#cece 🫦 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

loveshotzz · 1 year ago

Note

CECE WHAT THE FUCK? THIS IS MY DREAM LIFE AND ITS NOT FAIR THAT ITS NOT REAL.

He texted you ‘good morning’ at noon. You usually text him before he’s even awake; 6am, sometimes 5. But he knows you’re off today, thought it was about time you caught up on some sleep. Working twelve hour days, working on your side hustle at night, maybe three hours of sleep is what you allow yourself.

The nights he’s there he tries to coax you into bed earlier: ‘I’ll be there in ten.’ you always say. But you’ll say it like a broken record for hours before you do. He fears the nights he’s not there you might not go to sleep at all, pushing your mind and body far past — what he’d deem — an acceptable limit.

He knows this. He calls you at one anyway; a little selfishly, a little worriedly.

You pick up from the sunken valley of your sofa.

“Hm,” you hum, mid languid stretch.

“Hey, trouble,” his voice deep, but light. You can hear the wind whipping, his keys jingling. “Did I wake you up?” he asks softly. He’s getting in his car, you hear a click and the rumble of his engine.

“I haven’t really slept,” you tell him, voice horse. You’ve been in and out for hours, never longer than 20, maybe 30 minutes at a time. Awake for the same before you drift back off. The TV’s been on all night, all morning, afternoon. The show you were catching up with on Hulu is now a completely different unrelated show, half a season deep.

“Why don’t you get your pretty self up off the couch,” he guesses with a teasing lilt and you roll your eyes with what energy you can muster, “and take a shower for me? I’ll be there in, mmm, twenty minutes.”

When he lets himself into your apartment he hears the water running, hears you fighting with your nearly empty bottle of shampoo.

Your place is small, he can see almost everything from where he’s standing in the kitchen. Two blankets dragging on the floor from the couch, takeout containers on the coffee table, your work scattered about. Eddie puts away the small amount of groceries he grabbed on the way over and starts to pick your place up — folds your throw blankets, gathers the trash, puts your work up. He pulls closed your curtains, turns the AC a few degrees colder before he lights what’s left of the candle on your nightstand.

When you emerge from the bathroom in your fluffy black robe and your hair twisted up in a towel, Eddie’s sat on the edge of your bed, fingers pulling through the lace of his boots. He looks up and offers a crooked smile, says, “Feel better after your shower?”

“I do.”

Eddie has this softness about him during the day; when his curls are freshly dried, black tee still unwrinkled, jaw smooth and shaved. The candle behind him flickers, his frizz haloed in an orange glow that casts down his jaw in a way that entices you to kiss it.

Barefoot you pad over, a fatigued pout tugging at your bottom lip as you stand at his knees. He cranes his neck back and spreads his legs, hands reaching out to cup the back of your thighs; warm and scratchy, his. He pulls you closer until your knees hit the bed and you're so close his chin could rest against your sternum if he wanted.

“You wanna eat? Or d’you wanna sleep?” he asks, eyes shining with a devotion no man has ever had for you before. You push his fringe back, bend down to steal a gentle kiss — tastes like coffee and cigarettes.

“I wanna sleep,” you tell him through you lip wobbling with exhaustion, with a desperation to get a few straight hours. It’s the kind of tired where your skin aches, tingles when Eddie’s big hands move forward and slide up the sides of your thighs beneath your robe and kneads at what he can.

Eddie tugs at the loose tie around your waist as he stands, the spice of his cologne is comforting enough to put you to sleep. But you know he’s got a plan of his own when he ducks into the juncture of your collar for a kiss, a bigger one on your neck, a smaller one at the hinge of your jaw.

“My sleepy girl,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his hair tickling your sensitive skin. The bass of his voice has you arching slightly into him, neck lolling to the side with your eyes closed when his hands push the fabric from your shoulders. Your robe collects at your feet, the cool air of your apartment pricks your heated skin, flesh pebbling in seconds. He kisses your jaw again, fingertips whispering down your sides, your hands curl into his shirt. “Lie down, f’me.”

Hair still twisted up, you crawl to the top of your bed, crisp sheets beneath you when you settle on your back. You watch your boyfriend strip from his shirt, his back and shoulders flex and stretch with his movement, black ink dancing in what little light bounces off of him. He kicks his boots under your bed, but it’s when he pulls his belt from their loops that your breath hitches in your throat with anticipation. But Eddie’s got other plans that don’t quite align with your salacious daydream — you realize when he reaches for the corner of your bed and picks up a container of what looks like your shea body butter.

You watch him as he comes to the side of the bed, your eyes unable to stop following the trail of dark hair that disappears into his Levi’s. He chuckles and your eyes snap up to his; he’s smiling with dimples, and it’s a curse because it only makes you want to glance back down. He’s so handsome — even when he’s being smug.

“What?” you giggle dumbly.

“You’re too weak for all that, baby,” he rasps as he leans down. Your cheeks burn at the suggestion, you want to tell him that you kind of like that — but you don’t. His lips capture yours once more before he nods his head. “Turn over.”

And so you do.

You taught him a while back a small amount of body butter goes a long way, so he starts with a dollop, tries to warm it up between his palms before he touches the small of your back. He works his way up to your shoulders, it smells nutty and sweet, a little bit of vanilla. Eddie takes his time, he’s a ‘takes him time’ kinda guy with everything, and right now he’s really leaning into it. Long strokes, deep pressure working out your knots loosening any tightness you felt.

The bed dips when he kneels at your side for better leverage. More weight, big hands that feel like they’re covering you entirely. The heel of his palms traverse down, fingertips splaying as he climbs over the hill of your ass and continues to the back of your knees.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, really. But he feels your body relax, you sink further into the bed and as quickly as your skin absorbs the cream your soft snores are music to his ears.

He kisses you between your shoulder blades, an extra at the small of your back. But those were just for him.

When you wake up, it’s four SVU episodes later for Eddie. Your head is on Eddie’s chest, a little bit of drool pooling at the corner of your mouth, the towel on your head is hanging on to the last few inches of your hair. You feel refreshed, albeit, lazy. Eddie’s always so warm, sometimes so warm you can’t even bear touching him at night. But right now it’s welcomed, you drag your arm across his stomach and dig your fingers into his side to pull him closer. You both nuzzle, scoot closer. You feel his hand at the small of your back holding you against him. You hitch your leg up, smooth skin over denim.

“It’s dinner time,” he whispers into the crown of your head. You hand slides down, fingers toying with the hem of his jeans.

“Breakfast for dinner?” you ask hopefully.

“I grabbed eggs on the way over.”

xoxox, gossip girl

i will simply never recover from this @newlips

#the back massage #the fit #taking his shirt off like #you’re too weak for all that baby?#come on #cece 🫦#fic recs 💗

92 notes · View notes

pricelessemotion · 1 year ago

Text

CECE!!!! i literally had to put my phone down and take a deep breath when i saw your reblog. you are so extremely kind and lovely 🥹

even more rambling under here bc i love talking ab my fics

SRSLY THANK YOU FOR CALLING MY STEVE CHARMING also i loveddd writing that part about how he acted around his dad bc i love some juicy characterization 🫦

and seeing that you like how i write about aging/life experience literally makes me want to melt 😭 change is gna be such a big theme in this fic so im SO glad you enjoyed it

sweet dreams, tennessee

summary: [4.5k] Upon visiting your grandma for the summer, you're greeted by more than one familiar face.

pairing: cowboy!steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: references to alcohol and death of a parent, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn (?)

series masterlist | main masterlist

Chapter One: Welcome home, Honeybee

An hour or so outside of Nashville is a town called Sweet Dreams, too small to show up on any map. The ones who want to make it out, bask in the irony. They say this town is exactly the place where dreams go to die.

Most people who have the privilege of leaving Sweet Dreams don’t come back. They watch the dust kick up in the rear-view mirror and say good riddance. But you’re not like most people.

You tip the taxi driver extra, even though he’s dropping you off at the edge of the property and you have to tug two suitcases and a backpack through a quarter mile of dusty road. The walk gives you time to think. Time to breathe. The air is different here, fresher. You can’t remember the last time you got to walk outside in the middle of the day and only have birdsong to keep your thoughts company. You’d thought that the vast emptiness would be a good change of scenery. You’d thought that the neverending din of the city was clogging up your brain, making your thoughts scramble like eggs in a hot skillet on Sunday. Now, they echo back to you, sung back in the form of mockingbirds. You don’t know if it's better. It’s just different.

By the time you make it to the paved driveway, your arms are aching and there’s a current of sweat making its way down your back. You’re barely twenty feet from the door when Nana appears in the open front doorway. Upon catching sight of you, she’s barreling down the porch steps, holding her sun hat to the top of her head so that it doesn’t fly off. Dropping the handles of your bags, you allow the woman who basically raised you to engulf you in the best hug this side of the Mississippi. She smells like fresh soil, powdery perfume, and everything that’s good about the world.

“You’re here! I told you that I’d pick you up at the airport! You didn’t have to call a cab,” She admonishes, before smacking kisses all over your face. “I missed you sweet pea.”

She looks older now, and the thought tugs at your chest. Her hair is more silver than anything and the lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper than in your memory. It’s only been a few years, but your grandmother wears an entire new lifetime lived without you on her face.

“I missed you too.” You let out a laugh but there’s a melancholy feeling to your words. You know that if you stir on them just a little bit more tears will start flowing out and never stop. You bury your face into the collar of her blouse, willing yourself not to cry.

“Well,” She says, taking a step back and putting her calloused hands on your shoulders. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You smile, doing a little spin for her amusement.

“Just like I thought. Even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks in response. You never quite knew how to take her constant compliments. Not only about your beauty, but your intelligence.

“How’s your daddy doin’?” Her words are casual but her tone is clipped. Her lips curl in and she busies herself with brushing imaginary dust off your bare shoulders, looking at you like she’s trying to commit the sight to memory.

You breathe out a sigh, “As good as he’s ever doing.” Which is usually not good, you think but don’t say.

Nana only purses her lips, nodding in agreement.

Both of you know that your dad hasn’t been the same since Mama died. Mama was a realist. That’s why she left Sweet Dreams in the first place. Your dad was a dreamer. Without your mom to anchor him to this world he was adrift. He was careless with what he had when he had it. Now, he doesn’t know what to do now that it’s gone.

You fiddle with the strap of your backpack, feeling the weight of everything you brought with you digging into your shoulders. You should probably call him to let him know that you got here safely.

“You must be exhausted after traveling,” Nana says, breaking you out of your reverie. “Let me just put my gardening stuff aside real quick, you can go ahead into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up something to eat.”

You nod and step inside the house, taking your baggage with you.

—

The fridge, or as Nana likes to call it the frigidaire, looks exactly the same as you remember it. Magnetic alphabet letters are used to hang up reminders and photos. She still has the same drawing that you gave her for Mother’s Day all those years ago, the crude crayon stick figures of the two of you standing side by side in a wide-open field. Now, there are signs of aging, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges.

Aside from your childhood art, there are wedding announcements and Christmas cards a plenty. You recognize one of the faces. James wasn’t related to you but that didn’t matter. In Sweet Dreams, everyone was family. He was getting married to a woman named Elizabeth at the end of the summer. You can’t help but smile at the picture of him, his future wife, and his daughter.

The last time you saw Winnie, James’ daughter, her mother had still been alive. The news of her untimely demise and James’ sudden status as not only a young widower but a single father had caused aftershocks that made their way all the way out to you in California. It was nice to see how happy the three of them looked together. You remind yourself to let Nana know that you want to see them soon.

“Miss Mellie? I’m done with the car. There was something wrong with the fuel tank.” A man comes into the kitchen through the back door, dressed in a white tank top and blue jeans, wiping the grease from his hands with a rag.

He stops, eyeing you curiously. “You’re not Miss Mellie.”

“I’m not,” You say, dropping your backpack onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Just then the screen on the kitchen door bursts open. The bottom has been busted for years and never repaired, for the benefit of the four-legged basset hound that’s bounding towards you. You light up at the sight of him, but your joy is cut short by the comment of the strange man who has yet to introduce himself.

“Careful. Jackson gets nervous around strangers.”

Jackson only pants in response to the man’s statement, gleefully sniffing your shoes before licking the exposed skin of your calves.

“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a stranger.” You mutter leaning down to scratch the dog behind his ears. “You don’t have to tell me about my dog, I was there the day he was born.”

Jackson was the runt of the litter. You had picked him out, seeing how he was weaker and smaller, being trampled over by his brothers and sisters. Your father had given you a funny look when you pointed at the weak little thing and said that one! The look quickly went away once Nana gave him a look of her own.

“No shit.” The man leans back on the counter with all of the comforts of someone who knows this house like the back of his hand. He puts down the greasy rag, running a now clean hand along the sharp line of his jaw, his expression a mixture of disbelief and recognition.

“Now,” You huff, standing straight again much to the chagrin of the dog still panting at your feet. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re doing in my house?”

Your snippy attitude doesn’t seem to have the desired effect because he only looks right back at you with an easy smile.

“Y’know, I’m a little offended that you don’t remember me, Honeybee.”

Despite the heat of the Tennessee summer, you’re frozen. Only a handful of people have ever called you that. One of them bursts through the kitchen doors, holding a stack of mail in her hands.

“Steven!” Nana exclaims, confirming your suspicions. “You all done with the car?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Oh please Steven, you know you don’t need to call me that.” Her tone is lightly scolding but from the curl of her lips, you can tell that she likes it. Nana has always been a stickler for good manners. “I see you’ve found my grandbaby. Isn’t she a beauty?”

His smirk only grows deeper as he tips his head. “Must run in the family.”

She turns her attention to you. “You remember Steven, don’t you sweet pea? The truck was making a noise that was something awful. He offered to fix it up for me.”

Steve looks decidedly bashful, shaking his head and casting his gaze down to the floor. “It was nothing.”

Nana doesn’t even take into account his modesty, instead barreling through the rest of the conversation like she always does. It’s a wonder that she’s thrived in such a slow and peaceful town all her life when she constantly lives and talks at twice the speed of everyone around her. Everyone else is left trying desperately to keep up. “The two of you used to be thick as thieves, I swear. Could never find one without the other.”

“I remember,” You murmur, only chancing a glance at the boy across the room who seems to have turned into a man overnight. You guess that’s what six years apart will get you.

You remember Steve’s mother. She was a sweet woman when she wanted to be, if a little self-absorbed. Every summer they spent in Sweet Dreams her accent would fall into its natural rhythm and syncopation, annoying the hell out of Mr. Harrington. He always had a sneer on his face, screwed up like he had just taken a bite out of a lemon and was waiting for the sting to subside. He only showed up for the first and last week of the season, to usher his family in and out of his wife’s hometown.

Steve always acted a bit tougher with his father around, puffed out his chest, and forced his voice to go deeper. You once pointed this out to him and he gave you a nasty look and told you that he had no idea what you were talking about.

You apologized and Steve forgave you in the way that kids do, over brown lunch bag trading sessions, with plastic-wrapped treats being exchanged between sticky fingers. You never brought up his father again. For all of his father’s watchful eyes, his mother was the complete opposite. She was one of those people who believed that children shouldn’t be seen or heard. So, she pawned Steve off to the dusty streets of Sweet Dreams, knowing that whatever trouble he could possibly amount to was limited by the fact that the town was so small.

But Sweet Dreams didn’t always feel so small. In fact, when you were a kid the entire world seemed only to exist in a twenty-mile radius.

Steve clears his throat. “Well, if that’s everything I’ll go get cleaned up.”

“Oh! Actually, could you be a dear and take the luggage that’s by the front door into the guest room?” Nana asks.

Steve flashes an award-winning smile. “Anything for you, Miss Mellie.”

Nana shoos him out of the kitchen with promises of a good dinner and even more thanks. You’re still stuck on the fact that Steve Harrington is in Sweet Dreams and apparently has been for a while if the way your grandmother was interacting with him was any indication.

“He’s staying in the old shed.” She explains, sensing your confusion. She’s already opening the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of iced tea that immediately starts sweating in the Tennessee heat. Your mind is stuck on the soft thudding of heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase. The sixth step still creaks after all this time. “Fixed it up and everything. It already had a bathroom and a waterline, so all he had to do was make it livable.”

You can only think of offering a hum in response, grabbing one of the floral glasses from the cabinet, and pouring yourself a cup. It tastes like home.

“I’ve got you all set up in your Mama’s old room. Figured you’d like the sunlight. I pulled out the yellow bedspread, I remember that one being your favorite.”

Tears collect in your eyes. It’s been a while since anyone has paid attention to you long enough to remember anything insignificant about you. Nana collects every small detail like they’re precious, saving them for a rainy day so she can show you just how much you mean to her.

“Thank you, Nana.” You manage to choke out. You want to say more. You want to give her an explanation for why you dropped everything and showed up at her door. You’re not ready for any of that.

“Of course, darlin’.” She says simply, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home.”

—

Nana tells you to go upstairs and unpack–she purposefully set today aside for you to relax and unwind, knowing that you would probably be exhausted after traveling for so long. The reprieve is temporary, though. She’s assured you that the entire town has been informed of your stay and that her birthday party will also serve as a welcome home party for you.

Despite your insistence that you don’t want to take away the spotlight from her, she only winked and told you no one can take the spotlight from me, sweetie. Everything’s been prepared for the party tomorrow night. You’re already dreading the questions that you don’t have the answers to.

You make your way upstairs, avoiding that creaky sixth step. The walk to the room is daunting. The bedroom door has been left slightly ajar, and rays of sun are peeking through the crack, the only source of light in the dark hallway.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open. It looks exactly as you remember it. The curtains are drawn, allowing the north-facing windows to showcase the wide-open fields and dusty roads that you know and love.

The yellow bedspread is there, just like Nana said it would be. It’s sunbleached after so many years, but it still feels soft and comforting.

Your mother’s painting is still in the same spot. Looking at it, you can tell it’s never been moved the way the corners of the wallpaper around it give it away. Anyone with a keen eye can see how the pale sage green walls were once deep and rich, having faded away like so many other things in Sweet Dreams do. By sitting right where it always was.

Taking a deep breath, you move to unpack everything. The drawers in the vanity are all empty, except the one in the very center. It’s locked, and despite your best efforts, remains that way.

On the vanity, there’s an old picture frame. The photograph inside is of a memory you cannot believe you’d forgotten. You’re sitting cuddled up next to your mom. It was the day that you’d gotten Jackson, and he was so small you could still hold him in your little eight-year-old hands.

You’d refrained from smiling for weeks at that point, utterly mortified at the gaps in your mouth from losing your two front teeth at the same time. In that moment, though, you were smiling so wide. Jackson had gone from sitting quietly in your lap, to jumping up to lick you on the chin. The shock and subsequent squeal of laughter had been captured and kept.

You move the frame to the bedside table. It’s good to be home, you tell yourself. For the first time today, you’re not quite sure if you mean it.

—

“Is James coming tonight?�� You ask in between bites of fresh strawberries and buttered toast.

The temperature in the kitchen is nothing less than sweltering. You’d been spoiled out in California, living near the bay and rarely having to worry about the weather climbing above seventy-five degrees. The room is in a state of organized chaos, with all of the food being prepared and cooked for the party. Nana stands at the back end of the kitchen, her back to you. She’s been up since the crack of dawn, placating your insistence to help her with food and conversation.

“Oh, I’m sorry honey. He called this morning. Winnie’s got a toothache and he and Betty decided to stay home with her. I know you were looking forward to seeing them.”

“It’s okay,” You assure her. “Just would’ve been nice to see a friendly face.”

She turns the dough on the counter before folding it over and kneading it. There’s flour all up and down her forearms and most likely butter under her fingernails. “Steven’s coming,” She reminds you as if that fact is supposed to be reassuring.

“Right, of course.” You try to keep the apprehension out of your voice. “Steven.”

The truth is that you don’t know where you stand with him. You’d heard his voice from the top of the stairs last night, all full of polite regret that something had come up and he couldn’t attend dinner. The next sight you caught of him was his back as he rode off into the distance.

“He’s single, y’know,” Nana says, punching circles into the dough and setting them onto a baking tray. “He’s been working on the farm for about a year now. Real helpful.”

You know the farm isn’t what it used to be. After the passing of your grandfather, a lot of the acreage was sliced up and sold off to neighboring farms. They give your Nana tiny cuts of the profit, something to do with southern hospitality and it being a widow’s homestead. She’s still gardening, though she probably shouldn’t given her old age. Trying to take gardening gloves from Nana Monroe is like trying to wrangle a wild horse. Still, Steve’s wage must be meager, all things considered. No wonder why he’s living in a shed.

“Nana, I didn’t come here to date.”

“Well, what did you come here for?” She says, turning around and crossing her arms. Then, realizing the harshness of her words, she sighs. Dusting flour off of her palms and onto her worn apron, she rubs her thumb across your cheekbone. You can’t help but revel in the gesture. “You know I love having you around darlin’, but I know you didn’t decide to come spend the summer with your grandma just for kicks.”

The truth of the matter wasn’t easy. It was hard to swallow and tasted a lot like failure.

“I haven’t figured it out just yet, but when I do I’ll let you know.”

—

Drinks have been poured, food has been served, and the birthday cake has been cut. It seems the entire population of Sweet Dreams has overtaken the living and dining rooms, and you wouldn’t be shocked if that ended up being the case. If you had to count the number of inane conversations where you repeated the same five facts about yourself to people who haven’t seen you since you were fifteen, you might combust.

Everyone assumes that just because you go to school in California, you must be living the high life. Beaches and parties and sunsets on the West Coast seemed like a dream to those who live and die in land-locked states, yearning for the smell of salt air and sand beneath their toes.

You know better. California does have all the glitz and glam and charm that they seem to think it does, but it also is an agricultural state. The cities that aren’t highly populated, with bustling nightlife and celebrity mansions, are mostly cow towns. You’ve seen these places while driving down the 5 highway. It doesn’t escape your notice that the exact places that remind you the most of home, are the same ones that people pass by in hopes of getting to somewhere better. They sit in their air-conditioned cars and breathe through their mouths, hoping to drown out the stench of cow manure.

Never mind the fact that the curtains for your dorm were too sheer to block out the city lights, leaving you up for all hours of the night. Or the fact that, while you loved the beach, sometimes you longed for freshwater and mud between your toes rather than salt and sand. You still brought back pictures from when you and your friends decided to take a weekend trip, forking over small amounts of gas money and bartering meal plans in lieu of cash. The pictures spin a different story. One of a girl who knows what she’s doing and living her best life. Never mind that the thread being spun felt more like you were coming unraveled.

The back porch has always been your refuge when parties get too loud and the temperature inside gets so hot that it seems like even the floral wallpaper has started wilting. You sneak out through the kitchen door, relieved that there’s no one there to catch you. Nana usually would have noticed your absence by now, but she’s distracted. Uncle Chuck brought out his acoustic guitar and your grandmother has never passed up an opportunity to perform for others.

You sigh, taking one last bite of rhubarb pie before setting the paper plate down on the ground next to you. Testing the porch swing, you’re delighted to find that it’s still just as sturdy as ever. It used to be that you’d have to sit at the very edge of the seat in order to get it to swing without help, the tips of your sneakers barely grazing the ground. Now, you lean back and your feet are planted steady on the wooden planks below.

You and Steve used to play pirates here, pretending that the sway of the swing was the rocking of the ocean against a mighty ship. You’ve never felt more unmoored.

The screen door creaks as it swings open, and you brace yourself for Nana’s lilting voice, telling you to come inside and entertain guests. It doesn’t come. Instead, a deep timbre casts itself out into the night air. Despite the lingering warmth of the day’s heat and the lack of a night breeze, you feel goosebumps rise up on your arms.

“Not having a good time?” Steve asks. His figure is backlit, bathed in the golden light of the kitchen.

“No, I am. Just–” You take a moment to think of an explanation that won’t give too much away. “Needed a breather, I guess.”

He hesitates. “Maybe I should go then.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been told I take people’s breath away.”

You roll your eyes in annoyance, but you can barely hide the smile that tugs at your lips. “You are insufferable, Steve Harrington.”

The smirk on his face grows into a full-blown grin. “It’s one of my better qualities.”

Steve sidles up next to you, hand wrapped around a beer. It’s amazing to think that the last time you saw him, the two of you would have to bend backward to sneak the bitter liquor out of the coolers without anyone noticing. Now, you’re both of age to where nobody blinks an eye. The thought makes your chest feel tight.

“So why are you out here?”

“Do you mean why am I in Tennessee? Or why am I on the porch?”

He shrugs. “Either one.”

You shrug your shoulders, sitting back and letting your feet swing and scrape across the wooden floorboards of the porch. “I just felt like I needed to come back. Remind myself of some things I felt like I was forgetting.”

Steve nods like he gets it, and opens his mouth as if to say something but decides against it. What instead comes out is an olive branch.

“I’m sorry if I offended you with the whole Jackson thing yesterday.” He offers sincerely. “And about missing dinner. I was so busy working on the car yesterday that I forgot I had to fix the Tillman’s chicken coop.”

You put on an air of faux contemplation. “I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

“Thank god, I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t.” He playfully puts his hand over his heart before letting it drop to his side, lingering in the limited space between you. “Took me a second to recognize you–you look so different.”

Steve looks different, too. Baby fat has melted away to reveal high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Once gangly limbs have filled out into broad shoulders and muscles that strain against the cotton of his t-shirt. He was always cute, you’d be remiss to pretend that he wasn’t. But the year in Sweet Dreams seems to have been treating him well because now he resides on this side of ruggedly handsome.

“Good different or bad different?” There’s an underlying current of something in your question, but you’re not sure what.

“Good different.” He casts a sidelong glance at you before looking out at the backyard, saying the next statement into the lip of his beer bottle. “Same bratty attitude though.”

“Hey!” You squeal in mock offense, lightly smacking the back of your hand against his chest. The movement comes like a second nature, remnants from childhood squabbles. In the microseconds it takes for you to draw your hand away, you take notice of the solid mass of muscles hidden underneath his white t-shirt.

He’s full-on smirking now. “Nice to know some things never change.”

“You’re one to talk,” You retort. He quirks a brow at you. “You’ve always been such a charmer. I’m pretty sure you’ve got the entire female population of Sweet Dreams wrapped around your finger.”

He gives you a meaningful look. “Not the entire female population.”

You have a sharp reply sitting at the tip of your tongue, pointing directly at Steve, when someone calls his name from inside. It’s Uncle Chuck, insisting that the man sitting next to you join him in a duet.

“Well,” He stands up, brushing his palms on his denim-clad legs. “I should probably head back inside.”

You hum in acknowledgment, only ever so slightly disappointed, but make no move to leave your spot on the porch swing. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Steve opens the screen door but props it open with his foot. The golden light from the kitchen is on his face now, and you can see the soft edges of the boy you once knew.

“Welcome home, honeybee,” He says simply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

With that, he steps back inside and the screen door slams shut. You’re left alone on the back porch, breathless.