. "How was the soundcheck?"

"Loud," he said, a familiar tired refrain. "Fine. Whatever. Guitars sounded okay."

There was a pause. Usually, he'd launch into some crazy story, some complaint about the venue's acoustics or a joke about Gareth's latest mishap. Tonight, just.. static. Figurative and almost literal.

"You okay?" you ventured, the question feeling fragile. "You sound.. wiped."

A heavy sigh crackled through the line. "Yeah. Just. Long day. Long week. Long fucking month." He didn't elaborate.

"Did you eat anything?" You asked, falling back on caretaker questions because you didn't know what else to say.

"Uh, yeah. Think so. Some pizza backstage. Cold." Another pause. Then, "How's, uh.. how's Hawkins?"

The question felt obligatory. "Quiet," you said, the word tasting bitter. "Same old. Steve swung by yesterday, asked if you'd beamed back from outer space yet." You tried for a lighthearted tone, hoping for a chuckle, some spark of the old Eddie.

Instead, he grunted. "Right."

Frustration finally won over, hot and sharp. "Eddie, what's going on? You sound like you're on another planet. You were supposed to call hours ago. Are you even listening to me?"

"Jesus, what do you want?" He snapped, the sudden anger in his voice making you recoil a few inches from the phone. "I'm calling now, aren't I? I'm fucking trying. There was some shit with the lighting rig and Jeff needed to go over the setlist changes again, and I had to do some bullshit local radio interview that ran late. Sorry if my entire goddamn life doesn't revolve around Hawkins time anymore!"

"This isn't about time zones!" You retorted, tears stinging your eyes unexpectedly. Damn, you had tried not to cry. "It's about us! It feels like we're drifting apart, Teddie! Like I'm just some.. optional part of your life you check in with when it pleases you to remember I exist!"

"Optional?" His voice rose, laced with disbelief and hurt. "Are you kidding me? Everything I'm doing here, busting my balls day in and day out, dealing with all this insane pressure- you think that's optional? This is for us, fuck! I told you that! So maybe you could try being a little fucking supportive instead of making me feel worse than I already do!"

"Supportive? I am supportive!" You cried, the tears finally springing free and dripping down your cheeks. "I'm here, holding down our life while you're gone! I cheer you on from thousands of miles away! I listen to you vent about the band and the stress! But what about me, Teddie? What about how lonely it is here without you? What about the fact that I feel like I'm talking to a ghost half the time?"

There was a heavy silence on the line, broken only by the background noise on his end and your own choked breaths. You could picture him perfectly, running a hand violently through his hair, pacing whatever cramped backstage room he was in, jaw tight, eyes flashing with anger and exhaustion.

When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly flat. Devoid of anger, devoid of energy.. just empty.

"I can't do this."

Your blood ran cold. "Do what? What are you saying?"

"This," He clarified, his voice barely a whisper. "This.. fighting. Constantly feeling like I'm failing. Failing the band, failing you. Trying to bridge this fucking distance all the time. Trying to make things okay when they're clearly not." He took a ragged breath, and the next words shattered the remaining piece of your composure.

"I'm too tired to fight anymore."

It wasn't a threat to end things. It was a confession of depletion. A white flag waved not in surrender of the relationship, but in surrender to the crushing weight of trying to maintain it across miles while drowning in the demands of his new reality. He sounded broken. Utterly and terrifying.

The anger drained out of you instantly, replaced by a wave of cold dread and empathy. This wasn't your rockstar boyfriend being neglectful; this was the man you loved buckling under an impossible strain, feeling isolated despite being surrounded by noise and people, and convinced he was failing the one person who mattered most.

"Eddie.." you whispered, your own voice trembling. "Oh, honey.. no. Don't say that."

A choked sound came through the phone, something painfully close to a sob. "It's true." I'm so tired. I miss you so fucking much it physically hurts. But then I call and I'm exhausted or distracted, or I say the wrong thing, and we end up fighting. And I.. I just can't keep doing it. I feel like I'm screwing everything up."

"You're not screwing anything up." You insisted, sinking onto the floor, leaning against the cabinets, clutching onto the phone like a lifeline, like you could somehow summon him out of it by holding it tight enough.

"You're just.. overwhelmed. You're burning out, Eds. This pace is insane."

"Then what's the point?" He asked, the question raw with despair. "What's the point of chasing this dream if it costs me.. this? Us?"

"Hey," you said softly but firmly, forcing what little strength you had left into your voice. "Don't talk like that. We're stronger than this. You're stronger than this. We just.. we need to figure it out. Together." You paused, taking a deep breath, the frantic energy of worry settling into your chest.

"Okay- look, what if-.. I can take some time off work. Maybe try and fly out next week-. Where are you playing next?"

"What?" He sounded stunned. "No! You can't just-"

"Yes, I can." You interrupted gently. "Let me come see you. Just for a few days. We need to see each other. Properly. Not like this."

There was a long pause on the line, filled only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. "You'd really do that?" He asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

"In a heartbeat." you promised. "Just tell me where to go."

He told you- Salt Lake City, six days from now. The relief in his voice was obvious, a tiny flicker of light in the oppressive darkness that was now his life. You talked for a little longer, the conversation softer now, navigating the logistics, the earlier anger replaced by a fragile tenderness. He had to go- the call for stage time was approaching. But the goodbye wasn't strained this time, it held a promise.

Six days later, you were standing nervously outside a non-descript hotel near the Salt Lake City airport, your small duffel bag at your feet. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Seeing him walk out of the automatic doors, looking even more tired in the harsh daylight than he sounded over the phone, made your breath catch.

He stopped dead when he saw you, his eyes widening slightly, as if he couldn't believe you were real and not a figment of his imagination. He hadn't changed much- ripped jeans, band shirt under his own denim vest, messy hair tied back loosely behind his ears. But the exhaustion was carved into his features, deep lines around his eyes and mouth.

Eddie didn't say anything. He just started moving, covering the distance between you in a few long strides, and then you were wrapped in his arms, crushing you against him with a force that spoke everything that words never could. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling that familiar sent of peppermint gum and cigarette smoke. He tangled one hand in your hair, holding your head against him, while the other arm banded around your waist like steel, holding you as though he was afraid you would float away.

"You came," he murmured into your hair, voice cracking slightly.

"Told you I would." you mumbled back against his shirt.

He held you there for a long moment, just breathing each other in, taking time to finally understand there were no longer thousands of miles between you. When he finally pulled back, his hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his brown eyes roaming your face with a tenderness you'd almost forgotten entirely.

"God, I missed you." he whispered, swallowing down a small cry.

"I missed you too." You replied, leaning into his touch, pressing a soft kiss to the palm of his hand.

He didn't let go, just steered you into the hotel, through the bland lobby, and into the elevator, his arm secured around you the entire time.

The silence wasn't awkward; it was heavy with emotion, with the sheer relief of physical presence after months of strained phone called and lonely nights.

Inside his equally bland hotel room, clothes spilling out of a suitcase, guitar case leaning against the wall, room service tray from breakfast still on the desk- the closed the door and turned to you. Now there was an intensity to his gaze. But this time it wasn't frustration or tiredness. It was need. Undisguised need.

He stepped closer, framing your face with his hands again. "This," he said, his voice low and rough. "You, here. This is what I needed. What we needed."

And then he kissed you. It wasn't hesitant like your first reunion kiss might have been under other circumstances. It was deep and hungry, almost desperate- a kiss that poured out all the loneliness, the frustration, the fear, and the overwhelming relief of finally being together again. You responded with equal hunger, your arms looping around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer, trying to erase every mile that had ever separated you.

His mouth slanted over yours, tongues tangling in a dance you had craved for months; both comfortable and electric. His hands slid down your back, one mapping the curve of your spine while the other dipped lower, pulling your hips flush against his.

Clothes started coming off, shed with an urgency born not just of lust, but of a need to eliminate every barrier between you. Buttons were fumbled with quiet laughter, zippers lowered hastily, fabrics pooling around your feet on the generic hotel carpet. The cold air hit your skin, but the heat radiating from Eddie, the fire in his eyes as he looked at you, it was enough to have you flushed.

He backed you towards the bed, his gaze locked with yours, never breaking eye contact. He lowered you onto the mattress- thankfully less lumpy than you had expected, and followed you down, his body covering yours, a warm and solid weight that felt like coming home.

"Eddie," you breathed, reaching up to undo the hair tie that kept his hair behind his head. It fell down over your fingers, and you tangled them in it to pull his face back down to yours.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense. His hand moved between your legs, fingers finding your heat through the thin barrier of your underwear. You gasped as he began to rub gentle circles over your clit through the material, the friction sending shockwaves through you after so long without him. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips.

He broke the kiss, trailing we and open mouthed kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, murmuring your name like a prayer. "Need you, pretty girl," he rasped against your skin. "Need this. Need us."

He was quick to pull off the underwear separating you. His finger immediately finding your slick folds, slipping inside you easily. You whined against his shoulder, the sudden intimacy almost overwhelming after so much time apart. He moved his fingers with a knowing touch, rediscovering your body, relearning what made you gasp and writhe.

Eddie watched your face, his own expression soft with need and tenderness. Seeing your pleasure seemed to ground him, pulling him slowly from the vortex that had been consuming him. He was entirely present in the moment. With you.

"Please, Eds." you gasped out, reaching for the waistband of his jeans, needing to feel him inside you.

He helped you shuck off his jeans and briefs before quickly settling between your legs again. He paused, looking down on you with so much emotion it made your breath catch. Then, with the care and love you'd been so desperately craving, he pushed inside.

Your head fell back against the pillows as you clutched at his shoulders. When he filled you completely, he stayed still for a moment, buried deep; letting you both savor the feeling of reunion, of rightness. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "I love you." He whispered, making your eyes open slowly to gaze up at him.

"I love you. Always." You promised. He began to move, a slow deep rhythm that felt like worship. One of Eddie's strong hands caught the back of your knee, pushing it back and over his shoulder, his rings cold on your skin.

Each thrust was deliberate, possessive, reclaiming. It wasn't just sex; it was communication, a physical conversation making up for all the static and silence. He poured his longing, his fear, his love into every movement.

You met his rhythm, moving with him, hands exploring the familiar territory of his back, his shoulders, his hair. You kissed him, deeply, fiercely, trying to pour everything back to him, just as he was doing for you. The world outside the hotel room door- the band, the tour, the demands, everything ceased to exist. There was only this bed, this moment, his body moving with yours, the shared breaths, the low groans, and soft cries mingling in the quiet room.

The pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, driving your body closer to the head of the bed. There was no hint of exhaustion within him now.

His head dropped onto your chest and between the grunts he kissed your anywhere he could reach.

"Eddie!" you cried out as the climax slammed into you, stealing your breath, making your body arch and convulse around him. Your release triggered his own; with a hoarse cry of your name, he surged into you one last time, finding his own shattering release deep inside you.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison. He didn't pull away, just collapsed beside you, gathering you into his arms, holding you tightly against his side. He buried his face in your hair, his breathing slowly evening out.

The silence that followed was peaceful, intimate. The fight wasn't over, not really. The distance, the pressures – they were still real challenges you’d have to face. But here, now, wrapped in his arms, the static felt cleared. You had found your way back to each other through the noise.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Thank you for coming," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and emotion. "Needed this. Needed you."

"Me too," you whispered, closing your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. It was the most comforting sound in the world. You didn't know how you'd navigate the coming months, but you knew you'd face it together. The fight wasn't over, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like he was fighting it alone. And right now, that was everything.

[luveline]

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡ 

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago. 

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch. 

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you. 

“I wanna see Max.” 

“She has to be here somewhere.” 

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest. 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here. 

Steve frowns at you worriedly. 

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers. 

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips. 

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Is it awful?” you ask. 

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult. 

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask. 

“Dustin. He’s outside.” 

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.” 

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes. 

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?” 

“Like you like him.” 

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?” 

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?” 

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings. 

“Looks like something. Are you dating?” 

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.” 

“He was touching you a lot.” 

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely. 

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh. 

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s— 

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder. 

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug. 

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly. 

Oh, boy, you think. 

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy. 

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he’s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet. 

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.” 

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.” 

“Steve.” 

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.” 

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty. 

“What?” he asks. 

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles 

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” 

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.” 

“I sounded weird?” 

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you… I don’t know. Sorry.” 

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it. 

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do. 

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.” 

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.” 

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something. 

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie? 

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged. 

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews. 

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way. 

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused. 

“You were in the way of the light.” 

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself. 

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?” 

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks. 

“It’s good.” 

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.” 

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you. 

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise! 

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. 

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing. 

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs. 

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek. 

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen. 

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.” 

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.” 

“I thought…” And of course he did. 

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.” 

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.” 

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes. 

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.” 

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.” 

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.” 

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks. 

“I like you too!” he says loudly. 

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?” 

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again. 

“You okay?” he asks tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?” 

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.” 

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?” 

You nod vehemently. 

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm. 

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.” 

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you. 

“You can be my parasol.” 

“Your what?” 

“It’s a sun umbrella.” 

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up. 

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.” 

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay. 

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur. 

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?” 

“That’s perfect.” 

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly. 

“No… I’m thinking.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of that.” 

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight. 

“It’s a question.” 

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world. 

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.” 

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.” 

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.” 

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start. 

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem. 

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur. 

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it. 

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke. 

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

[stevesgother]

quick little blurb abt this thought i got in my inbox a while ago steve harrington x gn!reader just suggestive fluff/ post-coital bliss :) 18+

Steve's fingers draw slow, methodical circles where they meet the small of your back-- his wiry chest hair tickling your nose where your head rests on his chest.

"You fallin' asleep on me?" He asks, barely parting his lips to do so. You can hear it in the way his words slur with the weighted bliss of the moment you're both suspended in.

You don't answer verbally, only shaking your head lethargically against him. The hand that's not tracing your back moves to caress the side of your face instead, tucking stray hairs behind your ear with the delicateness one might handle a flower petal.

He kisses the supple plush of your lips, his tongue sliding languidly against your own. Nothing like the way he had been ravishing you just twenty minutes ago.

The palm cradling your face travels south to where your leg is propped on top of his groin, softening beneath you with each minute that passes. For someone who doesn't want you to fall asleep, he's sure making it impossible not to-- every touch pulling you further into the vast ocean of unconsciousness. You don't fret though, knowing you'll see him there, too. Even in your dreams.

Steve's soft breaths cascade over your forehead where it meets your hairline. He places kiss after kiss there until asking, "Wanna take a bath with me?"

And how could you bear to deny him when he asks so sweetly? Even if the absence of his body heat and the sweat cooling on your skin leaves you shivering under your downy cotton sheets.

You can hear him floundering about in the ensuite: opening and closing cupboards, twisting the shower's diverters until the temperature of the water is just right. You like it a little too hot, if you ask Steve, but he doesn't mind overheating for you.

He reenters the bedroom, scooping up your still naked body and carrying you to the bathroom against his chest. Thankfully, there's no need for either of you to get undressed; having gotten so familiar with each other's bodies over the years, it was like he was just an extension of yourself.

The steaming water hits your skin as you're lowered into the tub by Steve, the temperature relaxing you immediately. This was your favorite post-sex ritual-- too tired to shower, but just awake enough to enjoy each other's company a little longer before bed.

Steve slots in the tub behind you, wrapping you up in his muscly thighs and biceps like the most comfortable security blanket. You've never felt safer than when he held you like this.

"Want me to wash your hair?" You ask him over your shoulder.

A tender smile tugs at the corners of his lips, "Only if you want to, baby,"

You raise a skeptical brow, because of course you want to. Steve hands over your own strawberry scented shampoo, because he likes it more than his own. He'd much rather have your scent following him around like a cloud as he goes through the monotonous tasks that come with each day.

It's selfish, in a way, because you love to watch the way his eyes drift shut as you thread your fingers gently through his scalp. You like to make a show of it-- it doesn't really take that long to wash somebody's hair. But he just spent the past three hours taking care of you in a way no one else could, so, you felt like this was the least you could do.

And when the time comes, you tip his head back and rinse the shampoo meticulously from his tresses-- taking extra care to shield his eyes from any rogue droplets of water.

Steve never lets you dote on him for long, though. Eventually he's got you back where he wants you: between his legs, in the comforting safety of his arms. You're turned around now, pelvis to pelvis. He guides you head to lie in the crook of his neck, as he orchestrates long, languid strokes from the crown of your head all the way to the base of your spine.

And you stay there until the water grows cold.

divider credit to @/plum98

[cheesesandwichsanto]

Cherry Lip Gloss

Summary: Eddie is madly in love with you and tries to shoot his shot.

Warning: some curse words

Word Count: ~1.8k

A/N: English is not my first language

If you enjoy the story; likes, reblogs and comments are really appreciated 🖤

You were straddling his lap, your lips brushing against each others, still catching your breath and your lips swollen from the make out session before.

A few drops of sweat glistened on Eddie’s forehead.

You wore a dress - too short and too tight. Eddie loved it. It was everything he had ever imagined.

“Eddie?” you asked him quietly.

Your thumb running over his lower lip.

Your head fell back, revealing your neck, covered in hickies.

“Yeah baby?” he answered, hypnotized by your beauty, not able to take his eyes off you.

“I want you to…

beep beep beep

His alarm clock was ringing.

Fuck.

It was just another dream.

Another amazing dream.

But that didn’t ruin his mood.

It was Wednesday, which meant he had math for the first two periods with Mr. Mundy - and, luckily, it was one of the classes he shared with you.

There you both were, sitting in math class, him a few rows behind you, watching you, his head propped up on his hand.

You were still chitchatting with your friend Stacy, but as soon as Mr. Mundy entered the classroom, you both went quiet and Stacy turned around.

He was madly in love with you.

How you just sat there, wearing your green and orange cheerleading uniform.

Your hair was pulled up in a perfect ponytail.

Makeup? Not too much and flawless as always. Nails? Perfectly manicured.

But one little thing was missing - his favorite part.

He watched how you rummaged through your backpack, pulled out a pink lipgloss and a little mirror and applied it.

Damn.

What would he give to just taste it.

One. Single. Time.

What flavor were your lips?

Strawberry? Cherry? Or maybe vanilla?

How soft your plump lips must feel.

He had to stop himself from drooling like damn fool.

He felt stupid for being jealous of a lip gloss.

You felt eyes on you and looked around, stopping when you met Eddie’s and looking him straight in the eyes.

He froze, - caught in the act.

He looked shyly away, a light blush creeping across his cheeks.

You just grinned.

He was not really subtle in observing.

He used to think you would be a rich, arrogant, stuck-up bitch, just like the other cheerleaders. But there was this one time where you and him got detention together.

Him for being late (and that happens a lot) and you for god knows what reason.

Ms. O’Donnell had to leave the room and ordered to do your homework.

He still remembered how sweet your voice sounded when you turned around and asked him for help.

How your bright eyes locked onto his.

He helped you, and for the first time, realized that you weren’t like the rest.

You both talked for the rest of detention. You didn’t see him as the town’s freak or a weirdo. No.

You showed honest interest in what he had to say - about his hobbies, his music and even hellfire club.

There wasn’t any other way than to fall for you. You were the reason for his beautiful dreams. And the reason he couldn’t sleep at all sometimes.

You were nothing like the others.

You even stood up for him against Jason when he made fun of Eddie one time. Telling him “just leave him alone” and pulling Jason away on his arm.

He would do everything to be with you.

But there were only two problems.

The first one: you already had a boyfriend - Andy Johnson, one of the balls-into-laundry-baskets-jocks. He had seen you and him arguing and fighting more than once.

The main reason, according to Eddie, had to be your boyfriend being a douchebag and dumb as fuck for not valuing you enough.

Little did he know that he was the reason.

The second one: your cousin was Jason Carver. Your mothers were sisters. He was really protective, acting like your big brother, even though he’s younger than you. Everyone knew that him and Jason were arch-enemies. Eddie hates Jason. Jason hates Eddie. It had always been this way. And it would stay that way forever.

At lunch break, while walking down the hallway, Eddie saw you standing by your locker, putting your books away and checking yourself out in the mirror you’d hung on the locker door. Suddenly, he saw something fall on the floor. Without thinking, he walked over to you and picked up what he now recognized as your lip gloss.

Strawberry - he knew it.

“Y/N?” He asked.

You turned around and looked at him, surprised.

“Yes?” You replied.

Your beautiful eyes - oh god, he felt his legs turn to pudding, but managed to hold up your lip gloss to hand it back to you.

“It fell out of your locker. That color really suits you, by the way. I.. uhm …really like strawberries” he said shyly. Not a sign of the loud, confident, stand-on-the-cafeteria-table-and-scream-Eddie.

You looked at his hand and took the lip gloss - but not without noticing his rings.

A smile played on your lips.

“Thank you so much, that’s really kind of you. Normally, I buy cherry, but unfortunately it’s sold out, so I went with strawberry. I really like your rings, they are super cool” you said, resting your hand on Eddies arm and giving him a loving smile.

Where you… where you blushing?

His heart did backflips.

“Cherry huh?” He mumbled nervously.

You didn’t notice someone approaching.

Until you heard a voice.

It was Jason.

“Hey you alright? Is that freak bothering you? Want me to take care of it?” Jason’s voice boomed. You just rolled your eyes.

“First of all. Cousin. Stop calling him freak ‘kay? And no, he is not bothering me. Just let’s go.”

You slammed your locker shut and sent Eddie an apologetic smile before turning around and following Jason to the cafeteria.

Eddie leaned against your locker, bumping his head against it, grinning like an idiot.

He high-fived himself in his mind for not making a complete fool out of himself.

You had talked to him.

You even touched his arm.

For a small second, he thought that maybe he had a chance. But he wasn’t about to get his hopes up. Jason always appeared out of nowhere, and you had a boyfriend.

But he had an idea for how to get your attention once again.

Friday afternoon was hellfire club.

But as soon as he entered the theater room, he was able to hear only one topic - your breakup with Andy.

Eddie was so happy - it felt like his birthday and Christmas combined.

He grinned from ear to ear.

On Monday’s, you two didn’t share a class, and he could only see you at lunch or when you were standing at your locker.

So when lunch approached, he was the first to rush out of class.

He wanted to “bump” into you by your locker, accidentally, of course.

When he turned into the hallway he saw you standing there - but with you was Andy.

You were arguing.

Again.

But apparently you said something that made Andy so angry, he stormed off.

Thank God.

You turned back to your locker to shut the door. That was his moment.

His only chance.

He took a deep breath and walked towards you.

“Hey Y/N. How you doing? Everything alright? I heard what happened.”

A smile spread across your face as soon as you saw him.

“Oh hey. I didn’t see you at first. I’m feeling super duper. I finally got rid of that turd Andy. I couldn’t feel better. Honestly, I should’ve done it months ago” You said.

Eddie chuckled “I’m sorry to hear it ended like that… but also kind of not sorry?” he said with an awkward grin, scratching his head.

“Not sorry huh?” You laughed.

“Yeah, I mean.. I always thought he was kind of an asshole. But uh,…” he reached into his jacket. “That’s not what I came over for. I actually have something I wanted to give you.”

You looked confused “Me?”

He nodded, pulled something out of his jacket and handed it to you.

It was a lip gloss - the cherry one.

Your favorite.

Your eyes lit up.

“No way… How did you even get this? It’s out of stock everywhere.”

“Let’s just say I have connections.”

��Thank you so, so much. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing, it’s a gift…. Go on a date with me?” Eddie fidgeted with his rings nervously.

You were surprised that he asked, but you’d always thought he was cute. And Andy is history. So, why not?

“I’d love to”

“I would understand if.. wait.. really?… I mean…cool. Cool” he tried not to freak out completely.

You pulled a pen from your backpack and scribbled something down on Eddies arm.

“That’s my address. Pick me up at 7.”

Eddie starred on the part of his arm that now is covered with your handwriting.

“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll be there at 7.”

You gave him one last smile before turning to walk down the hallway - the cherry lip gloss in your hand.

Eddie watched you walking away. When you were out of sight he let out a breath.

“Holy shit. She said yes.”

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part five - tee-ball practice leads to a trip to the emergency room. cw mentions of sex, description of injury (no gore) 12k

a/n - this broke my heart to write i apologize in advance

── .✦

You didn’t spend much time on the phone before you met Steve. The landline lived on your kitchen countertop, collecting more toast crumbs than voicemails. But it has since been moved to the living room on a fold-out table beside your couch. Because now, several times a week, you collapse there with the phone wedged under your ear for hours, a smile as constant as the voice on the other end. 

The first thing you do when you get home is check your answering machine. You’ve come to love that little red light that lets you know when you have a new message. Sometimes it’s no one important, a salesman or a scam or work, but most of the time it's Steve.

You know his phone number better than anyone’s. You’ve entered it so many times the digits have started to wear away on your keypad. And the trill is as thrilling as the first time you heard it. 

Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr– “Hey, you’ve reached Steve– AND PENELOPE– Yes, and Penelope, uhh– WE’RE BUSY– well, yeah if you’re hearing this we probably are sooo leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. By– BYEEE!”

Steve changed his voicemail the night you exchanged numbers. He wanted something more him, more Penelope, too. And you love it more than he knows. Sometimes you hope he won’t pick up just to hear the message play. 

You press the switchhook before it beeps. You’re turned and only two steps away when it rings back. “Hey,” you grin into the receiver. 

“Sorry, hi, I just– I think I've flooded Nell’s bathroom and–”

“You think?”

“Alright, fine, I definitely flooded Nell’s bathroom. Look, there was food in the oven, I told her to start the bath, and then— boom— suddenly it’s the goddamn Titanic in here. I’ve been stomping on towels for like ten minutes, and it’s not helping.”

You snicker down at your pajamas. “Do you want me to come over?” 

“No, no, I’ve got it. The house will probably just smell like wet dog for eternity.” 

“Better put it on the market now before it really sets in.” 

“Yeah, I–” Steve pulls the phone away to shout, “Penelope Anne! No, thank you!– I might have to call you back, she's–” There’s a thump and a crumbly static sound like the phone was dropped, and then– “I wanna talk! Hi, Y/N!” 

Hijacking the phone isn’t uncommon in the Harrington household. Steve would scold you for letting Penelope hear you laughing about it. But he’d be just as guilty, smiling through something like you’re supposed to be on my side, you know.

“Hi, Miss Penelope Anne.” You tug the phone’s rubber cord to your heart, your voice sticky with affection. “Are we being a good listener for Dad?”

She giggles. You’ve never used her full name– didn't even know it until two seconds ago– and you’re pretty sure it’s reserved for when she’s in trouble. “Yes!” 

“Are you sureee?”

“Yesss,” she promises. Steve’s voice is too muffled to make out in the background, but Penelope fills in the gaps, “I’m not lying, Dad!” 

Your hum drags suspiciously. “Did you help him clean the bathroom?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t even my mess.”

“Oh, well, it’s still nice to help, yeah?”

“Will you come to my game tomorrow?”

You are unfazed by her master deflection skills at this point. If Penelope is finished talking about something, she will make that clear. “I thought it was over the weekend, babe.”

“Oh– dad says it’s just pra-tiss.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Daddy! Tomorrow?” A long beat, Steve’s voice barely crackling through the speaker. “Yeah. He said you don’t have to go, but I think you should ‘cause it would be really fun if you did.” 

“Sounds super fun. What time tomorrow?” 

“Six? Yeah, six,” she confirms. 

“Okay, I’ll try to go. But only if you’re a super-duper good listener for the rest of the night. ‘M gonna call Dad later to check, ‘kay?” 

“‘Kay.” 

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now. Tell him I said I’ll call back. And go stomp on some more towels with him.” 

“Okay, bye-bye.”

“Bye, Pen. Goodnight.” 

You hang up the phone with aching cheeks. You’re still smiling as you set out tomorrow's clothes and even as you slip into bed. It’s always like this with them, this perpetual, overwhelming sense of joy. 

Work isn’t quite as boring when you have tee-ball to look forward to. But still, each passing hour feels like a hurdle between you and the best part of your day.

You arrive at practice a little late, more than a little worried that Steve will think you’re making his daughter empty promises. But he’s waving at you from the top of the bleachers with a huge grin, and all the worry disappears. 

“You made it,” he beams as you climb up past other parents. 

“‘Course,” his warm fingers slip across your pulse point as you take his hand. “You doubt me?” 

“A little. You are like twenty minutes late.” 

You sit, hip to hip, your smile aimed up at his. “There was a bad accident. Had all of Pine Ridge blocked off. Oh, and then I missed the turn and I couldn’t find the entrance. This place is like a maze, they should have more signs.”

He hums agreeably. The sun spills across his front like a can of gold paint was dropped on his lap. One eye’s clamped shut and the other’s narrowed, glinting like a shard of amber. “Nell wanted to get ice cream after this if you wanna go.” 

“You buying?” 

“Maybe. If  you’re nice to me.” 

“I’m always nice to you.” You swipe the sunglasses off your head and turn the arms toward his face. He lets you push them up his nose without complaint. You’re much gentler than when Penelope tries to do it. And they look as silly on him as you hoped they would, pulling a bubbly laugh from the bottom of your chest. “See? I’m nice. What number is she?”

His eyes roll behind the tinted lenses. “She’s four.”

You scan the field. There’s a ring of girls in teal at the pitcher's mound, tip-toed with their hands in the sky. Penelope stretches beside the coach in the cutest jersey, HARRINGTON stamped proudly across her back. “Why? ‘Cause she’s four?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She lucked out. I guess three other kids had the same logic. ” 

“Aww, look,” you elbow Steve, leaving your arm against his side where it’s warm. 

He feels you sit up straighter to wave at Penelope, who’s literally jumping for you now that you’re here. A few girls turn their heads to see what the big deal is, and you feel a little shy when the parent in front of you does the same. 

Steve would never tell Robin this, but she has officially been knocked to number two on Penelope’s list of favorite people. Penelope adores you more than anyone he’s ever met. She talks about you more than all of her classmates combined. And most of her crafts from school end up on your fridge instead of theirs. He even had to put the phone up where she couldn’t reach after she memorized your number and started harassing you after work.

The girls stretch and run laps around the field's perimeter before taking turns swinging foam balls off the tee. Penelope’s got a pink glove to match the cleats you helped them pick out. And her helmet’s already decked out in stickers from the Lisa Frank book you gave her. You forget how intertwined you’ve become in their lives until it’s so apparent you can’t even try to deny it. 

Baseball fields are quite noisy. Moms trade gossip with other moms, whining siblings are entertained by other even whinier siblings. There’s the consistent knock of a ball against a bat, cheering and chanting from an adjacent field, and the occasional “heads up” to listen out for. You and Steve watch the team, but you slip into the comfort of each other’s company, the outside world fading away as you trade stories. But then someone gasps, and it’s like the whole park stills, the silence hanging just long enough for an awful scream to break it. 

“Oh, shit. What happened?” 

“It’s one of the girls. She fell I think.”

“Is she okay? Whose kid is that?” 

You get up from your seat as Steve pushes past you. Your heart becomes a woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking you in the ribs like it wants out. And your eyes snap between Steve and the field in a desperate search for Penelope. 

Steve cuts through the dugout as the girls start to huddle around third base. It’s impossible to tell them apart when they’re all wearing the same shirt. But there’s number six, number thirteen, number two– fuck where is she? 

The crowd parts for Steve to get by, and then, finally, you see her. Poor Penelope’s curled up on her side in the clay. Something about it puts your brain on autopilot and your feet start moving on their own volition. 

It’s a blur how you end up on the other side of the fence but you’re there, kneeling in the dirt beside Steve with a big audience of onlookers. Penelope squeals out a pitiful little sound and it’s like an anchor drops right on your chest. 

“I’m here. I’m right here,” Steve’s promising her. His hands hover near her face. They’re shaking so hard he’s afraid to do anything with them. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” 

Penelope’s whole body trembles with the force of her breath, one gasp tripping over the next. Her face is scrunched bright red, leaking snot and tears like a faucet. And she’s trying so hard to speak but all she’s babbling out are broken sounds. 

Steve attempts to move her hand out of the way, but she screams at him loudly. 

“I know it hurts, I know– I have to see, baby.” 

You pin her ankles to the ground so she stops kicking him for one second. He quickly pries her fingers loose, his voice straining through apologies as she squirms. Her left arm lies limp across her tummy, swollen twice its size, a shade of plum blooming from her elbow out. It’s really an awful sight. 

You feel your arms prickle and your face goes cold. You want to turn away, but you can’t. 

Someone behind you says, “It’s really swollen.”

A smaller voice goes, “Will she be okay?” 

And a third, “Is she gonna die?” 

Your neck cracks with the speed at which you turn around. You glare daggers at the kid you’re pretty sure that came out of. Admittedly, not one of your proudest moments. 

“Here,” someone shoves a grocery bag full of ice into Steve’s hands, “ice it.” 

Steve molds it to her arm and her other hand grasps for something to squeeze. You scoop her fingers up from the dirt, letting her nails bite the meat of your palm. 

You miss whatever the coach says to Steve, but it doesn't appear to be good. Steve gears to stand up but falters with wobbly legs. There’s a great distance in his eyes like he’s seeing right through Penelope. 

You press up off your shins and squeeze his arm until he nods. 

You think her screaming can’t possibly get any worse, but it does the moment he lifts her off the ground. You’re trying really hard to turn your ears off, to trigger whatever dissociative state Steve has gone into, but nothing will stop the hurricane that is your heart. 

Steve speedwalks across the pitcher's mound. There are a few dozen sets of eyes on him, but he barely notices. His mind is running a mile a minute. All he keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t watching when it happened. 

What if she hit her head? Is she in shock? Should I be helping her in some other way? Which hospital is closest? And where the fuck did I park the car? 

You catch up to him and cover the back of his bicep with your hand. He glances at you and exhales a shaky breath he'd been keeping. He doesn’t smile like he usually would. But he’s more grateful for your presence than he can put into words right now.

You shove the chainlink gate open and easily spot the beamer, parked in the very first row of cars. Steve almost eats shit in the dip from pavement to gravel but he rights himself with the help of your hands. 

You try the backseat door handle and find it locked. “The keys?” 

He takes one hand off of Penelope and quickly returns it when she shrieks. And she nearly launches herself out of his arms when he tries to shift her to his hip. He looks at you miserably and says, “Front pocket.” 

You might’ve felt weird about reaching into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans in any other circumstance, but there was no time for hesitation here. You unlock the doors and start the car while Steve fights to get Penelope in her seat. 

“Nooo,” she yells, gripping the back of his shirt so hard the neckline chokes him. 

You turn in the driver's chair, finding Steve with his teeth gritted, knelt on the edge of the backseat, and Penelope holding onto him for dear life. Her back arches under his hand, her feet pushing the passenger seat forward a notch. She’s relentless. Steve pulls her back out of the car and swings to the other side. He climbs in behind you and slams the door hard. His eyes find yours in the rearview as he urges you to, “Just drive.” 

You wrench the gear shifter into reverse and reach behind the passenger seat so you can see. While you are focused on not running anyone over, it’s hard not to notice the battle going on in the backseat. Steve’s wedged up against the car seat, in the middle of the row, and Penelope's crushing his nose with her good hand. 

By the time you’re turning onto the main road, Steve has given up forcing her to sit in her own seat. It’s doing her arm more harm than good at this point. 

His head slumps hard into the headrest, his arms keeping her tight to his chest. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “You’re okay,” he promises, but the words do nothing to relieve her tears. 

Your fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently. The cars in front of you aren’t moving nearly fast enough, and you’re already pushing the speed limit. You check the rearview for the umpteenth time. “Almost there, Pen. Promise.” 

She warbles something too quiet for even Steve to make out. 

“What?” he asks her. 

“Don’t want my– my arm– ‘r gonna,” she gasps, “take my arm.” 

Steve blinks at her sorely until it clicks. “No, baby. No one’s taking your arm. They’re gonna help it feel better. No one’s gonna hurt you.” 

“It hurts,” she sobs. 

Steve wipes his eyes. “I know.” 

This is simultaneously the longest and shortest drive of your life. You park under the emergency room’s overhang behind an ambulance. Steve tests the child lock on his door until you can get out and open it. 

You’re rushing in behind them when an EMT stops you. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you can’t park here.” 

You’re ready to argue but Steve doesn’t give you the chance. “Just go park,” he barks, halfway through the automatic doors. 

The car’s parked in the first spot you see, and the jog back up to the building is achingly long. From the sidewalk, you can already hear Penelope wailing inside. And the sound only worsens as the entrance doors open. Steve’s not hard to find, shifting impatiently at the front desk. 

The receptionist slides a clipboard across the counter like he has room in his arms for paperwork. But you appear at his side as you always seem to, reaching for the pen and paper before he even has to ask. 

Steve hoists Penelope back up where she’s slipped and turns around without a word. He’s expressionless, near mechanical in his movements. You’ve seen him have bad days at work and you’ve seen Penelope scare the shit out of him a good handful of times, but you’ve never seen him like this. You follow him to a vacant pair of chairs, hugging the ream of paperwork to your chest as you sit. 

Penelope still doesn’t settle. Steve encourages her sweaty cheek off his chest and she looks up at him in this terrible way that splits your heart right in half. Her eyes are glossy, and so swollen, her lashes dampened into dark points. Her ponytails have loosened, frizz bunching up at each hair tie. And she looks like she needs an inhaler the way her chest keeps distending for air. 

Steve flattens a hand down the short breadth of her spine, the other wiping snot bubbles from her nose. “Penelope,” he pleads, “take a breath, baby. Take a breath.”

She sucks in air so hard she chokes on it. It’s scary from your position, you can’t imagine how Steve feels. 

“You’re okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.” 

“No,” she shakes her head and hiccups, “hurts.” 

“I know.” He brings her head to his lips, nostrils flaring against her bangs. He’s blinking like tears will fall any second. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.” 

You feel so bad. Anxious and useless most of all. You stop clicking the pen in your hand and flip through the intake forms on the clipboard. It's standard stuff– name, date of birth, allergies. You fill in what you know, which isn't much, but it keeps your brain occupied and saves Steve a few questions. 

Penelope’s crying subsides to a steady whine. The tears stop, but her back spasms with every handful of breaths. She’s gotten as comfortable as she can be in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his hand stapling her face to his bicep. 

“Pen,” you start softly. 

Shiny brown eyes flick up to yours. 

“Help me out here. Do you know your birthday? You remember?” 

She shakes her head as much as she can manage with her head laying like that. 

Steve frowns at her. Or maybe he’s just looking at her, and the frown’s a permanent new addition to his face. “Come on, you know it,” he whispers. “Tell me."

“Ju–une,” she shudders.

You wiggle your eyebrows excitedly. “June… first?”

“No.” 

“June second?” 

“No.” 

“June one hundred and sixty-fourth?”

Not even a millimeter of a smile. You might be poking the bear the way her brows twist at you angrily but you continue to tease her regardless. “Do I have to say every number in June?” 

She kneads her eye with a closed fist and grumbles, “Se–even.” 

“June seventh?” You look at Steve, and his eyes flick to yours. “Eighty-nine?”

He nods. Penelope looks severely unhappy with you, but at least she’s distracted. 

You run down the long list of questions together. You fill in his information for the emergency contact, then Robin’s as a secondary, and then Steve asks, “Can I add you?” 

“Add me?”

“As another contact.”

You blink at the page and then raise your eyebrows at Steve. The idea would’ve never crossed your mind.

“Only if you want to. It’s fine if not.” 

“No,” your brows sink and furrow, “I mean, yeah– I want to. I'd love to.” You grin, and he grins poorly back. 

A nurse calls Peneleope’s name from the other side of the room. You’re guided down to triage– less a room and more a section of the hallway, tucked behind a frosted glass partition and cramped with a cabinet full of supplies. 

Steve sits in the patient chair with Penelope on his lap. He explains what happened, and that no, she has no allergies, no nausea, no fever, just a very obviously broken arm. The nurse sticks a thermometer under her tongue anyway, cuffs her working arm with a blood pressure monitor, and counts the beats of her pulse. He fits her with a sling tinier than you’ve ever seen and administers cherry-flavored children’s Tylenol, which sparks a whole new well of tears because Penelope clearly stated she wanted strawberry. The nurse isn’t as apologetic as you think he should be, he just straps a bracelet to her wrist and you’re walked right back to the havoc that is the waiting room. 

And so you wait. When you’re not people-watching, you watch the clock because there’s nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five minutes pass. At an hour, you peel your legs off the vinyl chair to take a lap around the room. You skim a pamphlet about heart disease and a second about stress management. 

You present Penelope with a wrinkled Highlights magazine you found, and she’s not thrilled, but she’s calm at least. Stuffy and tired, but in much less pain than she was. Steve coaxed her down for a nap, but she insisted that it’s too loud. And between the constant sirens and people rushing in and out and the fluorescent lights, you can’t blame her, you wouldn’t be able to nap either. 

Steve’s sneaker is a riot under his chair. You cup his knee to stop it from bouncing, though it doesn’t do much. He places the front of his hand across the back of yours. It’s noticeably clammy but it could be drenched in sweat and you probably still wouldn’t move it.

You feel his fingers flex every time a nurse returns with a clipboard and a new name to call. But each time, all the anticipation deflates when it’s not Penelope’s. 

Another hour passes, and you’ve had enough when, for the second time in a row, someone who arrived after you gets called back first. You stand quickly and inform Steve, “I’m gonna ask how much longer.” 

He nods, gratefully, you think. 

The receptionist offers the same rehearsed answer they probably give everyone else– “The doctor will be with you as soon as they’re able.” 

You stare at her bland face. You know she has nothing to do with the number of patients here or the order in which the nurses decide to call people back, but it’s no less frustrating. 

“Soon,” is what you tell Steve when you return. 

He knows you well enough to tell that you don’t actually know how long it’ll be. But he pretends like you’ve told him the truth anyway. He finds it’s much easier to be optimistic when you’re around. 

You drop back in your seat, arms crossed, feet tapping away on the linoleum. Steve can’t sit still either. You’d think his hands would get tired, but they’re tenacious when it comes to back rubs. His hips shift, and Penelope whines. You chalk his squirming up to an anxiety similar to your own, but he’s starting to act like he sat on an ant hill or something. 

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head, eyes drilled on the floor. 

“You okay?” 

He funnels air slowly out of his mouth and nods. 

“Steve, what?”

“Just have to pee,” he mumbles, his hand kicking back into gear where it paused on Penelope’s shoulder. “‘S fine.” 

“Go,” you say. “I’ll sit with her.”

He looks from the floor to you, back down to Penelope. She’s comfortable, finally, and moving her is a risk he doesn’t want to take. But he really fucking has to pee. He nods at you, straightening out in his chair and pushing Penelope forward. 

She protests the movement with a great big groan. It’s like when she wakes up from a long nap, always so grumpy, but with the cutest little pout. Though this time, you’re foreseeing a meltdown, and you can’t imagine it’ll be cute at all. 

“I have to go potty. I need you to stay here,” Steve explains. 

Her face crumples instantly, her lip jutting as her eyes fill with fresh tears. She clings to Steve’s arm like a buoy, blubbering into his sleeve, “Go with you.”

“I can’t hold you in there, baby.” 

Her voice rises, earning a few turned heads. “But I want you to!” 

“Please, baby. I’ll be so quick, promise.” 

“Pen, let’s look at that magazine again,” you try. “I think I saw Tic-Tac-Toe somewhere.” 

Steve dumps her in your lap and books it. He feels terrible but he’ll feel much worse if he pisses himself in the ER lobby. He prays Penelope isn’t as rough with you as she is with him, but she’s still shouting for him by the time he reaches the bathrooms. Not a good sign at all. 

You press the back of your hands to her cheeks with the utmost care. They’re so warm and slick with tears falling too fast to chase away. She’s gone ballistic, bawling helplessly at you like you’ve done something truly terrible to her. And you sort of have. You urged Steve to go, that you could handle it, but a little part of you is starting to regret that. 

There are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, filling you to the brim with embarrassment. Generally, you think you’re pretty good at talking Penelope down from a tantrum. You make up silly songs and do weird little dances, but none of it is coming even close to working right now. She’s crying so loud you almost miss her name being called. 

“Penelope Harrington,” the voice says again. 

You lock eyes with the nurse across the room. Fuck. 

“Pen, hey, Penelope, listen,” you tip her face toward yours, “we have to get up, okay?” 

“I want Daddy.” 

“I know. He’s coming. He’ll be right back.” 

“No– we, we can’t–” her voice cracks into another heaving sob. 

“We won’t leave without him, we just have to get up.”

She continues to cry as you struggle to your feet. Penelope’s not what you’d consider heavy but her lack of cooperation is making her very difficult to carry. 

The nurse meets you halfway and confirms, “Penelope?”

“Yes, she’s– can we just wait one second, her dad’s still– he’ll be right back, he just ran to the restroom.” 

The nurse follows your gaze to the empty hall. Her mouth opens and closes like no is on the very tip of her tongue. 

“He’ll be just one second,” you plead.

Penelope must gather what’s going on and she’s not a fan at all. Her fit escalates even more, one hand cinching your collar, tugging your shirt so far down you fear you've just flashed the nurse. She nearly flails herself onto the floor, then headbutts your chin hard enough for your eyes to water. The reactionary tears worsen into real ones because you have absolutely no idea what to do.��Steve steps away for all of two seconds, and you’re already screwing it up.

“Look,” the woman says in a way that makes the back of your throat burn even worse, “I’ll come back–” 

“No, wait, he’s–” You blink until the restroom sign unblurs and find that Steve’s actually there at the end of the hall this time.  “He’s right there, see– Steve!” 

Steve's jogging life his life depends on it. Nearly knocks someone over trying to pass them. And when he gets close enough to see your matching wet eyes his stomach kinks itself like a hose. 

Your arms are burning, nearly trembling by the time Steve takes her. Never in your life have you been so grateful to give up your Penelope. 

But Steve is just so good at being a dad. He calms her with practiced ease, cradling her like she’s no bigger than she was the day she was born. The walk to her room gives her a chance to catch her breath and for you to wipe your eyes. Steve asks if you’re okay and if you’re sure when you swear that you are. He’s a great dad but an even greater friend. 

Steve situates himself on the edge of the hospital bed with Penelope balanced on his thighs while you stand restless near the foot. You can’t shake the goosebumps from your skin, and your headache thrums like a second heartbeat behind your eyes.

“Alrighty, Miss Penelope,” the nurse reads sternly off her clipboard, “can you tell me what happened?” 

Steve reiterates the play-by-play. They discuss her pain levels, medical history, changes in symptoms– it’s deja vu. The woman is as curt as just about everyone else in this place, jotting his answers down like she already knows them. And she’s halfway out the door before you or Steve even have a chance to ask any questions. 

Steve shakes his head at you. How he’s not snapped at anyone by now, you have no idea. But you think his last nerve is starting to fray, and yet, his voice still softens when he tells you to, “Sit.” 

There’s only one chair in the room, the same peeling vinyl type from the waiting room. You steer it over to the side of the bed and sit. 

Penelope mumbles into Steve’s chest, her words buried in the fabric of his shirt. 

Steve’s gaze falls to her. “What, baby?” 

“‘M hungry.” 

“You’re hungry?”

She hiccups, nodding with the tiniest sweep of her chin. 

“Want me to go stick my hand up the vending machine?” 

No, her head shakes. “Stay.” 

You’re already standing when Steve looks at you. He digs around in his jeans for his wallet, but the second you see it, you wave him off.

“I got it,” you press.

He opens it one-handed across his thigh, but you flip it closed.

“Watcha want, Pen?” 

You think she shrugs, but your eyes are sewn to Steve’s. He fights the worn leather back open and pulls a crisp twenty out. “Please?” 

The magic words don’t work on you at his big age. Not for this at least. You tear the wallet from his hand and slide the bill back inside. 

If Steve didn’t have Penelope in his lap and his brain didn’t feel like it had been diced up on a hibachi grill, he’d put up a much better fight.

You swing the door open with an, “I’ll be back!” 

Steve frowns at your gloating smile, but his lips catch something similar the second you’re through the door. 

You’re thrilled to have something to do. Watching Penelope be miserable is at the very bottom of your list of least favorite pastimes. Your chest squeezes as you remember her poor little face. You’ll never forget that first scream at the field. Or how when she fell, she just laid there. You’d thought so many awful things might’ve happened. 

The gift shop is hard to miss with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. And right there on a shelf in one of them is a teddy bear with its arm in a sling. Jackpot. 

The door jingles as it opens and an employee greets you from across the room. You browse the get-well cards and bouquets of balloons, but nothing is as good as a new teddy when you’re a kid. You take it to the counter quickly. You’ve been sent out on a very important mission and you’d guess Penelope’s mood is souring with every grumble of her empty stomach.

The first vending machine you find is fully stocked– snacks, candy, soda– a hangry little girl’s dream. You have a pretty good idea of what she likes at this point, but a much safer way to ensure you get the right is to just buy all of it. Maybe not all of it, but you do feed a twenty in the mouth of the machine and buy as much as you can. Pack after pack of candy drops into the well and a few healthier options in the rare chance that Steve vetoes. You shove them all in the gift shop bag and hustle back to the room. 

The snacks are dumped across the foot of Penelope’s hospital bed, much to Steve’s horror and Penelope’s great surprise. It’s like Christmas the way her eyes light up.

“Wow,” Steve says. “Bought the whole machine out, huh? Whadya say?” 

“Thanks,” Penelope sniffles. Her lovely voice is so congested from all the crying. 

“You’re very welcome. Which one you want?” 

“M’s.” 

“Yeah, M’s,” you laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say. 

Your eyes flick to Steve’s as you lift the pack of M&Ms. He nods as you tear them open. 

You hold out your hand to ask for Penelope’s, but she opens her mouth instead. 

“What! You need me to feed you?” you play along. 

She stifles a giggle, her open mouth twitching to smile. 

“Last I checked, you still have one working arm.” 

“No, feed me,” she implores. 

Steve squeezes her thigh. “Come on, you’re a big girl.” 

Penelope shakes her head, still tilted up at the ceiling. 

“Alright, alright, here’s one. You can do the rest, silly girl.” You drop an M&M on her tongue and let Steve steal the bag from you. 

“Yummy?” you ask. 

She nods and pops another few in her mouth. 

Your eyes return to Steve’s. “For you? There’s a Snickers and a Hershey’s and…”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair back before it falls over his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths. 

Your lashes mesh together when you smile at him, but your eyes pop back open as fast as they closed. “Oh– Pen, guess what?” 

She blinks at you with a mouthful, chocolate already painting the underside of her chin. 

“I gotcha something else.”

Her eyes go impossibly wider, and they have a much happier sheen to them. “What?” 

She springs up with a newfound energy as you unveil the teddy bear. You press it into her lap and her fingers curl around its tiny ear to keep it upright.

“Like it?”

“Yeah,” she coos, “can I keep it?”

“Of course, it’s for you.”

“We match.”

“Yeah, isn’t that cool?” 

She beams, her hand roving all across its fur, her smile blooming full force. 

Sometimes, it feels like all the love you could ever need is right here— woven into every grin, every word, every look Penelope gifts you. Her smile truly is like a weight off your shoulders. 

The intensity of Steve’s gaze pulls your eyes away from Penelope. He’s looking at you with enough warmth to set your face on fire. And if he’s not careful he really might have to call the fire department. Or maybe just a nurse in case your heart gives out. You turn away, but your smile is no secret. 

You end up with a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. They get blown up with air and each a set of eyes with a pen you found, and now Penelope’s got two turkeys to play with. You’re so creative, Steve really doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He’s done this whole parent gig by himself for the majority of Penelope’s life, but he’s starting to rely on you like you're the other half of her. Had you not already been at practice, he’s sure he would’ve called you from the hospital. 

It’s during difficult times like these that Steve yearns for validation of his parenting choices from his own mom and dad. He knows they’re no example setters and he has far better people to seek that from, but it’s an urge he can’t put away sometimes. But then there’s you, laughing and making his daughter laugh even harder, and he realizes he just doesn’t need it anymore. He knows he must be doing something right when you’re around. 

Penelope gets another snack, and Steve gets his very own balloon turkey. You cycle between lots of games as you wait. You think Charades might be Penelope’s new favorite after you end up in a pretzel on the floor trying to get her to guess that you’re an octopus. Steve gets a kick out of it too, though you are adding it to your book of embarrassing things you did to make Penelope laugh. 

Thankfully, you’ve finished making a fool of yourself when the doctor knocks. She’s got a pep in her step and a wide, pearly smile. If only this type of attitude were more universal among the hospital staff. 

“Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Dr. Ruthman, I’ll be your–” A hand clamps across her gaping mouth. “Woah! Wait a second,” her eyes flick between her clipboard and Penelope, she flips a page theatrically, “they didn’t tell me I’m taking care of the Penelope Harrington today.

A Cheez-It slides out of Penelope’s hand onto the floor. Her blank stare is comical and says I’ve never met this woman in my life. 

Steve appears to be similarly confused– his brain really is fried– but you catch on quickly. “Pen, you famous around here or something?” 

Dr. Ruthamn scoffs. “Are you kidding me! Only the coolest, bravest athletes get to see me.” She shoves her hand out in front of Penelope. “It’s an honor.” 

Penelope has next to no clue what is happening, but she giggles because it seems like it’s something silly. She takes Dr. Ruthman’s hand and shakes it gently. 

“You’ll let me get your autograph, later, won’t you?” 

Penelope smiles funny, her voice lilting up an octave. “I guess?”

“You must be a busy woman.” Dr. Ruthman sticks her hands in the sink and flips the faucet handle. “What number are you again?”

Penelope’s gaze falls to her aching arm, snug in the sling. You can just see the gears turning as she realizes her counting hand is out of commission. Her other hand raises slowly, and four fingers unfurl stiffly. She double-checks that she’s got the right amount up before saying it out loud. 

“Four! No way! You know, I used to play basketball when I was in school, and you’ll never guess what number I was.” 

Penelope tips her head. “Four?” 

Dr. Ruthman gawks as she crouches in front of Penelope. “Ugh, you are just the smartest little smartie-pants, huh? How’d you know that? ”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I just did.” 

“You just did,” the doctor laughs, “Well, don’t you worry, I’m gonna get this arm back in swinging shape. Get’cha back on the field in no time.” 

Her freshly gloved hands run gingerly down Penelope’s arm, two fingers poking and prodding the inflated muscle. Steve cradles Penelope’s knee to keep her still, his other hand working lots of love into her shoulder. 

“Score any home runs today?” the doctor asks. 

Penelope’s mouth opens and snaps shut. How can she possibly focus on the conversation when this woman is kneading her arm like a cat? 

“Being so brave, honey. Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Yeah, good. Your thumb?” 

You wince as Penelope does. Fresh tears start in her waterline and she writhes uncomfortably back into Steve’s chest. 

“Good!” Dr. Ruthman beams genuinely. She pokes Penelope’s palm with her fingertip. “Can you turn this side to the floor? Perfect, now to the ceiling?” 

Penelope’s lip quivers as she tries. She can’t even get it halfway before her hand starts to bobble. 

“That’s okay. Doing so good.” 

“So good,” Steve echoes. He thumbs a little tear off her cheek.

Dr. Ruthman sheds her gloves and looks from Steve to you as she stands. “Your girl’s a trooper. I’ll go ahead and order an X-ray. A tech should be by to pick her up soon.” Her focus returns eagerly to Penelope. “And I’m coming back for that autograph, number four.” 

Penelope doesn’t cry like you expect she will. She really is a trooper. Steve tells her so several more times and promises they’ll get two ice cream cones since she’s been so brave. 

There’s not much to entertain yourself with, let alone a four-year-old. Steve keeps Penelope busy with Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a diabetes brochure, then I Spy when she gets bored. But unfortunately, the majority of the room is white so that doesn’t last very long either. 

Meanwhile, you flip over the only magazine on the side table and skim the all-caps headline about sex health. There’s no shot Steve can read it without his glasses from where he’s sitting, but still, you feel self-conscious for not putting it down. You’re both adults, and you’re close friends, yeah, but you don’t exactly discuss your sex lives with each other. The thought of Steve having partners you aren’t aware of crosses your mind. He’s entitled to his secrets, you suppose. And it's probably best for your own sake that he doesn’t tell you anyway.  

You read an article praising abstinence for being the safest sex practice but feel weirdly worse about your own case. When Steve asks what you’re reading about, you lie, foot fungus. He takes you for a comedian and doesn’t press for details. 

The x-ray technician pops in sooner than you expect. He escorts you three turns down the hall to a room packed with lots of expensive-looking machines. A wall divides it into two, the first section smaller with a long counter and enough computer monitors to track a space launch. 

The tech stops you from following him and Steve into the second half. “Only one of you can come with her in the examination area,” he says as he jams a stopper under the door. 

You nod and hang back in the doorway. Penelope whines about how dark the room is, and Steve tries, but she still refuses to be put down. The tech fits them both in heavy-looking aprons and wheels a table up to the chair they’re sharing. 

Penelope peeks up at you with a deep frown that screams get me out of here! Her brows twist together like she’s trying very hard to telepathically forward her escape plan to your brain. It tears you apart, but the best you can do for her is two big you got this thumbs-up. 

The technician removes the sling, taking Penelope’s arm and gently pushing it in a way it just does not want to go. The tears are immediate, like silver streamers unraveling down her cheeks, shimmering under the machine's lights. Steve watches the tech helplessly as he straightens out Penelope’s arm. 

You backtrack out of the doorway, and the tech kicks the stopper out on his way in. The door slams, and Penelope’s hysterics muffle, though you can still see her struggling through the thick pane of glass. 

The tech types and clicks away at the desk. You know there’s no use in rushing him, but the urge is there. It’s any other day for him, but probably the worst of Penelope’s whole life. 

Eventually, he clicks his tongue, stands, and marches back through the door. He repositions Penelope’s arm– not without protest– and circles back to the desk. It’s a terribly long and painful deal of rinse and repeat. And Penelope doesn’t give poor Steve’s ears a break. 

You count eight photos on the monitor by the end, all from different angles and proximity. You’re no doctor, but there’s a distinct line through the white of her bone in nearly all of them. 

The tech pins the door back open and flicks the examination room lights on. 

“All done,” Steve shushes into Penelope’s hair. “That’s it, no more. You’re all done.” 

His knuckles have turned white where she’s squeezing them. Her whole body turns towards his, and she collapses with a big, open-mouthed sob. 

The tech fixes her sling back on while you lean over Steve’s shoulder, your hand rooted gently on his spine. “You did so good, Pen. Always so brave.”

“So so brave,” Steve affirms. “‘M so proud. Think about that ice cream we’re gonna get.” 

She couldn’t be less interested in praise or even ice cream at the moment. Steve tugs the apron up her back, you help thread her arms through the holes and pass it to the tech. Steve struggles to slip his off one-handed, so you guide one weighty end of it over his head, your fingertips skimming the fluffy ends of his hair. 

With Penelope still glued to his front, the four of you trek back to her room. She cries the entire way but panicked tears ebb into sleepier ones. You realize how many hours past her bedtime it is. 

“The doctor will be in with the results soon,” the technician explains on his way out. 

Steve resumes his position on the hospital bed, scooting back to the headboard and crossing his legs over the sheets. Penelope slumps down in his arms, boneless with the heavy weight of defeat. Her hiccups peter out under Steve’s hand, her breaths turning thick and congested with sleep.

“Coffee?” you ask, not because you want any, but solely because you’re anxiety swells again and you'd love something to do. 

Steve looks up with heavy-set eyes. He feels terrible, suddenly, looking at your own. “You don’t have to stay. I can– I’ll call you a cab.” 

You hadn’t considered that to even be an option, and honestly, you still don’t. “I want to stay.” 

He sighs but he decides he won’t fight you further because he really, really wants you to stay too. 

“Large coffee, three cups of sugar?”

He cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “I’m not that insane,” he defends, carefully maneuvering his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans. 

You take it without argument this time. He might throw it at you if you avoid it any longer. And you’re not made of money either, the gesture is always appreciated. 

The cafeteria is closed, which, maybe you should’ve guessed. But you do some exploring and eventually find a pot of coffee in some sort of lounge you aren’t totally sure if you’re allowed to be in. It’s for a good cause, you tell yourself as you steal a styrofoam cup. The coffee is lukewarm at best and questionable in color, but Steve takes enough sugar in his you expect he won’t know the difference. 

There’s a pen lying there and a pail of extra sugar packets. You draw a smiley face on one and stick it inside the flap of his wallet for him to find later. And while it’s open, you can’t help but snoop. Cash and cards with his full name, a thick stack of pictures of Penelope, and a folded photo booth print of the three of you, your face plain as pavement in the clear pocket on the side. 

You keep the other half tucked in the sun visor of your car but it hadn’t occurred to you that Steve would treasure his copy just the same. Your heart tumbles, your thumb roving across the plastic divider. You’ve held your version long enough to sear those images into your brain forever. But these two you haven't seen since the day they were taken. You look at them for a long while before heading back. 

When you return, Penelope’s still snoozing, and Steve’s mid-conversation with her doctor. 

She pivots when his eyes veer to yours. “Oh, Mom, you’re back! Perfect timing!” 

Mentally, the caffeine heist is still underway. Her words don’t process until she’s well into her next sentence. She talks so damn fast that Steve didn’t have much of an opportunity to correct her either. Though maybe he wouldn’t have. He looked at you after she said it, oddly calm for something that cranked your pulse up a few notches. 

The doctor clasps her hands together. “Okay, so, do we want the good news or the bad news first?” 

Steve winces. “Bad?”

“Tee-ball is off limits for a couple months, give or take. But good news, it’s a clean break, should heal good as new in no time.” 

As far as bad news goes, he was expecting a lot worse, but this will still devastate Penelope when he has to tell her. She hadn’t even made it through a week of practice, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t getting her registration fees back. 

Dr. Ruthman explains lots of medical mumbo jumbo as you hand Steve his coffee. She leaves and you end up back in your chair, sleepy enough to think that maybe you should’ve gotten something with caffeine too. Your back aches against the sturdy armrest but you’re trying to pretend it’s a lot more comfortable than it is. You must not be doing a very good job, though, because Steve shuffles to one side of the hospital bed and pats the sheets. 

Your gaze floats up to him. “I’m okay.”  

“You look tired.”

You are tired, but you hoped it wasn’t that obvious. 

Steve pats the sheets again when you don’t answer. 

You push yourself onto your feet and trip over to the empty half of the bed. There’s an obvious lack of space between your bodies– this bed was clearly not built for two adults– but neither of you minds. It’s not the first time you’ve sat like this, and you’d bet it won’t be the last. 

Like Penelope’s Barbies, you both sit upright with legs straight out across the sheets. Both of your guys’ knees are smudged brown with clay. You wonder if it’ll come out of your work pants and Steve’s nice jeans. Yours aren’t anything expensive, you can always buy more if it doesn’t. 

You let the side of your shoe tip into his, just to see how they look beside each other. His sneakers are well-loved with lots of creases and a hole or two, not so far off from your own pair. You zone out pretty quickly thinking about shoes. Your eyes start to burn, but you refuse to let the exhaustion catch up. 

“I stepped on your foot earlier.”

You blink the weight off of your lashes and turn your face toward Steve’s. “What?”

“I stepped on your foot. On the bleachers, when I was getting off. I just remembered.” 

“When?”

“When she fell.”

“You did?” You struggle to talk through a big yawn. “I don’t– I don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know, I just… felt bad.” 

You sigh deeply and let your ear drop to his shoulder. There’s a gentle curve to your lips, a happiness bubbling inside and out. “Better call the nurse back so I can get it x-rayed.” 

He huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.” 

“Don’t be sorry, then.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. Steve’s a good pillow, though maybe that’s the delirium setting in. 

He takes your hand to the tiny sliver of his thigh that Penelope isn’t using. His fingers bunch yours up, then unfurl them one by one. You’ve seen him fidget with Penelope’s hands countless times, though this is the first time the nervous habit’s been extended to you.  

A little nap won’t be the end of the world, you decide. 

You wake to voices, Steve’s and a less familiar one. You gather from the short conversation and Steve’s sudden sitting up that she must be the casting technician. 

Steve slides off the bed onto his feet. Penelope’s still passed out on his chest, her open mouth coating his sleeve in drool. He hears you elbowing up off the sheets. 

“You can stay. It won’t take long,” he says quietly. 

You swipe the crust out of your eyes and shake your legs awake on the floor. “Mm-mm. I’ll go.” 

You follow him and the casting tech to a room so small you could’ve mistaken it for a storage closet. 

Penelope’s still in Steve’s arms when she rouses, but she’s in an entirely new room. There’s someone she doesn’t remember meeting, a girl with a boy’s haircut, wearing the same boxy clothes that everyone who works there has. 

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Steve rubs her thigh, “gotta pick a color for your cast.”

Penelope scrunches her eyes real tight at Steve. It is not time to wake up. 

The casting tech clears her throat, “We have pink, purple, red, blue, black…”

Steve sits Penelope upright on his lap as her head lolls to his shoulder. “Baby, look, see these pretty colors?” 

“Pink,” she groans into his shirt, her lashes fanned across her cheeks. 

“Pink?” the tech calls. 

Steve nods and the woman begins to prep on the countertop. You stand beside the bed Steve’s perched on, your head heavy as a dumbbell. 

“Don’t fall over," Steve says.

You grab his shoulder for balance. “‘M not.” 

The technician rolls a side table up to Steve and pops the brake. She has him scoot forward and maneuver Penelope’s broken arm flat. His stomach knots itself in a guilty pretzel when her eyes open full of tears. Casts are all the rage when you’re that young, but they’re not so fun to put on and take off. 

She’s so spent she barely puts up a fight. Steve holds her good hand more for his sake, sprinkling sorry kisses all across her head as the tech works.

Penelope’s arm is wiped, padded, and all plastered up in no time. The amount of minutes it takes to harden is the same amount it takes Penelope to calm back down. She’s awake, but zombie-like; moaning and groaning like she might really bite someone’s head off. 

Back in her hospital room, she tests the weight of her cast, complains that it’s so itchy and too heavy. But the mention of signatures adds a little shot of excitement to her cup. You track down a Sharpie and are begged to sign it first. After, she insists you must draw Cinderella too. And now you're no artist, but you try your absolute best.

“I’m the only boy who’s gonna sign this, right?” Steve asks as he colors in a heart by DAD. 

Penelope nods with her lip between her teeth so she doesn’t laugh. Every boy on the block is about to sign it, that’s for damn sure. 

A nurse steps in with discharge paperwork and a speech about cast care and referrals and payment plans and it all goes in one ear and out the other. But finally, Penelope is free to go. 

It takes ten minutes of wandering the parking lot to find the car because you’ve completely forgotten where you left it. Penelope treats it like a game of hide and seek and Steve genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, though he does tease you about your awful parking job when he sees it. You’re just glad it’s in an actual spot and not halfway to some impound lot. 

Penelope fusses as Steve eases her into her car seat. He threads her casted arm carefully through the seatbelt strap, her new bear crushed to her chest with the other. She looks more asleep than awake the way she’s blinking at him. 

It’s late enough to wonder if he’ll keep her home from school tomorrow. Or if maybe he’ll stay home from work himself. You could call off too, make a special day out of it. 

Steve adjusts the rearview so he has a slice of Penelope when he checks it. She’s an absolute goner before the car’s even left the parking lot, her head swaying like a ragdoll with every turn. 

The drive back to the field is peaceful. The hum of the engine pushes you dangerously close to a second nap. And Steve patting your thigh certainly doesn’t help. 

When he parks you’re crestfallen with the realization that the night is coming to a close. It’s been the most stressful part of your week and yet undeniably your favorite. You hang out in the heat of the car while Steve goes to search for Penelope’s missing cleat. He searched all up under the car seats for it, but you’re almost positive she kicked it off on the field. 

You watch Steve retrace his steps up to the dugout. Your mind, for whatever reason, jumps to earlier, smushed in that little twin bed, using his arm like a pillow. He was so gentle with your hands. He always is. And you were close enough to kiss him as you have been so many times in the last couple of months. You’ve had every opportunity to do it, but so has he. If it’s something he wanted to do, surely he would’ve done it by now. But it is nice to consider that maybe one of these days your delusions won’t be so delusional.

The passenger door clicks, and a swell of cold air hits your side. You’re stunned for a split second before Steve’s face slides into view. His eyes swing from Penelope’s over to yours. “Ready?” 

His fingers are icicles, slipping between yours to pull you up. You stand toe to toe, more than happy to encroach on his body heat in the residual spring chill. There’s a streetlamp behind him, his face is shadowed but still clear, his head fringed in white like a halo. 

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he says, “but I did find your sunglasses.” 

“Oh,” you pat the top of your head, “I didn’t even realize.”

He cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt before folding them into your hand. “Sorry, I must’ve dropped ‘em.” 

You shake your head. He could have snapped them in two and you still wouldn’t care. “Her cleat– one of the moms? Or her coach, maybe?” 

“Yeah, probably. Her bag’s gone too.” 

You hum. Your chest aches fiercely with the gauntlet of emotions you’ve bounced between all night. You aren’t sure what to say apart from, “Sorry.” 

He wrinkles his nose, a laugh of disbelief shaking his shoulders. “Why on earth are you sorry?” 

You squeeze your hands together, grasping for the right words. You're running on empty, though, and your thoughts just feel so heavy right now. “Today… it was all just so scary,” your voice goes paper-thin. “I just can’t imagine.” 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s quiet for a while, staring at you like you’ve said the wrong thing. And maybe you have, it’s so late you can’t tell up from down anymore. But his face screws itself tighter, he looks away and then quickly back with even more severity. And then his arms are pulling you roughly against his chest, squeezing you gently. “God, Y/N. I should be the sorry one, you– she’s not even your fucking kid and you– you don’t need to be sorry.” 

“No,” you push off his chest until you can see his face again. He’s frowned enough times today to last him a lifetime. “I am. I care so much about her and it was all so awful. I just can’t even imagine how you must’ve felt.” 

Steve’s eyes sting like fire ants have made a nest in his waterline. He’s using every last drop of energy he has not to break in half right now. The last thing he wants is for you to feel even more sorry for him.  

He puts you back where you won’t see if he does cry, a big hand holding the side of your head to his chest. Your arms loop around his waist, hands latching onto his shirt like he’ll turn to dust and blow away. 

“I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight without you,” he murmurs. 

“You would’ve figured it out. Always have.” 

“No, I–” he exhales hot air down the back of your neck, his chin anchored to the slope of your shoulder. “Honestly, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” he admits. 

“Yeah, it was scary. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream like that.” 

“I’m gonna have nightmares, I think.” 

He says it like a joke, but neither of you laughs. It feels too true to be funny. 

“I thought it would get easier as she got older… but I– I still have no idea what I’m doing.” 

Your lashes tickle his collar every time you blink. And your hand crawls up and over his shoulder, but a light squeeze does nothing for all the tension packed in there.  “I don’t think anyone does, Steve,” you say. 

A sigh whistles through his nose. 

“But I do know you’re doing a good job. A really good job.” Your sincerity colors every bit of your tone with warmth. “I think it all the time.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m astronomically fucking this whole raising a decent human thing up?” 

“Now I know you’re just fishing for compliments,” you pull back to flick his chest. The bud of a small smile appears on his face. “You know what I think.” 

He catches your wrist before it drops, bringing his other hand up to heat yours in both of his. “You know, I know she’s not yours, but I’m really grateful that she has you in her life.”

“I’m just–” 

“You’re here,” he cuts you off. “You’re not her mom, but I mean, you’re here. You’re always here for her– and for me.” 

“Steve.”

“It’s so fucking selfish of me, but God, I just wish sometimes you were her mom, like her actual mom, even if we weren’t–” he looks away, his eyes somewhere else before he turns back, “she’s just so fucking lucky to have you is all.” 

You swallow the giant rock in your throat. You hope he’s squeezing your hand tight enough not to notice how it’s shaking. “I wouldn't be as good at it as you think. You’d get sick of me.” 

“Are you kidding? You’d make a great mom.” 

You turn your face away. “Don’t play with me, Steve.”

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. He speaks with such conviction it’s hard not to. But after tonight, you do know that parenthood scares the hell out of you, so much more than it already had. 

And every moment with Steve leaves your heart more exposed like it’s blistering itself raw under the weight of all these hidden feelings. You can’t kid yourself, you love Steve, maybe more than anyone you’ve ever loved in your life. And for a while, it seemed like hiding it was the best option, hoping it’d just go away seemed like it would work. But you’re still here, being tortured by every little stupidly kind thing that comes out of his mouth. 

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline, but suddenly this moment feels like your opportunity. You’re both being vulnerable, clinging to each other like you’re years past friendship. You know Steve. He’s considerate and patient and empathetic, he would never end things completely over this. 

Your lips part, then smush back together. It’s like you’ve swallowed a pint of glue, the words stuck swirling in the pit of your aching tummy. 

“I–” You clear your throat, “I think… I’ve been, um–” Your eyes close so hard you see colors. You laugh strangely, much more of a breath than sound, shaking your head, then his hands off of yours. “It’s freezing out. I’m– I’m gonna go.”

He nods fiercely. 

You don’t allow yourself to look at him, spinning on your heels before the words have left your mouth. “Night, Steve.” 

“Goodnight,” he tells the back of your head. 

The wind doesn’t help your stinging eyes. But you don’t wipe the wetness away until you reach your car on the other side of the parking lot. Inside you take a big desperate breath. You feel like you’ll be sick all over the steering wheel. 

He probably thinks you're such an idiot stumbling over yourself and then just leaving like that. The whole thing was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive, not at all how you’ve dreamt about doing it. You couldn’t even do it. You should have just saved yourself the embarrassment and kept it to yourself like you have been. 

You take your half of the photo booth pictures from the sun visor, your finger sliding across the torn ridge gently. You and Steve are friends! He’s said so himself dozens of times. And tonight, while it was absolutely awful in just about every way, it’s still a memory you’ll cherish because of Steve. You are so afraid to lose that. 

Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the way things are he goes and does something that sends you right back to square one.  Half of you is endlessly grateful for what you and Steve have. But the other half mourns the idea that this is all you’ll ever be. 

On Saturday, you arrive at the softball field early this time, nerves chipping at the soft smile on your face. Things with Steve have been… off since the last time you were here. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make your stomach turn when the beamer pulls in beside you. Though he’s grinning at you through the window like you’re a pile of gold, you decide that maybe you’ve just been overthinking things. 

Steve rolls Penelope’s window down with his. She’s loads happier than when you last saw her, sticking both hands out of the car to wave at you. 

You're beaming instantly, stupidly so, as you turn your car off and step out. It’s relieving to see her smile again. 

“Oh my goodness, look at you! Look at these fancy bows!” you fawn, pulling her door open for a full view of her uniform. She’s got knee-high socks over her pants, two big bows securing her braids, and streaks of sparkly face paint on her cheeks. “Are you so excited?” 

“I have pom-poms!” She nearly smacks herself with the speed she brings them up to show you. “I’m just cheering today.” 

“Did you practice your chants?”

She nods, still smiling but chin pointed down with an atypical bashfulness. 

“Saving them for the game?” you nod back agreeably. Your eyes flick over to Steve’s, where he’s elbowed into the center console to watch. He’s observing with that familiar softness, but there’s something else attached to that look. Tension, maybe, whether a good or a bad kind, is yet to be determined. 

You help Penelope with her seatbelt. With two hands, unbuckling is a breeze for this smarty-pants. But a bulky cast over one of them makes it quite a bit more challenging for her little fingers. 

“You’ve got so many new signatures I see,” you point as she springs out of her seat. 

“My whole entire class signed it! There was barely even room!” 

“Wow,” you squint at her wrist, “someone even squeezed a smiley face in there!” 

“Yeah, that was Shell. She's like my bestest friend in the world.” 

“Oh, Shelly with the short hair?” 

“No,” she squawks like you’re crazy to have even thought so, “It’s Michelle. Sometimes I call her Shell ‘cause it’s for short.” 

“Ohh,” you chuckle, a tight hold on her arm as she jumps out onto the gravel. “Michelle, of course.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Silly me.” 

Steve laughs from the back end of the car where he unloads all her gear from the trunk. He helps her arms through the hefty straps on her bag. It’s heavy with a bat, helmet, and glove she won’t need today, but she insisted on bringing, just in case someone forgets theirs.

For the next six weeks, Penelope is the team’s very own part-time cheerleader and part-time dugouts assistant. This was abysmal news at first, she cried for an hour when Steve broke the news. It’s more than half of the season she won’t get to play. But you’ve spun it like it’s a real special job– and it is. You don’t know anyone who can cheer you up faster than Pen can. 

The three of you trek up to the field. Steve’s got a cooler full of juice boxes and a grocery bag of snacks for Penelope to hand out. You’ve teased him about being the team's best mom before, but this couldn’t be more on the nose. Still, it almost makes you want to cry, Penelope gets every drop of her generosity from him. 

Several families convene around the stands, sending their girls into the dugout with good luck. Penelope greets a couple of her friends, both of whom gawk at her cast and argue over who will get to sign it first. 

Steve reels her back over for a quick hug and a round of super embarrassing dad kisses. “My little superstar,” he calls her. “Gonna hear you chanting in the next field over, yeah?” 

She agrees and smacks his hand with her good one. 

You hold out your own with a, “Good luck, Pen!  

She whams down on your palm so hard it burns, but you’re both beaming despite it, high off the excitement of the very first game of the season. Penelope is towed away by a gaggle of girls dying to ask all sorts of questions about her arm. Steve drops the cooler off in the dugout and meets you in the bleachers. 

“Hello,” he says as he sits. "Fancy meeting you here." His eyes flit around every inch of your face, his smile beginning to mirror yours.

“Yeah, funny, I was hoping to see you."  

“You got all dressed up for this.” You're in a plain tee and jeans, but the shirt is technically new.

“Teal’s a hard color to find. Three different stores it took me.” 

There’s a pause, neither of you looks away, no one says a thing. 

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says. He’s so serious about it as if he doesn’t possibly thank you enough. 

You bump your elbow to his and turn towards the game.

Penelope leads warm-up stretches in the outfield, shouting each countdown as loud as Coach does. There’s a little speck of pink in all that teal parting her from the rest of them. And maybe it’s cheesy, but it feels metaphoric. Penelope is truly one of a kind, your sun is a sky full of gloom. The kids’ stolen your heart for good, Steve, her little accomplice. 

[c4tluver02]

meet up

wc: 1.9k

summary: After dating for a few months Steve decides its time you meet the kids. He can only hope it goes well.

warnings: none!

You and Steve have been officially going out for 2 months. Which for Steve this was pretty big. Normally he will see girls for a hookup or a few dates but nothing lasting even a month. And that's because you weren’t just some hook up or a few dates to Steve, you were perfection at its finest. Never failing to make him laugh, quick to ask him how his day was, always taking care of him. You were the girl of his dreams. And when you call him for your nightly call and all he talks about is his day with the kids he figures it might be time for you to actually meet them. 

Normally he would be a little nervous, not knowing how someone would react to the big group of kids. Each one loud and quick to snap back, it was a lot to take in. To fully accept him and his family, never taking one without the other. However, this time was different. This time he isn't scared that you'll run away or that you’ll judge him because of how much he cares. 

So when he asks you if he could set up a day for you all to meet you immediately say yes. Now your own mind is racing with thoughts. You know how important these people are to Steve. You can hear it in his voice when he talks about them, or how he rubs his temples when reciting back to you what one of them was going through. The amount of love he had for his family was evident. Which brings up a little voice in the back of your head screaming that they need to like you. 

-

It was the day you were gonna meet the group. Steve invited everyone over to his place for a get together promising that he would have food and games. When he opened the door to see you in a pretty little dress his heart began pounding right away. 

“Hi sweetheart, y’look gorgeous.” He says it as he grabs your hand leading you inside, getting to see the back of you as you walk in. 

“Thank you Stevie.” You say with a flushed face. You wanted to look your best. But Steve could tell you were a little nervous from the way that you were playing with the hem of your dress. 

“They’re gonna love you, y’know that right?” It shouldn't shock you anymore that Steve can read your mind but it somehow still does. His hands grabbing yours as he leans in for a kiss. 

You hum at him in response, deep in the kiss. You had shown up a little early, trying to let Steve calm your nerves before everyone starts flooding in. 

“Do you want a drink? I have food on the grill right now.” Steve walks into the kitchen getting ready to serve you whatever you ask for.

“Just water please. You’re cooking on the grill?” You ask. For some reason the idea of Steve cooking food for everyone does something for you. It’s very domestic, as if this is his job that he knows he’s supposed to do. 

“Yeah, it was the only way I could convince them all to come here. They wanted to meet up at the arcade.” Steve says, rolling his eyes as he fills your cup with water. 

“We could have met them up there if that's what they wanted.” The way you say it so sweetly makes Steve’s chest warm. You’re always thinking of others. 

“Baby you're very sweet but I think the last place you’d wanna meet them at is a loud arcade where they barely listen to you ‘cause they are too busy playing games.” You laughed at his response knowing he's right. 

“What are you making on the grill anyways?” Your tone is curious but really you just wanna see your boyfriend in front of that grill. Shirt slightly unbuttoned with some chest hair peeking out, the sun landing on him just right that the gold in his hair poops out. 

“Just some hot dogs, thanks for reminding me though I almost forgot.” Steve says as he jogs to the grill. You watch him as you lean on the sliding glass door. 

Luckily you were holding the door open for Steve to hear the doorbell ring. Your heart is beating a little faster now that the moment is arriving. 

When Steve opens the front door he is met with loud voices. 

“I told you that wearing flip flops and riding a bike was stupid.” A boy with curly hair said. 

“Yeah about as stupid as your face.” Snapped back a boy with black hair. 

“Hey guys. C'mon in.” Steve says interrupting their loud argument. He looks up at you with big eyes and a grin as if to say ‘here they are!’

You smile back at him ready to be introduced. 

But as Steve closes the door a girl with brown hair comes up to you. “You’re very pretty.” Her voice is more quiet than the rest of them and she even looks shy herself. 

“Thank you, you're beautiful!” She smiles from your response. 

“Okay, so this is El.” Steve says as he points to the girl closest to you. “Then that's Max, Lucus, Mike, Dustin, and Will.” He puts his hand over some of their heads as he says it and they all stare back at you. 

“Woah you're like, totally out of Steve's league.” Says the boy you now know to be Mike.  

Steve pushes past him rolling his eyes. “Gee thanks guys. Anything else?” He’s now standing by you with his hand on the small portion of your back.

“Yeah, where is the food?” Dustin asks. The boys next to him nod their heads in agreement.

“Do you ever think about anything else other than food?” Steve lets you go, heading toward the kitchen. 

“You know what I shouldn't have to think about Steve? Where the food is. You’d think it would be ready for us.” Dustin says as you all follow him. It makes you smile hearing his little comebacks, only knowing about them from Steve's dramatic retellings. 

“It’s finished, I just need to get it off the grill, get plates out and we'll get it ready.” Steve gives you a quick kiss on your temple as he flies by you to go outside. You feel a little invisible as they all get to work getting things out. Knowing his house a little better than you do.

“So you and Steve are really end game huh?” Max asks you as she opens a new bag of chips.

“Oh- well I.. I mean I hope so.” It was a loaded question to ask someone you’d just met but subtlety doesn't seem to be a word in their vocabulary. 

“I can tell he really likes you. He gave us a whole speech about how we have to be on our best behavior around you.” Lucas says behind her. 

You smile at his comment, finding it extremely sweet on Steve's part to ask that of them. 

“But obviously they don't know how to do that.” Max rolls her eyes saying it loudly to make sure the rest of them hear her. 

Steve comes in with the food ready for it to be plaited up. The kids are quick to get things going, seemingly very hungry. 

“Do your parents not feed you at home or what?” Steve jokes, noticing how rambunctious they are. 

You smile at his joke and Max and El lock eyes knowingly. “Wow Steve, you finally found someone who laughs at your jokes.” 

“Steve has me wrapped around his finger a little bit.” You say cheekily, getting your own food ready. 

He smiles at your response, happy to be in the moment. You seem to be catching up with everyone well. He gives you a kiss and you hear little fake gags in the background. A laugh comes out of you, interrupting the kiss. 

“You think you could not make out in front of the food?” The kids all giggle.

“Yeah the food I made you?” Steve bites back.

When you all settle down at his dining room table it quiets down. Everyone digging into their own plate of food. 

“So how did you and Steve meet?” Will asks with a mouth full of food.

“Ew dude. Don't talk with a mouth full.” Steve parents him like he's his own kid. 

“We met when he was at work and I asked for his help on a movie. I had just moved here so I didn’t know what to do and then Steve asked if I needed help moving and I did.” You tell them, answering his question. 

“That's it? He just asked you out the first time he met you?” Mike asks with wide eyes.

“No, I helped her move and then after hanging out a bit I asked her on a date.” Steve specifies.

“Oh you hung out huh?” Dustin jokes winking poorly at him.

“Anyways, then after a few dates I asked her to be my girlfriend.” Steve finishes with a smile on his face as he looks at you.

“Steve was actually really helpful when I first got here. I didn’t have anyone here so I am extremely grateful I met him when I did.” You explain simply. But Steve can barely take his eyes off of you. If only you knew how grateful he felt to have you. He'll have to tell you all about it when the kids leave.  

“It was like fate then?” El asks. 

You let out a small giggle at her question. You never really thought about the fate of it all but she was right. 

“Yeah, I guess it was.” Steve answers before you could, intertwining his hands with yours. 

Everyone at the table can see the love that's radiating off of the two of you. The way Steve is so open to show his feelings about you makes your heart flutter. To be clingy and affectionate is how you knew Steve to be, but in front of people so close to him he still acts the same.

You all finish the food and the kids ask Steve if they could go outside and roast marshmallows. He automatically does as he's asked and lights the campfire. The sun had mostly set, leaving only a little gap of light. 

Lucas and Max sit closely as El and Mike follow suit. Dustin's marshmallow catches on fire and he freaks out a little bit. Steve, quick to fix everything, blows it out leaving a completely burnt and charcoaled marshmallow. 

Steve handles toasting up your mellow and his, and when he gives it to you it's burnt just enough. How he does everything perfectly you will never know. You handle putting it with the chocolate and the cracker, making it a sandwich. 

By the end of the night you're on Steve’s lap and the kids are all sprawled out. Sitting on cushions from the outside chairs, talking over each other as laughs come out of you and Steve. You are so relaxed in the moment, basking in the feeling of being around people. Steve gives your thigh a gentle squeeze and you kiss his cheek. Wrapping your arm around his neck and threading your hands through his hair. 

Steve was thankful everything went so well but he knew it would when it comes to you.

[steddieasitgoes]

Teacher!Steve isn't big on music himself, but he has a Spotify for his students so they can listen to the songs/artists they like when they're doing independent work/quizzes/etc. He makes them submit songs periodically throughout the year so it stays updated and all their music preferences are heard.

Naturally, all his students are excited to see what a mess his Spotify Wrapped is and Steve makes sure to schedule in time for each class period so they can go through it together when its released.

Of course, it's a hot mess but they all love it, especially the videos their top artists send in.

Steve generally has no idea who sings any of the songs on the various playlists and has a lot of fun putting a face to a voice as they scroll through each video. It's pretty standard selfie shots of the artists talking until they get to one where a man with curly hair and big brown eyes is hopping around like an excitable child, practically shouting his name into the camera and rambling about how much he "appreciates each and every one of the heathens who listens to Corroded Coffin."

Steve has to do a double take because, "wait what?! this is the guy that's always shouting and singing about demons?! but he's so cute!"

His first-period class bursts into laughter at his outburst and of course someone is videoing his reaction. It gets posted to TikTok before the dismissal bell rings and by the time lunch gets there, the video of Steve going heart eyes for Eddie Munson goes viral.

Steve's embarassed but he doesn't ask his student to take it down because he knows how much they've been hoping to go viral this year. Besides, its not like anyone important is every going to see it, right?

Wrong.

Of course, chronically online Eddie Munson stumbles upon the TikTok and promptly runs through the green room, declaring his love for the beautiful Mr. Harrington, who teaches history to high schoolers for a living. He forces their assistant to drop everything he's working on and track down this Mr. Harrington guy because Eddie will not rest until he can talk to him.

Fast forward two days and Steve is hiding in his classroom during lunch, avoiding his coworkers to shamelessly flirt with Eddie Munson via Zoom.

[thefreakandthehair]

hat tricks and other scores.

written for week two of @steddiesportsau and @steddiemicrofic prompt: ‘score’ wc: 351 | rated: teen & up | tags: hockey player!steve harrington, hockey player!eddie munson, alternate universe- hockey, friends to (gonna be) lovers, minor sports injury, light hurt/comfort, cuddling

Steve Harrington is a terrible patient.

When he has a cold, he refuses to sit down. When he has a fever, he refuses medicine. And when he blocks a snipe of a slapshot with his thigh and ends up out for a few games to rest, well, he’s kind of a nightmare, honestly.

Eddie should have expected this, probably. He’s played with Steve for years so he knows how Steve gets when he can’t play. Even when it’s temporary and cautionary, he just can't help himself. He won’t rest if left to his own devices, so Eddie invites himself over unannounced to Steve’s condo with takeout that he knows Steve won’t say No to.

He knows a lot about Steve, and maybe that’s because he’s a little bit in love with him, sure, but it’s mostly because they’re the team’s dynamic duo… and no one can prove otherwise, as far as Eddie’s concerned.

As predicted, Steve lets him in, annoyance on his face melting away the second he smells the chicken parm in the little aluminum container. They sit on the couch, side by side just like they are out on the ice, or in the locker room, or on the plane.

They’re side by side a lot, Eddie realizes.

Eventually, Steve gets antsy again, complaining about how stupid it is that he has to sit out when it’s fine. It’s a muscle contusion, man and I've played through much worse.

“Yeah, well, I don’t make the rules. Forget Coach, if Robin hears that you’re not listening to her instructions, you’re not gonna see the ice again this season.”

Steve grumbles but eventually sighs, leaning… not back, like Eddie expects, but sideways, dropping his head onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“I hate this,” Steve mutters, defeated, and Eddie’s heart clenches.

“I know,” he agrees, experimentally draping his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Just means when you’re back out there, you’re gonna have to like, score a hat trick or something.”

Eddie smiles quietly to himself when Steve scoots closer. It’s not his own hat trick, but it feels like he’s just scored something bigger.

[steddiefication]

The first time Steve goes to Eddie and Wayne’s trailer, he tells Eddie that he likes how cozy it is. Eddie shoots him a dirty look before turning to go straight to his bedroom, no doubt thinking that his tentatively new friend meant it in the same way he’s heard other rich people use that word- when they think a place is small and cramped, but don’t want to look bad by saying what they truly mean.

Meanwhile, Steve barely notices the reaction, too caught up in thinking about how lonely it is in his parents’ big, empty, sterile-feeling house. How it looks as though it’s from a catalogue- nice but impersonal, with little indication that anyone even lives there. How he wishes it was instead like the trailer he was standing in- not just a house, but a home.

[pretentious-blonde]

love

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the confession

warnings: 18+ so many feelings, crying, crying during sex, smut, graphic descriptions of sex, p in v, steve in love, but also angst, panic??

a/n: this is long and took me so long to get it the way i wanted, so i really hope this was worth the wait. this is so sappy, but i feel like i say that about everything, but its TRUE

series masterlist

Steve had been fidgeting ever since they’d slid into the booth. It was a local lunch spot the two of them frequented—sticky vinyl seats, the comforting smell of fried food in the air, and a waitress who recognised them enough to offer a kindly smile. 

Janine? Jamie, was it?

The familiarity did nothing to soothe him. It was a Saturday, you were at work, and Robin was here because he’d breathlessly told her on the phone that it was an “emergency.” 

She nearly sprinted out the door, all too accustomed to handling his disasters. Some were worse than others, but she knew Steve would never use the word emergency unless the situation was actually dire.

His leg bounces, it rattles the underside of the table, causing the silverware to clink against the napkin dispenser. He’s so lost in his own head that, when the waitress returns to drop off two tall glasses of iced tea, he just stares past her, far too caught up to register her presence. 

Robin, exasperated, shoots her an apologetic grin, silently promising that next time the service won’t be abysmal. She’s already planning to leave a generous tip by way of apology.

“Okay, drinks are here,” she says, the slightest edge of tough love in her voice. 

She gestures at the sweating glasses in front of them, hoping that tangible proof of an official breakfast might pull him back down to Earth. She eyes him carefully, remembering the last time he used the word emergency.

It hadn’t been good. 

She’d had to pick him up from school—the fifth graders were doing a presentation on black holes, and he could barely get the words out between the panic. The memories had blindsided him, crashing in from nowhere. Even he was startled by how easily he came undone. 

But that was a year ago, and he seemed to be doing much better now. Which was exactly why he only used the term emergency when he meant it—and she was eager to find out what was going on.

Steve’s eyes hover on the condensation sliding down the glass as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, as his leg continues its relentless bouncing. “They are.”

Robin levels him with a stare. 

“So can you please tell me what the hell this ‘big emergency’ is about before I go into cardiac arrest?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking suddenly sheepish. 

“Feels stupid now.”

Maybe he should have worded it better. 

“Jesus Christ, Steve.” She throws up her hands. “Is it an emergency or not?”

“Yes—well, sort of…” he blurts, then slumps. “Ugh—it sounded bigger in my head.”

She gives him a once-over, her gaze drifting to the beads of sweat forming at his temple. His tension is off the charts. 

Normally, she’d tease him about it, but she senses something deeper roiling behind his eyes. 

“Okay,” she says, more gently now. “Okay, alright—whatever it is, I’m sure we can handle it. Is it a code red?” 

The code for the Upside Down—something that should never come back but always remains a possibility.

“No,” he meets her eyes quickly, shaking his head. “Not a code red.”

Definitely not a code red.

Relief softens her shoulders, and she sips her tea. 

“Then what is it? Is it your class?” She knows he adores his second-graders but also tends to fret over them like a mother.

“No.”

She narrows her eyes. 

“Your girl?”

Silence.

Bingo.

“What did you do now?”

He looks at her, and for a moment, his expression faulters. He’s thinking about you—she knows it, because that dazed, hopeful, half-panicked look has you written all over it. 

She’s watched him obsess for months, flushing anytime your name comes up, lighting up whenever you call. The love is so obvious it nearly radiates from him like a neon sign, and it’s been the quiet delight of her recent life to see her best friend discover something good after everything he’s lost.

But Steve is stuck in his own mind, once again. 

He’s tried, on three separate occasions, to tell you he loves you. 

The first time was in the early morning when you stayed over, tucked beneath his arm, more comforting than any night light or dreamless sleep. Looking after him and his supposed "migraine." He’d walked you to the door, cheeks still warm from the coffee and giggles in between. He’d felt the words tiptoe to the back of his throat—only to choke them down the moment your eyes met his in the golden dawn light.

The second time was on that warm evening you both decided to hike the highest trail in town to catch the perfect sunset. You teased him about being out of shape—he teased you about complaining the whole climb up. Then, at the top, you collapsed onto a worn log, looking out over the quarry and that spot the locals nicknamed Lovers Lake. He’d almost said it then, the sun painting your face with brilliant pinks and purples, but he chickened out at the last second, turned it into a corny joke, and convinced himself he needed “a perfect moment.”

The third time was just a few nights ago. You called him late—long after both of you should’ve been asleep. But you talked until your voices were languid with exhaustion, and as he drifted off, the words were right there again, creeping up through the haze of half-sleep. He’d bitten his tongue.

He wanted to see your face when he finally said it, wanted to watch your eyes well up. He knows you—of course, you’d cry; you cry at every heartfelt book ending and those sad animal adverts you catch on TV. Even when he manages to turn them off when they pop up, you’re still halfway gone, too sweet for your own good.

Too sweet for him, probably.

He wanted to be there to wipe your tears and hold you close, to make sure you understood just how serious his confession was—that he would always be there to shoulder your sadness, to offer back even a fraction of the care you’d given him.

But time was dragging on, and the pressure in his chest only intensified. He’s realised he doesn’t know how to go about it. 

A fancy restaurant feels too public. He doesn’t want you sobbing at a linen-draped table in front of a hundred strangers, but something offhand or casual doesn’t do justice to how deeply he feels. In desperation, he’d rung Robin at 9 a.m., muttering cryptic nonsense that he needed to see her—emergency. 

And here they are, his heart pounding so loudly he wonders if the entire diner can hear it.

“Steve,” she sighs to break his trance, drumming her fingers on the table, “what is going on? I can’t help unless you tell me.”

“It…” He tries to speak, breath catching in his throat. “it happened.”

Seriously?

“No, be more vague—please. I love playing twenty questions on my day off.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated exhale. If he can’t even tell his best friend he is in love with you, how the hell is he going to say it to your face?

“I… I love her, alright? I love her, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to go about it.”

There. He said it. 

The first step was done—admitting it out loud

“Oh,” she blinks, as if that’s not a shock to her in the slightest.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No, I mean…” Robin sets her glass down. “I kinda thought you were already, like, there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That night at the bar?” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

He pictures you in the dim light, how your laughter danced against the clinking bottles and pounding music, how you’d held his hand a little tighter tighter under the table, how later—teeth and tongue, filthy words turned soft and sweet come the morning hangover—he’d known something had shifted, maybe even before that. A flush still creeps up his neck at the memory.

“Was it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so, loverboy.” She offers him a sympathetic grin. 

“But that’s not the problem.” He groans and buries his face in his hands. 

She tilts her head. “Then what is?”

He looks up, eyes flicking around to ensure no one is eavesdropping. 

“Avery.”

Fucking Avery. 

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t he the one who was supportive of your whole ‘journey to recovery’?” She tries to contain her confusion. “I mean, you finally talking to her was a huge deal.”

It had been a huge deal—which meant this was, by extension, just as monumental.

“He is supportive. But…” He rubs a hand over his chin, dropping his voice. “He made it extremely clear that the 'journey' would not consist of telling her… you know.”

At that, Robin’s face tightens with understanding. Dr Avery was no regular therapist—he was government-provided, more or less, to help him process the lethal secrets he’d been forced to swallow. 

“Is that… is that a problem for you?” 

Not talking about it?

“Yes and no,” he feels his chest tighten. “I’ve told her the bare bones,” he admits, “but she wants more. Worse is, I want to tell her, but—fuck—I don’t know what to do.”

He wants to tell you—and he knows you want to know. 

He was getting close, ready to let you in completely. But this had blindsided him, a curveball he never saw coming. He’d never realised how unclear the boundaries were—he knew better than to spill his trauma to the local cashier, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the same silence might apply to the people closest to him.

Robin’s eyes flit around, making sure no one’s close enough to overhear.

“Would it be, y’know, bad if you told her?”

He read between the lines, nodding once. 

“Definitely,” he says, remembering the warning, the seecretive nature of everything that happened beneath Hawkins. The last thing he wants is for you to be thrown into the crosshairs of that madness.

She frowns, tapping the table with restless fingers, trying to find a solution. 

“So stick to basics?”

“I’ve done that.” He wrinkles his brow. “She knows about the fire at the old mall.”

“Stick to what’s public.” She sighs, exasperated but determined. “The Mall fire, the ‘earthquake,’ Will going missing—hell, all that stuff’s in the papers. The town believed it. If she goes digging, that’s all she’s gonna find.”

He tries to picture it. You’re smart—he’s always known that. When you latch onto something, you chase it down until you have every answer. It’s one of the things he admires about you. 

You couldn’t possibly guess the truth, right? 

Not even your imagination could stretch that far. 

“She might suspect something,” he worries out loud. “She’s too sharp to not notice the gaps.”

“How can she suspect the actual ‘truth’?” She lifts both hands in air quotes to punctuate the word. “Look—It’s not ideal, I know. But what choice do you have? Unless you plan on taking the risk and telling her everything.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” he says firmly. 

He doesn’t even have to think about it. 

The idea of you being in danger twists his stomach with dread.

“Then this is the only option.” She nods, as if she knew that would be his response. “It’s safer for everyone involved. Once you get that conversation out of the way, she probably won’t ask again, unless it’s necessary. She cares about you enough to respect that boundary, especially if it’s so obviously painful.”

She’s got a point—though it’s not one he’s particularly fond of.

“I don’t like it.”

Again with the lying. 

“Neither do I,” she agrees softly, “but it’s the best we’ve got for now. And who knows? Maybe in a few years, once you’ve both proven you’re in it for the long haul, you can push to let her know more. But for now… it’s safer to keep it quiet.”

He considers this, letting the logic sink in. 

He pictures your face, the soft ways your expression shifts whenever you sense he’s holding something back. You’d do anything to protect him—he knows that, and in turn, he’d do anything to protect you. If this is the path to keep you safe and build a future, then so be it. 

“Okay…”  He exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

He can do that.

Robin’s lips curve into a relieved smile. 

“Perfect, now we’ve got that out of the way…”

She takes another sip, then shoves her drink aside like it personally offended her. Leaning in, elbows on the table, she rests her chin in her palms and flashes him a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“Got any plans for your big, sweeping declaration of love? Or let me guess, you’re just gonna wing it—blurt it out in a moment of chaos, spiral into a full-blown meltdown, then call me freaking out because it’s an ‘emergency’ again?”

“I would so not do that.”

“Mhm. Sure. History really backs you up there, champ.”

Steve had spent nearly an hour that afternoon pacing between rows of delicate floral displays, Robin’s voice buzzing in his head. 

Keep it simple, but, like, not too simple. Just make it romantic. 

He took her at her word. Red roses? Too cliched. Tulips? Sold out. Lilies? He scrunched his nose because something about them felt too solemn—like he’d be bringing home a funeral arrangement, and God knew he’d had enough of death in his life. 

Eventually, the florist guided him to the pink carnations, speaking softly about how they symbolised gratitude. He latched onto that word. 

Gratitude. 

He watched, vaguely mesmerised, as the florist carefully wrapped the gentle stems in translucent paper. He only half-listened to her explanation of meaning and symbolism. In truth, he was more focused on how neatly she tied the bow, imagining the look on your face when he handed them over. He might have stammered something about how you deserved more than carnations, but the florist just smiled and assured him you’d love them.

He hoped she was right.

Next stop was the grocery store, where he raided the snack aisle like a man on a mission. M&Ms, Reese’s, a bag of your favorite crisps—he wanted you to have options. Tonight had to be soft and sweet, the perfect reflection of you. If everything went according to plan, it would be the start of something even more meaningful.

The final kicker had actually been Robin’s idea—she was good for some things, he supposed. 

She’d suggested he book a weekend away, just the two of you, to finally have the big conversation about his past—or at least the basics. 

Somewhere you could choose together, a little hideaway where you’d drag him into every antique shop and he wouldn’t dare complain. Where you’d come home in the evening, and he’d fight you when it came down to who’s cooking. He’d sit you on the counter so you could watch, tasting as he goes. Somewhere with a fireplace. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he could lose himself in you, if only for a few days.

He’d tell you as much as he could, and you could leave it there—stronger for it.

It was foolproof. 

He just had to tell you he loved you first. 

No big deal. 

Except it was the biggest thing he’d done in years.

By the time he parked outside your shop, the day was winding down. The lights were faint through the windows, and he could see you behind the counter with your nose in a book, the edges of your world looking downright peaceful. 

He steeled himself, took a breath, and shouldered the bag of goodies and flowers.

He was going to do this.

He was going to walk in there, see your smile, and at least try not to fuck it up.

The little bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. You glanced up, frowning at the idea of a customer so late to closing. Realisation soon dawned and your face lit with a smile as you recognised who it was. He managed a wave, and when you spotted the carnations and the rustling grocery bag, your expression softened as you shoved your book aside.

You were around the counter in two heartbeats, practically throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you with a small oof, but the sound turned into a warm laugh. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“What’s all this?” you asked, taking a small step back but keeping your hands curled in the fabric of his jacket.

He glanced down at the bag in one hand and the bouquet in the other, pretending to look them over like he’d just noticed them himself. 

“What? I can’t surprise you after work?”

You pressed your lips together in a playful smile. 

“If you’re gonna show up like this,” you teased, gesturing to the flowers, “then you can always surprise me after work.”

“Noted,” he said. He gently passed the carnations to you, watched you inhale their sweet fragrance.

The kiss you offered him in thanks was brief but lingering enough to stir the butterflies in his stomach. He savoured the feeling of your mouth against his, of the way you exhaled softly when his hand rested on your waist. When you pulled back, you lifted the grocery bag curiously. 

“If there are M&Ms in here, I’m guessing a movie night?”

Hmm, close enough. 

“Yeah,” he let out a breathy chuckle. “Something like that.”

You beamed up at him and he felt a little more centered. 

He wasn’t going to screw this up—he could already feel it.

“I’m gonna go put these in some water,” you said, cradling the flowers against your chest. “Would you mind locking the door, please?”

“On it,” he replied quickly.

He made sure to flip the sign from Open to Closed, then turned the lock with a satisfying click. He tested the door twice—overly cautious, but it soothed him. 

He didn’t want anything interrupting what he was about to do—not a stray customer, not a single distraction. This was the night he’d been imagining for a week straight. Every version he’d fantasised about, he didn’t want to end. 

Sometimes, in those daydreams, you cried. 

Sometimes, you kissed him before he was even finished. 

But his absolute favourite—the one he cherished the most—was the version where you gently shushed him, eyes soft, and repeated his words. 

Told him you loved him back.

He follows you upstairs. It smells of the flowers you’ve just placed in a vase, their fragrance mingling with the old-book scent that seems to cling to every corner of your life.

You rifle through the shopping bag too, unearthing treasure, pulling out chocolate bars and snack packs with a sound of genuine delight that sends warmth flooding through him. In the last few weeks alone, he’s realised how simple moments like these—the mundane, the domestic—can feel like revelations when shared. 

He was a giver—he was starting to understand that now. 

It had been hard, for a long time, to recall what that felt like. He used to give so easily, so instinctively, to anyone who needed him. Maybe that part of him had never really disappeared. He still gave himself to his work, poured everything he had into it—but this was different. This wasn’t obligation or survival. He wanted to give to you, simply because it made you happy. 

“You really went all out here,” you tease, glancing at the near-overflowing pile of sweets.

“Not really,” he replies with a shrug, trying to play it cool. “Just the stuff I know you like.”

“Okay, but you got pretty much everything… twice.”

Yeah, maybe it was overboard. 

“Didn’t want you to run out,” he mumbles, but it’s not just about the snacks.

“You trying to sweeten me up or something?” You cock a brow at him, a playful grin tugging at your lips. 

He chuckles, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. 

“No, not quite,” his hands find your waist, drawing you closer. “C’mon, tell me about your day.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but there’s affection there still. Before he knows it, you’ve grabbed his hand and tugged him across the room. He stumbles after you, nearly tripping over a stray book, and you steer him toward the couch, dropping down opposite him. The cushions dip under his weight, and he shifts to face you, his full attention locked on your every movement.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you begin with a dramatic sigh, leaning your head back against the couch.

“What do you mean?”

“Deal with kids all day.” You throw your hands up as you explain. “You take your eyes off them for just one second, and they basically destroy the place.”

Steve snorts in empathy, recollecting all the mishaps he’s encountered in his classroom—spilled paint jars, glue-eating incidents, that one kid who insisted on running around with scissors directly pointed upward. 

He still claims his job ‘helps’ him cope with stress.

“Yeah, they do tend to do that,” he says trying to hold in a grin. 

He recalls his first week on the job, wide-eyed and clueless. He’d had to stop one of the braver second graders from chowing down on some crayons; that memory still makes him chuckle, even as he had to remind himself it was ‘non-toxic.’ 

“So, what happened?”

You exhale again in frustration, throwing an arm over your eyes in an exaggerated show of exasperation. 

“A kid came in—not one of yours, obviously—”

“Obviously.”

“—and the dad was completely oblivious to what he was doing. I swear, like, no control at all. The kid thought it’d be real funny to pull all the books from the lower shelves onto the floor. The ones I’d just reorganised that morning.”

“Maybe he was looking to buy.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. 

“He wasn’t.” You shoot him a narrow glare. “Funnily enough, I don’t think he was in the market for Tennyson.”

“You never know,” he quips, fighting a smirk, “could be really advanced for his age.”

“By the way he tore some of the pages loose, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

He winces at the thought of ruined books—he’s never been the biggest reader, but he knows how it’d break your heart to see the torn pages. 

“Need me to help sort them?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I managed to get it done after they left. The dad didn’t even say sorry though.”

“Sounds like I came at the right time, huh?” He leans forward and nudges your foot with his own, a playful attempt to lighten your mood.

“You have no idea.” You return the nudge with a small kick, your eyes relax as you look at him, letting out a breath. Finally able to uncoil after the trauma of the afternoon. 

You refocus your attention back on him, folding your arm under your cheek so you can look. 

“Tell me about your day, make me feel better.” 

“It wasn’t as eventful as yours.” He rubs the back of his neck and offers a modest laugh.

It's been monumental if you knew the details. 

“Don’t care,” you say, shrugging. “Bore me then.”

He shifts on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position for what he knows is about to happen. 

“Well,” he says, “I saw Rob.”

“Oh?”

“She says hi.”

“Hi back,” you reply, and even though you’re not looking at him with suspicion, he feels the nerves swell in his ribs. 

“We had a… talk.” He swallows. 

Ok, that sounded ominous.

Concern flashes across your features, and you straighten. 

“Is everything alright?”

When he sees that hint of worry in your eyes—the immediate readiness to drop everything for his sake—he feels a little guilty. 

“She’s fine,” he reassures quickly. “Everything is fine.”

“Oh… So, what was it?”

He takes a steadying breath, feeling the moment begin to unravel before him. 

“I… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, I mean… no, I don’t think so.”

“Because if it is, you can tell me.”

“I know.”

“And I promise I can help,” you insist, already leaning in, your hands inching toward him as if you’ll physically hold his problems for him if you have to.

“No, you don’t have to—”

“Because if you needed I could shut the shop for a while—”

"That's not—"

"And I've got the whole day off tomorrow."

"No, I—"

"And the day after as well—"

“Fuck, sweetheart, please.” 

Let him do this. 

He surprises even himself with the urgency in his tone. In one smooth motion, he leans forward, resting his palms on your shoulders. The earnestness on your face practically knocks the air out of his lungs. 

“I know you would,” he assures, voice going softer. “I know, but it’s not anything like that.”

He can see your tension unravel a fraction, posture turning sheepish. 

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth curving into a near-smile. “Don’t ever be sorry for trying, alright? Don’t.”

You never need to apologise for that. 

You nod, eyes focused on him now, waiting.

He steels himself, heart thudding, the next words feeling far too big for his body.

Robin had been right—he’s probably going to butcher this. He always does when it comes to words. They get tangled, come out wrong, never quite land the way he means. 

She’d also told him something else: that the words don’t have to be perfect, just honest—as honest as they can be. And that part, he knows he can do. Because you’ll let him say them—however clumsy or messy or cracked they come out—you’ll give him the space to try.

“I… I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment to tell you everything, and it’s just… never felt like the right time.” 

He drags in a breath, noticing the way your expression shifts to something gentler, more open. The subject matter is a rocky one—one you know he has to take his time articulating. 

“And I know it hasn’t been fair to you. I know that. I hate how much I hold back. It fucking kills me that I can’t give you everything. You’re the one person who’s shown up, over and over, and all I’ve done is make you wait—you don’t deserve that, angel.”

“Steve…” You start softly, but he holds up his hand, not unkindly, just asking for silence.

He needs to do this. 

“Can—can you just let me finish?”

Please?

You nod, giving him the space he needs. He forces down the lump in his throat. 

Here goes nothing. 

“I didn’t know if I was gonna get any better,” he says, voice unsteady. “If I could get any better. But I feel like… I feel like I’ve come further with you than I ever would’ve on my own.”

Your lips part, like you want to protest or tell him he’s stronger than he thinks—to give himself some more credit at the progress he has made already. He senses your thought process immediately. 

“I’m serious, angel. I—I never would’ve even thought about asking someone out a couple years ago. I couldn’t. I didn’t think I had it in me. Hell—even a year ago—I was still barely holding myself together. But you…”

He swallows hard, the words catching in his throat.

“You made it feel like maybe I could. Like I could be someone again—like I’m allowed to want things. And you—God, you made it look so easy. Just by showing up.”

He stumbles over his words, then closes his eyes for a brief second, gathering the courage to keep going. 

“But I think I’m ready now… for all of it.”

As much as he could be. 

His eyes find yours again—soft, but sure. 

“I wanna tell you everything. All the stuff I’ve been carrying ‘round, the things I’ve never said out loud. And I wanted to do it right, you know? Spent weeks going in circles, trying to come up with some perfect way to say it—some big moment…”

He swallows, shoulders tense with the effort of holding this together.

“So I thought… if you wanted, we could go away. Just us. Somewhere quiet. Doesn’t have to be far—just somewhere not here.”

Somewhere safe. 

“Anywhere you want. I’ll go wherever you say—I just want it to be with you.”

He sees your breath catch at the suggestion, a flash of surprise. His voice is trembling, but he keeps going, heart pounding. 

“But only if you want to.”

 His voice dips lower, almost a whisper now.

“I just… I wanted to show you how much I mean it.”

How much you mean to him.

“Because… I’ve fallen for you.”

He laughs—barely. A nervous breath of sound.

“And I didn’t mean to—not like this. Not before I had the chance to tell you everything—to explain the stuff I’m still figuring out. But I did. I fell anyway. It just… happened. Somewhere between you showing up that day at my class and the way you came running when you thought I might have needed you.”

He shakes his head, eyes glassy now, gaze flicking to your lips, your hands, back to your eyes.

“And I needed you to know that—because even if I screw the rest of this up, even if I say the wrong thing or shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He draws in one more breath, steadying himself, giving you the only thing he’s got left.

“Because… I love you.”

The words are soft, cracked around the edges. But they’re whole. 

Real. 

Full.

“I love you,” he says again. “And—and I don’t want to keep holding it in. Not when this is the one thing you need to know the most.”

You look at him, stunned.

He loves you.

Not in passing. Not in hesitation. Not in a way that’s half-formed or waiting for a safer time. He loves you—and he’s sitting here, offering you all of it.

It’s everything you’ve wanted to hear. Everything you’ve been aching for these past few weeks—shreds of a story and guarded hints that never led anywhere, never made it past the walls he’d built around himself. And now he’s cracked them wide open, just for you.

Your breath catches, trembling in your chest as you try to process the enormity of what he’s just said.

This isn’t just about love. It’s about trust. It’s about finally being let in.

And God, he’s come so fucking far.

From the anxious, soft-spoken teacher who sat across from you on your first date, nervously stirring his coffee and dodging eye contact, to this—a man who’s still afraid, yes, but speaking through the fear anyway. 

You’ve seen all of him. The good, the bad, the broken. Every scar, every silence. You’ve touched the places he thought he had to bury just to be loved, and not once did you see anything but someone worth staying for.

He was Steve Harrington. 

Steve.

The one who tucks notes into your books when you’re not looking. Who always remembers how you take your tea. Who calls you at 2 a.m. just to hear your voice when the dark gets too heavy.

And yes, he blames you for the changes. Says it like a joke, like a sweet little sin you’re both in on. But you know the truth.

He’s always had this in him. 

You just had the honour of watching him remember. And now, he’s starting to believe it too.

Before you even realise it, you’re crying. Not the loud kind, not sobbing—just the aching kind of where the feeling swells too fast to react.

He sees it instantly. His eyes dart to yours, wide with concern, watching the tears gather along your lashes like they’re something fragile he wishes he could catch before they fall.

He wants to reach for you. Wants to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, press his hand to your face, promise you you’re okay now, that he’s here. That he means every word.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays completely still, watching you, his chest rising and falling as he braces himself.

He almost curses himself for making you cry. Even though he knows it’s not from pain. But it doesn’t matter. His first instinct is to protect you—even from yourself. From your own softness. From the overwhelm he understands too well.

But this is your moment now. And he owes it to you not to rush it.

Just—please.

Say something.

Your voice breaks through the silent space between you, almost trembling, like it might crack in your throat.

“Do—do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

His answer is immediate. 

“Yes, I do.”

He really does.

You exhale shakily, and before he even has time to process it, you’re already reaching for him. Latching onto him like it’s instinct, like your body decided before your mind could catch up. You wrap yourself around him, trembling, and his arms respond immediately.

He gathers you into his lap, tethering you there against him. Your face buries into the curve of his neck, your breath hot and unsteady against his skin, and all he can do is hold you.

One hand cradles the back of your head, weaving gently through your hair like it’ll help soothe the storm. The other curls tight around your back, palm spread across your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him, keeping you close.

He can feel you shaking. 

“Hey, hey… c’mere,” he whispers, voice low, breaking at the edges.

This he hadn’t braced himself for. 

A few tears, maybe. Something overly sentimental. 

But not this.

Not a full collapse. Not the way you’re clinging to him like he’s a lifeline and your heart’s been holding this weight too long.

He hadn’t realised—hadn’t let himself realise—just how much this would mean to you.

Just how long you’ve been waiting.

Your face is pressed into his shoulder now, and he can feel the soft dampness of your tears soaking into his shirt.

You’re not making a sound, but your body is saying everything. And it tears something open in him.

He never wanted to make you cry like this.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple as he leans in. “I gotchu.”

He's got you.

His arms tighten around you just a little more. He lets you stay folded into him, rocking you gently like the smallest motion might ground you both.

“Talk to me.”

He needs to hear your voice. Needs to know you’re okay.

Needs to know his words didn’t just crack something open—they made room for something new to begin.

Slowly, you pull back. Your hands are still curled in his shirt, but you ease enough to look at his face. He almost breaks at the sight of you—eyes red-rimmed, tears sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, your voice small. 

His instincts push to console you, to promise that there’s nothing to be sorry for. You see the protest forming on his lips, and you rush on, 

“I’m sorry, I just know how—how hard this was for you, and—and—I’m sorry.”

His chest immediately tightens with guilt. 

This is his fault. 

He cups your cheeks carefully, thumbs stroking the tears away. He shushes you softly, like he would with one of his kids.

“Stop saying sorry, alright?” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for making you wait so long.”

You start to argue, but emotion closes your throat. You just swallow, trembling a little. 

“I told you it was alright to wait,” you manage, voice rough.

He offers the softest huff of laughter, letting his fingers continue to brush your cheeks. 

“Yeah, but you were lying.”

Your mouth wobbles again, and more tears threaten to spill. 

“I just wanted to help,” you whisper, like a confession you’re half-ashamed of.

Of course you would. 

“Some things you can’t fix like that,” he says, gentle but firm, still wiping away the tears as they fall.

You sniff, nodding slightly, blinking away a few more.

“We can go anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

If you asked him to leave tonight, he would.

Another shaky nod as you inhale, finally steadying yourself. 

“And we’ll talk about everything?”

“We’ll talk about everything,” he echoes.

As best as he can.

His hand comes to rest gently at your jaw, thumb grazing the curve of your bottom lip.

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Thank you, Steve—fuck, I love you. Thank you for trusting me, and for—” your breath hitches, the words tripping over the same as his, “—I—fuck, I love you too.”

I love you, too.

Time doesn’t feel real. The room disappears. There’s only you—and the sound of your voice, those words tumbling from your lips, a truth that sets his heart alight.

It’s everything he’s been waiting for. Everything he was afraid he’d never hear.

You’re still crying, but there’s a smile on your lips now, radiant, and it’s the quite possibly most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He's got you.

You're here.

He’s yours.

He shifts his chin against the side of the tub, staring at you blissfully in the steam-filled bathroom. 

The warm water laps gently against your skin, and though you keep telling him he doesn’t have to stay, he shakes his head each time, unwilling to be anywhere else. The night’s confessions still buzz in his chest. 

No matter how close he’d already been to you, pressed tight against your side after the tears had finally slowed (yours and maybe his too, but that's beside the point), it still wasn’t enough.

After everything spilt out—and he grabbed the tissues and sweets from the counter—he’d practically dragged you on top of him to watch a movie. Your choice, obviously. Not that he was paying attention.

You could’ve put on a blank screen and he still would’ve stared at you like it was the greatest film ever made.

And when the pizza delivery came?

He groaned, like answering the door was some great injustice, because it meant peeling himself away from you for thirty tragic seconds.

But as soon as dinner was over, he was right back on you.

Every touch, every wandering kiss, every soft sigh against your skin—it was all just another way to be closer. 

He was a man in love.

Hopelessly, stupidly, clingily in love.

The bath water glistens around you, the bubbles dissolving into feathery streaks against your arms. Steve props himself up a bit, folding his arms on the edge of the tub, and rests his chin there like a curious puppy. He watches the delicate slope of your shoulders, the slight flush on your cheeks, the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

Yep, he’s in love, alright. 

“Maybe we could go south,” you say, your voice echoing softly in the tiled room. “Weather’s getting nice.”

“Yeah,” he answers, the corners of his mouth lifting. “We absolutely could.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I already told you,” he lets out a small chuckle. “That’s up to you.”

You narrow your eyes. 

“Yeah, but I want it to be somewhere you’d like too.”

“As long as you’re there, I really don’t have an opinion.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but the truth is written all over his face.

He’d go anywhere with you.

A laugh escapes you, and you flick water toward him, droplets hitting his cheek. 

“I’m serious! We could do that thing where we throw a dart at a map.”

“Do you own a dartboard?”

“Uh, no?”

“Or a map?”

“I work in a school. I could always find one.”

Could always steal an atlas from the older years. They didn't need to know.

“What if it lands on, like, France or somewhere?”

“Then we go to France,” he declares. “They say Paris is pretty romantic.”

“Hmm,” you tilt your head, considering him with a fondness in your eyes. “Bet it has nothing on you.”

He just shrugs at the compliment, trying and failing to hide how flustered it makes him.

“We can talk about it in the morning, alright?” you say, your tone softer now. “You staying?”

He answers with a look—one that clearly asks if you’re serious. It’s a ridiculous idea and you both knew it.

“Right, sorry.” You roll your eyes at yourself. “Stupid question.”

You gesture to the towel draped on a nearby rack. He stands, water droplets sliding off his forearm, and offers you his hand. You let him help you up, and he wraps the towel around you, completely unhurried. 

He follows you into the bedroom, leaning back across the bed and propping himself up on his elbows.

He doesn’t speak. 

Just watches.

You begin your post-shower routine, patting your face with moisturiser, smoothing your hair back from your forehead with gentle fingers to keep it from frizzing where the steam might have kissed it. It’s all so ordinary. 

He wants to watch you do it every night.

Wants this same scene months from now, when your things are tangled in with his—your toothbrush beside his, your makeup on his drawers, your robe slung over the chair you both pretend isn’t a laundry drop zone.

“I can feel you staring at me,” you say, not looking up, voice teasing as you rummage through the drawer.

He doesn’t even try to deny it. 

“Am I not allowed?”

Turning halfway, you give him a playful glance over your shoulder. He meets your gaze head-on, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a smile so warm, it practically melts you from across the room.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, gesturing you closer with a subtle lift of his chin.

“Why?”

“Just wanna be close,” he says, voice dipping. “You're too far.”

You roll your eyes as you cross the room, still wrapped in your towel, and sit down beside him. The mattress shifts under your weight, and he leans in, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. His fingertips trail across your temple and cheekbone, leaving a tingling sensation.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, eyes searching and looking painfully similar to the way his had been this evening.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Take a wild guess. 

“Yeah,” You raise a brow at him. “I would.”

Still grinning, he lets his hand slip around to cradle the side of your neck. He can feel your pulse under his palm. 

“I’m thinking,” he says, pausing when his voice turns low and steady, “just how lucky I am.”

Your cheeks flush instantly, and you duck your head with a half-hearted groan.

“Stop it,” you whine through a grin, trying to deflect the embarrassment.

“What?” He laughs softly. “I’m serious, sweetheart.”

His hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I got you. Don’t you get it?”

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy, and he just keeps going. 

“I don’t know how I did it—you chose me. Out of everyone—don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about that.”

He still doesn’t quite believe it, maybe that’s why he’s been so close this evening. 

“You’re gonna make me cry again,” you admit, voice barely there.

He shakes his head gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice like sweet sugar, “hey now, no more tears, alright?”

 His gaze softens further as he leans in.

“Too pretty to be crying over me.”

You scoff, but the sound is brittle. 

He doesn’t realise how impossible that ask really is.

“You make it hard when you talk like that,” you murmur, trying to keep the emotion at bay.

You think this is bad?

“Sweetheart…” he leans in until the tip of his nose nudges yours. ”I haven’t even begun to say all the things I want to yet.”

Goosebumps prickled along your arms at the husky undercurrent in his tone. Before you can respond, he lowers his head to press a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“Gonna say a lot more tonight,” he speaks against your skin, breath tickling slightly. “You gonna let me?”

Please, let him.

He shifts on the bed beside you, the heat of his chest radiating against your shoulder and arm. You can feel his breath, sweeping across your cheek. His eyes trace your face—then move lower, lingering on the spot where the towel clings to your damp skin. 

His gaze is hungry yet careful, silently asking if this is still what you want. You can’t help but nod, your heart thumping, your thighs squeezing together.

He presses closer, leaning in until his mouth hovers over yours. You can taste the quiet groan in his throat even before your lips connect. His kiss is warm, unhurried—an ache made tangible as his hand settles on your thigh, fingers splayed against the soft flesh. He shifts his weight, and the towel slips a fraction, baring more of your skin to the cool air.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your breath stutters, but you nod, letting him lift the towel away. The cotton slides from your chest and falls to the side, leaving you completely exposed. A quiet curse slips from his mouth as his eyes rake over every curve, every inch of bare skin. 

He sets one hand at your waist, the other trailing across your stomach until his fingertips brush the top of your core. Your abdomen quivers under his touch. He leans in to kiss you again, his lips parting against yours in a slow, possessive drag of tongue and teeth, while his knuckles glide lower.

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers between kisses. “I mean—Jesus, baby—gotta tell you more often.”

You can’t help it—you blush, glance away, shakily trying to laugh it off.

“You’re—you’re just saying that ’cause the towel’s off.”

His head snaps up at that.

“Are you kidding?”  

He can’t hide his disbelief.

“You’re always this pretty—all the time.”

Drives him wild. 

His hand moves lower before you can come up with a retort, sliding between your thighs. Your breath stutters as his palm presses firmly against you, heat blooming instantly in your belly.

His fingers part you with ease, gliding through the slick gathered there—and the sound he lets out is wrecked.

“Fuck,” he mutters, letting his fingertips glide over your swollen clit. “You’re soaked, angel.”

A quiver racks your body as he circles that sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb, sending electricity dancing up your spine. You can’t help the moan that spills from your lips—breathy, desperate. He savours it, his eyes flicking up to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“Sound sweeter every time,” he murmurs, sliding two fingers lower. He traces your entrance, feeling the flutter of your cunt welcoming him, before pressing carefully inside. Your slick muscles clamp down around him, and his forehead falls to your shoulder. “Wish you could see yourself, like a fucking angel.”

His angel, just for him. 

Your nails dig into the strong curve of his bicep, clinging to him as he begins to thrust. There’s a slight stretch that borders on pain, but it melts into pure pleasure with each careful push. You gasp and arch your back, letting your thighs spread wider, inviting him deeper.

“Steve...” you whimper, voice shaking with need.

His response is a low, broken sigh. He withdraws his fingers almost all the way, then sinks them back in, hooking them just enough to stroke against that spot that makes your hips jerk.

He lifts his head and looks transfixed—watching your face, your parted lips, the way your breasts rise and fall with every ragged breath. He pulls you closer to him, leaning on him, so he can feel every response of yours.

“That’s it,” he rasps, pressing his thumb over your clit again. He rubs in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. “Can feel you squeezing me—you close already?”

You nod as your body tightens around him, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine. You bite back a cry, tears pricking at your eyes from the overwhelming emotion surging through you.

“I’m—I’m close—”

He groans in encouragement, pivoting his wrist just enough to press into you deeper. 

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles. “Cum for me. Let me feel you.”

A final rush of heat washes over you, your orgasm tearing through your limbs in dizzying waves. You pulse around his fingers, cunt gripping him again and again. He holds your gaze, his hand never slowing until you whimper at the oversensitivity. Your toes curl, your breath hitching on a strangled moan. You quake in his arms, heart hammering against your ribs.

When it subsides, he eases his fingers out, palm sliding up to rest on your thigh, caressing the damp skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, you can sense his own arousal thrumming through him, begging for release.

“You okay?” He asks gently, as you nod, still catching your breath. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “More than okay.”

He smiles at that, soft and maybe a little bashful as he leans in to press a warm kiss to the side of your mouth. His other hand comes up to brush your hair gently from your face as he shifts. His eyes search yours, almost shy.

“Good,” he says quietly, voice dipping lower.

 A pause.

“Because I’m not done.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering.

He holds your gaze as he continues, barely more than a whisper.

“Because…”

Fuck it's corny, but he doesn't care.

“Because I still need to make love to you.”

Your eyes begin to water again, but he is quick to shush you. 

“Let me love you, angel.”

He watches your eyes glisten, tears threatening to spill, and his chest squeezes with so much emotion he can barely breathe. He reaches up, thumb swiping gently under one of your eyes to catch a stray tear.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice trembling with sincerity. “I got you, alright?”

So much for the “no more tears.”

He steps back, every cell in his body alive. With one quick tug, his shirt is off and discarded, exposing the lean planes of his torso. The scars he once worried about don’t even cross his mind—he’s too focused on the way your lips part as you take in the sight of him. In seconds, his jeans and boxers are gone too, and you feel a rush of heat at the need written across his face.

You reach for him, practically pawing at his shoulders, but he slows you with a gentle hand. He presses his mouth to yours, but there’s a fire underneath it—he can’t hide the low whine that escapes him when his naked body meets yours. His cock, hard and straining, slips against your inner thigh, catching the slick arousal that’s already pooled there.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, grinding carefully, almost sliding where you need him. It sends a shudder of pleasure through both of you as you urge him closer.

“Baby—slow down,” he pleads, hand finding your wrist as you try to pull him to you. “Don’t wanna rush it.”

His eyes are half-lidded, raw with passion, but determined to savour every second. You let out a needy whimper, not bothering to hide the tremble in your voice.

“I—I want you,” you whisper, desperate. “Please.”

He dips his head, pressing a reassuring kiss to your cheek. You see devotion, love, adoration in his eyes.

“We have all night, okay?” he murmurs. 

And all of tomorrow.

You can only nod, tears threatening again—this time from the overwhelming flood of love swelling in your chest. He brushes his lips over your cheek, trailing down until he reaches the hollow of your throat, where your pulse thrums under his mouth. 

He pulls back just far enough to guide his cock through your folds, gliding over your clit and gathering the wetness that’s waiting for him. You arch your back, breath hitching at the contact.

He thinks you’re beautiful, but he’s always thought that. Like the universe had dropped you into his unsteady life on purpose. Just for him.

“Do—do you remember when we first met?” he blurts suddenly, words tumbling out in a rush of emotion. His voice is rough. He drags his cock across your slick again, and you whine at the friction.

You blink up at him, mind hazy but catching the glaze in his eyes. 

“Steve…?” you manage, unsure why he’s bringing this up now. 

But he’s too far gone, mouth running wild with the confession.

“Couldn’t get you out of my head,” he rasps, referencing your bookshop and that first day all those months ago. “Been on my mind from the beginning.” He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing at your opening. His eyes find yours—vulnerable.

“Fucking dreaming of you since day one.”

The first time you smiled at him, he knew he was a goner.

In a slow, deliberate motion, he pushes into you, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated to the hilt. You gasp at the stretch, tears pricking at your eyes again, but for a whole new reason.

“Oh—oh, shit—” You cling to his shoulders, your body arching, a keening moan slipping free when he stops, buried inside you.

He drops his forehead to your shoulder, trying to steady his breathing. You feel him tremble, his whole frame taut with the effort to keep from thrusting too soon. The wet slide of him inside your cunt is incredible, and you can sense the way his heart hammers against your chest.

He kisses the curve of your neck, open-mouthed, panting against your skin.

“Fuck, baby—I—Jesus—”

His voice is ragged, barely forming the words

“Don’t even know what you do to me—feel so fucking good—think I’m gonna—”

He thrusts forward, deep and slow, hitting your cervix with a guttural moan.

Your breath catches, a high, broken sound escaping your lips as your fingers claw at his scarred back.

“Every time you touched me before this—” he groans, picking up a rhythm now, hips rolling, “Thought I was gonna fucking break.”

Another thrust—deep, grinding. You sob his name, but it’s barely a sound, just air. The way he’s filling you, stretching you, loving you—it’s too much. All you can do is take it, tears building at the corners of your eyes, jaw slack, mind spiraling as his words crash over you.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice cracking open like it hurts.

“I love you,” he chokes, broken and soaked in feeling.

“I love you—been wanting to say it every time we, God—every time I had you—nearly killed me.”

He sounds wrecked, like the confession is tearing him open in the best way. You cry harder, overwhelmed, cupping his face with trembling hands.

“Fuck, Steve—” your voice shatters against his lips. “I love you—I love you too, please, please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he promises in a strained whisper.

Never gonna stop loving you.

His thrusts pick up pace, each one sending sparks through your veins. He leans in to capture your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss, swallowing the moans you can’t contain. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, urging him closer, deeper. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from your face—like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to see.

“You’re mine,” he gasps, voice turning hoarse as the pleasure coils tight in his gut. “Shit—say you’re mine—”

His.

Your reply is a broken cry of his name, your inner walls fluttering around him. He feels it the second your orgasm hits—a wild surge of wetness and pulsing heat that nearly rips him right over the edge.

“That’s it,” he groans, grinding through your climax. “Can feel you, baby—so good, so perfect—”

Your entire body seizes, your back arching, a wail echoing in your throat as you ride the waves of euphoria. The rhythmic squeeze of your cunt is too much for him. He chokes out your name, and his thrusts become erratic.

“I’m gonna—” His eyes squeeze shut, teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure. “Shit—”

He lets go, hips driving forward one last time as he buries himself deep inside you. A moan tears from his chest, raw and unfiltered, as he comes—hot pulses spilling into you, his entire body jolting with each spasm of release. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him shaking from the force of it.

You cling to him through it, breath ragged, tears still slipping down your cheeks. When the final shudder leaves him, he collapses against you, chest heaving, breath hot on your neck. 

The air around you is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of shared your breathing. Neither of you moves at first—your bodies are too heavy with satisfaction, your hearts still pounding in tandem.

When he brushes his lips over your cheek and tastes the salt of your tears, something in his chest clenches, and he forces himself to move.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough around the edges. “Hey, you okay?”

You nod, though your eyes are wet and shining. You reach up to cup his jaw, and there’s so much wonder in your gaze that he nearly feels undone all over again. A laugh bubbles out of him—breathless, on the verge of tears himself.

He breaks off, throat tightening. You’re trembling slightly beneath him, your body still reacting to the waves of pleasure, and he’s struck by the overwhelming need to take care of you. With shaky hands, he eases himself off the bed, pressing one more kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, voice cracking from the weight of the moment.

You watch him disappear into the bathroom, your heart drumming. He returns a moment later with a small hand towel dampened with warm water. His hair is messy, eyes dark with emotion, and there’s a vulnerable smile tugging at his lips—like he’s on the edge of crying, too.

“Let me…” He trails off, gently parting your thighs. 

He’s so careful, mindful of any soreness. When he presses the warm cloth against your skin, you let out a shaky exhale. It’s intimate in a way that almost feels more profound than sex itself—this slow and tender, the way he murmurs apologies whenever he brushes a sensitive spot.

“I’m sorry—sorry,” he whispers every time you flinch or gasp, even if it’s just a reflex.

You rest a hand on his forearm, tears sliding silently down your cheeks. 

“You’re not hurting me,” you manage with a small smile. 

He presses the cloth to your inner thigh one last time, then sets it aside. Without hesitation, he climbs back onto the bed, tugging the sheets around you both. The second he’s close enough, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he cocoons you against his chest, sighing with relief when your body lines up with his.

“Are you crying?” you ask softly, noticing the wet sheen in his eyes.

“No…” He huffs a breathy laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. 

“I just… I don’t know. I didn’t expect to feel this much. I mean—” He swallows hard. “It’s… y’know?”

There he goes again, words once again failing him. 

You nod, pressing your face to the crook of his neck, understanding him completely. 

“I know.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. He holds you, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, your breathing syncing up in rhythm. He kisses the crown of your head, letting out a hum of contentment. You shift just enough to look into his face, eyes rimmed with lingering tears.

“I love you,” you whisper, palm cupping his cheek. 

God, he’s never gonna get sick of hearing that. 

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. 

“I love you too, angel,”, He exhales, a soft tremor in his shoulders. 

And he’s never gonna stop. 

You let out a wet, breathy laugh. 

He smiles back, full of adoration. 

You have to hide your face in his chest, because you’re crying again, and so is he—but it’s the sweetest kind of crying.

It’s the sound of two hearts finding their place in each other, tangled up in the sheets, refusing to let go.

Steve’s eyes flutter open at a tickling sensation, your fingertips tracing idle shapes on his chest in a methodical pattern. He keeps perfectly still for a few seconds, lulled by the softness of your touch. He almost doesn’t want to move, afraid to break the moment.

Eventually, he can’t help letting out a lazy sigh, shifting just enough to capture your hand in his own. He laces his fingers through yours and opens his eyes fully, turning his head on the pillow to look at you.

“Morning,” you say quietly, a soft smile curving your lips.

“Mmm.” His voice is gravelly with sleep. “Morning.”

He blinks, absorbing the sight of you—hair mussed from sleep, face still glowing with the aftermath of last night’s intimacy.

“How long have you been awake?” he murmurs, rolling onto his side so he can see you better.

“Not long,” you admit, shifting closer until you can prop your head on your free hand. “I was thinking about where we could go.”

“What?” His brow wrinkles in sleepy confusion.

“Our trip,” you clarify, eyes brightening with excitement. 

The trip. 

The promise he made to you about getting away, somewhere just the two of you, so he could finally open up and lay out the parts of his past he’s been hiding.

“Oh, right,” he says, waking up more fully now. A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “Any ideas?”

“Hmm, that depends,” You tilt your head, a thoughtful expression settling in your features. “How long can you put up with me in the car?”

He lets out a small huff of laughter. 

“That will not be a problem, trust me.”

“Big words.” you roll your eyes playfully. “Bet we fight over directions.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but we’ll figure it out.”

You lean in to press a quick kiss to his lips, and he draws in a contented breath, letting the sweetness of it curl through him.

He’s so in love, he can hardly believe it. And the best part is—he knows you love him too, has heard you say the words, felt the truth of them in every kiss and tear shed last night. 

“How about I make some coffee,” he offers, pulling back a fraction, “and we can brainstorm some ideas?”

“Okay.” You grin. 

He slides out from under the blankets, padding barefoot across the floor to your chest of drawers. He glances at you in question, and you nod, granting permission to open the top drawer—the one where you’ve started keeping a few spare clothes for him. 

He grabs a fresh pair of boxers and a faded gray jumper before hunting down his jeans from the crumpled pile on the floor. As he slips the boxers on, he feels your gaze lingering on him, and he can’t suppress the smile that spreads over his face. 

His cheeks heat up a little, but there’s no self-consciousness—just the buzz of being desired by the person he’s head over heels for.

“If you get dressed,” he says, tugging on his jeans, “we can always go to the cafe. Should still be open.”

You light up at the mention of it, immediately swinging your legs over the side of the bed. 

“Perfect,” you say, rising to rummage in your closet. He shakes his head in amusement at how quickly you can switch from sleepy to energised, and you both share a grin as he slips through the door into the living area.

“Come find me when you’re ready,” he calls back.

He leaves the bedroom door ajar, wandering into the open-plan space. He crouches to where his shoes lie haphazardly near the sofa and slips one foot in, then the other. But as he does, his elbow nudges your bag, which has been leaning against the couch. It topples over, the contents spilling out across the floor with a soft thud-thud-thud of small items rolling away.

“Shit,” he mutters, instantly dropping to his knees to gather everything. 

He picks up a stray lipbalm, a set of keys, and a small pursee, placing them back in the bag. A pen has rolled under the couch, which he has to stretch to reach. As he reorganises, his eyes catch sight of something else—a small notebook lying face-down, pages slightly crumpled at the edges. 

He assumes it’s just for work notes or to-do lists, so he flips it over, intending to slip it back inside.

But then he sees the words on the open page. Words that send a chill racing up his spine.

Dates?

No, they have words attached to them, and the numbers don’t line up.

They’re all over the place, connected with arrows placing them forward and backwards, none of which are in the present. 

They’re... events?

A timeline. 

Little scribbles next to each, question marks, underlines. A timeline that doesn't take him long to figure out.

His heart kicks in his chest, hard.

Starcourt.

Earthquake.

A name he tried to bury: 

Eddie Munson.

It’s written there, plain as day, circled in your familiar handwriting. The same scrawl he’s seen on shopping lists pinned to his fridge, on the little notes you leave him in the margins of books. And right next to Eddie’s name, the word “murders” underlined several times. 

There are newspaper clippings taped onto another page—yellowed and carefully annotated in pen.

He almost drops the notebook as a rush of adrenaline floods him. 

Eddie Munson. 

A name from years ago, a friend he never quite got the chance to know but ended up entangled with all the same. The memory sends his stomach roiling. The official story, the one the papers had plastered everywhere, is a tangle of semi-truths and government cover-ups. 

But you—why would you be digging into it?

He flips another page, his hand trembling. There’s more scribbled details: possible days, references to kids going missing, some mention of “suspicious flora—lab?”

His eyes skim lines that make little sense out of context but still contain enough hints to make his blood run cold. 

The question marks after each clue are too close to the truth for comfort.

He realises that you’re so much closer to understanding everything than he ever imagined. The promise he made to himself—and to his doctor—was to keep the details of Hawkins’ horrors locked away, only sharing the bare minimum if it meant keeping you out of danger. 

That was the plan. 

The safe path.

The one you’d both talked about just last night while he told you he’d explain “everything.”

Except… you’d clearly been investigating on your own. 

Possibly for weeks. 

Months.

His breath comes too fast. He’s on his knees in your living room, hair falling into his eyes, heart banging against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He thought you were patiently waiting for him to open up.

How wrong he had been.

Instead, you’ve been digging behind his back, collecting articles, tracking down names. 

Eddie’s name. 

You’re close to things you can’t possibly understand—the Upside Down, the creatures, the secret ops that nearly destroyed them all.

Tremors work their way through his fingers as he grips the edges of the notebook. The words blur momentarily as panic stings at his eyes. 

Did you suspect something about him? 

Did you not trust him to tell you the truth, or were you just too curious to stop?

It strikes him like a blow.

You haven’t been waiting at all.

You’ve been forging your own path, collecting clues in an unthinkably risky puzzle. The fear courses through him, tangling with a sense of betrayal that leaves his chest tight. 

This changes everything—everything.

He hears you in the other room, humming lightly as you search for clothes. The sweet morning optimism he’d felt—the jokes about the road trip, the images of you both singing along to the radio and stopping for greasy diner food—wavers like a mirage. His mind is spinning too fast to cling to it. He sets the notebook on the coffee table, his hand hovering over it like it might burn him.

Why were you doing this?

And more importantly. 

Just how long have you been keeping this from him?

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[sashaforthewin]

“Dude, why are your nails pink?” Lucas asked.

Steve paused to look at his nails, before letting the basketball fly, landing the shot. 

“Girl’s night last night,” he shrugged. 

“Girl’s night? Like the same girl’s night that both Max and Erica were at?” Lucas asked, not really believing that it could be.

“Yep. El was there, too.”

“And Robin and Nancy?”

Steve hesitated. “No, they aren’t invited to girl’s night.”

Lucas cocked his head, as he halfheartedly dribbled the ball, more interested in the conversation.

“”Well, Nancy isn’t good at girl’s night, she sort of ruins the vibe. And the girls decided that Robin and I can’t be in the same room without ignoring everyone else.”

“Okay, so why don’t they just invite Robin instead of you?”

“She doesn’t know how to do hair and she’s really bad at painting nails evenly,” Steve shrugged, then stole the basketball from Lucas and sank another basket.

“Is it fun?”

“Do you want to come to a girl’s night?” Steve asked earnestly. 

Lucas shyly smiled, then remembered his girlfriend and sister would never give him a moment’s enjoyment.

“Nah.”

“It could be just you and me. We could have our own girl’s night.”

“Yeah, our own guy’s night!”

“No, girl’s night. Guy’s night is something different. We will be doing skincare and playing with hair and makeup and wearing fluffy robes and watching romantic comedies. You in?”

Lucas looked around. Nobody in the park was within earshot nor paying them any attention. 

“Yeah, I’m in.”

[ash5monster01]

Stranger Things Masterlist

main masterlist

Steve Harrington

More Than You Know

Somebody’s Baby

Just The Way You Are

Speak Now

Mine

Not Just The Books 18+

Every Thought

Favorite Song

Sunday Morning

Pizza Mixup

Wrong Address

Not What I Expected

Not What I Expected Pt. 2

Aftercare

Perfect to Love series

Lifetime Tour series

Joe Keery

Unexpected Greetings

[stevesgother]

When The Sun Hits

steve harrington x fem!reader summary - a supply run doesn't go as planned 1.7k previous chapter I next chapter series masterlist

Steve didn't hate you; contrary to what you might believe. But Steve does hate that you hate him.

Something about your clear disdain for him had opened some precariously healing wound. He bit, and he didn't know why. The roots of his younger, much more childish self-- you were especially good at finding them; tauntingly wrapping them around your fingers. Every word from your mouth unearthed the version of himself he'd tried so hard to bury; reminding him of who he once was. Maybe he did hate you a little for that.

Twigs and the very beginnings of fallen leaves crunch under his footfall-- a fraction out of time with yours. You were always in a hurry; desperate to get wherever it was you needed to be.

"You have the map, right?" You call over your shoulder to the man behind you, wishing that he would pick up his pace.

"Yeah-- yeah, I do," Steve responds, squinting at the crumpled piece of paper in his hands, "we're going in the right direction, I'm pretty sure. The ink is wearing off..."

"I'd rather you know than be 'pretty sure'."

"Why don't you read it then?" He retorts as he shoves the map into your shoulder. You snatch it from his hands before you can think better of it; as much as he irritates you, this was still your only one.

You'd made it to Indianapolis. Neither of you anticipated how overrun it would be-- your modest kitchen knives barely cutting it anymore.

What you really needed were antibiotics. Medicine. Antiseptic. Anything. Your concussion had been difficult enough to heal from without so much as an Advil; let alone something like an infected wound, or pneumonia. And it was only getting colder outside.

"There should be a pharmacy about a mile from here," you mumble, fingers tracing the map, "if...we are where I think we are."

"Helpful." Steve mutters sarcastically. You don't have the energy to quip back, you simply wish he'd stop being such a dick. "We need to make it fast-- sun'll be setting soon." He states.

You nod, clenching your jaw; tired of the authoritative tone he keeps taking with you. He's seemed to develop some sort of complex ever since he saved you, like you're something that needs to be taken care of-- looked after. Like you can't handle your own. It's simply infuriating.

More daylight than you'd hoped has been lost by the time the pharmacy finally comes into view over the glistening swell of a paved hill. Evidence of the city's wreckage was all around you-- in the abandoned shopping carts and boarded windows. Instead of honking car horns and the bustling racket of a metropolis, the only sound that could be heard now were yours and Steve's combined footsteps crunching on bits of broken glass, your heart hammering behind your ribcage.

The store looks ransacked from the exterior-- graffiti and smashed windows. You can only hope it's contents will be more promising. There's no current Plan B if this doesn't pan out.

"You take one side, and I'll take the other," Steve instructs, "It'll be quicker if we split up. It's already getting dark."

"Is that really a good idea?" You question-- constantly questioning, "I mean, Steve-- we don't even have flashlights,"

"There's enough light to get us in and out, it's fine." He dismisses, "Just keep your back covered, and yell if you need help."

Huffing, you shoulder past him and into the deserted aisles-- hating that your only option now was to trust him. The shelves still housed a surprising amount of stock; you quickly scan over the products in your direct eyeline.

Anusol, Systane, Levonorgestrel-- all basically useless, unless you or Steve got hemorrhoids. Or needed eyedrops.

You can hear Steve shuffling around on the other side of the pharmacy; so far, so good. The sound of pills rattling inside of their bottles fills you with an optimism you haven't felt in weeks.

You decide to try your luck at the shelves behind you, turning to begin sifting through the scattered packages there. It's still mostly condoms and antiacids, until out of your peripheral you spot an unopened box of Tylenol. Jackpot.

Steve's satchel tugs his shoulder a little tighter each time he drops a new item into it. He doesn't find that he minds it as much as he normally would.

He proceeds to snatch anything that sounds like it could be useful: amoxicillin, hydrogen peroxide, penicillin; even though he's allergic to the latter-- you might not be. So, he grabs it anyway.

The sound of objects clattering and a strained yelp ring out from the other side of the pharmacy. Steve's gut lurches at the cry that follows:

"Steve!"

His body reacts before his mind has a chance to catch up, retrieving his knife. It could be the dead, or an aggressive man with a loaded weapon, hell-- it could be a goddamn cannibal. All Steve knows is that he needs to get to you.

"Steve!" You cry again, "Please--help!"

Whatever sense of relief he feels when he realizes it's just a reanimated corpse that's gripping you by your hair and not a crazed psychopath is temporary. It's not ideal, but it could be much worse.

He plunges the dulling blade of his knife into the thing's skull; it's cranium so soft that it caves in on itself like a sinkhole. It makes him nauseous.

The walker loosens its grip on your scalp enough for you to regain your balance and face Steve. He doesn't even give you a chance to catch your damn breath before he's reprimanding you. Again.

"Jesus Christ, I told you to watch your back!" Steve scolds, his voice rising slightly in pitch.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" You pant, "Can I have a second before you start scolding me? I'm not a fucking child, Steve!"

He opens his mouth as if to say something before changing his mind-- an apology waiting in the back of his throat, begging to be let out. He's scared that if he opens his mouth long enough, he'll finally admit that he's petrified. Even after everything, a terrible knot still forms in his chest at the idea of anything happening to you.

He still doesn't speak, opting to look anywhere but your face, "You're the one who insisted on splitting up--" You continue.

"God, keep your voice down!" He whisper-yells. "I can't be constantly keeping an eye on you!"

"I was doing just fine before you." You spit; fists clenched so tightly at your sides that your knuckles become a sickly shade of white.

"You would've died without me."

Your features harden, memories flashing like a projector reel in your mind: Freshman year. A charmingly handsome boy asking you to see a movie with him at the drive-in theater. Kisses and clandestine meetings. Heartbreak and betrayal.

"Not what I meant." You mutter more to yourself than anyone as you make to exit the pharmacy. You can't seem to find it in you to care if he follows you or not.

Steve's shoulder burns where it collided with yours on your journey towards the smashed, once automatic doors.

The dampness of the log you're sitting on soaks through your jeans and chills you to the bone-- the fire in front of you doing almost nothing to raise your body temperature.

"You need to eat." Steve says, offering you a can of pinto beans with a twig sticking out of it, "I can't carry you, too."

You shoot him a pointed look, "I'm good."

Steve doesn't argue, just sets the can down on the forest floor next to your feet, a silent plea.

"Do you really think there's going to still be anything left in Cincinnati?" You ask, despite your instincts warning you against it, "And honestly, do you really want to be stuck with the miliary even if there is?"

"What's my alternative?" His voice low and gaze blank where he stares into the woods.

When you don't respond, he sighs, "I'm looking for someone. She told me she'd be there-- to go get her when I was able to."

"Someone?" You push

"Robin. Her name's Robin."

Your eyes widen a bit in recognition, "...Buckley?"

Steve finally turns his head at the mention of her name-- a tender, almost sorrowful look in his eyes now. Something you haven't seen in years, "Yeah."

"What're you gonna do if--" you pause, considering your next words carefully, "What're you gonna do if she's not there?"

All the softness from Steve's expression drains and is replaced by something more severe, "She'll be there."

Picking up the can of pinto beans, you take the dirty twig and toss it back into the woods, opting to eat with your hands instead, "Okay."

"Is your head alright?" He asks softly. Not out of gentleness, you presume, but to keep quiet, and not attract any unwanted attention. Dead or alive.

"It's fine," you dismiss.

"Let me see--" Steve lifts his hand in an attempt to push your hair aside. Two head injuries in less than a week isn't exactly ideal.

You swat his hand away before it can get even a few inches from your person, "I said I'm fine."

He looks at you for a long minute, but you pretend not to notice. Sometimes, you think you'd give anything to be a fly on the wall of his brain during moments like these. Steve sighs, "I'm going to get the tent set up."

A silent nod, the bare minimum of an acknowledgement and his cue to leave you alone. Another thirty minutes or so is spent staring into the slowly dimming orange and white of the fire at your feet. You think about your mom, your brother; wishing you could get to them faster but dreading it in a way-- because what happens if your grandmother's is house empty? Or worse, your family slaughtered inside?

The thought causes the beans in your stomach churn, making you queasy.

Steve's asleep by the time you lift the burlap flap and step inside your shared tent, his lips parted with the soft sounds of slumber. There once existed a version of you that would've tucked the baby hairs that curl around the frame of his face behind his ear-- whispering something saccharine sweet to him as you did so, even if you knew he couldn't hear you.

That part of you had hardened into something much more bitter. The passage of time had only sharpened your edge, not dulled it. Being around Steve again stirred and sifted the silt sitting at the bottom of your chest. He knew just which buttons to push. You couldn't afford for these feelings to begin festering. Not again.

Barely a wink of sleep came to you that night. Just red-rimmed eyes longing for respite; dreading the foreboding weeks that lie ahead of you.

Divider credit @/strangergraphics

@adaydreamaway30 / @madaboutjoe

[heaven4lostgirls]

✧ prompt: girl ✧ @taylorswiftmicrofic ✧ wc: 568

✧ steddie (steve harrington/eddie munson)

✧ info: eddie is transmasc in this btw ✧ cw: transphobia alluded to

“steve, you’re being mean” eddie says softly, tears starting to well in his eyes as he gazes at steve’s earnest expression.

steve frowns, expression morphing to resemble a kicked puppy.

“i’m being honest eds, i like you, i want to be with you” steve says, pleading with eddie to believe him.

eddie sniffs harshly with a frown, shaking his head, “you don’t mean that” he insists.

“you don’t get to decide that for me!” steve argues back, arms crossing over his chest from where he stands in the entrance of eddie’s room.

eddie sniffles, tears trailing down his cheeks, “i’m not a girl.” eddie insists, starting to shake softly.

steve frowns in confusion, “i know that.” he responds slowly.

eddie shakes his head harshly, “no, you don’t” eddie firmly states, even though his voice shakes.

“what- eddie what are you talking about?” steve asks confused.

“i’m not a girl!” he cries out, chest heaving, “you’ve said you’re straight for the longest time, you only date girls, and i’m not one, you- you can’t c-come in here and say you li-like me when everyone you’ve dated in the past is a girl!” eddie laughs sadly.

steve’s expression softens, understanding flooding through his system.

“hey,” he coos soothingly as if eddie’s an injured animal, lashing out because it’s the only way he knows how.

“baby i know you’re not a girl, you’re a boy, my handsome boy yeah?” steve says softly, arms reaching out to hold eddie, waiting for eddie to initiate the contact.

eddie nods shakily, “im not a girl” he repeats to himself and steve nods in tandem.

“not a girl” he agrees, before eddie launches himself into steve’s arms, steve immediately wrapping the older boy in a tight hug.

“im sorry,” eddie sniffles harshly into steve’s chest as he tries to bury himself inside steve’s rib cage.

steve just tsks softly, “nothing to be sorry for eds, you’re perfect just the way you are” steve insists softly.

eddie just sniffs in response, squeezing steve in thanks.

he pulls back slowly, eyes red rimmed and nose snotty and steve truly believes that eddie is the most perfect man he’s ever seen.

“you like me?” eddie croaks out, eyes shining.

steve lets a smile slip, nodding emphatically, “yeah honey, i like you” he says.

eddie blows out a breath, “you’re not fucking with me right?” eddie checks and steve huffs a small laugh.

shaking his head, he replies completely serious, “im not fucking with you, i’m head over heels for you actually” he confesses

eddie flushes, looking somewhat put out by the honesty in steve’s tone.

he nods quickly, “well-yeah! yeah, okay.” eddie says dazedly.

“i uh, i like you too” eddie stammers, turning shy and steve is enamored.

“yeah?” he breathes out happily.

eddie nods shyly.

steve giggles happily, arms still encasing eddie in front of him.

“can i kiss you?” steve asks softly and eddie pauses, shaking his head a little softly.

“okay” steve agrees immediately and eddie smiles then, a small toothy grin that has steve’s heart fluttering.

instead, he brings eddie into his chest, squeezes him tightly, mindful of his scars from the demobats before letting go.

they spend the rest of the day lazing around, watching old films and when steve asks again, if he can kiss eddie.

he’s awarded with a small shy nod and the press of chapped lips to his own.