Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Thirty-Nine. The Ache of His Absence

THIRTY-NINE
— the ache of his absence

IT WAS LIKE she had been living a life of silence. A quiet, colorless, life. When his lips closed around hers, when his calloused hands held her soft face, the silence exploded, and she was thrown into a world of colors. Every single thought, everything that mattered, was stripped from her tired brain. She saw him. Him, him, him. His lips on hers, his hands in her hair, the feeling of his breath on her face.

She tasted like cheap cherry chapstick and she felt like silk. His left hand was tangled in her hair, brown waves looped around his fingers. His right was firm on the small of her back, the palm of his hand pressing to the fabric of her shirt. He was careful. So careful, it worried her. It wasn't lustful, his kiss wasn't filled with an alarming hunger. He was wanting, he was gentle, and he was savoring every bit. With the way Steve held her, she felt like she could disappear. His arm looped around her back, and pressed her closer to his chest, as if she were going to dissipate at any given moment.

His hands discovered every detail of her. The dip of her waist, the curves of her hips. With each time he reattached their lips, she remembered— she remembered the hate-filled words that poured from her mouth in the past. She remembered the glares she shot his way, the angry thoughts she had planted on him. Now, her mind was empty. She wanted more of him.

    Her fingertips bathed in his hair. She breathed against him carefully, and the air that left her nostrils stung. The air nipped at them, and a cool breeze drove the two closer together. Lucy pulled away first, with a sharp exhale. She fluttered her eyes open, and she backed up, just slightly. Her chest heaved, her nerves burned, and her stomach was in a knot.

    He opened his eyes. Steve saw her, everything about her. He saw that her brow was furrowed, just in the middle, so her face had a gentleness to it. Her lips were swollen, and the tip of her nose was pink. Freckles painted her rosy cheeks. She looked up at him, and his pupils dilated. Hers were already blown wide, consuming her brown-green irises. He didn't chase her lips. He stayed there, watching her, watching the emotions on her face. He realized how long he had wanted to kiss her, and how long he had been kicking himself for not kissing her.

He reconnected their lips, and her chest fell. Lucy pulled away, her left hand firm on his chest. "Steve," she mumbled, words airy against his bottom lip. He hummed in response, a low, short groan, one that came from his chest. "Steve, hey."

    Her face was in his hands. She shook her head, quickly. "We can't, we can't," she whispered. Steve's thumbs smoothed down her cheeks, the pads of his fingers moving over her smile-lines.

    "Why?" he asked, eyes softening. Steve pushed her hair from her eyes. He used his whole hand, and she moved into his touch.

    Lucy choked on her words. She swallowed dryly, and exhaled. "What about Nancy?"

    He groaned. Steve's thumb caressed her face, fingers pressed hard to her skin, as if he were trying to smudge the freckles that lined her cheekbone.

Her brow twitched. "This changes things."

He shook his head. Steve moved his hand from her face, and towards her hair, were he tucked the front stands behind her ear. "It doesn't have to," he spoke. His brown eyes traced her face. "You can still hate me. You can spend every minute, of everyday, loathing me. And, I'll love you in silence," Steve whispered. "If that's what you want."