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Nights are harder than days. They always have been.
During the day, Hawkins gives you structure: work, schedules, expectations, the comfort of knowing where you’re supposed to be and when. There are rules. Scripts. Ways to move through the world without thinking too hard about it.
At night, everything loosens.
The silence stretches. The walls creak. Thoughts echo louder than they should. Sleep becomes something distant, theoretical, something other people do easily, naturally, without negotiating with their own bodies first.
You’re awake again.
Your room is dark except for the thin line of streetlight slipping through the blinds, cutting the ceiling into pale stripes. You’ve already reorganized your desk once tonight—pens aligned, notebooks stacked, edges perfectly flush. You know it doesn’t matter. You know it won’t make you sleep. But your hands needed something to do, something precise and controlled.
You check the clock.
2:13 a.m.
You exhale slowly, carefully, like if you breathe too fast your chest might tighten again.
From the other side of the house, you hear it. The soft thud of a door opening, footsteps that don’t bother trying to be quiet, the faint clink of glass.
Steve is awake too.
You don’t need to see him to know it. You’ve learned the rhythms of his nights the same way you’ve learned your own: by paying attention when you probably shouldn’t.
You stare at the ceiling for another minute before swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold under your feet. You pause, hand resting against the wall, grounding yourself in the texture of peeling paint and the faint hum of electricity behind it.
Kitchen. Water. Something normal.
Steve is sitting at the counter when you step into the kitchen, shoulders slouched, elbows braced against the laminate. There’s a half-empty bottle in front of him—not the worst one, not the kind that makes your stomach twist immediately, but enough that your chest tightens anyway.
He looks up when he hears you.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough, like it’s been scraped raw. Not drunk. Not sober. Somewhere in the middle, where the edges blur.
“Hey,” you reply.
You move to the sink, fill a glass with water. You don’t comment on the bottle. You never do. There’s an unspoken agreement between you. Don’t name it, don’t challenge it, don’t pretend you know how to fix it.
You lean against the counter across from him, fingers wrapped around the cool glass.
“Can’t sleep?” Steve asks, even though he already knows the answer.
You shrug. “Could ask you the same.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”
The kitchen hums softly around you. Refrigerator. Clock ticking. Outside, a car passes too fast for this hour, tires hissing against pavement.
Steve tips his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “Brain won’t shut up tonight.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
That’s as close as either of you get to saying me too.
You watch him from the corner of your eye. The way his fingers tap against the glass, restless, the way his jaw tightens and releases like he’s chewing on something invisible. Steve has always moved like he’s bracing for impact, even when he’s standing still.
It’s something you noticed months ago. Maybe longer.
Back when you first became friends, back when everything was still half-normal, you thought it was just leftover bravado. Posturing. A guy who didn’t know how to sit quietly with himself.
Now you know better.
“You ever think,” you say carefully, keeping your tone neutral, “that maybe sleep’s overrated?”
Steve snorts. “That’s what people who don’t sleep say to make themselves feel better.”
You allow yourself a small smile. “Worth a shot.”
He glances at you then, really looks at you, eyes sharp despite the haze. “You’re wired tonight.”
You stiffen before you can stop yourself.
“Am I?”
“Yeah,” he says, not accusing, just observant. “You’ve been rearranging the same three things since you came in.”
You glance down. Your glass of water. The coaster. The folded napkin you didn’t even realize you’d straightened twice.
You step back, force your hands into your pockets. “Habit.”
Steve hums, not pushing it. That’s another thing you’ve learned about him. He knows when not to push, even if he doesn’t always know why.
He takes another sip, then grimaces slightly. “Probably should stop.”
You don’t ask why. You don’t say yeah. You don’t reach for the bottle.
No saving. No fixing. Just seeing.
“You don’t have to,” you say instead, evenly.
Steve blinks at you, surprised. “No?”
You meet his gaze. Hold it. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
Something shifts in his expression, something quiet and complicated. He nods once, sharp.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
You stay there with him for a while, neither of you speaking much. Eventually, he pushes the bottle away, not dramatically, just enough that it’s no longer directly in front of him.
It feels like a small victory you don’t name.
°❀.࿔
During the day, Steve pretends his nights don’t exist.
He laughs louder than he needs to. Drives too fast with the windows down. Lets people think he’s fine because it’s easier than correcting them.
You see the cracks anyway.
You see it when he shows up to class late, sunglasses perched on his nose even indoors. When his hands shake just slightly as he lights a cigarette after school. When he volunteers for things that feel dangerous for no real reason: climbing, racing, anything that makes his heart pound loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
And Steve sees you too.
He sees the way you never nap. Ever. The way you schedule your time down to the minute, as if stillness might swallow you whole. The way you sometimes go quiet mid-conversation, eyes unfocused, like you’ve stepped halfway out of the room without realizing it.
One afternoon, you’re sitting on the hood of his car in the school parking lot, notebooks spread out between you. You’re supposed to be studying. Instead, you’re rewriting the same paragraph over and over again, each version marginally neater than the last.
Steve watches you for a minute before speaking.
“You know you already finished that, right?”
You blink. Look down. He’s right.
“Oh,” you say. “I was just… making sure.”
“Of what?”
“That it makes sense.”
Steve leans back against the car, squinting up at the sky. “It made sense the first time.”
You hesitate. “Still.”
He glances at you. Really looks this time. “You do that a lot.”
Your shoulders tense. “Do what?”
“Double back,” he says. “Like you don’t trust yourself to be done.”
You swallow. “I like being thorough.”
“Uh-huh.”
You shoot him a look. “What?”
He holds up his hands. “Nothing. Just—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
“No,” you say quietly. “What?”
Steve exhales through his nose. “You don’t ever just… let things be messy.”
You stiffen, something defensive rising in your chest. “Why would I?”
He studies you for a moment, then shrugs. “Guess I just wondered.”
There’s something in his voice, not judgment, not criticism. Recognition.
It unsettles you more than if he’d teased you.
°❀.࿔
The night Steve comes home drunk, really drunk, you hear him before you see him.
There’s laughter, too loud, too sharp. The door slams harder than necessary. Something clatters to the floor. You’re already awake, sitting on your bed with your knees pulled to your chest. Your heart starts racing before you even register why.
You find him in the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping a bottle you don’t recognize. His hair is a mess, shirt half-untucked, smile unfocused.
“Hey,” he says, spotting you. “There you are.”
“Steve,” you say carefully. “You’re being loud.”
He laughs, a sharp bark of a sound. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
He squints at you. “You sound like me when you’re drunk.”
The words land between you, heavy and unexpected.
You freeze.
Steve’s smile falters as he realizes what he’s said. “I—shit, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” you interrupt, softer now. “You’re right.”
He blinks. “I am?”
You nod once. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat of silence. Steve sways slightly, then steadies himself against the wall. His gaze drifts over your face, searching.
“You don’t sleep either,” he says quietly. Something in his voice cracks—not fully, but enough.
“And you don’t stop,” you reply, just as quietly. “Ever.”
He laughs again, but it’s hollow this time. “Pot, meet kettle.”
You don’t move closer. You don’t reach for him. You don’t tell him to sit down or drink water or go to bed. You just stand there, two insomniacs in a narrow hallway, seeing each other too clearly.
Steve swallows. “Late at night,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “we’re kind of the same, huh?”
Your chest tightens. “Yeah,” you say. “It shows.”
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then Steve straightens, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I should probably… crash,” he says, suddenly awkward.
“Probably,” you agree.
He hesitates. “You okay?”
You nod. “I’m always okay.”
He looks like he wants to argue but he doesn’t. He just nods once and disappears into his room, door clicking shut behind him.
You stand there for another minute, heart pounding, before returning to your own room. You don’t sleep. But for the first time, the ghost in your chest feels… shared.
And as you stare up at the ceiling, breathing slow and deliberate, a quiet realization settles over you:
Steve Harrington isn’t broken in a way you don’t recognize.
And neither are you.
°❀.࿔
It’s the way nights keep finding you both awake, over and over again, as if sleep itself has learned to avoid the house when you’re inside it. It starts small.
Another late night in the kitchen. Another glass of water. Another quiet, unspoken understanding that neither of you needs to ask why.
Steve starts leaving the light over the stove on—not fully bright, just enough to cut the dark. You start bringing your blanket with you when you wander out of your room, wrapping it tight around your shoulders like armor.
Some nights, you sit across from each other at the counter, knees almost touching, not talking much at all. Other nights, you end up on opposite ends of the couch, feet brushing, television on but muted, neither of you really watching.
It becomes routine.
“Bad at sleep club,” Steve mutters one night, slouched beside you on the porch steps, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.
You snort softly. “Catchy.”
“Exclusive,” he adds. “No well-adjusted people allowed.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He looks tired tonight, not just physically, but in that deeper way, like something has been scraping against his ribs for hours.
“What are the requirements?” you ask.
“Insomnia,” he says easily. “Nightmares. Poor coping mechanisms.”
You hum. “Overachievers welcome?”
Steve laughs under his breath. “Especially you.”
You pretend not to feel the way that lands.
°❀.࿔
Steve gets worse before he gets steadier.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that would make people worry if they weren’t already paying attention. Just… frayed. Edges a little sharper. Laughs a little louder. Silences a little longer.
One night, you find him sitting in his car in the driveway, engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s afraid to let go.
You hesitate before knocking on the window.
He startles when he sees you, eyes wide, breath shallow. It takes him a second to recognize you.
“Hey,” you say softly.
He swallows. Rolls the window down halfway. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t have to explain,” you say, because that has become your language.
He nods, jaw tight. “Can’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
You open the passenger door without asking. He doesn’t stop you.
Inside the car, the air is thick, unmoving. The dashboard glows faintly, casting shadows across his face. His knee bounces relentlessly.
You sit still, hands folded in your lap, giving him space even as the closeness presses in.
“I don’t want to go to sleep,” he says suddenly, voice low, almost embarrassed. “Because I’m afraid of what I’ll see.”
Your chest tightens.
You don’t look at him right away. You stare at the windshield instead, at the faint reflection of your own face layered over his.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That makes sense.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Most people tell me to just… drink some water. Or breathe. Like that fixes it.”
You shake your head once. “It doesn’t.”
He glances at you then, searching. “What do you do?”
You hesitate.
You never tell people this part. Not really.
“I stay awake,” you admit. “I keep my hands busy. I focus on what I can control.”
He nods slowly. “Figures.”
There’s a long pause. His breathing is still uneven.
“You want to try something?” you ask, carefully.
Steve stiffens. “Like what?”
“Grounding,” you say. “If that’s okay.”
He considers it. The car is very small. Very quiet.
“Okay,” he says finally.
You keep your voice calm, steady. “Name five things you can see.”
He swallows. “Uh… the steering wheel. The radio. Your shoes.”
You glance down automatically. “Keep going.”
“The dashboard. The streetlight.”
“Good,” you murmur. “Four things you can feel.”
He exhales slowly. “The seat. My hands. My heartbeat.” A pause. “The air.”
You nod. “Three things you can hear.”
“The engine ticking,” he says. “Your voice. That… dog, I think.”
You smile faintly. “Yeah.”
His shoulders drop just a fraction.
You don’t touch him. You don’t lean closer. You just stay.
By the time he finishes, his breathing has evened out. His hands loosen on the wheel.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
“Anytime.”
He looks at you then—really looks at you—and something unreadable flickers across his face.
“You don’t ever let yourself… do that, do you?” he asks.
You stiffen. “Do what?”
“Fall apart.”
The word lands heavy.
You shrug. “Someone has to hold things together.”
Steve’s gaze softens, troubled. “You don’t have to do that alone.”
Your throat tightens. You look away. “I know.”
But you don’t believe it. Not fully.
°❀.࿔
You start noticing how careful Steve is with you.
How he doesn’t raise his voice around you. How he gives you warnings before sudden changes. I’m gonna turn the light on, okay? How he watches your hands when you go quiet, like he’s learned to read the tension there.
And Steve notices how you never cry.
Not when you’re exhausted. Not when you’re overwhelmed. Not even when your voice shakes.
One night, you’re sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, blanket wrapped tight. Steve is on the floor in front of you, back against the couch, head tipped back.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
You nod. “Sure.”
“Do you ever… let it out?” he asks carefully. “Like, really?”
You stare at the wall. “I don’t see the point.”
He frowns. “That’s not an answer.”
You glance down at him. “It is for me.”
Steve’s jaw tightens. “That doesn’t mean it’s healthy.”
You bristle. “I didn’t ask for a diagnosis.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Good,” you say sharply. “Because I don’t need fixing.”
Silence falls between you, thick and uncomfortable.
Steve exhales slowly. “I know. I just—” He stops. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”
You feel it then. That pull. That edge. The way things are starting to matter too much.
“I’m fine,” you say, softer now.
He doesn’t look convinced.
°❀.࿔
The attraction creeps in quietly.
It’s in the way you both avoid eye contact when conversations get too close to the bone. In the way Steve’s knee brushes yours and neither of you moves away—but neither of you leans in either.
It feels almost guilty.
Like wanting each other would be crossing a line neither of you is ready to name.
One night, you’re both half-asleep on opposite ends of the couch, television casting soft light across the room. You wake to find Steve watching you.
He looks away immediately when you shift.
“What?” you murmur.
“Nothing,” he says too quickly.
You sit up slightly. “Steve.”
He hesitates. “You just… look peaceful when you sleep.”
You huff quietly. “Liar.”
He smiles faintly. “Okay. Less haunted.”
Your chest tightens. “That’s not—”
“I know,” he says gently. “I just mean… it’s nice.”
You don’t respond. You don’t trust your voice.
The room feels smaller. Warmer.
Too much.
°❀.࿔
It comes to a head on a night when the air is heavy with summer heat, cicadas screaming outside like they’re trying to claw their way out of the dark.
Steve is pacing the living room, restless, agitated. You sit on the couch, watching him wear a path into the carpet.
“Just sit down,” you say eventually.
He snaps, “I can’t.”
You flinch before you can stop yourself.
Steve freezes.
“Hey,” he says immediately, softer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine.”
He studies you, something dark and conflicted in his eyes. “You always say that.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “And I’m lying.”
The words hang heavy between you.
He runs a hand over his face. “You don’t want to see me like this.”
Your heart stutters. “Like what?”
“Like… this,” he gestures vaguely at himself. “Messy. Not fun. Not okay.”
You stand slowly. “You think I don’t already?”
He looks at you, startled.
“I see you,” you continue quietly. “All of it.”
His voice cracks. “Then why do you stay?”
The question is raw. Terrifying.
You swallow hard. “Because you don’t scare me.”
Something in his expression breaks—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a subtle collapse.
He looks away. “I’m scared of you.”
Your breath catches. “Why?”
“Because,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “you see me. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels like it’s closing in.
You step back, heart pounding. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Maybe.”
The almost-confession dissolves into silence. Neither of you sleep that night. And neither of you stop thinking about it.
°❀.࿔
The spiral doesn’t announce itself.
It never does.
It starts with Steve not coming home one night. Not late—gone.
No calls. No half-assed excuse. Just an empty driveway and the porch light still on at three in the morning, buzzing faintly like it’s waiting for someone who isn’t coming.
You tell yourself not to panic.
You tell yourself you don’t get to panic.
But the hours stretch, elastic and merciless, and your body keeps score even when your mind refuses to.
By dawn, you’ve counted every creak of the house, every passing car, every breath in your chest like it might be the one that tips you over.
When Steve finally stumbles in just after sunrise, he smells like cheap beer and something sharper underneath—whiskey, maybe. His eyes are bloodshot. His movements are loose in a way that makes your stomach drop.
You’re waiting in the living room.
Of course you are.
He freezes when he sees you, hand still on the door.
“Oh,” he says, blinking slowly. “Hey.”
Something hot and furious flashes through you but it’s undercut by relief so sharp it almost hurts.
“Where were you?” you ask.
Your voice is steady. That scares you more than if it weren’t.
Steve shrugs, already defensive. “Out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He exhales hard. “I didn’t think I had to check in.”
“You disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear,” he snaps. “I just—went somewhere.”
You stand slowly, heart pounding. “You didn’t come home.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I needed space.”
Your chest tightens. Space. That word. That fucking word.
“From me?” you ask.
He hesitates.
That’s all it takes.
“Jesus,” you whisper. “You could’ve just said something.”
“I didn’t want to,” he fires back. “Okay? I didn’t want to explain myself. I didn’t want to—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “This.”
Your hands curl into fists. “So you thought getting drunk and vanishing was better?”
He scoffs. “You’re acting like I—”
“Like you scared me?” you cut in, voice sharp now. “Because you did.”
That stops him. For a moment, something like guilt flickers across his face. Then it hardens into something else—something uglier.
“I didn’t ask you to worry,” he says.
The words hit like a slap.
You go very still.
“No,” you say quietly. “You just trained me to.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
“You’ve been drinking more,” you say finally. “You’ve been pulling away. And now this.”
He laughs bitterly. “Wow. Look at you. Keeping watch.”
“That’s not what I’m—”
“Isn’t it?” he cuts in. “Because it sure sounds like it.”
Your chest burns. “I’m trying to understand what’s happening.”
“What’s happening,” Steve says, voice rising despite himself, “is that you’re watching me like I’m about to break.”
“Because you are.”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
Steve stares at you, stunned. Then his expression shutters.
“Well, congratulations,” he says coldly. “You figured it out.”
He turns away, heading down the hall.
“Don’t walk away from me,” you say.
“I need a shower,” he snaps. “I smell like regret and bad decisions. Sue me.”
You follow him, pulse roaring in your ears. “You don’t get to shut me out whenever it’s inconvenient.”
He spins around suddenly, eyes blazing. “And you don’t get to dissect me like a goddamn project!”
The accusation lands hard.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” you say, shaking now. “I care about you.”
“That’s the problem,” he says. “You care like it’s a job.”
The words slice deep. You feel something crack inside your chest—but you don’t let it show.
“Is that what this is?” you ask softly. “You think I don’t feel anything?”
“I think,” Steve says, voice low and furious, “that you don’t let yourself feel anything unless it’s safe. Unless it’s controlled. Unless it’s quiet and manageable.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” he snaps. “I see you. The way you hold everything together until your knuckles turn white. The way you never ask for help. The way you hover just close enough to keep me from drowning but never close enough to risk going under with me.”
The room feels like it’s tilting.
“You think I don’t drown?” you ask.
He falters, just slightly.
“You think I don’t wake up every night with my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest?” you continue, voice trembling despite yourself. “You think I don’t want to fall apart?”
“Then why don’t you?” he demands.
Because if I do, I don’t know how to put myself back together. The truth lodges in your throat, sharp and unyielding.
Instead, you say, “Because someone has to survive.”
Steve laughs then but it’s hollow, broken. He looks through you like he’s seeing a ghost.
“I can’t look you in the eyes,” he says suddenly, voice cracking, “because I’m afraid it looks like me.”
The confession hangs in the air, raw and terrifying.
You take a step back.
“So that’s it,” you say quietly. “I remind you of yourself, and you can’t handle it.”
“That’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” you interrupt. “You’re not afraid of me leaving. You’re afraid of staying and seeing this—” you gesture between the two of you, “—every day for the rest of your life.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
You see it then. The truth in his silence. Something inside you goes cold.
“I don’t want to become you,” Steve says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.
You nod slowly, even as your heart splinters. “And I don’t want to become you either.”
The realization settles in heavily and devastatingly, because you already have.
In all the ways that matter.
°❀.࿔
The separation isn’t dramatic.
There’s no screaming. No slammed doors. Just a quiet, awful unraveling.
Steve spends more nights out than in. When he is home, he keeps to his room. You retreat into routines. Early mornings, late nights, anything to avoid crossing paths. The house feels hollow without the late-night conversations, the shared silences, the quiet understanding.
You miss him constantly. That’s the worst part. You miss him even as you’re convinced that being close would ruin you both.
Loving him feels like staring into a mirror you can’t look away from and can’t bear to keep seeing.
One night, you overhear him on the phone, voice low and strained.
“I just need some space,” he says. “From everything.”
You close your door gently and sit on your bed, hands trembling. You tell yourself this is for the best. You tell yourself love shouldn’t feel like self-destruction. And somewhere, deep down, you both believe the same terrible thing:
Loving you will destroy me.
°❀.࿔
Time does what it always does. It moves forward, indifferent and relentless, even when you feel stuck. Weeks pass. Then a month. Maybe more. You stop counting somewhere along the way—not because it stops hurting, but because the ache becomes familiar. Manageable. Like a low-grade burn you learn to live around.
Steve changes first. Or maybe he just changes more visibly.
You notice it in small ways. The clink of bottles in the recycling disappears. His car stays parked more nights than not. He starts coming home earlier and quieter.
One afternoon, you overhear him on the phone again. But this time his voice is different.
“I don’t know how to talk about it yet,” he says. A pause. “Yeah. I think I need help.”
Your chest tightens. Not with panic this time, but with something like cautious relief.
Later, you find a pamphlet on the kitchen counter. Therapy. Trauma-informed. Sliding scale.
He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you.
You change too—but in ways that are harder to see.
You start sleeping again. Not well. Not deeply. But you let yourself lie in bed without filling the silence with lists or plans or distractions. You let your thoughts exist without interrogating them.
One night, when the pressure in your chest feels unbearable, you call a number you’ve had saved for years and never used.
“Do you have availability?”
When the voice answers, “Of course, let’s talk,” you cry so quietly you almost convince yourself it doesn’t count.
Boundaries begin forming where there used to be walls.
You and Steve learn a careful choreography around each other. Shared spaces without forced conversation. Passing in the hallway with a nod instead of a flinch. Sometimes, rarely, a joke. Familiar, but cautious.
It hurts. But it’s not the sharp, panicked hurt from before.
It’s grief with edges softened by intention.
One evening, months after the break, you’re on the porch when Steve comes home. He pauses when he sees you there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
The air between you feels fragile, like thin glass.
“I—uh,” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “I’m going to a meeting tonight.”
You nod. “Okay.”
He hesitates. “Not… not like that. Just. Therapy. Group thing.”
“I know,” you say gently. “I’m glad.”
Something shifts in his expression, surprise, maybe. Or relief.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
He lingers for a moment, then heads back inside.
Your heart aches but it doesn’t feel hopeless anymore.
°❀.࿔
The reaching out doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in inches.
A note about groceries. A question about work schedules. A shared laugh over something stupid on TV.
Then, one night, it’s something more.
“Do you want to sit out here with me?” Steve asks when you open your bedroom door. “Not to talk. Just… sit.”
You stare at him for a long moment, pulse steady but alert.
“Okay,” you reply.
He looks different. Still tired. Still guarded. But grounded in a way you haven’t seen before.
You sit on opposite ends of the couch at first, space deliberately maintained. The TV hums quietly in the background. Minutes pass. Then more. Finally, Steve exhales.
“I don’t need you to fix me,” he says, voice low.
You swallow. “I know.”
“I just… I don’t want to be alone with it anymore.”
The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache.
“I don’t either,” you admit.
He nods slowly. “I was afraid,” he says. “That if I stayed close to you, I’d never figure out where I ended and you began.”
You consider that. Then say, “I think… that’s why we needed the space. Not because we’re dangerous together. But because we didn’t know how to be separate.”
Steve glances at you, something like wonder in his eyes.
“Yeah, I’m slowly learning that,” he admits. “That connection isn’t the same as collapse.”
A small smile tugs at your lips. “Mine too.”
Silence settles between you again but this time, it’s warm.
Steve shifts slightly, not touching you, just closer. You don’t pull away.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I still see myself in you.”
You meet his gaze. Hold it.
“Yeah,” you say. “I see myself in you too.”
“And that doesn’t scare you?” he asks.
You think about the nights you survived alone. The mornings you chose to keep going. The way healing feels less like a destination and more like a practice.
“It scares me,” you say honestly. “But it doesn’t feel like a trap anymore.”
His breath shudders.
Neither of you moves when his hand brushes yours. It’s accidental. Maybe, but you don’t pull away. When you finally lean into him, it’s not desperation—it’s choice. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.
“Can we take this slow?” he asks.
You nod. “As slow as we need.”
The kiss that follows is soft. Barely there. More promise than passion, but it’s real.
And for the first time, love doesn’t feel like self-destruction.
It feels like company.
°❀.࿔
The nights are still the hardest part.
They always have been.
Healing doesn’t change that, not really. It just gives the dark fewer places to hide.
Some evenings, Steve still wakes up with his heart pounding, breath shallow, the echo of something terrible clawing its way out of memory. Some nights, you still lie awake long after midnight, mind running like it’s afraid that stopping will let something catch up.
The difference now is that neither of you pretends you’re fine.
You don’t joke it away. You don’t disappear into separate rooms and call it independence. You don’t punish yourselves for needing softness. Instead, you reach.
Most nights, it looks small. You fall asleep on the couch more often than the bed, something about the TV murmuring quietly, the low hum of life continuing in the background making it easier to let go. Steve sits at one end, you at the other, feet tangled together in an unspoken agreement that neither of you will drift too far.
He’s sober now. Not perfect. But present. Grounded in the weight of his own body, the steady rise and fall of his chest. When his hand finds yours, it’s warm. Real.
Your breathing evens out before his does. It always has. He notices it in the way your shoulders soften, in the quiet sigh you let out when sleep finally takes you. Sometimes he stays awake longer just to listen, to remind himself that this, too, is real.
Sometimes, the nightmares come anyway.
On those nights, Steve wakes up first. He doesn’t shake you. Doesn’t call your name like he used to when panic made him frantic. He just curls closer, careful and sure, grounding himself before he reaches for you. Your fingers tighten around his almost immediately, even before you wake fully. Muscle memory. Trust.
“I’m here,” he whispers, more for himself than for you.
You murmur something unintelligible, brow furrowed, breath uneven, but you don’t pull away. You never do. Eventually, the tension drains from your grip. Your breathing steadies again.
Steve exhales. Long. Slow. Like he’s been holding it all night.
There are mornings when the light spills through the window just right—soft and pale, catching dust in the air and painting the room gold. You wake up like that sometimes, cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arm draped loosely around your waist.
You don’t move right away. Neither does he. There’s no rush to be okay. No checklist. No pretending the past didn’t happen.
The ghost is still there.
It always will be.
It lives in the quiet moments, in the way you both hesitate before sleep, in the careful way you hold each other like something fragile but precious. It shows up in the flinch at loud noises, in the way your mind still tries to outrun rest, in the instinct to brace instead of soften.
But it doesn’t own you. Not anymore.
Because now, when the night presses in, you don’t face it alone. You face it together.
You turn toward each other instead of away. You choose honesty over armor. Presence over escape. And that choice—that quiet, steady choosing—is what keeps you anchored.
Steve presses his forehead to yours as the morning light grows stronger, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles.
“You and me,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
You smile faintly, eyes closed, hand tightening in his.
“Always,” you whisper.
You are not healed, but you are held. Somehow, that’s enough.