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2319 Chapter 6 - All Alone With The Love of My Life || Young!S.S. x F!Reader.

Word Count: 10K Genre: Young Love, Diary Entry, Flashbacks. A/N: Inspired by the Korean Drama 2521. Updates will be extra slow since I am working extra shifts. Me and my fiancé are getting our dream house built as well and there are a lot of paper work to be done. Thank you for being patient. *I do not own the gif used*

Previous || Next

July 11 1999

"I'm running away!" Victor announced, clutching the straps of his backpack, which he stuffed with a bottle of water, his gameboy and a couple of snacks.

He walked out of the door, "And I am NOT coming back!"

"Okay see you in ten minutes, bud." Stephen replied without glancing at Victor and continued on playing games on the TV.

"All of you won't see me AGAIN!"

"Okay. Goodbye." Stephen waved, still not bothering to look back at him while Donna kept her nose stuck into her book.

"I hate all of you! You don't deserve a goodbye! So badbye!"

"Mhm, take care. Laters, gators."

Victor growls and slams the door shut. He slowly descended down the porch stairs, wiping away dry tears. By the time Victor was walking through the front yard. Stephen and Donna exchanged glances and shot up from their seats and discreetly peaked at Victor who was taking his time leaving the property—both snickering amongst themselves.

"What if he actually runs away?" Donna asks, slightly worried but at the same time knows that Victor doesn't have the guts to do it.

"He won't, who announces that they're running away?" Stephen laughs as he watches Victor looking back with a pitiful look on his face.

"Fair enough." Donna shrugs before turning around to lie back down on the couch, "I'm going to have a snooze before work so be quiet and keep an eye out for Vic."

"Sure, sure." Stephen takes one last glance at Victor who he could see walking slowly at the sidewalk.

Victor has had enough of Stephen not letting him have a turn on the new game and Beverly sides with Stephen that Victor should be playing outside with the other kids. Hence why he was going to run away. He doesn’t know where he's going to go but he wants to walk far enough that he'll be out of Stephen’s sight.

Victor looks back and glares at his house. They really weren't going to come out and chase after him—now he really doesn't want to come back. But where will he go?

"Hey Victor, where are you going?" Vanessa notices the little boy sulking on the sidewalk with his head down while she pulls out weed on her garden bed.

"Oh. Hello Mrs (L/N). I'm running away from home."

Vanessa's eyes widened slightly and looked back towards their house, "Well you don't look quite prepared for someone who's running away."

"I am! I got my gameboy, my favourite snacks and a bottle of water." Victor stepped forward to show Vanessa the contents of his bag.

"That does not look sufficient, why don’t you come inside my house for a while? I’ll make you something you like.” Vanessa smiled as she took her gloves off.

“That would be a pleasure Mrs (L/N)!”

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

July 30 2013

He did it, he bought the house and with complete ease as well. Stephen made sure that no one could compete and started his bid at one million to which no one bidded higher. That’s how much he wanted to have this house. He and Victor stood by the front yard, reminiscing at all the memories this house contained.

“You really did it.” Victor chuckles while shaking his head, “I thought you were joking when I heard your voicemail—Remember that time when I ran away?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, you ‘ran away’ plenty of times.” Stephen quoted with his fingers and gave his little brother a side-eye matched with a smirk.

“The one where Donna had to cancel her shift because of me.”

“Ah. . . yeah. We got roasted pretty good afterwards because of you.” Stephen clicked his tongue, remembering what happened vividly in his mind, “Where did you go anyway? You never really told us.”

Victor cracks into a short breathy laugh and agrees, “I was just next door hanging out with (Y/N). She was going to call and let you know but I begged her not to because I wanted to really scare you guys.”

“You’re an evil little shit—Mom genuinely feared that you got kidnapped.”

Victor shrugs and grins victoriously, “It was fun seeing you and Donna get roasted though—does Mrs (L/N) still live next door?”

"I believe so. . ." Stephen shrugged, he hasn't seen you since then and he was hoping he would run into you someday.

"So what’s your plan with the house?" Victor asked.

"I don't know yet. . . I think I'll stay here on my long service leave in a couple of months."

"Nice. . ." Victor nodded, followed by a long moment of silence while Stephen got lost in his thoughts, "You miss her don't you?"

"Who?"

"(Y/N)."

Stephen laughs quite scornfully, "What makes you think that?"

"I don't know—maybe I saw a little polaroid photo in your car and now you bought this house, a place filled with the happiest and saddest memories we all share—You’re hanging onto them and you don’t want to move on."

"Geeze. Sentimental much? Can't I just buy back our childhood home just because?" Stephen playfully rolled his eyes.

"My childhood home, Stephen. You were a grown-up when we moved here."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

After you opened the door for yourself when no one answered, it swung wide to show an open-concept great room that appeared to have stopped in time. The dated décor in the kitchen, the long, well-loved dining table and a dozen mismatched chairs, and the cosy living room with its oversized furniture all look so loved and worn and lived in, and you can feel the memories in this place because of it.

Your only desire is to investigate every nook and cranny of the house. You head down a hallway that looks promising. Pictures of the Strange flank the wall as you walk. Are his parents moving back in?

Beverly and Eugene on their wedding day, then a series of steadily growing family portraits. First, baby Donna, her fluffy brown chickadee hair. Next, baby Stephen who is frowning adorably, dark-brown hair sticking straight up in a mohawk, his dad’s bright-green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

You snort softly and stop long enough to look closer, your fingertips tracing that frown. His frown was so cute. It still is. Forcing yourself not to dwell on that, you resume on your family photo tour as you walk down the hall, the pictures growing busier as the family grows, too.

A noise can be heard just as you move your attention away from the picture wall. A sound that is very human-like. Like footsteps. There was a person present. Probably whoever was driving that sports car outside in the driveway. You stop moving, your fingers poised over the doorknob to the basement as you listen more carefully. You make an effort to persuade yourself that you are making things up in your head. But then you hear it: steady, increasingly louder footsteps coming from behind the door you were about to open. This is right out of a horror movie. Some murdering fucker is coming for you from the basement. Adrenaline floods your system, panic pricking your skin. You glance around wildly, hoping to find something you can defend yourself with.

Your attention is drawn in a split second to the plank of wood. A decent weapon. You give some thought to running towards it in the vain hope that you will be able to capture it in time to use it as a weapon against your attacker, but it is too late. The door opens.

You stand face-to-face with a tall man hidden in shadow, only his boots illuminated by a flashlight. You scream, then push the guy, hoping you can catch him off guard long enough to run away.

He yells in shock and drops the flashlight. Then he reels backward, teetering on the edge of the step, arms pinwheeling at his sides. As his head tips back in the effort to find his balance, his features catch in the flashlight’s beams. That’s when you recognized who you just shoved to his staircase doom. Stephen Strange.

It happens in slow motion, and your imagination is running wild, picturing Stephen flipping down the steps and breaking his neck. So you reach for him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt in an effort to slow him down.

Here’s the thing. You were five-four and pretty fit. Stephen, though very lean, is nearly six and a half feet tall, and whatever is on those bones is muscle. Muscle, which is heavy. Meaning holding onto Stephen does nothing, except send you with him. You try to stop yourself from pitching forward, too, but it’s hopeless. You fall into him, just as he arcs backward like a diver. Stephen plants his hands on the slanted ceiling behind him, stopping you from plummeting down the steps. Your bodies connect with a clattering oomph. Dear God. He’s so big. So tall and lean and big.

You feel his hard thigh muscles. The undeniable…bulk at his groin. His sharp hip bones jut into your, your chest are smashed against his chest, and your hands rest right over his pecs to steady yourself. Air saws in and out of both your lungs, echoing around you.

“I’m so sorry,” you say hoarsely. You're still clinging to him as you both hover at an unnervingly steep angle over the stairs, “You startled me, and I just…reacted.”

He doesn’t answer you. On a grunt, he pushes off the ceiling, which thrusts his body into yours. Heat rockets beneath your skin, and the moment your heels touch down on the landing, you step away, embarrassment pinking your cheeks.

After clearing his throat, Stephen picks up the flashlight that was dropped and then switches it off. After that, he takes a step forwards and casually closes the basement door behind him as if you didn't just bump into each other and come dangerously close to falling down the steps.

“What are you doing here?” he finally says. His voice wraps around you, deep and soft as a midnight caress. You blink dazedly, then snap out of it.

“Uh…what? I’m… I’m here just to greet mom's new neighbor. She saw someone moving in.” His eyes travel to me then slide down the hallway. A long, heavy sigh leaves him.

“Why are you here?” you ask carefully. Swearing under his breath, he pockets the flashlight and strolls past you.

“Outside.”

“Outside?” you watch his long strides make quick work of the hallway.

Stephen points with the flashlight toward the front door, “Outside. Please.”

Is he seriously kicking you out? Walking your way, he uses the flashlight to nudge you toward the door. You're being corralled like sheep. “Please, (Y/N.)”

“Okay, okay. I’m going. Is something wrong?”

“Just about everything,” he mutters.

You glance over your shoulder, staring around for signs of home disaster. The place seems well-loved, but it hardly looks like it’s falling apart. Then again, looks can be deceiving.

“Is that why you’re here? In the basement?” you ask. “With a flashlight?”

“Dealing with major plumbing issues. No electricity on for safety, thus the flashlight.”

Opening the front door, Stephen follows you outside. As you step onto the porch, then face each other, every thought evaporates. The evening sun bathes him in golden light as he stands tall, his face unreadable but handsome as ever—rich black hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes dark as the deepest parts of the ocean. He looks different than when you saw him last, or that one time when he showed up at one of your exhibitions in NYC and wore the fuck out of a charcoal-black two-piece suit—bright-white button-up, cognac leather belt and dress shoes, no tie… you sound creepy remembering all of that, but if you saw Stephen Strange looking like sin in a suit, you’d remember the fine details, too.

Stephen notices you staring, then peers down. Twin splashes of pink bloom on his cheeks as he swiftly buttons his shirt two more, until it sits open just below the hollow of his throat.

“So…” you fold your arms across your chest, as much to hide your body reacting to that peek of Stephen’s skin, as to brace yourself against the wind. “What now?”

He runs both hands through his hair and swallows. You do not watch his Adam’s apple bob.

"Yeah. . . What now?"

He leads you to a small table in a quiet restaurant. A late hour for dinner, most of the tables are empty. He pulls out your chair. You sat down, but really, this was awkward. The only light is from a few well placed candles. A waiter approaches and, without saying a word, pours them wine and leaves the bottle. No menus. Stephen has ordered for them in advance while you're both on your way to the restaurant. There will be no interruptions from wait staff aside from the bringing and clearing of the courses.

He watches as you awkwardly sips the wine. You notice a shy smile slips out. He hasn't seen you for a long time and he couldn't help but watch you. A voyeur looking into a secret world. He smiles warmly back as if to comfort you, and it does.

You begin to enjoy his gaze. Soaking it in. Feeling his eyes move over you. From your eyes to your nose, cheeks, lips. The curve of your neck. Slope of your shoulders—He was distracted when your phone screen lit up. Your lockscreen a photo of young Sasha beside your husband in one of the Disneyland rides.

Stephen looks at your left hand and you wore your wedding ring—that's right, you were married. How could he forget?

"How's Sasha?" Stephen asks.

"She’s doing well, very healthy, very smart—she wants to become a Cardiologist when she grows up."

"A cardiologist? Wow," Stephen chuckles, "I don't want to be a mood killer but. . . Have you told her yet?"

"No. I haven't, there's a lot going on right now. I don’t think it's fair for her."

"Like what?" Stephen notices the sudden discomfort in your face, "I'm sorry. You don't need to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No, don't be. We are getting divorced and it's emotionally heavy on her." You shift on your seat and Stephem frowns.

"Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that." Stephen says and feels cruel because he doesn't feel sorry at all, instead he feels. . . relieved?

"Yeah. . . Me too." You nod, fiddling with your wedding ring, "But don't worry, I'll tell Sasha everything when the time is right."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

July 18 1999

"What now?" You asked Donna.

You've been smuggled again by your friend to go outside after avoiding her brother constantly. You run into him at the shops? You swerve the other away. You see him with a few of his friends? You trot past them without making eye contact. You make it so obvious that you're avoiding him, so he avoids you right back.

"We just relax." Donna leans back on the picnic blanket, "You could sketch if you want to."

Since Donna brought Robbie to dinner and introduced him to their family, Beverly thought it was a good idea to take the family out to the beach for some quality time.

The frothy, blue-green salt water crashes into the setting sun reflected shoreline in waves, then gently rolls up to the increasingly rising tide line. The wave stops as it reaches the tide line and slowly rolls back into the churning ocean water.

This relaxing rhythm of continuous lapping waves is music to your ears. Never have you seen a sunset as breathtaking as this. The Sun peeking through the heavy, white clouds illuminates the sky in a dazzling orange glow, causing the fluffy, white sand to appear orange in color as well.

Closer by the shoreline Stephen, Eugene, Victor and Robbie were playing volleyball with a couple of strangers. You watch Stephen stutter step to line up with the flying ball and before take those infamous three steps to go for a spike. When he reaches the top peak and the ball is in front of him it's as if time stops. He was floating, then when his hand connected to the ball hitting it hard, his opponents were unable to receive his attack.

He screamed in victory while facing his teammates with a fist pump. You don’t know what it is but something about how the salty air curled his black hair, the way he sprints to receive the ball and his overall competitiveness was so attractive. He catches you watching after he turns around celebrating his victory with his Dad.

You pick up your pencil and quickly bring your attention to the blank page of your sketchbook. You point the graphite on the page before realising you don’t know what to draw, then your eyes lift up and land on Stephen; he was looking up, focused on chasing after the ball to receive it, a smirk creeping on the corner of his lips knowing that he'll catch the ball. Christ.

You begin to sketch. Eyes flicking on and off Stephen while your hands go on auto-pilot sketching lines. Though he kept moving around, it was easy to reimagine that smile since he had it on the whole time.

"Heads!! HEADS!" One of the boys at the beach shouted to warn you of the incoming football, but you were so immersed in sketching Stephen that you noticed the ball coming towards you a bit too late.

The football bounced off your temple, hitting you pretty hard that you fell back.

"Oh my gosh! (Y/N)! Are you okay?" Donna attended to you.

The person responsible for kicking the ball unintentionally towards you ran to check up on you.

"I am so sorry, It wasn't my intention to hit you." He said as he bent down to apologize.

"It's okay. I'm alright." You cradled your head teary from the pain. His dark brown eyes widened when he saw that he made you cry.

"I am so sorry, please don't cry—Let me get you something cold." He said in a panic while trying to figure out what to do, "I'll be back!"

Before you could say anything the boy with a brown curly hair ran towards their spot where his friends began teasing him for hitting you; he opened their cooler where he grabbed an ice pack before running back to you.

"He's cute." Donna nudged you as he came back.

"Oh shush." You nudge her back, glancing at Stephen who seemed to be glancing every now and then to see what was going on.

"Here. . . Can I have a look?" He dips his head to catch your eye and you slowly turn your head and he softly hissed seeing the red spot, "I am so sorry."

"You said that three times already," you pressed your lips together awkwardly as he placed the ice pack gently on your head. He smiled shyly, his dimples sinking deep in his cheeks.

"That's because I genuinely feel really bad."

"If you genuinely feel really bad, Mister 'So Sorry', then maybe leave my friend your number and make it up to her?" Donna cheekily smiled and you shot her a glare.

"Uh. . ." The boy trailed off.

"Don't listen to her! You don't need to make it up to me, the ice is enough."

"No. I mean your friend's right I should—but I uh don't have a pen or paper."

Donna sighed as she leaned forward and ripped a piece from your sketchbook and snatched your pencil from you ignoring your protests, "Here you go."

The boy looked at you and wrote his name and number on the ripped paper and gave it to you.

"Alex?" You read his name.

"Yes, I'm Alex and you are?"

"Everything all right over here?" Stephen interrupted before you could introduce yourself to Alex. Donna rolled her eyes at her brother who seemed to always enter at the wrong time. You pocketed the piece of paper and closed your book shut.

"Yes Stephen, everything was peachy until you showed up." Donna stuck her tongue out at her brother.

"Why do you have that on your head?" He ignored Donna and asked you.

"It was an accident." You replied and awkwardly glanced towards Alex, "You should go back to your friends. . . Thank you for the ice pack."

"Oh yeah. . . I forgot for a second I got friends." Alex stood up and dusted off the sand on his knees, "Will you text or call me?"

Stephen tilted his head, brows knitted to a monobrow.

"She will! I'll make sure of it!" Donna cut you off.

Alex chuckles, "Alright. I'll see you later." He picks up the football, smiling at you with those dimples before turning around and returning to his friends.

"Who was that?" Stephen eyed the other man.

Donna shrugged, "Maybe (Y/N)'s future boyfriend or husband. . .who knows?" She squinted her eyes at Stephen.

You smacked Donna with your freezing hand, chuckling, "Stop it!"

"I see. Congratulations then." Stephen pulls up a fake smile while grabbing a cola from the cooler.

What's his deal?

"Thanks. Maybe he'll take me on a date and I'll gladly say yes." You retort to Stephen, feeling peeved at the way he was acting cold.

"Good for you, at least you're not cooped up in your house all the time apart from going to work." He replied nonchalantly while also in a fake-caring tone.

"Maybe I just do that to steer clear of doing things I might y'know, regret? You should try that sometimes."

"I don't need to do that because I don't regret anything." He turns and holds your gaze, you fight to keep yours but the image of him kissing you flashes back and you look away.

"What is up with the two of you?" Donna asks.

"Nothing!" You and Stephen said simultaneously.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Just like you promised your mom, you'd be home before dinner. Vanessa was in the kitchen talking to someone on the phone while stirring soup in the pot.

Arthur was in the dining room setting the table nicely when you peeked in, "(Y/N) wash up and get dressed, we got visitors coming!"

"Okay! I just got back, geeze." You mumbled as you ran up to your room to prepare yourself for dinner.

After washing up you wore a daisy embroidered mini dress with your hair half done-up. Every time they had visitors around they wanted you to look extra presentable, because you were your parents' ice princess. And they wore it like a badge of pride.

You were to start training in a few weeks and you were about to meet your new coach. You heard your mother welcome people into your home. You heard your father lead them towards the dining room while your mother fetches you to go downstairs and meet the visitors.

"(Y/N), come down and meet your new coach." She demanded, seeing that you're just hanging out at the upstairs lounge.

"I thought I said I'm giving up Ice skating?" You asked. Vanessa gave you a stern look and you reluctantly stood up.

You followed your mother downstairs with a frown on your face. Vanessa glanced at you, "Will you put a smile on?"

"Maybe I'm trying to scare away my coach."

"(Y/N) now is not the time," She whispered and then continued leading you to the dining room where everyone was waiting for you, "George, Alex—this is my daughter (Y/N)."

Alex? You look up and your eyes are met with his dark chocolaty orbs, a full grin on his face, those dimples glorious dimples on his cheek.

"Nice to meet you (Y/N). I'm looking forward to working with you. This is my son, Alex, he'll be helping me train you." George stood up, greeting you with a warm smile.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

July 18 1999

So much for making a promise of being happy together when we hang out when all we do nowadays is argue. And what does he mean by he doesn't regret anything? Now he's taking it back? How annoying. Ugh. . . Why does he have to be so freaking attractive?! I just finished my sketch of him at the beach and I can’t stop staring at it. I should just be the bigger person and stop this madness so that things would go back to normal. I think even Donna is beginning to get suspicious.

Anyways. I met my new coach tonight and who would have known that Alex, the boy who hit me with the ball was his son? I admit he is beyond cute, especially those dimples. . .his smile is so pretty. . .jesus i need to get a hold of myself. . .

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

"Hey, isn't that the guy who was with you at the beach?" Alex asked over your shoulder and snatched your book.

"Hey, give it back!" You stand up and try to snatch it back, you were so focused on trying to take it back that you didn't even ask what he was doing in your room.

"You're really good at drawing—no sorry let me rephrase that—you are amazing." He lifts his long arms and flips through the notebook.

"Were you not taught about privacy?!" You jump up but fail again and again to retrieve your book.

"Privacy? What's that?" Alex chuckles, "You like him don't you?"

"What?! No I don't!" You growl as you attempt to snatch it away from him, only to be too slow.

"Then why do you have multiple sketches of him?"

"Is this how you make up with people? Prying over their business?"

"Can you draw me as well?" Alex asked, "I want you to draw me like one of your french girls."

You crack into a chuckle after he referenced the greatest movie of all time, "Only if you piss me off—And what are you doing in my room anyway?" You give up and sit back down on your chair.

"Your mom kindly asked me to fetch you back down for dessert—and no this is not how I usually make things up to people. You can call this, flirting." Alex bluntly answered and shamelessly sat down on the ottoman by the end of your bed.

You threw your head back and laughed, "Flirting?"

"Yes, (Y/N), I am flirting with you." Alex hands you back the notebook, "How's your head?"

Your smile disappears slightly, feeling shy all of a sudden due to his direct nature, "My head is fine."

"Good. We should get to know each other before Dad trains you, we'll be getting handsy because I'll be your choreographer and your medic."

"Wow you're an all rounder?"

"Talented, I know—not as talented as you though. Let's have dinner sometime this week. I'll pay for everything as part of making it up to you." He smiles and glances out the window, feeling like someone is watching him but sees no one.

"Sure. I'll text you my availability."

"Awesome, how about we go downstairs together so I can win your parents' good graces?" He offers you his arm as he stands up.

You laugh at his remarks and take his arm, "Are you always this direct?"

"Yes, I got no filter—just warning you." He winks.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Next Day

You're fairly certain he’s no Ted Bundy, but you could have asked whether Alex did ask your parents permission to pick you up from work. You slide a surreptitious glance his way, studying the hands on the steering wheel. Those hands are grace and capability, rough and smooth. Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t wring your neck.

“So, how did you say you got my Dad to say yes again?” you ask, deliberately nonchalant.

“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking some questions.” His expression loosens into a grin, “You keep looking at me like I might pull over at the side and stuff you in the trunk.”

“Who . . . what . . . me? Noooo.” His breaks away from the traffic long enough to give me a knowing look, accompanied by a smirk, “Okay, maybe a little.” A nervous laugh slips out.

“I actually was thinking I should have asked for some proof or ID or something. Not just hop in the car with a perfect stranger.” you joked.

“Perfect?” Cockiness curves his lips. “I get that a lot.”

“You’re so full of yourself, aren’t you?” you laugh.

“Oh, I shouldn’t be?” Even in profile, his grin is a little dazzling. “No, you’re right. I could have offered more than 'I'm Alex. Let’s eat and get to know each other.’”

He tips his head toward the phone in your lap, "Why not call your Dad so you can breathe a little easier?"

I should have thought of that. What’s wrong with me?

You pick up your phone and dial your Father's number. It rang three times before he answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey Dad, did Alex ask you permission to pick me up after work?"

"Yeah. He did. Why? Are you both alright?"

"Yeah. . . Just double checking."

You flick a glance Alex's way. His expression is completely relaxed and impassive, and his eyes are set on the road like you're not even there, but he doesn’t fool you. There’s this constant alertness that crackles around him, as if he’s been trained to be on guard but is wily enough to let you believe he isn’t. You think he’s always completely aware of everything around him, and this conversation between your Dad is no exception.

"Alright well, Alex will take you back home and stay with you until me and your mother comes back before dinner—"

"He doesn’t need to do that."

"He doesn’t mind—he also has some things to discuss with me so he might as well wait."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You've read same line several times. Your laptop could be upside down and you probably wouldn’t notice. You're sitting on the couch with your computer propped on your knees, not making any headway on the essay for your art scholarship application.

You could blame fatigue considering you haven’t really stopped since you left for work in the morning. Or you're getting hungry again. You could use those excuses for your lack of focus, but there’s only one real reason if you're honest. Alex. He’s an unexpected fascination, a tantalizing riddle you keep turning over in your head.

You keep hoping he’ll make sense eventually, but then you're somehow glad he doesn’t add up or behave the way you think he should. If he were in the same room, you'd still be surreptitiously gawking, stealing glances at one of the most beautiful men you've ever seen, but he’s in your father's study. He went there almost immediately after you arrived, and you haven’t heard a peep from him since.

You guess he is as obsessed with skating as your father. Yet another reason not to venture too deeply into the odd attraction you feel for him.

“Not that he’s here,” you mumble. “He isn’t much company.”

I'm the one who said he doesn’t have to keep me company, and now I'm complaining because he isn’t.

“Claude Monet?” Alex's voice, as deep and rich as espresso, caresses the nape of your neck from behind, making you jump, “Interesting choice.”

You look from the sharply hewn lines of his face to the flashing cursor behind Monet's name on your screen, "Geeze, is that your hobby? Creeping up on people?

“Sorry.” He walks around to sit beside you on the couch. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You set your laptop on the coffee table and scoot a few inches away, tucking your into the corner of the couch. You weren’t doing a good job focusing when he was in the other room. With the breadth of his shoulders and the towering energy he brought with him, you give up. I’ll work on it tomorrow.

A thrill passes through you at the prospect of another conversation with him. You're not one of those giddy girls who gets all breathless when a guy comes around. And yet, with those chocolaty colored eyes resting on your face, you're almost short of breath.

“Isn’t it summer break?” Alex crooks a grin at you and leans into the opposite corner of the couch. “Shouldn't you be getting some time off?”

“Oh, I’m taking some time off for sure.” you tuck your legs under you. Since you exchanged your jeans for some old cut offs, you have to pretend not to notice him looking a little too long at your bare legs. The last thing you need is to get the idea that he likes you. You did an awful job with Stephen, you don't need another one.

“So, you write essays about Monet to relax?”

"Not exactly.” you laugh and scoop your hair up into a topknot. “I’m applying for a scholarship. The application is due in a months time, and I need to finish the essay—Do you know much about him?”

He pulls his T-shirt up from the hem, and your heart might’ve popped an artery or something because it shouldn’t be working this hard while at rest. You swallow hard at the layer of muscle wrapped around his ribs. One pectoral muscle peeks from under the shirt.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

“Huh?” your reluctantly drag your eyes from the ladder of velvet-covered muscle and sinew to the expectant look on his face.

“See what?”

“The tattoo.” He runs a finger over the ink scrawled across his ribs. A man in a suit with a bouquet of sun flowers as a head.

"My mother used to give me a supplemental book list every school year. Books she said the schools wouldn’t teach. She said don’t wait for any body to give you anything. Even your education you have to take. If the one they offer you isn’t enough, make your own—that's the meaning of my tattoo.”

“Is that how you’re so well-read? Or at least seem to be.” you raise your brows at him. “Or maybe that’s just how you pickup the smart girls?”

“Are you a smart girl, (Y/N)?” His voice fondles your name.

“You can’t turn off the flirt, can you?” you ask to distract yourself from the fact that it’s working.

"No, unfortunately. . ."

"You are something else," You shake your head, "You literally scream the Red aura."

"And what about your aura?"

"I think mine is Yellow."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I am creative, relaxed and friendly." You shrug and smile gently, "Red means up-beat, you exert a lot of energy."

Alex nods like he's agreeing with you and you squint your eyes at him, making him chuckle, "What?"

"You think I'm a lunatic."

"No I don't. I think it's pretty interesting. . . your impression of me. I'm flattered." He pauses, his jaw working as he thinks of something to add, "But I think I'll stick to a girl who is a colour of smart, the shade of funny, maybe with a little hue of sexy."

You snort and shakes your head, "The way your brain works is interesting. Well then, what colour do you think I am Alex?"

"What colour are you?" Alex turns his body towards you and heavily studies your features, those dark eyes staring into you. He holds his gaze for a moment longer, eyes never leaving your face, "You, (Y/N), are a prism."

A breathy chuckle leaves you as you look down, defeated by his compliments. The doorbell rings all of a sudden and both of you turn your heads towards the window at the same time.

"Does your Dad usually ring the doorbell?" Alex asks.

"No, of course he doesn't."

"Want me to check it out instead?"

You nod, "Yeah sure."

Alex gets up whilst pulling his shirt back down before casually opening the door, coming face to face with Stephen. Alex recognized him instantly and smiled at the confused looking man in front of him.

"Who are you?" Stephen asked, his eyes panning inside your house to look for a sign of you.

"No, who are you?"

"Alex, who's there—Stephen?"

"(Y/N)."

"What are you doing here?" You asked wide-eyed, shocked to see him standing in front of your door.

Alex turns his head and nods, "Yeah, what are you doing here?"

"Excuse me. . . I asked who are you?"

"Alex and you must be Stephen."

"What are you doing here?" Stephen asked.

"We asked you that first." Alex replied instantly.

"We? (Y/N) asked this morning whether we could talk after her shift," Stephen turns towards you, "Did you forget?"

You shut your eyes and nodded guiltily, "Yeah, sorry I got. . . distracted—but we can still talk, let me grab a cardigan."

"Sure." Stephen stood firmly at the door glancing at Alex who was watching him carefully, as if he was trying to read his intentions.

"Bring her back as quickly as you can, will you bro? Thanks." Alex pats Stephen’s shoulder before walking back into the living room.

You jog back down to find no signs of both boys, "Alex?"

"I'm here." His head pops out from the living room, "Need anything before ditching me?"

"I'm not—I made a plan with him first, I just forgot."

"I'm kidding, (Y/N). I'll wait for your parents here and don't worry, I'm not a kleptomaniac—although you do know I have no idea what privacy is. . . You got some interesting stuff in your room." Alex playfully taps his chin.

You smack his arm, "This might be a bit too much to ask, but can you cover for me?"

"You want me to lie to your parents?"

"I—"

"Again, I'm kidding. Sure, only because I hit you with a ball before." Alex nods, "Have fun with your boyfie."

"He is not my boyfriend!" You snap as you head out the door.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“Well,” you say on a sigh as you walk down the path with him.

He set his hands in his pockets because they’re shaking. “Well.”

You peers up at him. “Everything okay?”

“Mhmm.” Stephen clear his throat, staring at the ground and toeing the dirt with his boot.

“I thought maybe…” He clear his throat again when his voice breaks like he's some squeaking adolescent. “Maybe we could go for a hike in the valley?”

A beat of silence. “A hike? Like right now?”

“Nothing too technical. Just…relaxing, with a nice view at the end.”

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’d like that.”

“Great.” Relief washes through him as he led you towards his motorcycle that was readily parked in front of your house. He hands you a helmet.

"Where's yours?" You ask.

"I forgot it at home." Stephen shrugs.

"Your house is just next door—"

"Ever heard of sarcasm? Get on." Stephen nods his head towards the motorcycle and assists you on mounting it.

"Don't worry, (Y/N)! I'll cover for you." Alex waves and sends you gun fingers before walking back inside your house.

"Is he going to be around more often?" Stephen asked while twisting the key and kickstarting the engine.

"Yes. His Dad his my coach."

"Oh. Great." Stephen mumbled, "Are you going to hang on or not?" He asked, revving the bike.

You stiffly wrapped your arms around his waist. The moment the cold air hits your skin, you realize that you forgot the feeling of the ride, the feeling of fresh air on your face, empty roads, and the beckoning of the unexplored destination, fills your heart with exhilaration.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

A twig snaps, and you spin toward the sound.

Stephen is standing in the clearing, and he appears to be so at ease there that it causes you to lose a little bit of your breath. Tall, with a straight back and hair blown back by the wind, and as rich as spilt chocolate. He is dressed in tattered pants and dirty boots, and his long-sleeved shirt has a few buttons that are undone. The perpetual surly expression is more severe, with that five o’clock shadow making an appearance and—Oh fuck.

“You wear glasses?” you ask hoarsely. His hands go to the frames, like he’s not even sure they’re there.

“Uh. Yes.”

“I’ve never seen you wear them before.”

“Contacts were bugging me,” he says. The thin frames have a pattern that looks like a swirl of coffee and cream, and it highlights the deep chocolate colour of his hair and lashes, as well as the little flecks of caramel that are in his blue eyes. He looks absolutely decadent.

Barely swallowing an embarrassing moan of want, you tug your hat tighter on your head, when what you really want to do is drag it over your face and hide the blush heating your cheeks.

Your entirely platonic (meaning totally off-limits) guy friend, went from dangerously hot to bespectacled sex on legs. Cruel, cruel universe.

Shutting your eyes, you take a deep centering breath, and when you open them, feeling slightly less frazzled, you see Stephen staring at your hand. You follow his gaze. And then you blush again. Your gaze snaps to his hand, and your stomach does weird flip-flops.

"You good?"

“Great!” you tell him. “Good. Okay.” What a disaster. I haven’t nervous stuttered like this in years.

“Ready?”

“Yep. Totally. Born ready.”

He turns and starts walking, adjusting the big bag on his back.

“What’s with the gear?” you ask, stretching your stride to catch up to him.

“It’s a surprise,” he says. You adjust the much smaller bag on your back and peer up at him, curious.

“A surprise?”

He nods. Stephen has a surprise for me. He planned a hike for us. Why?

“Stephen?” Slowing to a stop, he glances your way but keeps his eyes down.

“Yes?”

“Why are we doing this?” Silence hangs in the air, but for the sound of wind on the nearby water. Stephen scrubs the back of his neck, then adjusts his glasses.

“You said you wanted to talk. I just wanted us to be alone, no eavesdroppers.”

A soft laugh jumps out of you, “Fair enough.”

Satisfied, Stephen turns and starts walking again.

“I feel bad that I don’t have a surprise for you,” you tell him, “If I’d known we were going here, I would have brought some food too.”

Stephen points ahead where a small tree trunk bisects the path. You hop over it.

“You’ve done more than enough. Tell me if I go too fast,” he adds.

You frown up at him, “Don’t worry about me. I’m a little run-down lately, but I’m not fragile.”

“I—” He hesitates, lifting a branch that you nearly just walked into. “I’m just trying to be considerate. I tend to losetrack of when I’m moving too quickly for other people, which isn’t hard, given how long my stride is.”

“Oh. Right.” you clear your throat nervously. “So…can you give me a hint about the surprise?”

He throws a glance your way, the glasses making his side-eye doubly hot. Rude, glasses. Very rude. “You’re almost a university student, ” he says evenly, “and you don’t know the meaning of the word surprise?”

“Oh, ha-ha! Very funny.” His mouth twitches like he was about to smile, but his expression’s serious before I’m even sure it happened.

“I'm just trying to keep the conversation going, smartass.”

“Sure,” he says. “Watch.”

You hop over a small ditch just in time not to twist an ankle. “I thought you said this wasn’t very technical.”

He shrugs. “I guess it is if you’re a novice.”

“Stephen Strange. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get under my skin.”

Another mouth twitch. I will get a smile out of him!

“I was answering your question,” he says. Then, after a beat, “And maybe teasing you a little.”

“Very charming.”

He shakes his head. “Not the way I grew up. My dad knows what’s good for him.”

“I’ve absolutely seen your dad tease your mom.”

Stephen points toward a smaller path off the main trail and leads the way. “True. But he knows what teasing she likes and how far he can go, and he never goes beyond it.”

You smile. “Your parents are so cute. You can tell they’re still very much in love.”

“It’s oppressive,” he says. “I have walked in on them making out way too many times.”

“Well, I mean two more of you had to come about somehow—”

“That’s enough out of you,” he says, cupping his hands over his ears and wrinkling his nose.

You cackle. “I get it. But I also think it’s pretty sweet. My parents weren’t—” you bite off the rest of your sentence and glance around, scrambling for a shift in gears. “So, we’re ascending. Sunset view?”

Stephen glances your way, his gaze dancing up your face, then to the sky. “Why’d you change the subject?”

“The polite thing to do would be to roll with said change in subject.”

“Not really my thing,” he says. “Politeness. I’m shit at it. Like when I asked you to tell me if I was going too fast and somehow I’d implied you were fragile.”

You bite your lip. “Oof. That was my bad. I’m sorry.”

“Make it up to me. Tell me what you were going to say.” He reaches off the path quickly, snaps a long stick across his thigh, then hands half of it to you. “Should be a good height.”

“I…what?” He stands the stick beside you and wraps your hand around it.

“The stick. Go on.”

“What, with the stick or the topic?”

“Both,” he says, using the other half of the stick for himself and gently nudging you forward. As you move forward on the path, you try the walking stick, enjoying how it sinks into the ground and gives you leverage.

“My parents just aren't like that.”

“Like what?” he says. You stare at the ground, focusing on your footsteps.

“In love. At least, that's what I think.” you hear him falter behind you, then glance over your shoulder. He frowns down at the ground. Both of you walk in silence for a while, Stephen pointing you in a new direction, the trail winding higher and higher.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

“Sometimes there’s nothing to be said. It’s okay.” He peers your way, your eyes meeting too briefly, before he glances ahead.

“You can talk more about it,” he says. “If you want. I’ll listen.”

A lump forms in your throat, and you keep your eyes ahead. “Not much to say. I guess they were too busy with grieving my brother that they forgot to love each other. Now my mom spends most of her time staying at home, making sure I'm well taken care of. My dad spends most of his time working because that’s what he loves. My parents love me, too, of course, and I love them, but we’re just not close, as a family like we used to be—whoa!”

Stephen's hand shoots out, grabbing you by the upper arm, like he knew you’d trip on the rock ahead of you before you did. Your body lurches and then immediately straightens in the steadiness of his grip.

“You okay?” he says.

You nod, drowning in embarrassment that you both tripped and just told him all that. Why am I spilling my guts like this?

“What is it?” he says, noticing you staring at him. You look away, scarlet-cheeked.

“With the glasses, you’ve got a bookish woodsman vibe. It’s messing with me.”

“A bookish woodsman?” He wrinkles his nose. He’s cute when he wrinkles his nose. “What?”

You try to shove him away, but he neatly sidesteps you, sending me tumbling. Once again, his hand shoots out, catching your elbow and spinning you back on the path.

“More like a bookish ninja,” he says, before releasing you.

“You do have impressive reflexes. With your height and those reflexives on a soccer field, you had to play goalie. Am I right?”

“I always preferred defense, but yes, my grand soccer history is starting as a right back and ending up dragged into goal.”

“Do you still play?”

“Not anymore, too busy trying to figure out whether I should go back to medicine or not."Pointing ahead, he says, “Almost there.”

You follow his direction, where the trees thin and evening sun drips golden tangerine across the ground. The view stops you in your tracks.

“I know we've been here before but. . . Wow.” Stephen stands beside you, drinking it in, eyes on the horizon.

“It’s my favorite place.”

You look up at him as he looks down at you. And you remember that kiss a little too well. The scientist in you wants to test kissing Stephen again and again and again. To see if it was an outlier or if his every kiss really will make you weak-kneed.

You'd have sworn he didn’t even find you attractive. You have to be at least a little attracted to someone to kiss them like that right? It doesn’t matter. It can’t. That kiss is just going to have to be enough.

“(Y/N)?”

“Huh?"

His mouth lifts the faintest bit at the corner as he looks away, eyes on the lowering sun, "Nothing."

Quiet settles between you, and while Stephen wishes he knew how to fill it for your sake, he never will be a small-talker. He blanks on what to say and have no energy for it. And yet, as he steal occasional glances as both of you prepare the blanket to lay on.

Stephen looks at you and to him, you seem content—a small smile on your face as you work. Only when the blanket was nice and laid out on the grass did you break the silence.

“Stephen,” you says quietly. Picking up the cup of tea Stephen hands you. You cup it and says, “That night, when you kissed me—”

“I’m sorry,” Stephen blurt. Humiliation sweeps through him, turning his cheeks hot. “I didn’t… That is, I wasn’t…” Words evaporate on his tongue.

“It was pretty forward of you, though.”

Stephen's head whips your way. You were smiling. You were teasing him.

“I suppose…” he sip his tea, then shrug. “I owed you for an unsolicited kiss, though, didn’t I?”

“So much for you being a gentleman.”

“I never said I was a gentleman.”

You rolls your eyes.

“What do you call a man who always takes me home when he doesn't need to, and one who insist that I wear head gear instead of him?”

“A man who’s been raised by Eugene and Beverly Strange.”

You laugh, “Fine. Okay. You’re no gentleman, Stephen. You’re a coldhearted rogue.” The deep, foreign feeling of laughter catches in his chest and rumbles.

“You actually do owe me an apology,” you say and Stephen pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth, not sure if you’re still teasing or not.

“What for?”

You steals a sip of your tea and smiles to yourself, “For making it such a good kiss.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“You should be,” you say primly. “Next time—if a kiss is necessary for whatever reason—please make sure it’s absolutely terrible.”

Stephen glance over at you and spy a faint, secret smile playing on your lips. He chuckles and raise his cup in a salute. “I’ll do my best.”

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You stand there transfixed, staring at the setting sun, which has turned the sky a lush plum, peach, and rose-petal pink. While you are repositioning the bag that you were using as a pillow, your attention is drawn to Stephen. He appears to be in the midst of intense thought with his hands clasped behind his head and his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

Stephen gives you sexy side-eye through the glasses. “For what?”

“For your surprise. I ate too much. I took one for the team and made that sacrifice so you wouldn’t have to haul all that picnic food back down the hill. Now it’s in my belly instead of on your back.”

Stephen’s mouth twitches in another thwarted smile. His gaze settles on your mouth. “I’m glad you liked my cooking.”

Heat spills through you, warm and rich as the fading sunlight bathing everything the eye can see. He swallows roughly, his eyes darkening. But then he glances back to the horizon again.

“I can see why this is your favorite spot” You glance at him, “Best view of sunrise and sunset.”

“I bet you'd love to paint them.” The wind picks up, ruffling his hair.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?” Stephen throws another side-eye.

“I’ve never painted a sunrise or a sunset.”

“Why?” he ask, peering out at the sunset, too.

After a long beat of silence, you ask him, “Promise you won’t laugh?”

Stephen turn slightly, facing you. “Of course.”

“I’ve never painted a sunrise or a sunset because…I’m not sure I can do them justice. The light shifts so rapidly during both times of day that it makes photography an insane challenge. I have this fear that I won’t be able to get it right, and it’ll ruin it for me, this thing I love, that’s so beautiful it makes something in me—” You sets a hand over your heart and rubs. “Ache.”

Stephen stare at you, stunned and unexpectedly moved. He asked you about painting, and he got an answer about you. About how deeply you feel, how hard you are on yourself.

“I think I understand,” Stephen say quietly.

You glance his way, your eyes holding, “You do?”

“The greater your capacity to love, the higher your chance of pain, hurt, and loss. It's possible that the more you care, the more suffering you'll experience. However, I do wish that you would not let that hold you back,” Stephen tells you, “Fear of failure, fear of not living up to these standards you hold yourself to, which sound pretty damn high. Because…well, have you ever considered that the depth of feeling for the subject is the reason you’re the very best person to paint it?” His gaze slips away again, back on the sun, just a sliver of bronze remaining.

It’s quiet for so long, he was starting to worry he had offended you, gone too far, talked too long.

“No,” you say finally. “I hadn’t considered that.” your answer is brief, but Stephen could sense that you're simply lost in your thoughts, considering what he had said.

Stephen exhales, relieved. “I think if anyone could do it, (Y/N), paint something so complexly beautiful, it would be you.”

“And if I do it terribly?” you asks.

“Art is subjective. You’re the judge of it, right? You probably have certain standards, but maybe you'll come to see that they require adjusting or that they were completely unrealistic to begin with. Maybe after a few failed attempts, you'll finally create something you're happy with, and it'll be perfect in every way.” Stephen reach carefully toward you, extracting the leaf that landed on your hair. “Maybe even more.”

And then Stephen realize how close he was, how somewhere along the way, he ended up almost leaning over you. “Do you…” Stephen swallows roughly. His eyes darken, fixed on your mouth.

“Do I…?”

He sits upright suddenly. “Do you mind if we head back? It’s getting dark, and I don’t want you to twist something on the way down.”

Your mouth drops open in offense. “Twist something on the way down? Listen, Bear Grylls, not all of us have the terrain memorized.”

You try for a shove, but once again, he deftly twists and springs upright, letting you tumble onto the grass. “You’re supposed to be chivalrous and catch me,” you remind him, starfish-ed on the ground.

He shakes his head, “You’ll never learn your lesson.”

“And what’s that?”

“That I’m not the kind of person you count on to catch you.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s not a very kind thing to say about yourself.”

“Kind or not, it’s true.” He packs up the last of our picnic items, then swings his bag onto his back. “Come on. Up you get.”

Standing and shrugging on your own backpack, you do what you always do. Put a smile on and try to keep things breezy. “This was nice, Stephen, thank you.”

He nods, "You’re welcome."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Alex wasn't joking when he said he'd cover for you because you didn't receive one missed call from your parents at all. You could say he's made up with hitting you with a football—but you were curious about what he had said to your parents.

By the time you arrived home, it was 9PM. Instead of entering your house through the front door, you decided to sneak in and climb up the side of the house using the lattice panel stuck onto the side of the house.

Stephen had to go first, of course. You weren’t exactly an expert at climbing walls.

"Give me your hand I'll pull you up." He whispered and reaches for you but you clung on to the panel like a koala, afraid of falling off.

"I can't! I don't want to fall down." You quietly shouted at him.

"You're not going to fall down, just trust me." He waves his hand ans you reluctantly reaches and Stephen manages to pull you up, effortlessly. He never lets go of your jand until you were safe inside your room.

“Sorry,” you whisper and sit on the side of your bed, “Climbing walls isn't really my thing. It's just my brother—”

He nods. "Don't be sorry. We're not going to repeat this again, alright?”

Tears prick your eyes. It’s just a little kindness, but it’s toward such a tender part of your life, it feels like the hardest hug and the biggest smile and the sweetest kiss.

Stephen goes still as he notices it and allows himself in your room. Then, carefully, he reaches up and thumbs the tear away. His hand cradles your jaw, fingertips whispering over your skin. Your eyes drift half-shut. You want so badly to lean deeper into the comfort of his tenderness. You want there to be more to it than there is.

But you have to remember what you are to each other, what the purpose of today’s been—friends not in love, a picnic hike of reconciliation. Gestures of moving on and going back to normal friends, nothing more. But even so, you want to show him your gratitude. For making you feel safe. Understood. Seen.

Your hand slides across the comforter to his leg, over his thigh stretching his jeans. You hold your hand there, tipping your head, leaning into his palm as it cradles your face.

Eyes on your lips, Stephen bends closer, fingers slipping through your hair. You lean closer, too, your mouths a whisper away. But you stop yourself, not wanting to repeat history.

“May I kiss you?” you ask.

His eyes darken, fixed on your mouth. “I was going to ask the same thing.”

Gently, you slide his glasses off his nose and close them before carefully setting them on the nightstand next to you, “We have a small problem.”

“What’s that?” he says roughly.

“You promised, if another kiss was necessary, you were going to make it terrible.”

Air leaves him unsteadily, as he leans closer, “I’m not going to keep that promise.”

Your hand settles on his chest, and his hand wraps around it, holding it hard against him.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” And that’s when he tugs you close and his mouth finds yours, warm and tender and so perfect, air catches in your throat.

It’s the kind of kiss you never really thought you'd experience. The kind that builds, warm and deep inside you, then spills and fills every corner of your body. The kind that makes the need for air an annoyance and only two hands to feel, a maddening frustration.

You dissolve into the bed, as Stephen’s body stretches out beside you, long and strong, his arms wrapping around me as he pulls you close.

“Terrible?” he asks, breathing harshly. You sink your fingers into his shirt and tug him closer.

“Awful. You should try again.” you feel him hesitate for just a moment.

“You’d tell me if it’s actually terrible?” he says quietly. Meeting his eyes, you sweep away the hair falling onto his forehead.

“I would, and it’s not. I promise.” His mouth brushes yours again, harder this time, more insistent, deep, long kisses as his hand wraps around your waist.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he says.

“Probably not,” you agree, sliding your hand over his ribs, feeling the solidity of his body, warm and strong beside you.

He groans when you bite his bottom lip. “Just tonight.”

“Just tonight,” you whisper as he yanks you closer and lines up your bodies. Bending his head, he meets your mouth again, nestling his pelvis against yours. You feel the hard ridge of his length inside his jeans and gasp.

Your mouth falls open, and you taste him—mint toothpaste and cool water, but mostly something that’s just Stephen. Mind-bending hunger burns through you. Oh, this is dangerous. Because now you want more. You want tongue and teeth. You want his hands clutching your waist, rocking you against him. You want him filling your hands, filling you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, the headboard knocking against the wall in rhythm with your bodies. As if he’s read the dangerous turn of your thoughts, Stephen gives you one more long, soft kiss to your lips, then pulls away.

"Why’d you stop?” you whisper, far too turned on to care about your pride.

He sits up and slips his glasses back on. Gently, he smooths you hair off your face, tangled from his fingers. But he doesn’t answer you. He only traces his fingertip across your forehead, down your temple, over the bridge of you nose to your other temple, before his touch slips along your jaw, then your mouth.

"Good night, (Y/N)."

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