Archive of Our Own

“Sammie, honey, I know you hate it. But you have to wear sunscreen if you want to go in the water,” you beg your daughter, your hands making a soothing attempt on her restless arms. You’d managed to lather up her arms and legs, but her face was a different story.

She lets out a noise halfway between “ Mommmmm ” and a whine. 

“I know,” you repeat, cooing. “I know. Look at Daddy, huh?” you point your finger over her shoulder to Steve, already splashing in the shallow waves with her twin brother, making sure to keep his hand clasped around his tiny one. “See how much fun he’s having with Joey?”

She whines again, stamping her little flip-flop bundled feet in the sand. 

“I don’t make the rules,” you tell her. “The sun makes the rules, so if you wanna be mad at anyone, you can take it up with her,” you decide, pointing upward. 

“The sun is a girl?” Sammie asks, nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Everyone important is,” you say, matter-of-factly.

“Amen!” Robin hollers out, appearing behind you, arms filled with folded beach chairs, blankets, and tote bags likely filled with the ingredients to make some new gin drink she’s obsessed with. She wears a loose striped button up over her swimsuit, and years-old Birkenstocks. “Sam, take it from me: you do not wanna spend the rest of the weekend with burnt skin, peeling off whenever you—”

“What??” Sammie cries out. “My skin peeling off?”

“Yeah, not how I would’ve gone about that; thanks very much Robbie,” you wince, giving her a light shove and sending one of the chairs tumbling into the sand. “Nothing’s gonna happen to your— What Aunt Robin meant to say was—”

“What your Aunt Robin meant to say,” Eddie chimes in, appearing over your other shoulder, curls pulled back into a ponytail, and tattoos poking out underneath his tattered tank top. “Was that you’re gonna feel like a total lameass if you—”

“Did you two geniuses bonk your heads together and forget how to talk around a child?” you ask, exasperated at the way they’ve both come in, guns-a-blazing.

“Sorry,” he offers to you, smirking, not sorry at all. He turns back to Sammie, and plucks the tube of sunscreen from your hands. “You’re gonna feel like a total lame- butt ,” he emphasizes, “if you’re not matching with your Uncle Eddie.”

And in under a minute, he’s somehow managed to prove again that he is, in fact, your children’s Cool Uncle Eddie , and that he is content to only use that title for good. Sammie looks aghast for a moment, not ever wanting to be left out, much less left out from something Eddie’s doing. 

“You put on sun’creen?” she asks him, lovely little toddler lisp in full effect.

“Hell yeah, I did,” he tells her, expertly dodging your swat at him, like he expects it. “And I’ll put on more right now if you want. ‘Cause I’m just so crazy about the stuff!” 

That gets a giggle fit out of her, as she offers her chubby little cheeks up to him, smiling. Eddie accepts the silent offer like it’s the highest of honors, squatting down in the sand with the tube of sunscreen and a theatrical seriousness that makes Sammie giggle even harder.

“Alright, Miss Samantha,” he says, squeezing a glob into his palm. “Brace yourself. This is the deluxe Uncle Eddie application method. Very elite. Very exclusive.”

Sammie’s little body wiggles with anticipation, caught between delight and suspicion, as Eddie starts dabbing the sunscreen gently onto her cheeks, then her nose, then rubbing it on the tops of her ears with exaggerated care.

“You missed a spot,” Robin chimes in, flopping into one of the chairs she just dragged down, already opening a seltzer with a pshhht, pouring it into a travel mug, and shielding her eyes from the sun. “She’s got this whole adorable chunk of neck that’s gonna fry like bacon if you don’t get it.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Eddie says, squinting over his shoulder. “Wanna tag in?”

“No thanks,” Robin says cheerfully. “I don’t get paid enough to wrestle toddlers.”

“You don’t get paid at all,” you remind her, settling into the umbrella’s shade beside her, already digging in the bag for Sammie’s hat.

“Exactly,” she says, smug. She adds a generous shot of gin to her cup. “So where’s my union rep?”

With Sammie’s nose now officially greased up, Eddie lifts her hat and plops it gently over her curls.

“All done,” he announces. “Certified sun-proof. You’re good to go, short stuff.”

Sammie immediately turns to you for permission, bouncing from foot to foot like she might combust if she doesn't get to run into the water in the next five seconds.

“Alright, alright,” you laugh. “Go find Daddy and Joey. Tell them to share that bucket this time.”

“’Kay!” she chirps, already halfway running before you even finish the sentence. You watch her tiny legs kick up puffs of sand as she joins Steve and Joey at the edge of the surf, Steve crouched down to show them how to build a wall that won’t get wiped out by the next wave.

You sigh a little as you sit back under the umbrella’s shade. “Okay. Now I’m officially on vacation.”

“You mean you weren’t already relaxed wrangling sunscreen onto your kid while we heckled you?” Robin deadpans.

“Oh yeah, nothing says paradise like bribing a four-year-old not to cry about SPF,” you say. “Really hit peak serenity around the peeling skin part, thanks again.”

Robin shrugs and clinks her drink against your water bottle. “What can I say? I’m a giver.”

Eddie collapses into the chair on your other side, dramatically stretching his legs out in front of him. “I don’t wanna hear either of you complaining. I’m the one who had to do all the heavy lifting while being the fun uncle and the eye candy.”

“Oh my god,” Robin groans. “No one is looking at you.”

“That lifeguard definitely checked me out.”

“He was checking to make sure you put your joint out, you delinquent.”

Robin mixes you a matching drink and you laugh into it, loving how easily it all clicks into place. Like no time has passed, like you’ve all been doing this forever—teasing each other, talking nonsense under beach umbrellas, taking turns being the adult while the others screw around.

You grin, toes in the sand, sun warm across your knees, kids shrieking with delight a few feet away, and your favorite clowns on either side of you. The cabin is just behind you up the hill, full of bags still half-packed and probably a cooler sitting in the trunk that someone forgot to unload—but for now, none of it matters. For now, this is perfect.

You flash back for a beat, to years ago, the four of you in the city, full of caffeine and half-baked plans, convinced you were going to change the world. Back then, your lives were a series of questionable ideas and late-night takeout. Now, the plans involve two kids, full-time jobs, and the heavy, weirdly comforting reality of growing older together.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

“Best bad idea we’ve had in a while,” you murmur, watching Sammie shriek with laughter as a wave rushes up over her ankles.

Robin raises her can again. “To bad ideas.”

Eddie lifts his sunglasses with a grin. “To the beach.”

You clink all three together. “To the weekend.”

Half an hour later, the umbrella shade has shifted just enough to stretch over your legs, and your half-empty drink has warmed to that weird, sun-drenched temperature that makes you question if it’s still good.

Sammie is a full-on tornado in the shallows— laughing maniacally as she hurls wet sand at the sea, only to squeal and scramble back whenever the water retaliates. Joey, by contrast, is crouched with impressive concentration a few feet away, methodically digging a trench with a plastic shovel, occasionally looking up to offer quiet commentary about what he's building. There’s something about a turtle moat and a secret treasure room, if you heard him right.

Robin and Eddie have long since joined the chaos, Robin hip-deep in the water, yelling something about incoming pirate ships, and Eddie pretending to be a sea monster trying to pull her under. Joey's barely acknowledged them, but Sammie has taken to shrieking “Save me, Aunt Robin!” like she’s in a summer blockbuster.

You’re watching the whole circus unfold when a shadow stretches across the sand beside you. Steve peels away from the chaos and wanders up the beach, dripping wet and flushed from the sun. He shakes out his curls with one hand as he approaches.

“They’ve got enough adult supervision out there, right?” he asks, slumping into the chair beside you.

“Define ‘adult,’” you say, offering him your bottle of water. He takes it gratefully.

You hum, tipping your head back against the chair. The sun’s mellowed a little, hazy behind passing clouds, but the air is still thick with salt and sunscreen and the sound of waves. You’re quiet for a beat, listening to the crashing waves and the distant shriek of Sammie declaring war on Eddie’s sandcastle. Then, more gently:

“I was surprised when your mom called earlier,” you say. She’d called the landline at the cabin, and Steve had stepped outside to take it while you got the kids situated. “Everything okay?”

He freezes just slightly, a pause so small you almost miss it. His face stays relaxed, but you can feel the little shift beside you. Then he nods, quick, brushing a hand through his damp hair.

“Yeah,” he says. “She just... wanted to check in. Asked if we got here safe. You know how she is.”

You tilt your head. “I mean, not really. She doesn’t usually call unless it’s something.”

He shrugs, managing a casual smile that’s just convincing enough. “Guess she’s trying a new thing. Being all... maternal. Weird, right?”

You laugh, letting it go. You let the moment settle, comforted by the familiar rhythm between you. His presence beside you is warm and grounding, a small oasis of calm amid the chaos.

You both lapse into a contented silence, the kind that only comes after years of knowing each other, after shared dinners and emergencies and birthday parties and long nights when the kids wouldn’t sleep and someone had to make coffee at 3 a.m. The kind of quiet where not talking is the conversation.

The scene before you is a little chaotic, a little surreal: sun-glossed water, bright beach toys, your friends playing like children, your actual children playing like wild things. But it’s also so good , you think. So full.

Robin has Sammie perched on her shoulders now, stomping through the shallows like a warhorse, and Eddie’s dramatically flopping around nearby, howling, “No! Not the Sea Queen! My mortal enemy!”

That’s about when Robin cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Hey! Land-dweller! You comin’ in or what?”

“Me?” You shake your head, lazy and smug. “Too comfy.”

Eddie echoes her, pointing a dripping hand toward you. “Yeah, come on! You’re missing the world’s best game of Water Tag.”

“I don’t know, you look like you’re losing,” you shout back, sipping from your drink.

Robin places Sammie back down and turns her toward you. “Tell her you need her help, Sam.”

Sammie immediately throws her hands in the air. “Mommmmmmy! Come plaaaay!”

Joey pops up beside her, face half-covered in sand and the most serious expression you’ve ever seen. “We need you to be the Kraken.”

Steve coughs a laugh beside you. “Damn. Hard to say no to that.”

You squint at the water, and the four pleading faces in it. Robin grinning, Eddie already preparing a monologue, Sammie bouncing like she’s physically incapable of stillness, and Joey with Steve’s big brown eyes and that earnest little voice.

You sigh theatrically, set your drink aside, and spring to your feet. “Alright, fine. But you better run.”

Sammie shrieks. “SHE’S COMING!!!”

The water’s cold when it hits your ankles, but you don’t care. They scatter ahead of you, Sammie squealing, and Joey giggling.

You dive in without grace, arms stretched wide, chasing Sammie first because you know she loves it best, and she lets herself be caught with a dramatic scream. Joey tags your arm and darts away, fast as a minnow. You shriek back at him, laughing, and splash after them, flailing limbs and sparkling water everywhere.

The beach rings with noise. Laughter, splashes, shouted rules no one is following. It’s pure chaos. It’s perfect.

Eventually, the sun starts to dip lower, and Robin calls it— towel time. You all stumble out of the water in various states of soggy and sandy, kids chattering nonstop, adults blinking the salt from their eyes. Steve hands out towels like medals. Eddie finds the cooler and groans dramatically about needing an adult beverage. Robin’s already trying to wrangle the gear back into bags that somehow multiplied while you were playing.

Joey leans against your leg while you wrap him in a towel burrito. “I made a sea turtle house, Mom.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to his damp hair. “You’ll have to show me where it is in the morning.”

Sammie’s shivering in Steve’s arms, head resting on his shoulder, still babbling about the mermaid she swears she saw on the horizon.

The six of you start the slow climb back up the beach, trailing sandy towels and mismatched flip-flops, the porchlights glowing like a promise up ahead.

The cabin is warm with leftover golden light and the smell of grilled corn and watermelon still lingering from dinner. Robin’s put on an old tape—Melissa Etheridge, you think—and the windows are cracked to let in the evening air. You’ve all eaten too much, laughed too loud, and now you’re sunk deep into the comedown of a perfect beach day.

Sammie is completely out, curled like a kitten in Eddie’s lap on the couch, her curls damp and sticky with saltwater, her cheek smushed into his leg. He hasn’t dared move, just strokes her back absentmindedly with one hand while sipping a beer with the other.

Joey, still blinking slow and sleepy but clearly determined to make it just a little longer, is sitting cross-legged on the rug beside Robin, showing her the notebook he insisted on bringing. She’s bent close, cooing in exaggerated awe as he explains the blue crayon squiggles and little stick figures with wild hair. You catch the word “Kraken lair” and have to bite back a smile.

Steve’s slouched in the matching armchair next to you, long legs stretched out, drink sweating in his hand. He glances around at the chaos fondly.

The conversation winds lazily from there, looping through familiar territory: college stories, road trips, weird jobs. At one point, Eddie starts recounting the time he tried to impress a guy who worked at the comic shop by learning sleight-of-hand magic.

“Oh my god,” Robin gasps. “That wasn’t ironic?”

“It was a little ironic,” Eddie defends in a hushed tone. “But also very real. I had a deck of cards in every pair of pants.”

“Did it work?” Steve asks, grinning over his drink.

“Absolutely not. Turns out sleight-of-hand only works when you’re not also nervous-sweating all over the cards. God, that guy was a stone-cold stunner,” Eddie mutters, and Sammie stirs slightly in his lap, just enough for him to freeze and whisper, “Sorry, sorry, go back to sleep, small beast.”

Robin’s cackling when Joey quietly tugs her sleeve to show her another drawing. “This one’s you and Uncle Eddie fighting a sea monster.”

“I look jacked,” she says seriously. “Please never learn anatomy. It’s perfect.”

“You are so delusional, Robbie,” Eddie teases, while she flips him off as gently as possible with a child next to her.

Laughter bubbles up again, bright and stupid and easy. The music hums in the background, and Sammie sighs in her sleep, pressing her nose into Eddie’s knee. Joey is blinking harder now, his words slurring together as he tries to explain his final masterpiece: a two-headed mermaid fighting a volcano.

Eventually, you glance at the time and nudge Steve. “Bedtime?”

He nods, already reaching for Sammie carefully. “I’ll take her.”

Eddie hands her over with the gentleness of someone used to this. “If she wakes up, just tell her the Kraken’s sleeping too.”

“I’m using that,” Steve murmurs, adjusting her weight in his arms.

You gather Joey, who’s half-asleep against Robin now, his drawings clutched to his chest. He leans into you with a sleepy murmur and lets you carry him without protest.

The kids disappear down the hall in your arms, breathing heavy and warm and safe. You don’t bother with baths tonight. You brush their teeth and tuck them in, smoothing blankets and brushing away sand and whispering promises of pancakes and sea turtle houses in the morning.

When you finally return to the living room, Steve’s already behind the kitchen counter, sleeves pushed up and brow furrowed in what can only be described as Serious Bartender Mode. You watch as he moves confidently, pulling out bottles and muddling something with the back of a spoon.

“Alright,” he announces. “We’ve got one gin basil smash for Rob, one whiskey sour for me, one ‘please just make it strong’ for the delinquent, and…” He pauses, looking to you.

“Surprise me,” you say, dropping into the corner of the couch where Eddie’s just started to stretch out.

“Oh no,” Robin murmurs, now next to Eddie on the couch. “That’s how you ended up drinking Fernet and crying.”

“If you don’t want me crying, then turn off the Melissa Etheridge,” you defend mildly, earning a snort from Eddie.

A few minutes later, Steve delivers the drinks with the flourish of a practiced showman, plopping down in the chair beside you with his own in hand. You clink glasses all around, the ice clattering pleasantly in the dim light.

You take a sip, then glance at Robin over the rim of your glass. “So... how’s it going with that girl you’ve been seeing? The one with the motorcycle and the intimidating jawline?”

Robin raises a brow. “Which one?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie groans. “We get it, you’re cool.”

Steve leans forward like he’s at a poker table. “Wait, the mechanic? Or the dentist?”

“She’s a dental hygienist,” Robin corrects, then shrugs. “It’s good, I think. We’ve gone out a few times. She made me dinner last week and asked me what my top three albums of all time are. I totally freaked out, and couldn’t answer her.”

“What?” Steve laughs. “Why?”

“It’s too much pressure!”

“But your favorite album is--” Eddie starts, only to have the sentence completed by all of you:

“Dream of Life, Patti Smith.”

She blinks at you all, impressed and maybe a little alarmed. “Okay, wow. That was terrifyingly in sync.”

“I totally get what you’re saying though, Robbie,” you say, swirling the last bit of ice around in your glass. “It’s one thing to have a favorite album. One that you love so much it feels like home. But trying to come up with three albums that perfectly sum up who you are as a person? That’s like… an identity crisis waiting to happen.”

Eddie snorts. “Okay, Socrates.”

“I’m just saying!” You gesture vaguely with your glass. “I agree; there’s too much pressure. Like, do I pick the one that shaped my taste in music? Or the one that reminds me of high school? Or the one that makes me cry in a good way?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Can’t it be all three?”

“But then I’ll forget one that I deeply identify with and spiral at 3 a.m. about whether I’m fundamentally misrepresenting myself!”

Robin points dramatically. “Exactly!”

“Oh my God,” Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You people are exhausting. Just say Rumors and be done with it.” He tosses a pillow in your direction.

You catch it with a smirk. “Alright, fine. What are your top three, then?”

Eddie sits up straighter, clearly ready. “Okay. Master of Puppets, obviously. Holy Diver, Dio. And,” he pauses, dramatically, like he’s about to reveal his deepest secret, “Tapestry by Carole King.”

Robin nearly chokes on her drink. “No way.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “Tapestry?!”

Eddie shrugs, completely unapologetic. “It’s a masterpiece. Don’t look at me like that. ‘So Far Away’ hurts, man.”

You’re already laughing. “Honestly, I should’ve expected that from you. You big sentimental jerk, Munson.”

Robin giggles. “Okay, I’m still on board with Patti Smith. Then probably The Queen is Dead, and… ugh, Heaven or Las Vegas.”

Steve nods like it’s exactly what he expected. “That tracks.”

Eddie turns to him. “Alright, Harrington. Lay it on us.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, then goes, “Born to Run, Purple Rain, and…” A pause. A glance at you, then a sheepish little grin. “That Cranberries album. The one you played all the time when the twins were born.”

Your heart does something a little unwise.

Robin clutches her chest. “You softie .”

Steve smirks. “Yeah, well. I had a baby in each arm and the love of my life dancing in the kitchen to ‘Dreams.’ Kinda burned into my brain.”

Your drink is suddenly very interesting. “Kinda the best album ever made,” you amend.

Eddie groans dramatically. “I’m gonna vomit.”

You barely get a sip of your drink before Robin looks at you pointedly. “Alright. You’re up.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your three albums,” Steve says, nudging your foot with his. “You don’t get to wiggle out of it just because you monologued about identity crises.”

Eddie grins. “Yeah, let’s go, Spiral Queen. Top three.”

You sigh and curl your legs underneath you, pressing the rim of your glass to your lips for a moment. “Okay. I want to say No Need to Argue by The Cranberries.”

But Steve immediately makes a face. “Uh-uh. That’s cheating. I already picked that one.”

You squint at him, indignant. “How is that cheating? It’s a different person’s list!"

“But it’s the same album,” Robin counters, already giddy with the chance to pounce.

Eddie points at you, accusatory. “Yeah, sorry, that’s a technical foul. You’re gonna have to dig deeper into the tragic-girl vault.”

You groan, laughing. “Unbelievable. You’re all monsters.”

Steve shrugs, smug. “I don’t make the rules.”

“You literally just did,” you shoot back, but the grin’s pulling at your mouth anyway. “Fine. Okay. First one: Joni Mitchell’s Blue. My mom played it constantly when I was a kid. I knew every word to ‘A Case of You’ before I knew my multiplication tables.”

Eddie clutches his chest. “Ugh. Devastating. I love it.”

Robin lifts her glass. “Perfect album. Continue.”

You pause, thoughtful, tracing a finger around the rim of your glass. “Second one… Parallel Lines, Blondie. For obvious reasons. Teen angst, messy eyeliner, dancing around my bedroom thinking I was very dangerous.”

Robin sighs happily. “God, yes. You’re on a roll, Y/n.”

Steve smiles at you, soft. “Okay, that’s two. What’s the third?”

You hesitate just long enough that they all lean in. And then you say it, quiet but certain: “The mixtape Steve made me in ’87.”

Eddie gasps. Robin actually drops her mouth open. Steve just sits there, stunned.

“Oh come on,” Robin says, scandalized. “That’s not an album!”

“That’s definitely cheating!” Eddie cries, nearly sloshing his drink. You’re all content to ignore the fact that there are currently sleeping kids on the premises.

You hold your ground, eyebrows raised. “Nope. If I’m forced to choose the music that shaped me… That tape is one of them.”

Steve practically glows, a slow, disbelieving grin breaking across his face. “You serious?” he asks, eyes already doing that stupid sparkly thing they do when you say something sappy without warning.

You glance at him. “You put love songs by Springsteen and Prince and The Cure on one cassette and handed it to me like it wasn’t going to change my life.”

Robin groans into her hands. “That’s so romantic I’m going to scream.”

Steve finally moves, leaning over to kiss you— quick, sweet, and totally besotted. “I can’t believe you picked that.”

You smile into his lips, stealing another kiss as your friends pretend to gag. You feel Steve’s laugh fan out onto your cheeks. “Believe it, Harrington.”

“I mean, I’m still calling foul,” Robin says, though she’s smiling like crazy. “But I respect the emotional manipulation.”

You all descend into laughter again, half-drunk and warm, trading one-liners and teasing stories. It’s late when things finally wind down, the kind of late where the music stops unnoticed and no one finishes their last drink. The air has gone soft and quiet, like everyone’s speaking in a lower register without meaning to. The couches are covered in discarded blankets, empty glasses, and the echo of the day’s sun still faintly warming your skin.

Robin yawns and stretches with a groan. “Alright, I’m tapping out. Got a long day of wrangling menaces tomorrow.”

“Hey!” Steve objects.

“Adorable menaces,” she amends. “Menaces whom I love with all my heart.”

Steve brushes your back gently as he passes to turn off the stereo. Eddie flips the last lamp off with a soft click.

“Night, darlings,” Robin calls as she disappears down the hall.

“Sweet dreams of sea monsters,” Eddie adds, heading in the opposite direction with a little wave.

You and Steve linger a second longer in the quiet, letting the peace of it settle over you like a blanket. Then you follow the others down the hallway, barefoot and sleepy, leaving the soft hush of the living room behind.

Steve doesn’t head straight to your room. Instead, he veers quietly toward the kitchen while you slip into the bedroom, peeling off the damp sweatshirt you threw on after your shower earlier. You’re halfway through brushing out your hair when he reappears in the doorway, holding something behind his back.

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

He smiles, crooked and soft and a little sheepish. “You said earlier your shoulder’s been bugging you, right?”

You nod, unsure. He reveals a hot water bottle wrapped in a dish towel— one of the goofy ones with flamingos wearing sunglasses that Robin found in a cabinet this morning.

Your heart catches a little. “You’re so annoying when you do stuff like that.”

“Thoughtful?” he teases, walking over. “Considerate? Handsome?”

You snort, but you take the bottle from him anyway and rest it over your shoulder as you look at him through the mirror. The heat seeps into your skin, immediate and perfect. “Okay, fine. One point Harrington. We’re tied now, I suppose.”

Steve leans in and kisses the top of your head. “I’ll check on the kids.”

You watch him go, still smiling to yourself as you curl your toes into the soft rug and listen to his footsteps down the hall. You hear the gentle creak of a door, and the soft shuffling of blankets.

You brush your teeth and hum under your breath. You don’t hear the phone out on the kitchen wall ring until the third shrill chime, distant but clear.

Then Steve’s voice again—quieter this time. Not just gentle, but… hushed.

You frown, rinsing quickly and pad barefoot into the bedroom doorway, peering out into the hall. His silhouette is just visible in the kitchen, leaning slightly over the counter. The cord of the phone is wrapped tight in one hand.

You catch just the tail end of something, “Yeah, I know. I just… Do whatever you think is best,” before he hangs up and turns.

When he spots you, his expression shifts like a switch. He plasters on something easy and light. Too easy.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “My mom again.”

You tilt your head. “This late?”

Steve shrugs. “She’s in one of her… moods, I guess. Wanted to hear how the day went. Asked about the kids.” He says it with a note of practiced exasperation, but you’re watching him too closely now to miss the way his jaw tenses just slightly. “Nothing dramatic.”

You nod slowly, but there’s a prickle in your gut that wasn’t there before. “You sure?”

His eyes meet yours for a second too long before he crosses the room and presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m sure,” he murmurs. “Promise. Come to bed.”

You let him guide you back into the warmth of the blankets, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. But your mind doesn’t settle quite as easily this time. Steve’s breathing deepens behind you, slow and even. You lie awake a little longer, eyes tracing the soft pattern of moonlight on the wall, that quiet little prickle still lingering in the back of your mind.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but the morning comes in loud and fast.

A crash from the kitchen. A shriek of laughter. A door slamming. Then Joey yelling, “MOOOOMMMMMY! SAMMIE PUT JELLY ON MY DRAWING!”

You groan into the pillow.

Steve groans into your shoulder.

There’s a moment— brief, precious— where neither of you moves. Just two grown adults pretending they don’t hear anything.

Then another crash. Followed by a voice, probably Robin’s, shouting, “Why is the toaster in the bathroom?!”

Steve sighs. “Okay. I’m going.”

He peels himself out of bed, already muttering something under his breath about caffeine and childproofing, while you sit up, stretching, the sheets slipping down your arms.

You follow the trail of chaos to the kitchen, where Joey’s mid-rant about the colony of sea monsters and Sammie is sitting on the table eating jelly straight out of the jar with her fingers. Robin’s got a spatula in one hand and a Pop-Tart in the other.

You’re barely pouring your coffee when the screen door creaks open, and Eddie strolls in from the back porch in sweatpants and sunglasses, looking like he’s stepped out of a band’s breakup album. There’s a cigarette tucked behind one ear and another freshly stubbed out on the deck railing.

“Morning, freaks,” he says around a yawn. “Is this a child-led uprising, or did you guys just give up?”

Steve turns instantly, voice sharp. “Hey. Don’t smoke with the kids around.”

Eddie freezes, brows lifting under the messy sweep of his bangs. “I was outside.”

“They can still see you,” Steve says, and there’s something in his voice, just a little too pointed, a little too intense for the moment.

You look up from your mug, surprised. “It’s okay, Steve. He was out back.”

Steve doesn’t look at you right away. Just presses his lips together, then runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… forget it.”

Eddie watches him a second longer, unreadable, then tosses both hands up in surrender. “I’ll smoke in the woods like a banshee, got it.”

Sammie perks up. “What’s a banshee?”

Robin groans, “Me, before coffee.”

The tension breaks like a soap bubble. You slide past Steve and bump his hip gently with yours. “C’mon. Let’s get them outside before they redecorate the whole place with fruit preserves.”

It takes a half hour of scrambling: packing snacks, sunscreen, wrangling Sammie into a swimsuit she insists is “too blue today,” and Joey running back inside three times to retrieve very specific shells for the roof of his sea turtle house. Eventually, you all make it down to the beach again, arms full of towels and pails and shovels and a cooler that Robin insists she packed “like a suburban goddess.”

The kids bolt ahead, already arguing over whose sandcastle gets the moat. You and Steve set up the umbrella while Eddie drapes himself over a towel with the exhausted grace of a man who deeply regrets ever waking up.

Robin tosses her sandals off and jogs after the kids, yelling something about architectural integrity and “sand engineering.” Steve follows a beat later, slower but smiling, already shedding his shirt as Joey shouts for help with his shells. You catch him pausing to ruffle Sammie’s hair on the way, pointing something out about wave patterns, his voice warm and gentle and grounding.

You and Eddie hang back beneath the umbrella. The shade is cool against your sun-warmed skin, the sand still clinging to your ankles from the walk down. Eddie flops onto the towel with a groan, and you settle beside him, knees drawn up, sunglasses sliding down your nose.

It’s the kind of day that’s lazy in the best way, breezy but not cold, the smell of salt thick in the air, sunscreen and seaweed and distant grilled food wafting from a few houses down. The sun blinks in and out of drifting clouds like it’s playing hide and seek, and the sound of the surf comes in steady, predictable pulses, like the beach is breathing.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters after a minute, shifting to glance toward the sandcastle drama. “They’ve already formed factions.”

“Robin’s trying to unionize the builders,” you reply dryly. “Steve’s in charge of moat logistics.”

He snorts out a laugh and tilts his head to look at you, squinting. His voice is quieter when he says, “Hey. Is he… okay?”

The question lands lightly, but something about it knots in your stomach.

You shift. “I mean… I guess he’s been tired. It’s been a long week.”

Eddie doesn’t push, but he doesn’t drop it either. “Yeah, sure. It just… I dunno. He’s off. Like, tense. On edge in a way that doesn’t feel like work or the kids or whatever…” He trails off, then says more gently, “You’d tell me if something was going on, right?”

You hesitate. Because nothing is going on. Not really. But there’s a weight in your chest that says you don’t know that for sure.

“He said it was his mom last night,” you admit quietly. “She called late. I heard him, and he said it was nothing, just her being... her. But he seemed weird. Jumpy. Like he was trying to cover something.”

Eddie’s brows draw together. “You think she’s okay?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me if she wasn’t.” You exhale, tugging your sunglasses off and pinching the bridge of your nose. “He’s been really careful not to lie, exactly. But it feels like he’s… hiding something. Or trying not to make me worry.”

“That always works,” Eddie deadpans.

You give him a look. “It’s probably nothing.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

You pause. “I want to.”

Eddie’s voice softens again. “Sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to push it with the smoking.”

You wave him off. “It’s fine. Steve was overreacting. He gets protective, especially with the kids around.”

“Still. I don’t want to mess up the vibe.”

“You’re not,” you say automatically, then glance toward the water, where Steve’s now got wet sand on his nose and a kid on each arm.

The scene is idyllic. Beautiful, even. It should feel perfect. But that prickle is back, faint and hard to ignore.

Eddie’s quiet beside you again. You’re both watching the people you love play in the surf. The kids shrieking with joy. The breeze catching Steve’s hair as he laughs at something Robin says. The sun glinting off the water.

You don’t say anything else.

But you’re both still thinking about it.

Eventually, Robin waves a towel like a flag and announces lunchtime, and everyone drifts back to the umbrella in sunburned, sandy waves. There’s grit in the cooler, juice boxes buried under damp bags of pretzels, and Eddie swears the sandwiches are sweating, but no one really minds. The bread’s squished, the peanut butter sticky, the chips all crushed into crumbs. And still, it tastes incredible. Sun-warmed and salt-crusted, like every childhood summer wrapped up in one bite.

Joey eats his sandwich deconstructed, one ingredient at a time. Sammie accidentally gets mustard in her eye (you’re not even sure what she was trying to do). Steve hands you a bottle of water before you even ask. His fingers graze yours, warm and grounding, and he smiles, soft and distracted.

You catch his gaze lingering on the kids— on Joey, covered in sand from the knees down, explaining some complicated plan to Eddie about his beloved sea turtle house— and something tightens in his jaw again. Just for a second. Then it’s gone.

After lunch, the sun climbs higher, hotter. The kids want to go back to building, and this time, you don’t hang back. You let yourself get pulled into the chaos with Steve and Robin. You crouch next to Joey as he draws flower patterns into the castle wall with a piece of driftwood.

You glance over at one point and see Steve listening intently, nodding along as Sammie explains the rules of her imaginary kingdom. He doesn’t laugh or brush it off, just gives Sammie his full attention, the way he always has. His hair’s a mess, his shirt is half-soaked from getting tackled earlier, and there’s sunscreen smudged on his cheek.

And you think, God , he’s so good at this.

There are sandcastles and attempted seashell currency systems, seagulls who nearly steal a full sandwich, and one dramatic collapse of a tower that results in a group funeral for a plastic shovel. Steve officiates. Eddie sings. Robin throws seaweed instead of flowers.

It’s good. Fun. The kind of day you’ll remember. The kind the kids will remember.

By the time the sun starts dipping lower, the breeze cooler now and laced with the scent of dinner cooking in far-off beach houses, everyone’s a little pink around the shoulders and bleary-eyed with tiredness.

Steve’s kneeling in the sand helping Joey rinse his hands with bottled water. Sammie’s trying to drag a piece of driftwood twice her size back toward the umbrella, insisting it’s absolutely crucial to take it home.

You and Steve work together, shaking out towels, repacking the cooler. The kids hover in and out of the process, too tired to be helpful but too wound-up to be still. You glance over your shoulder at him as you zip up a beach bag.

He’s quiet again. Not distant, but inward. Thoughtful.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He looks up at you, and for a moment, his face shifts like it did last night. Like he might say something.

But then Joey calls out to him, “Daddy, look at this seashell! It looks like a wizard hat!” and the moment vanishes. He flashes you a quick smile, ruffles your hair with one sandy hand, and jogs off to help.

You watch him go, something warm and fond blooming in your chest. But beneath it, that same quiet thrum.

By the time you all trudge back up to the cabin, the sun is melting behind the trees in streaks of pink and orange, and everyone is sticky, sun-drenched, and trailing sand through the house like a breadcrumb trail of summer.

Shoes are kicked off by the door. Swimsuits are peeled off and swapped for oversized shirts and soft shorts. Dinner is a communal effort. Robin is on pasta duty, and Eddie is slicing tomatoes. This devolves into bickering among the two of them in regard to the exact definition of “al dente” and when to pull the noodles. Steve pulls you in to help with garlic bread and refuses to let you go.

He slides in behind you at the counter, arms curling low around your waist, chin on your shoulder. “You smell like sunscreen and ocean and crumbs,” he murmurs, voice soft and tired and full of affection.

You laugh, elbowing him lightly. “That’s because I’ve been rolling around with your children in the sand all day.”

“You looked good doing it,” he says, nosing into the curve of your neck. His mouth brushes the skin there, not quite a kiss, but not not one either.

There’s a beat of quiet where it’s just the two of you, framed in the golden kitchen light and the smell of garlic and basil, and it hits you hard— how grateful you are for this, for him. How much he loves them. How much you love him.

He shifts to face you more fully, eyes earnest, voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks for today.”

You blink. “What?”

Steve just smiles, a little lopsided. “I mean it. You’re good with them. You’re good for me. I don’t say it enough.”

You can’t answer right away. You just reach up and press your hand to his cheek, brushing a bit of sand from his temple, and his eyes flutter shut under your touch.

You all squeeze around the table, plates heavy with pasta, garlic bread passed around, juice and soda and a bottle of red for the adults. Steve sits next to you, thigh pressed to yours beneath the table, hand occasionally brushing your knee when he reaches for something.

It’s loud, laughter echoing off the cabin walls. The kind of dinner that’s more about presence than polish.

And then the phone rings. Everyone quiets for half a second. Just enough to hear it ring again.

“I got it,” Steve says, already halfway to his feet.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says too quickly. Already walking.

You watch him cross the kitchen, pick up the receiver. You don’t hear what he says, just see the way his shoulders tighten slightly. He murmurs something, then steps out the back door, letting the screen slam shut behind him.

Eddie looks at you, brow crinkled. You give a slight shrug, sipping your wine.

The chatter resumes, with Robin wrangling Sammie into her chair, and Joey eating each noodle individually. 

But your eyes flick back to the window. Outside, Steve paces a little, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’s tense— mouth tight, body pulled in like he’s bracing for something.

You catch his eye for a moment, and mouth “Your mom?” with your brows furrowed.

He hesitates, then gives the smallest nod. You don’t feel reassured. 

The conversation is short. Five minutes, maybe less. But when he comes back in, his jaw is tight, and he won’t quite meet your eyes. He’s trying to school his face into something neutral, but it’s not sticking. He’s still holding whatever that was.

Sammie runs up to him as he closes the door. “Daddy!” she says, pulling on his sleeve. “Mommy said we can do s’mores tonight!”

He sighs, scratching his eyebrow. “No, we’re not doing a fire tonight, Sammie.”

“Please?” Sammie tries again. “Uncle Eddie said he’d show me how to light the marshmallows on fire.”

Steve’s voice comes out sharper and louder than it should. “I said no , Sam.”

The air goes still. Sammie blinks, stunned. Her bottom lip wobbles. And through what you’ve always been convinced is twin telepathy, Joey’s face crumples too.

You stand up instinctively, but Steve’s already there, crouching down fast.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, voice cracking a little now. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean to yell. I just…” She won’t look at him.

“Steve,” you breath out, reaching for Joey and pulling him into your lap. “Was that really necessary?”

“No, I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, Sammie.” She finally looks at Steve. Still watery, but nodding.  “I’m sorry, Joey. I didn’t mean to yell.”

Steve leans forward, presses a kiss to the top of Sammie’s head. Then another, like a silent apology stitched into skin. You watch him, heart aching.

Robin meets your eyes across the table. Worry there. Eddie’s gone quiet.

No one asks what the phone call was about. But you all feel it, now.

Steve stays knelt by Sammie for a few more seconds, smoothing her hair back, murmuring something only she can hear. You see the way his shoulders slowly drop, tension draining inch by inch, though his eyes still look tired and too far away.

Then Joey pipes up, his voice small but hopeful: “So… no s’mores?”

Steve looks up, glances at you, then Robin, then finally back at the kids. And sighs. “Of course we’re doing s’mores tonight,” he says, softer this time, trying for a smile.

Sammie lights up instantly, all forgiven. She lets out a squeal and does an adorable little spin. “Yes! Uncle Eddie said he’s gonna make a sugar volcano!”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters as he pushes to his feet, rubbing at his neck. “Alright, Robin. Fire duty?”

Robin salutes with a wooden spoon. “Born ready. Let’s go play with matches.”

“Stay inside for a bit, and we’ll call you outside when it’s ready, okay?” Steve tells the kids, and the nod before scattering, Sammie grabbing her stuffed giraffe and Joey dragging his crayons into the living room.

Steve grabs the lighter from the top shelf, and Robin tugs on his sleeve before they head out. You watch her lean in, say something low near his ear. He nods once— tired, but grateful— and the two of them slip out the back door into the cooler evening air.

You start stacking plates, moving on instinct. Eddie stands too, gathering napkins and stray cups, dropping them into the trash one-handed while grabbing a dishtowel with the other.

You can feel his eyes on you before he speaks.

“You gonna talk to him tonight?” he asks quietly, not looking up.

You glance toward the living room to make sure the kids are distracted. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I think I have to.”

Eddie nods. Rinses a plate. Doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then, “He’s not mad at them. You know that, right?”

You sigh, drying the dish he hands you. “I know.”

“It’s like…” Eddie trails off, then shrugs. “I’ve seen that look before. You get a call, the one you don’t want but can’t ignore, and it screws up everything after. Doesn’t matter if it’s five minutes or five hours. It sticks.”

You glance toward the window, watching the flicker of orange starting to dance in the fire pit outside. Steve and Robin are hunched near it, Robin obviously giving instructions he’s half-listening to. His hand keeps raking through his hair.

“I just don’t know what it is,” you say softly. “He said it was his mom, but he’s not telling me what’s going on. I don’t know if she’s okay, or if something happened, or if it’s just her being…”

“Herself?” Eddie offers gently.

You nod.

He leans against the counter. “He’s probably trying to protect you from it. From her.”

“I don’t need protection from a phone call,” you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, they feel a little hollow. “I just… I want him to talk to me.”

“He will,” Eddie says. “You’re the one he always talks to. Just… maybe tonight he needs a nudge.”

You look down at the towel in your hands, at the fading grease smudge and the tiny pasta stain, and nod.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Eddie bumps your shoulder with his. “For the record, I’m not lighting anything on fire unless Steve gives me full legal permission.”

You huff a laugh, grateful for the shift. “Coward.”

“Realist,” he corrects. “With hair like this, I can’t risk it.”

Outside, you hear the crackle of the fire catch. Robin cheers, and Steve calls for the kids, who dart out wildly.

You and Eddie trail after them, stepping into the flickering firelight. The warmth of the flames cuts the chill of the evening air, the sky deepening to a dusky blue overhead. The scent of woodsmoke curls through the air, mixing with the sweet promise of toasted sugar.

Steve’s crouched by the fire, sleeves pushed up, methodically unwrapping chocolate bars and graham crackers onto a paper plate. He looks up when Sammie launches herself onto the log beside him, grinning like nothing ever happened.

And Steve, his eyes soft, tired but still so tender, smiles back.

“Alright, little pyromaniacs,” he says, voice gentle now, “rules of the fire: no running, no sword fights with marshmallow sticks, and if your marshmallow catches on fire, don’t fling it at your sibling.”

He moves slowly, deliberately, but he doesn’t hesitate. He helps Sammie press her s’more together, fingers sticky with melted chocolate. He teaches Joey how to rotate his marshmallow just-so. He makes one for you without asking, offering it with a tired smile and eyes that linger a second too long.

Then Eddie, true to his word and against his better judgment, brings out his guitar.

“Alright, tiny gremlins,” he says, settling into a camp chair. “Requests?”

Sammie and Joey shout out requests of songs they barely know the names to, songs that you and Steve loved in high school, and that he now plays for them in the car. Eddie wrinkles his nose in disgust at the amount of Van Halen and Madonna, but your brows shoot up in surprise when he slowly reveals that he knows the chords for all of them .

“Shut up,” he tells you as you laugh at him. “I’m a musical genius; it’s not hard to know all of these.”

“I just didn’t know you had such a soft spot for Blondie,” you jab.

Robin snorts and slides onto the log beside you, cracking open a canned something that fizzles and smells vaguely of mango.

Eddie continues strumming along, eventually devolving into some made-up song about two dragons named Sammie and Joey, as they watch him with wide eyes and awe-struck mouths.

Steve doesn’t say much, but you catch him watching it all with this quiet, worn kind of love, like he’s trying to memorize it in case it slips away. His hand comes to rest on Sammie’s back as she clambers into his lap mid-song, her sticky fingers leaving sugar streaks on his shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Just brushes her hair out of her face and hums along, his chin resting on top of her head.

Eventually, the kids tire out. It happens all at once, like a switch flipped. Sammie slumps against Steve’s shoulder mid-marshmallow, and Joey stumbles into you with half-lidded eyes and an open graham cracker sleeve. Once the bedtime process starts— pajamas, toothbrushes, water cups— they’re melting like marshmallows left too close to the flame.

You and Steve tag-team the routine with practiced ease, helping Sammie into her favorite nightgown, finding Joey’s favorite stuffed triceratops wedged under the couch.

Robin stumbles, slightly tipsy, into her room with a kiss blown in your direction, and Eddie heads toward his room with his guitar, tossing you a lazy salute. “Wake me if the kids try to set anything else on fire.”

As you make your way back to the bedroom, you hear Steve in the kids’ room. He lingers for a moment by Sammie, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he says quietly.

Sammie blinks sleepily. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead. “That wasn’t your fault. I just had a weird day.”

She nods like she understands far more than she should. “It’s okay,” she says again. “You were just cranky.”

Steve huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. I was cranky.”

Joey’s already asleep, curled up in a tangle of dino blankets. Steve closes the door gently behind him. The hallway is dim and hushed, the only sound the soft creak of wood cooling from the day’s heat. Steve exhales and leans back against the wall, his eyes closed for a beat too long. You can see the way his shoulders drop now that the kids are down, now that it’s just the two of you again. But it’s not peace. It’s fatigue. Deep, bone-level weariness that’s been building all day.

You take his hand, warm and callused, and curl your fingers around his.

“Do you wanna talk?” you ask gently.

Steve’s eyes open, and for a second, you think he might say no. That he’ll wave it off with some excuse about being tired or it not mattering. But then he squeezes your hand and nods, barely.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just… not in here.”

You grab your hoodie and slip on your sandals while he pulls a sweatshirt over his head. Quietly, carefully, you sneak out the back door and down the wooden stairs, stepping off the porch into cool sand still holding onto the last bit of sun-warmth. The firepit’s embers glow faint behind you, the smell of woodsmoke lingering in your clothes.

The beach is quiet and dark, the sky sprawling wide above you in a blanket of stars. The moon hangs low, half full, casting silver ribbons across the gently lapping waves. The wind moves soft and steady, rustling through dune grass, brushing against your skin like a whisper.

You walk for a little while in silence, your footsteps soft in the sand. Steve’s hand is still in yours, but his grip is loose, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. His other hand is shoved into his hoodie pocket, his brow furrowed. He keeps glancing at the ocean like he’s trying to find the right words in the tide.

Eventually, he stops walking and looks out over the water. The breeze tousles his hair, and the moonlight catches on his profile: strong jaw, tight mouth, the tense line between his brows.

“I really am sorry,” he says quietly. “For yelling at the kids.”

“I know,” you say, stepping a little closer. “I know you didn’t mean it. It scared them. But you caught it. You apologized. That’s what matters.”

Steve nods, but he doesn’t look relieved. Just more twisted up.

“I just… I never wanna be that guy,” he mutters. “The one who loses his temper and scares the people he loves.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, gently: “Is that what this is about? Today?”

Steve swallows hard, eyes still on the water.

“My dad,” he says eventually. “That’s what the calls have been about.”

You don’t say anything, just let him keep going, even as the words seem to stick in his throat.

“He’s sick. Lung cancer.” He says it flat, matter-of-fact, like if he doesn’t put weight on the words, they won’t sink. “Stage four. It’s in his bones, too. And… he didn’t tell me. For months.”

You feel your breath hitch, but you wait.

“I haven’t talked to him in years. I mean, really talked. We haven’t had a relationship since…” He lets out a dry, mirthless laugh. “I mean, you know how he was. How he is .”

You reach for him, wrapping your arm around his waist. He leans into it, just slightly.

“I thought I’d feel… I don’t know. Angry. Or numb. But it’s like I’m a kid again and he’s yelling in the kitchen and I’m just waiting for it to be over.”

You squeeze his hand tighter. The breeze picks up, sending a spray of sand across your shins. Steve stares at the waves.

“And now he’s dying. And my mom wants me to come see him. To say goodbye. To… I don’t know. Make peace or something.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “And I just… can’t. I don’t know if I want to. But then I look at Joey and Sammie, and I think about yelling like that, and—” His voice cracks. “I don’t want them to remember me that way.”

You step in front of him, cupping his face, feeling the prickle of stubble against your palms. “They won’t,” you say. “Honey, you’re nothing like him.”

His eyes are red-rimmed, but he doesn’t cry. Just looks at you like he’s not sure what to do with the relief and the shame tangled up in his chest.

“You lost your temper once . That doesn’t undo all the bedtime stories, the piggyback rides, the way you hum when they fall asleep on you. That doesn’t make you him.”

Steve leans forward, presses his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. You can feel his breath on your lips, shaky and soft.

“I’m trying so hard,” he whispers.

“I know,” you whisper back. “And you’re doing a damn good job.”

You stand like that for a while, the two of you held together by moonlight and sand and the distant hush of the ocean. The wind shifts again, lifting his hoodie and tugging your hair.

“And the kids… they’re so happy here. I don’t want to ruin that. I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

You shift closer, pressing your forehead to his temple. “You’re not ruining anything.”

He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding it in all day.

“You should’ve told me,” you whisper.

“I know. I just… I didn’t know how.”

You sigh, pressing your nose against his cheek. “God, I’m so sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay,” he says, immediately.

“No it’s not,” you argue.

“No, it’s not,” he agrees.

“Eddie’s worried about you,” you tell him.

Steve grimaces, eyes dropping to where your hands are laced together. “I know,” he says quietly. “Robin too. You. Probably even the kids, a little.”

You give him a look. “Of course we are.”

“I just…” He lets out a breath and shakes his head.

You step closer, resting your hands gently against his chest. His heart is thudding under your palms, a little too fast.

“I understand that it’s, like, your worst nightmare to have someone worry about you,” you say, soft but steady. “But I’m here. We’re all here. And it’s happening, so…”

Steve’s mouth pulls into this sad, crooked line, like he wants to argue but knows there’s no point. He leans his forehead against yours again, eyes closing.

“I told Robin,” he murmurs. “Couple days ago. I had to. She knew something was off. I didn’t want to at first, but she was just… being Robin.”

You smile faintly, your thumbs brushing against the fabric of his hoodie. There’s a long pause where all you can hear is the ocean and the wind, the hush of it folding gently around you both.

“I don’t want to tell the kids yet,” Steve says finally. “Not until I figure out what I’m gonna do.”

“Okay,” you say, without hesitation. “That’s okay.”

He looks at you then, like he’s bracing himself.

“If you want to go see him…” you say carefully, “we can make that happen. I’ll stay with the kids. Or we’ll all go. Whatever you need.”

Steve looks down, blinking hard. “I don’t know yet.”

You nod. “That’s okay too.”

For a moment, you just stand like that— holding each other under the moonlight, the tide sliding in and out at your feet.

You tip your chin up, and he meets you halfway, lips brushing yours with something fragile and grateful threaded into it. He kisses you slow, like he’s trying to say something he can’t quite form into words. Like thank you , like I’m sorry , like I don’t know how to carry this .

You pull back just enough to whisper, “I love you.”

He smiles, soft and tired, but real. “I love you too.”

Back inside, the cabin is warm and dark, the embers in the firepit outside barely glowing now. You check the kids one last time. Joey is starfished on the bed, one sock off and his dino clutched tight, and Sammie’s curled into a ball, her arm slung over a pillow, hair a mess of little curls.

Steve pulls the blanket up over her shoulder and brushes a kiss to her temple.

Then, finally, you both head to your room. The hush of night wraps around you, and when you slide under the covers, Steve reaches for you instantly. His arms curl around you like muscle memory, like this is the only place he can rest.

He doesn’t say anything else, just buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out one long, quiet breath. You don’t need to say anything. You just hold him, the weight of the day settling between your bodies, shared. Carried. Wrapped in the dark, wrapped in each other.

The morning comes slow and golden.

Sunlight filters through the curtains in soft strips, warming your cheek where it rests against the pillow. Steve’s arm is heavy around your waist, his breath steady at the back of your neck. You shift just enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, face soft with sleep. You let him rest a little longer.

By the time you both finally get up, it’s pleasantly late. The kind of late where no one’s rushing, and the whole world feels like it’s still stretching into itself. Padding out into the living room, you’re greeted with a scene so gentle it stops you in your tracks.

Eddie sits cross-legged on the rug, his guitar resting on his lap, and Sammie wedged between his chest and the guitar, her tiny fingers on top of his on the frets as he shows her the chords to something slow and simple. Her tongue pokes out in concentration, and Eddie’s voice is soft, patient, his usual showboating turned all the way down to bedtime-volume.

Robin’s on the couch with Joey curled against her side, sketchpad on his lap. She’s helping him draw a sea turtle, one hand gesturing wildly while the other sips from a mug. Joey’s got marker all over his fingers and an intense focus in his eyes.

You lean against the doorway and smile, heart full.

Robin spots you first. “Oh good. The grown-ups are up.”

“Y/n, this little maniac’s got natural talent,” Eddie tells you, then catches sight of Steve walking into the room as well. “Seriously, Harrington. She’s born to shred.”

Sammie beams.

You catch Steve’s hand behind you and squeeze it gently. “Hey,” you say softly, looking up at him. “Why don’t I take them down to the water for a bit?”

His eyes flick toward Eddie, then back to you. There’s a quiet gratitude in the way he nods.

So you pull the kids together, pack a quick bag—towels, sunscreen, Sammie’s glittery pail, Joey’s goggles that are permanently fogged no matter how much you rinse them—and corral everyone outside with Robin.

The walk to the beach is easy, the path worn now from your week of coming and going. The sky is impossibly blue, the breeze sweet with salt, the morning air still cool enough to make the first touch of the ocean a little thrilling.

Robin helps Joey start the finalized version of his sea turtle house, and you watch as Sammie splashes around in the water, doing what she deems to be a cartwheel (far from it).

You don’t talk about anything heavy. You don’t need to. The waves do all the talking. Later, when you’re hallways through building a lopsided mermaid tail on Robin’s legs, you see Steve and Eddie making their way down the path. They don’t say much, but something about the way Steve’s shoulders sit tells you the talk was what it needed to be.

He catches your eye, and you offer him a smile. He gives you one back. Real. Lightened, if only a little.

The rest of the day passes like a dream— sand in everything, Sammie shrieking when a fish brushes her foot, Joey convinced he saw a turtle try to swim up by him. 

You eat lunch on the beach. You lose track of time. Eventually, the sun starts to dip, the kids start to crash, and you all trudge back to the cabin to pack. The final hour is a whirlwind of damp swimsuits, forgotten water bottles, and sandy feet stomping through the cabin.

Robin makes a last sweep through the rooms, calling out things like, “This sock has no match but I refuse to leave it behind!” while Eddie packs snacks like you’re prepping for a three-day drive instead of a few hours on the road.

Steve wrestles with the beach umbrella that definitely wasn’t this long when it first came out of the bag. You fold Sammie’s favorite hoodie— still salty and stained with juice— and tuck it into her backpack next to Joey’s battered sketchpad.

Eventually, everything finds its place.

Robin and Eddie’s car is packed up first. Eddie heaves the cooler in with a dramatic groan, and Robin leans back against the hood. “Alright, little monsters,” she says, squatting down to Sammie and Joey’s level. “Come give your Aunt Robin a proper goodbye.”

The kids barrel into her, Sammie’s arms around her neck and Joey muttering something about how the beach was “ten million out of ten.”

Eddie scoops them both up next. “No rock band practice until I come over, alright?” he warns, ruffling Sammie’s curls.

You and Steve work on loading up your car. Kids first, then bags, then the inevitable collection of forgotten socks, half-used sunscreen, and the glitter pail that Sammie absolutely refuses to part with. Joey is already nodding off in his booster seat, sun-drunk and blissed out, and Sammie’s humming to herself, wrapped in her favorite towel like a little burrito.

Once everything is packed and zipped and double-checked, the four of you— grown-ups now, somehow, despite the sand still sticking to your ankles and the drowsy pull of the sun— meet in the driveway.

There’s a pause. One of those rare, easy silences that feels like it means something.

Robin pulls Steve into a hug first, tight and immediate, her chin hooked over his shoulder. “You know I’m not gonna say anything emotional because I’ll cry and ruin this whole thing,” she says, voice muffled, “but I’m here. For all of it. Whatever you need.”

Steve nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. When they part, Eddie steps in and clasps his shoulder, a quiet sort of gesture from someone who’s usually all jabs and noise.

“I got you, man,” Eddie says, rough and sincere. “Anything. Anytime. Even if it’s just to yell about your old man and punch something in my garage.”

Steve huffs a laugh, grateful.

Robin turns to you next, sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You’re stuck with us too, y’know,” she says, softer now. “No backing out. We love you guys. So… whatever this next part looks like, you don’t have to do it alone.”

You swallow thickly, nodding as she pulls you into a hug that smells like sunscreen and sea air and that faint herbal shampoo she uses. “I know,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Eddie claps his hands once, like he’s trying to cut the emotion before it gets too thick. “Okay, okay, that’s enough sincerity. We’re dangerously close to, like, a group cry, and I refuse to go out like that.”

“You’ll cry in the car anyway,” Robin teases.

“Yeah, if you keep fucking playing Melissa Etheridge, Buckley!”

Steve lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head, eyes still a little glassy. “You guys are the worst,” he says, voice warm, “and also the best.”

“Correct,” Robin grins.

“Undeniably,” you add. “Also, we’re already planning dinner when we get back, right? Like, we can’t go more than a day without each other or the universe collapses.”

“Gross,” Eddie deadpans. “Of course.”

Steve smiles again, something deep and settled in it now.

There’s one last round of hugs: Robin making Joey promise to call her with turtle updates, Sammie begging Eddie to teach her a “real rock song” next time, the whole group lingering like no one wants to be the one to break the spell.

Eventually, Eddie and Robin pile into their car, “Come to My Window” already playing as they roll out of the gravel driveway with waves and horn honks trailing behind them.

You and Steve climb into your own car, Sammie already asleep, her cheek smushed against the window, and Joey half-mumbling something about snacks in his sleep.

The road home stretches in front of you, long and winding, but not as heavy now. You reach over and take Steve’s hand, lacing your fingers together over the center console. He squeezes back without looking. He just holds on.

A couple of weeks later, the sky is overcast as you pull up to Eddie and Robin’s place a couple blocks over from yours. It’s not raining, but it smells like it might, and everything has that grayish-blue tint that makes the world feel quiet.

Sammie is practically vibrating with excitement in the backseat, already halfway unbuckled. “Uncle Eddie said we could write a song,” she beams.

Joey is less enthusiastic. He’s holding onto his stuffed dinosaur, his brows pinched together and his lip wobbling just slightly. Steve’s been watching him in the rearview mirror for the last five minutes.

You glance at Steve as you park, offering a gentle smile. “We won’t be gone long.”

He nods, but his grip on the steering wheel is tight.

Robin comes bouncing out of the house first, hoodie zipped halfway over paint-splattered overalls. “Alright, my favorite small humans, who’s ready for an extremely responsible weekend full of healthy snacks and no injuries whatsoever?”

Eddie follows behind her with a dramatically slow walk, sunglasses on despite the clouds, guitar slung over his back. “You ready to rock, princess?” he calls, and Sammie lets out an actual squeal as she throws the door open.

“YES.”

Joey lingers, slower to move.

You and Steve climb out, grabbing the kids’ overnight bags, passing off instructions you all already know but say anyway: don’t forget Sammie’s bedtime song, Joey’s afraid of the dark but won’t admit it, TV time rules are flexible but not too flexible.

Sammie barely spares you a wave as she runs toward Eddie, who lifts her up like a tiny rockstar and sets her down at his amp setup in the garage. Robin’s crouched down in front of Joey now, asking if he wants to help her make lunch.

But he doesn’t move.

Steve kneels beside him, already reading the look on his son’s face. “Hey, buddy.”

Joey swallows hard. “Do you have to go?”

Steve falters. Just for a second. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Just for a couple nights.”

Joey’s eyes fill instantly. “But… what if I need you?”

You crouch next to Steve, hand on Joey’s back. “You can call us, any time. You know that.”

“But you won’t be here,” Joey whispers, voice thick. “And I—” He doesn’t finish it. He just crashes forward into Steve’s chest, arms wrapping tight around his neck, and the sound that escapes him is small but sharp.

Steve holds him like he’s anchoring them both. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know, buddy. I don’t wanna go either.”

You watch him blink hard, one hand smoothing down Joey’s hair as he breathes through it. And then Joey’s whisper: “Please don’t be gone too long.”

It nearly splits Steve in half.

“I won’t,” he promises, voice hoarse. “I swear. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Eventually, Joey loosens his grip. Robin comes to stand behind him, gentle hand on his shoulder, and you mouth thank you to her over his head.

Eddie gives Steve a look as he walks past, quiet, steady. I got him , it says.

Steve nods.

One more round of hugs. A whispered I love you to both kids. And then you and Steve are climbing into the car again, the doors shutting with a soft finality.

Joey’s still watching from the porch, arms wrapped tight around his dinosaur, Robin beside him. Sammie’s somewhere inside already, a guitar string plinking faintly through the open garage door.

You pull away slow, the tires crunching over gravel, and Steve doesn’t look back. Not yet.

It’s quiet in the car for a long time. Just the soft hum of the engine, the world drifting past in streaks of gray and green.

Then he says, barely above a whisper, “That was the hardest part.”

You reach over, take his hand, and hold on tight.

“I know,” you say. “We’ll get through the rest together.”

The flight to Indiana is quiet.

Steve stares out the window the entire time, arms crossed tight over his chest. He hasn’t eaten much all day, just picked at the sad little granola bar from the airport and sipped his coffee.

You don’t push. You sit beside him with a hand on his knee, thumb tracing idle circles. You ask if he wants a mint, offer your headphones, and at one point he does take your hand, holding it in his lap like something solid to keep from unraveling.

The closer you get to Indiana, the more tense he becomes.

He doesn't talk much during the drive from the airport either. The rental car smells like peppermint and vinyl, and he keeps fiddling with the AC, flipping it on and off like he’s trying to focus on something.

“I can call the hospital and double-check visiting hours,” you offer gently.

“I already called,” Steve says, a little sharper than he means to. “Twice.”

You blink, then nod. “Okay. That’s good.”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. I just— I don’t wanna get there and have them say we can’t see him. Or that he’s—” He cuts himself off.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I get it.”

He doesn’t respond, just focuses on the road. You reach over and squeeze his hand again, thumb rubbing over the back of it.

By the time you’re pulling into Hawkins, the sun is starting to dip. Everything looks just a little off. The town hasn’t changed much—same rusting water tower, same faded gas station sign—but it feels different. Smaller, maybe. Or maybe that’s just you, changed enough now that Hawkins doesn’t fit quite right anymore.

Steve slows as you pass through the old downtown strip, his eyes flicking to the places he used to haunt: the Family Video he and Robin worked at, now an empty storefront with paper over the windows. The diner where the two of you would share milkshakes. The alley where he used to sneak cigarettes with Tommy H. when he thought no one was watching.

“It’s weird,” he murmurs, like he’s speaking mostly to himself. “Being back.”

You glance over at him. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause. He exhales shakily. “I don’t know what I’m gonna say to him.”

“You don’t have to decide yet,” you tell him. “You don’t owe him anything rehearsed.”

“I haven’t seen him in years.”

“I know.”

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “What if he doesn’t even recognize me?”

You reach over and rest your hand on his shoulder. “Then you’ll leave. We’ll get pancakes and go back to the hotel and cuddle under too many blankets and call the kids. We’ll listen to Sammie and Eddie rocking out.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “She’s gonna be insufferable by Sunday.”

“Fully drunk on rockstar energy,” you grin. “We should probably prepare ourselves now.”

Steve smiles faintly, and for a second, the pressure behind his eyes seems to ease.

You pull into the parking lot of the little hotel on the edge of town. The sign flickers faintly, but the lobby’s warm and smells like old carpet. The room itself is nothing special. Neutral colors, beige bedding, a window that overlooks the highway. But it’s quiet. Private. And when you both kick off your shoes and sink onto the edge of the bed, it feels… safe enough.

Steve sits with his elbows on his knees, head bowed.

You settle beside him and rub a hand down his back. “Do you want to shower? Eat? Lie down?”

He shakes his head. “Just… need a minute.”

You nod and lean into him, cheek resting against his shoulder.

Outside, Hawkins buzzes faintly, a low hum of streetlights and passing cars. Inside, it’s just you and him. The boy who left this town, and the man he became after.

The next morning is gray and quiet. A low sort of light filters in through the hotel curtains, painting everything in soft blue and pale gold. Steve wakes early, already dressed by the time you sit up and rub your eyes. His hands are fidgeting—watch strap, wallet, keys—and there's a restlessness to him like he’s carrying something too big inside his chest.

You brush your hair back and sit up fully. “Hey,” you say gently. “Are you sure you want me to come?”

He pauses in the middle of adjusting his cuff, looks over at you with that worn, wired expression.

“I don’t know what it’s gonna be like,” he admits, voice low. “My mom’s probably gonna say something weird, and my dad— he might not even be awake. But…” He exhales, slow. “Yeah. I want you there.”

You nod. “Okay. Then I’ll be there.”

The hospital smells like antiseptic and lemon floor cleaner, and the fluorescent lights buzz just a little too loud. It’s not a big facility— Hawkins Memorial hasn’t changed much since the eighties— but the sterile walls and faint beeping machines make everything feel a little surreal. The nurse at the front desk gives Steve a sympathetic look when he checks in, and he just nods.

His mom is already in the room when you get there. She’s sitting in the corner chair, a cup of coffee clutched in both hands, her hair swept up and clipped in a way that looks like it took a lot of effort to look effortless.

Her eyes flick to you first, then Steve. She stands up quickly. “Oh, honey.”

She moves to hug him, and for a second, Steve freezes. Then he hugs her back, short and stiff.

“Hi, Mom,” he says, voice tight.

She pulls away and cups his face, looking at him like she’s trying to drink him in. “You look so grown,” she says. “Older. You’ve filled out.”

You glance at Steve and see the flicker behind his eyes, something between discomfort and restraint.

Then she looks at you and smiles a little more softly. “And Y/n. It’s been too long.”

You offer a polite nod. “Hi, Mrs. Harrington. Yeah, it has.”

She sits back down and gestures toward the two visitor chairs. “Sit, please. He’s been in and out today. They’ve got him on a lot of things for the pain.”

Steve nods numbly and walks over to the bed. His dad is there, smaller than you remember, his frame sunken under the blanket. He stirs a little when Steve sits, mumbling something incoherent before drifting back into a doze.

Steve’s hand trembles slightly as he rests it on the edge of the bed. You settle in beside him quietly.

His mom keeps talking, mostly light things. “The twins are in kindergarten now, aren’t they? Or is it Pre-K?” she asks, turning to you.

“Kindergarten,” you say, digging in your bag. “They’re loving it. We actually brought some photos.” 

You hand them over, a little envelope of glossy prints: Sammie holding her glittery pail, Joey half-buried in sand, both kids covered in salt and smiles.

His mom flips through them, her face softening. “Oh. Look at them. Look at Joey; he’s so big now. He looks like Steve.”

Steve’s jaw tightens faintly.

“They had such a good time at the beach,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “Sammie’s still talking about the sandcastle. And Eddie’s teaching her how to play the guitar.”

“Oh, Eddie.” His mom smiles again. “He was such a little punk in high school. Never thought he’d stick around.”

You just nod.

The hours pass slowly. The room is quiet except for the shuffle of nurses and the occasional half-dreamed mutter from Mr. Harrington. Steve doesn’t talk much, just sits beside the bed, eyes locked on the figure under the blanket. Every now and then, his mom tries to fill the silence. She asks about the kids, the house, your neighborhood. You answer as best you can, and Steve just stays still, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

Eventually, your body starts to sag into the stiff hospital chair, the lull of machines and monotony pulling you under. Your eyes slip shut.

And that’s when she says it. “We’ve been talking,” his mom murmurs. “Your father and I. About the house.”

Steve glances up, wary.

She folds the photo envelope in her hands. “We want you to have it. The house. When he’s gone.”

Steve just stares at her.

“We know it hasn’t always been easy,” she says quickly, like she knows the reaction she’s going to get. “But it’s a good house. It’s your home. You should have it.”

Steve lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “It’s not my home.”

She frowns. “Don’t say that.”

He sits back a little, arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t have any good memories there, Mom.”

Her mouth tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s the truth,” he says, a little sharper now. “That house was never safe for me.”

She looks down. The silence stretches.

Steve glances at you. Then back at her. “I have a home,” he says. “With Y/n. With the kids. That’s where my good memories are now. That’s where I want to be.”

The words settle between them, solid and steady.

His mom nods eventually, slowly. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

The hotel room is quiet when you get back.

Muted city sounds hum outside the window, the occasional passing car, a distant siren, a burst of laughter that doesn’t quite reach you. Inside, it’s just the thick silence of too many feelings shoved into too small a space. You shut the door behind you, and Steve immediately shrugs out of his jacket like it’s suffocating him.

He’s been quiet since the hospital. Quiet in a way that feels more like boiling than peace.

You give him space. Toes out of your shoes. Bag on the dresser. “You want something to eat?” you ask gently. “I think there’s still that Thai place—”

“I’m not hungry,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

You nod. “Okay. Maybe later.”

He paces the room once, then twice, then stops and presses his palms to the edge of the desk like he’s trying to hold himself upright. “That was a waste of time,” he says, suddenly. “He didn’t even know I was there."

“He did,” you say softly. “He was just—”

“He didn’t,” Steve snaps, turning to face you. “He didn’t say a single thing. He doesn’t even know who I am anymore, and the parts of him that do remember—what the hell do they even remember? Yelling at me? Telling me I was useless? That I was embarrassing?”

You go still.

He breathes hard through his nose, then groans and turns away again. “God. I didn’t mean that at you. I just— I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”

You walk over to him slowly and lay a hand between his shoulder blades, gentle and steady. He doesn’t flinch. Just leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk again.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know you’re tired.”

“I shouldn’t have brought you,” he says, voice raw now. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I wanted you here, and then I just— snapped at you.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you say simply. “I can take it. You don’t have to keep everything in.”

His shoulders hitch once. Then again. His head drops between his arms, and when he speaks again, it’s not really speech at all. Just a broken sound in the back of his throat, choked and miserable.

You step closer. Wrap your arms around his waist from behind, holding on as he breaks down. His hands come up to cover his face, body shaking. You press your forehead to his back and just hold.

“I didn’t want to feel anything,” he admits, voice shaking. “I wanted to walk in, do the thing, and leave. But seeing him like that, it just…” He trails off, unable to finish.

After a while, when he’s quieter and you’ve coaxed him to the bed, you sit beside him and suggest, “Wanna call the kids?”

He hesitates.

“I know it’s late,” you add, “but Robin and Eddie are probably still up. Just a minute or two. Just to say goodnight.”

Steve nods slowly, sniffs. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You grab the hotel phone and call their house, and Robin picks up on the second ring.

“O captain, my captain,” she says, “you’re just in time for Joey’s bedtime meltdown and Sammie’s one-girl concert.”

You can vaguely hear strumming in the background. Not guitar exactly, maybe ukelele?

“Daddy,” Joey says with the kind of betrayal only five-year-olds can conjure, “you left.”

Steve immediately gets misty again. “Hey, bud. I know. I’m sorry. It’s just for a couple days.”

Joey sounds suspicious. “Is it ‘cause I didn’t finish my broccoli last week?”

Steve chokes on a laugh. “No, Joey. No, it’s got nothing to do with that. I promise.”

Sammie finds her way to the phone and yells, “Hi Daddy! Hi Mommy! I played a C chord! Uncle Eddie said it was so metal !”

You beam. Steve lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief.

Robin gives a little chuckle. “They’re good. Honestly. Little feral, but what else is new?”

“Thanks,” you say. “For all of this.”

“You kidding?” Eddie’s voice calls from somewhere. “We’re livin’ the dream over here. Gave Sammie a mohawk. Hope that’s cool.”

“Eddie!” you and Steve both yell.

The kids dissolve into giggles, and Sammie strums a wild dissonant chord on the ukulele.

After goodnights and promises of pizza when you get back, Steve hangs up the phone on the nightstand. He’s still a little red around the eyes, but his whole body looks lighter.

“They’re okay,” he says. “We’re okay.”

“Yeah,” you say, snuggling in beside him. “We really are.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. His voice is soft, thoughtful. “I keep thinking about my dad. About all the things he did— or didn’t do. And I just…I never wanna be that for them. I want them to know they’re loved. Every day. No matter what.”

“They do,” you whisper. “Because you show them.”

He nods against your hair. “I’m really lucky,” he says. “To have this. You. Them. All of it.”

The next morning dawns overcast, like the sky is holding its breath.

You and Steve pack in quiet motions. Folding clothes, zipping suitcases, brushing teeth while standing close in the cramped hotel bathroom. The air between you is softer than it was last night, still raw but settled. Like a storm has passed and the ground is damp, but the wind’s finally calm.

On the drive to the hospital, Steve keeps one hand on the wheel and the other linked with yours. He doesn’t talk much, just watches the road like it might try to slip away from under him. You don’t push. You just squeeze his hand every so often, and he squeezes back.

When you get to the hospital, his mom’s already in the room. She looks tired, like she didn’t sleep at all, but her face lights up faintly when she sees the two of you.

“Oh, good,” she says, rising from the chair beside the bed. “He’s still resting, but he’s been in and out all morning.”

She reaches out and hugs Steve. It’s a little stiff, a little awkward, but real. Then she hugs you, too— smaller, more tentative— but she says, “Thank you for being here. I know this isn’t easy.”

You offer her a kind smile. “We’re glad we came.”

Steve sits beside the bed and takes his dad’s hand. It’s thinner than he remembers, lined with blue veins and sunspots. He watches the shallow rise and fall of his father’s chest, the way his eyelids flutter and jaw twitches.

“Hey, Dad,” he says softly. “It’s Steve. I’m here.”

His father doesn’t respond right away. Just a faint hum, maybe a flicker behind his closed eyes. Steve keeps talking anyway.

“I, um… I wanted to say goodbye. I don’t know if you can hear me. But I’m saying it anyway.” He clears his throat. His voice is shaky but steadying, like he’s walking across a bridge that he built with each word. “I spent a lot of my life wanting something from you. Something you didn’t… or couldn’t give me. And I hated you for that, sometimes. But I think now… I think I just wanted to be seen. To be known.”

His dad stirs a little. Not quite awake, not quite gone. Steve keeps going.

“I’ve got kids now. A little girl and a little boy. And they know I love them. Every second, every day. They don’t have to earn it. And that’s because of you. Or… maybe in spite of you. I don’t know.” He sniffles, wipes at his face with the back of his hand. “But I needed to say that. And I hope, wherever you go next, that it’s peaceful. And I hope you know… I’m okay. I really am.”

He leans forward and gently presses a kiss to his father’s temple. “Goodbye, Dad.”

You’re quiet through it all, standing near the window, giving him space but close enough if he needs you. When he finally turns toward you, his eyes are red but his shoulders are lighter. Like the goodbye untied something in him that had been knotted for years.

His mom places a hand over her mouth, like she’s trying not to cry. “That was…” she starts, but doesn’t finish. Just steps forward and takes Steve’s hand. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You’ve built a good life.”

He nods, and there’s a long, calm moment between them. Years of distance narrowed, if not erased.

“We’ll come back,” he says. “For the funeral. And I’ll bring the kids.”

His mom turns to you and smiles, soft and grateful. “I’d love that. I’d love to see them again.”

You nod. “We’ll be there.”

You all stand there for a moment, watching the slow rhythm of the machines beside the bed.

The flight home is quiet, filled with ginger ales and the scratch of pens on crossword puzzles, and the occasional brush of Steve’s shoulder against yours. He dozes off somewhere over Ohio, his head resting on your shoulder, breathing steady and even.

You smooth his hair back and let your fingers settle against his cheek.

He came here looking for closure. You think maybe he found it. And back home ( real home) your kids are waiting. With ukuleles and marker-streaked hands and probably some kind of epic story involving your best friends.

Steve murmurs something in his sleep, smile tugging at his lips.

The car ride from the airport is quiet. Not heavy, just… gentle. Steve’s hand stays in yours the whole way, thumb brushing slow arcs across your knuckles like he’s grounding himself with the contact. You don’t say much. You don’t have to. The air between you is easy, tired in a good way, like the end of a long hike where the view made every step worth it.

When you pull up to Eddie and Robin’s place, the porch light is already on, spilling a warm halo across the driveway. You barely make it to the front steps before the door bursts open.

Sammie comes flying out first, hair wild and curls bouncing, all limbs and joy and a shrieked, “DADDYYYYY!”

Steve doesn’t even have time to bend down before she launches herself at him like a missile, and he catches her with a breathless oof , staggering back a step as she wraps her arms around his neck and clings like a koala.

“I missed you soooo much!” she says, fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt. “You were gone forever!”

Steve buries his face in her hair and holds her close, one hand splayed across her back like he’s trying to memorize her heartbeat. “I missed you too, bug. So much.”

Joey’s behind her, blinking a little in the porch light, thumb still halfway in his mouth. You crouch just in time to scoop him up and swing him into your arms.

“There’s my boy,” you whisper, kissing his temple. He smells like peanut butter and markers— of course he smells like markers. “You been good?”

He nods solemnly, arms winding around your neck. Then, voice small and earnest, he says, “I was brave.”

You melt instantly. “I bet you were.”

Eddie and Robin follow them out, both looking exhausted and slightly disheveled in that way that says the kids definitely got into something they weren’t supposed to. But Robin’s grinning, and Eddie’s trying not to, his arms crossed like he didn’t love every second of being climbed like a jungle gym all weekend.

“We kept ‘em alive,” Robin announces proudly.

“Barely,” Eddie mutters, but his eyes are warm when he looks at Steve. “Hey, man.”

Steve, still holding Sammie, nods. “Hey.”

There’s something wordless exchanged between them. Some understanding that doesn’t need to be said out loud. Steve looks steadier than he did when he left. Worn out, yeah, but rooted.

Inside, the house is a wreck in the most charming way: blankets on the floor, a ukulele propped up on a chair, an empty juice box on the coffee table. It smells like popcorn and shampoo and kid energy.

“We made a band!” Sammie is saying excitedly, dragging Steve over to the couch. “Uncle Eddie taught me ‘Smoke on the Water’ and Joey played drums on the pots and we made a song about soup!”

“It was actually… kinda good,” Eddie says. “In a weird, avant-garde way.”

“Next stop: Grammy’s,” Robin adds, plopping down beside you and pulling Joey onto her lap. “We’re making shirts and everything.”

“Wow,” you grin. “Missed a whole world of things.”

The kids buzz around you both, full of stories. And then— quietly, gently— Sammie looks up at Steve and asks, “How’s Gramma and Granpa?”

The question cuts through the chatter like a ripple, but Steve doesn’t flinch. He shifts Sammie in his lap and brushes her hair out of her eyes.

“They’re okay,” he says simply. “Grandpa’s really tired right now, and Grandma misses you a lot.”

“Oh,” Sammie says, solemn. She leans her head against his chest. “Maybe we can send them more pictures.”

“That’s a great idea, Sammie,” you tell her, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, and rubbing your thumb along Steve’s arm.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just wraps his free arm around Sammie a little tighter, like he needs the hug just as much as she does. You run your hand up and down his back while Joey rests heavily on your hip, half-dozing against your shoulder.

Robin stretches with a groan, cracking her back. “Alright, parents. We’ve done our part. Kids are alive, minimally sticky, and only mildly sugar-overloaded.”

You laugh, and Steve smiles, the kind that’s a little crooked but real. “We owe you both so much.”

“No kidding,” you say, setting Joey down gently so you can grab your bag. “We’re taking you out. Somewhere with fancy cocktails and cloth napkins. And no chicken nuggets on the menu.”

“Seriously,” Steve says. “You pick the place, we’ll get the babysitter.”

“Who?” Eddie deadpans. “You have some other mysterious best friends that we don’t know about?”

“Hmmm… Shit,” you mutter, and you all laugh, not even caring about the little ears listening. They’re too tuckered out to notice anyway. You turn to Robin. “Thank you. For watching them. For everything.”

Robin waves a hand, but she’s clearly a little misty behind her glasses. “They’re easy to love.”

The kids protest a little when it’s time to go, but they’re too tired to put up much of a fight. You help Sammie with her shoes while Steve buckles Joey into the car seat, both of you moving like a well-oiled machine.

Steve drives with one hand on the wheel, the other finding yours between the seats. It’s quiet for a while. Just the hum of the road and the occasional rustle of the kids shifting in their sleep.

Then you glance over at him, his profile washed in the warm orange light of the dashboard. “Hey,” you say softly.

He hums in response, eyes still on the road.

“You’re a really great dad.”

Steve glances at you, and something flickers behind his eyes. Like he wants to argue, maybe—deflect, make a joke—but instead, he just squeezes your hand and exhales. “Thanks.”

“You are. The way you talked to your dad… what you said to him. And how Sammie was so excited to see you…” You pause, shaking your head slightly. “That’s the kind of dad people hope for.”

Steve’s quiet again for a second, swallowing hard.

“I didn’t think I’d be good at it,” he says eventually. “Being a dad. I was so scared I’d screw them up. But… they’re so good. And they make it easy, I guess. You make it easy.”

“ You make it easy,” you counter. “They adore you. And they know they’re safe with you. That’s everything.”

He nods. “I’m lucky,” he says again. Then he looks at you, tired but glowing in that soft, content way. “I’ve got everything I need.”

You smile, leaning across the console just enough to kiss his shoulder. “Me too.”

Joey snores softly, Sammie’s hand still wrapped around the handle of her ukulele. The street lights flicker past in quiet intervals. The road winds toward home.

And in the back seat, your family dreams.