Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Twenty-Six. Mama

TWENTY-SIX
— mama

SHE DIDN'T WANT to feel pathetic. Showing up at someone's door, nose red, hair dripping from the rain— God, that felt pathetic. Her teeth were chattering as she dumped her bike at the side of Steve's house. Chest falling and rising, Lucy approached the door— she was hesitant, so hesitant. Balling her hand into a fist, she knocked. One, twice; he opened it by the third time.

Steve's face fell. "Hop, hey," he muttered, eyes tracing over her face. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her into the house, and out of the rain. "Are you okay?"

    Her bottom lip quivered. The moment those words left Steve's mouth, she felt herself break. She let out a small sob— Lucy's hand flew up to her eyes, and she covered them, as if it would stop him from seeing her cry. Shaking her head, she sniffled. "I didn't know where else to go, Steve, I'm sorry."

He reached forward, fingers looped around her wrist. Pulling softly, Steve moved her hands from her eyes. "Luce..." he spoke, shaking his head. With the pads of his calloused thumbs, he collected tears from her cheeks. "Don't apologize, ever."

Looking up at him, she sniffled again, and looked away. "It's my Dad— oh, I got your floor all muddy," she cut herself off, eyes focused on the dirtied ground.

    Steve was still holding her face; he shook his head, again. "It's okay," he muttered.

    She was looking anywhere but at him. Swallowing her pride, she inhaled sharply. "Steve," she spoke. "Can I spend the night here?— because, I don't think my Dad wants me home right now, and—"

Cutting her off, Steve pulled the girl into his embrace. Arms wrapped around her shoulders, he felt her face bury in his chest. "Don't worry about it," he said.

Steve's house was, as usual, empty. The hallways were vacant, and there no one to scold him for letting a girl in the house. The warm, yellow light of a small lamp illuminated onto her face, and her hazel eyes were focused on him. She felt her heart skip a beat, and she buried herself deeper into the cushions of the sofa. He was so special to her, and he didn't even know it. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glassy, her nose was red— she was all cried out, and it was probably messing with her brain.

    She considered saying something. A whisper, a soft word to Steve, one that told him how she felt. Something that could lift the weight off her chest, provide relief, and answers. Then, he snapped his eyes her way. Honey brown irises, and they were filled with gentleness for her. Her chest grew heavy, and a breath escaped her lips. She couldn't say anything, not now— not when he was looking at her. But, she wanted to.

    She'd sleep on it.

  

      Lucy hardly had the energy to breathe. She slept horribly— and, according to Steve, who had checked on her, she had been tossing and turning until dawn. Now, her eyes were heavy, and she felt the exhaustion weight in. Her fluffy hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing the same outfit she wore last night— jeans, a t-shirt, and Steve's grey windbreaker. As a yawn escaped her lips, she sunk deeper into the rock-hard chair beneath her.