Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s been a year.
Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five days. Countless times he’s said it. “Book ‘em, Danno.”
And still, every single time, it hits like a sucker punch to the gut. Sharp, hot, and stupidly addictive.
I should be used to it by now. I should be over the whole ritual, the tone in his voice, the goddamn smirk that curls at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing. Which, let’s be honest, he does. Steve McGarrett doesn’t accidentally manipulate people. No, that bastard is precision incarnate, a SEAL with a badge and the emotional subtlety of a nuclear warhead.
And I? I’m the idiot who can’t breathe right when he says my name like that.
We still work like clockwork. Even better. The team thinks we’ve “matured,” which is hilarious. Chin made a toast at the last office barbecue about how Steve and I “finally found balance.” Kono nodded like it was some miracle.
But what they don’t see is what happens after the shift ends. When the badge comes off. When the only authority Steve uses is the kind I’ve asked for. Begged for.

Jesus.

He doesn't touch me at work. Not really. Not beyond the usual “good job, buddy” pats or shoulder bumps during a chase. But I can still feel it. The charge. The leash. It's in the way he looks at me when I speak out of turn during an interrogation, how his eyes harden slightly, not angry, just… reminding me. I don’t know how he does that. Reminds me without saying a word.
And me? I respond. Like I was built to respond to him. I lower my voice. I pull back. I correct myself.
Sometimes I hear myself and think: Jesus Christ, Danny. You used to be a lion. What the hell happened?

And it started slowly. A word here, a hand there. A look that made my knees itch with the urge to kneel, even though I never have. Not once. That’s not what this is. It’s not about leather or cuffs or any of the stuff people write fanfiction about. God help us if the internet ever finds out. It’s quieter than that. Sicker. Softer. It’s trust, twisted into something decadent.
Steve handles my whole body like it’s his jurisdiction. Like he gets to decide how I walk, speak, breathe. And the fucked up thing is… I like it.

Work hasn’t suffered. That’s the worst part. If it had, if we’d gotten sloppy - I’d have an excuse to pull away. But no, we’ve never been sharper. He says “go left,” I already turned. I blink, and he’s handing me a loaded mag without a word. We anticipate each other like twin tides.

And I think that’s what kills me most, just how good this feels. Like we were always meant to function like this. Like this isn’t some creepy co-dependent disaster and simply… evolution.

But at night…when he pushes me into walls or corners or the backseat of his truck, I forget all the justifications. I forget logic, forget Jersey, forget that I used to hate being told what to do.

Now I crave it.

Tonight, for example.

We wrapped up a hostage situation in Kalihi, and I’d barely gotten the guy cuffed before Steve said it. Not loud. Not even directed at me.

Just: “Book ‘em, Danno.”

And just like that, I was gone.

Now I’m in his kitchen, pretending to be normal while he makes us post-case whiskey on the rocks like it’s just another Tuesday. He hands me a glass, brushes my fingers slightly, and grins.

“I think you scared the crap out of that rookie today,” he says, easy. “You almost bit his head off during the perimeter check.”

I take a sip, because I need the burn. “He was sloppy. Didn’t check his six.”

“You used to do that.”

I snort. “You cured me of that.”

His eyes flash, and there it is again. That flicker of command in the shape of amusement. “Damn right I did.”

We’re standing closer now, the air between us heavy with the day’s adrenaline and something else. Something that’s been building since the moment we breached that warehouse together, since I followed his lead without a second thought, since he watched me take down the suspect with a precision I didn’t know I had until he demanded it.

“You did good today,” he says.

“I just kept my mouth shut,” I reply, aiming for sarcastic, but it comes out quiet, too raw.

Steve steps closer. His hand grazes the side of my neck. Enough to make my breath hitch. His thumb rests there.

“That’s not why,” he says. “You made the right calls. You didn’t hesitate.”

No. I don’t say: Because you were watching.
I don’t say: Because I like the way you look at me when I’m good.

I lean into his hand. “Say it again.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean.

His fingers tighten briefly on my neck. His eyes lock on mine, and that smirk, the one that unravels me, curls just enough to make my chest ache.

“You did good, Danny,” he says, slower this time, like he’s savoring the words.

I’m trembling now, and I hate(I don’t think so) that he can feel it under his hand. Hate that he knows exactly what this does to me. However, I don’t pull away. ‘Cause I don’t want to.

He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. He never moves first.

That’s my job.

So I do. I set down the glass. I step into his space. I breathe in that smell - gunpowder, sweat, expensive soap. I tilt my chin up and mutter, “One more time.”

His fingers hook into my belt like reins. He leans close, and just before he speaks, I swear I could come from the silence alone.

“Book ‘em, Danno.”
And just like that, my knees go weak.

Chapter Text

There’s this thing Steve does when he’s trying to pretend he’s a normal human being: he offers me coffee. Not just “Hey, Danno, want a cup?” but a whole dramatic production. He grinds his own beans, like some artisanal barista-commando hybrid, and brews it like it’s a sacred ritual. I half expect him to chant in Hawaiian and summon ancestral caffeine spirits. The man’s got a French press in the office kitchenette, for God’s sake. Who does that?

Today is one of those days.

I walk into Five-0 HQ, and the smell hits me before I even reach my desk: dark roast, slightly burnt, probably over-extracted like every goddamn thing Steve touches. The office is its usual mix of organized chaos: files stacked precariously on Chin’s desk, Kono’s surfboard leaning against a wall, and a faint hum of servers that never sleep. My chair creaks as I drop into it, already regretting the day.

“There he is,” Steve says, emerging from the kitchenette like a smug caffeine deity, holding two mugs. “Got your favorite.”

“I highly doubt that,” I mutter, taking the cup anyway. It’s hot. Strong. Too strong. “What is this, espresso for Navy SEALs? I can feel my heart trying to escape my chest.”

He grins. That lopsided, charming, punchable grin. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You’re welcome anyway.”

I’m about to come up with a truly scathing comeback when the front door opens and familiar voices float in.

The rest of the team trickles in. Kono with her hair still damp from an early surf, Chin already in full uncle-mode, lecturing her on something she did or didn’t do yesterday.

“–and next time, you ask before you mess with my drone, yeah?”

Kono rolls her eyes, tossing her bag onto a chair. “Relax, cuz. I brought it back in one piece. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Chin’s eyebrows shoot up, and I can’t help but snort into my coffee.

Then Lou swaggers in, his suit crisp despite the humidity, a toothpick dangling from his mouth like he’s auditioning for a cop movie.

“Y’all arguing about drones again? Thought this was a task force, not a tech support hotline.”

“Morning to you too, Lou,” I say, raising my mug. “You’re awfully chipper for someone who hates mornings.”

“Chipper? Nah, this is survival mode, Williams. Got a teenager at home who thinks 6 a.m. is debate club time.” He shakes his head, dropping into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “Somebody get me coffee before I arrest my own kid.”

Steve, still leaning against my desk and points to the kitchenette. “Help yourself, Grover. I’m not your barista.”

“Man, you’re out here grinding beans like you’re opening a café, and I gotta serve myself?” Lou grumbles but heads for the coffee anyway, muttering about “fancy SEAL nonsense.”

The vibe in the room is warm, familiar, like a family reunion you didn’t realize you signed up for. Kono’s teasing Chin about his “vintage” aloha shirt, Lou’s fake-complaining about the coffee’s strength, and Steve’s just watching it all with that half-smile, like he’s proud of the chaos he’s assembled. I let myself relax a little, savoring the moment.Which is a mistake. Because Steve has that look. The one that says, “Buckle up, Danno, we’re about to make terrible decisions.” I know it well. It usually ends with property damage, explosions, and me yelling, “Why are we doing this again?” while chasing him through a warehouse or dodging bullets.

“Got something for us?” I ask, already bracing for impact.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just sips his coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug like a predator sizing up prey. Jesus. Here it comes.

Finally, he tosses a file onto my desk with a casual flick. “Triple homicide in Waikiki. Hotel room. Looks like a deal gone wrong.”

I flip it open. Three bodies, blood everywhere, expensive suits, and bullet wounds in neat little patterns. The photos are grim - high-end hotel room turned slaughterhouse. “Clean work,” I mutter. “Professional?”

“Possibly cartel. Or someone pretending to be,” Steve says already in mission mode.

Kono leans over my shoulder, her brow furrowed as she scans the photos. “Security footage?”

“Working on it,” Chin replies, seated at his tech station, fingers flying over a keyboard. His setup looks like something out of a sci-fi movie: multiple monitors, blinking lights, and a coffee mug that says “Keep Calm and Hack On.” “Hotel’s system is encrypted, but I’ll have it cracked in ten.”

“Make it five,” Steve says, and Chin just nods, unfazed. That’s Chin for you. Cool under pressure, the guy who holds the team together when Steve’s off playing Rambo.

Lou steps up, peering at the file. “Three vics, all suits? Smells like a business meeting gone south. Drug deal, maybe?”

“Or money laundering,” Kono adds, tapping a photo of a briefcase stuffed with cash, now splattered with blood. “That’s a lot of green for a hotel room chat.”

Steve’s eyes flick back to me, still holding that damn look. “Feel like taking a field trip, Detective?”

“There it is,” I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “The glint. The glimmer. That little sparkle in your eye that says ‘let’s make poor life choices together.’”

He actually chuckles, a low rumble that’s equal parts annoying and endearing. “Come on. You love it.”

“I love peace and quiet, McGarrett. I love not getting shot at. I love sitting in my car, drinking terrible gas station coffee, and not being blown up.”

Kono smirks, grabbing her jacket. “You say that, Danny, but you’re still here.”

“Against my will,” I shoot back, but I’m already standing, grabbing my keys. The team’s energy is infectious, and as much as I complain, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Nevertheless the crime scene is… a mess. There’s blood on the walls, on the curtains, in the mini-fridge. Two bodies slumped near the bed, one by the balcony. Steve does his brooding-Alpha inspection. Crouches down, studies bullet trajectories, sniffs the air like he’s part wolf.

I make a mental note to ask if that’s standard SEAL training.

“Someone was watching,” he says quietly, pointing to a vent that’s been shifted just enough to suggest tampering. “And someone left fast.”

“Any signs of forced entry?”

He shakes his head. “Cards all scanned in properly. Someone knew the system.”

Chin calls in on comms. “Got footage. Third man left the room at 2:03 a.m. Hood up, face obscured. But he left a trail.”

“Let’s follow it,” Steve says.

Of course.

Two hours later, we’re sprinting through a flea market because our suspect  (surprise!) didn’t feel like cooperating. Steve’s ten feet ahead, dodging vendors, yelling “Five-0!” like it’s a magical incantation that gives him the right to shove fruit stands.

I’m behind him, gasping for breath and hating my life.

“This is why I don’t run!” I wheeze. “This is why normal cops use radios and backup!”

Steve vaults a table like it’s a damn Olympic event.

I nearly trip over a pineapple. A pineapple! This island is trying to kill me.

Chin’s calm as ever voice comes through the comms. “Suspect’s heading for the alley behind the poke stand. Cut him off at the next intersection.”

“Easy for you to say,” I pant, dodging a vendor waving a lei in my face. “You’re sitting in an air-conditioned van!”

“Somebody’s gotta be the brains,” Chin replies, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. We catch the guy eventually, corner him in an alley, panting, arms raised, face covered in sweat and defiance. Steve pins him with that laser stare and starts rattling off Miranda rights like they’re gospel.

Me? I’m just trying not to throw up.

“Nice work,” Steve says, clapping my shoulder.

“I want hazard pay,” I growl.

“You’ll get coffee.”

“I want to punch you.”

He just smirks.

And god help me, I smile back.

By the time we haul the guy in and file the paperwork, the sun’s already sliding down the sky. There’s a lull. That rare, quiet pocket between chaos and whatever fresh insanity tomorrow brings. We wrap the day with takeout on the beach. Kono brings poke bowls, Chin brings beer, Steve brings his usual inability to sit still. He’s pacing while eating, which I’m convinced is a crime against food. The sunset paints the ocean in gold and orange, and the team settles into the kind of easy rhythm that only comes from surviving days like this together. Kono’s laughing at something Chin said, her voice carrying over the waves. Steve finally sits, tossing a beer cap into the sand like it’s a grenade pin. I lean back, letting the warmth of the moment sink in. It’s not just about the food or the view. It’s the people. This mismatched crew that’s somehow become my family, whether I signed up for it or not. Steve’s knee bumps mine as he shifts, and he doesn’t move away. Neither do I. It’s nothing, just a moment. But it’s enough.

Later, back in my apartment, I replay the day in my head. The coffee that was too strong, the chase that nearly killed me, the way we all pulled it together. I think about the team, the way we fit, even when it’s messy. I close my eyes, and for once, it’s not just one face I see. It’s all of them. Kono’s smirk, Chin’s steady calm, Steve’s ridiculous grin.

And as I drift off, I realize something that doesn’t scare me as much as it should: this is home. Chaos, paperwork, and all.

Chapter Text

There’s a blue shirt in my closet I never wear. Too slim-fit, too stiff at the collar, sleeves that ride up when I move. I don’t even remember why I bought it. Probably some misguided attempt at looking “Hawaii casual” when I first moved here. It still smells faintly of laundry detergent I no longer use.

So when I shuffle into my room at 7:42 a.m. and find Steve already in my kitchen again, frying eggs like he’s auditioning for a cooking show, the last thing I expect him to say is:

“Wear the blue one.”

I freeze mid-step, one sock half-on, looking like I just walked into a parallel universe. “What?”

He doesn’t look up from the pan, spatula moving with surgical precision. “That shirt. The one with the buttons. It looks good on you.”

I blink, brain scrambling to catch up. “How do you even know which- Wait, no. Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“You left your closet open last week. I saw it.” His voice is casual, like he’s commenting on the weather, not my wardrobe.

“I leave my closet open once and now you’re my personal stylist? No. I’m wearing the gray one.” I cross my arms, leaning against the counter, trying to reclaim some authority in my own kitchen.

He flips the eggs, not a single yolk breaking. Show-off. “Blue’s better. Trust me.”

“Trust you? You’re the guy who thinks cargo pants are a personality trait.” I point at his khaki monstrosities, which I’m convinced he owns in bulk. “I’m not wearing it.”

Steve finally looks up, that stupid half-smirk spreading across his face like he’s already won. “You’ll wear it.”

“Will not.” I narrow my eyes, doubling down. “You don’t get to waltz in here, commandeer my stove, and start dictating my fashion choices like you’re Coco Chanel with a Navy SEAL tattoo.”

He snorts, sliding the eggs onto two plates with infuriating ease. “Coco Chanel didn’t have my biceps.”

“Wow. Humble.” I grab a fork, pointing it at him for emphasis. “I’m wearing gray, and you’re gonna deal with it. End of discussion.”

“Danno, you’re gonna wear the blue one, and you’re gonna thank me later.” He slides a plate toward me, the eggs steaming, bacon on the side because of course he knows I’m weak for bacon.

I glare at the plate like it’s a bribe. “You think you can just cook your way into my closet? This is a dictatorship. You’re a dictator.”

“Dictator with breakfast.” He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms, mimicking my stance. “Eat. Then go change.”

I sit, muttering about tyranny, and take a bite. The eggs are perfect, fluffy, just the right amount of salt. Too good for a guy who probably learned to cook over a campfire in a warzone. I don’t tell him that. Instead, I chew aggressively, like it’s a protest. “I’m not changing.”

He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug. “You’re adorable when you’re stubborn.”

“Adorable? I’m a grown man, Steven. I’m not adorable. I’m formidable. Intimidating, even.” I stab a piece of bacon for emphasis.

“Intimidating in gray? Nah. Blue’s your power color.” He’s grinning now, full-on, and it’s like the sun decided to rise in my kitchen.

“Power color? What is this, a self-help seminar? You read that in a magazine at the dentist or something?” I shove the plate aside, standing to make my escape. “I’m done with this conversation. Gray shirt, end of story.”

I stalk to my room, muttering about boundaries and how I’m burning that blue shirt the first chance I get. I grab the gray one, defiantly buttoning it up, but Steve’s voice echoes in my head. It looks good on you. I glance at the blue shirt, hanging there like it’s mocking me. “No,” I tell it, like it’s sentient. “You don’t get to win.”

Back in the kitchen, Steve’s cleaning the pan, looking smug. “Nice choice,” he says, eyeing my gray shirt.

“Don’t start.” I grab my keys, already regretting letting him in my house. Again. “Let’s go before you try to rearrange my furniture too.”

The eggs were good, though. I’ll give him that. Not out loud.

We’re out the door, the morning already drenched in Steve’s chaos. We catch a minor case: stolen boat, some rich guy’s son joyriding with tourists. Nothing major, but enough to justify driving up the coast, checking marinas, interviewing hungover witnesses who all seem to think Steve is a cop from a movie.

“He’s not a character,” I explain to a girl with purple hair and three piercings in her eyebrow. “He’s just like that. That’s his real face.”

She doesn’t believe me, giggling as Steve flashes her a smile that could probably get him elected governor.

Steve, of course, is thriving. He gets a lead out of her in thirty seconds and throws me the keys as we head back to the car.

“Want to drive?” he asks.

“Do I want to? Yes. Will I get to? Probably not, because you’re a control freak who thinks I drive like a Jersey grandma.”

He grins, tossing the keys anyway. “You look good today.”

I pause, hand on the car door. “What?”

“The shirt. Told you.” His eyes flick to my chest, and I realize he’s messing with me.

“Oh, now you’re rewriting history? I’m wearing gray, genius. Your Jedi mind tricks don’t work on me.” I roll my eyes, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Stop looking at me.”

“Too late.” He climbs in, stretching out like the passenger seat was built for him.

I start the car, muttering about how I’m burning all my shirts later. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet, you’re driving me around.” He’s got that smug tone again, the one that makes me want to either punch him or laugh.

“Only because I’m a saint,” I shoot back, pulling onto the road.

At HQ, the team’s in their usual rhythm. Kono’s hunched over her laptop, watching surveillance footage with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. Chin’s at his desk, tinkering with some gadget that looks like it could either hack a satellite or brew coffee, I don’t ask.

Steve strides in like he’s about to brief us on a global conspiracy, while I trail behind, still annoyed about the shirt thing. Kono looks up, smirking.

“Nice shirt, Danny,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Very… neutral.”

I point at her. “Don’t you start. I’ve had enough fashion commentary for one day.”

Steve, leaning against the table, grins. “Told him to wear the blue one.”

Kono’s eyebrows shoot up. “Blue? Oh, that would’ve been a vibe. Why’d you veto it, Danny?”

“Because I’m not his Barbie doll!” I throw my hands up, collapsing into a chair. “I don’t need Captain Cargo Pants over here curating my wardrobe.”

Chin, without looking up from his gadget, chimes in. “Blue’s a good color on you, though. Brings out your eyes.”

I stare at him, betrayed. “You too, Chin? What is this, a conspiracy? Did Steve bribe you all with breakfast?”

“Nah, just facts,” Chin says, finally glancing up with a grin. “But if there’s bacon involved, I’m listening.”

Steve laughs, clapping Chin on the shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring enough for everyone.”

“Excuse me,” I cut in, “can we focus? Stolen boat, joyriding kid, actual police work? Or are we just gonna talk about my closet all day?”

Kono snickers, spinning her laptop toward us. “Relax, Danny. Got a hit on the boat’s GPS. It’s docked at a marina near Waimea. You two want to check it out, or should we keep debating your fashion choices?”

“Waimea,” Steve says, already moving toward the door. “Let’s go, Danno.”

I groan, grabbing my coffee. “Stop calling me that in front of the team. It’s unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional’s your face in that gray shirt,” Steve shoots back, dodging the pen I chuck at him.

Kono calls after us, “Wear the blue one next time, Danny! Trust your stylist!”

I flip her off as we leave, but I’m smiling despite myself. This team’s gonna be the death of me.

The rest of the day unfolds as before: marina interviews, Steve’s high-octane energy, the lagoon case wrapping up with minimal chaos. But the morning’s shirt debate lingers, a small thread in the tapestry of Steve’s relentless presence. By the time he’s at my door with takeout that night, I’m too tired to fight it. Boundaries? Maybe tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Saturday mornings used to be my sanctuary. No calls, no cases, just me and a strong coffee, savoring a few hours where the world could wait. So when Steve McGarrett buzzes my door at 7:45 AM, holding two iced coffees and a bag of musubi, I open it in my boxers, one eyebrow raised, already knowing what’s coming.
“Really, Steve? Before eight?” I say, leaning against the doorframe, my voice more amused than annoyed. Five years of this guy, and I’ve learned his playbook.
“Breakfast,” he says, slipping past me with that grin that’s equal parts charm and trouble. He’s halfway to my kitchen before I can blink.
“Breakfast doesn’t mean you get to invade my space,” I call after him, shutting the door. But I’m already trailing him, my bare feet slapping the floor, curiosity winning over my fake protest.
He’s at my kitchen table, unpacking the bag like he’s done it a hundred times. I drop into a chair, eyeing the iced coffee he slides my way. “We working?”
“Nope,” he says, popping open a musubi container, the smell of spam and rice filling the room. He’s too awake for this hour, but that’s Steve, always on.
“Then what’s this about?” I ask, taking a sip of the coffee. The cold jolt wakes me up, and I tilt my head, waiting for the pitch.
“Thought we could do something. Hike, maybe surf.” He leans back, looking way too comfortable in my kitchen, like he’s got a lease on the place.
I snort, setting the coffee down. “You thought? What, I don’t get a vote?”
“You vote by showing up, Danno,” he says, winking. “Sun’s up, waves are good. You in or what?”
I roll my eyes and grab a musubi, biting into it. It’s good, too good, and I hate how he nails my taste every time. “Fine, but only because you brought food. Don’t think this means I’m signing up for your Navy SEAL boot camp.”
So by 9:00, we’re on some trail he knows like the back of his hand, not quite a mountain but steep enough to make me question my life choices. Steve moves like he was born out here, all smooth strides and zero hesitation, while I’m mostly keeping pace grumbling under my breath for effect. The humidity’s sticking my shirt to my back, but the view’s worth it: cliffs, green canopy, ocean sparkling in the distance.
“You alive back there, Danno?” Steve calls, glancing over his shoulder, that half-smirk telling me he knows I’m fine.
“Stop with the Danno,” I shoot back and smirking too. I pause to catch my breath, leaning against a rock, sipping from my water bottle. He slows up ahead, not pushing me to hurry, just waiting.
When I catch up, he’s leaning against a tree, looking out at the view. “Not bad, right?” he says, nodding toward the ocean.
I shrug, wiping sweat from my brow. “I’ve seen better. Jersey Shore’s got its charms.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”
We fall into step, the trail leveling out. It’s quiet for a bit, just the crunch of dirt and the hum of the island around us. I don’t say it, but these moments - him not pushing, me not complaining - they’re why I don’t kick him out when he shows up at my door.
At HQ, we’re pulled into a robbery case. High-end neighborhood, clean break-in, no suspects. It’s routine: canvas the area, check footage, dig through reports. I’m at my desk, pulling vehicle traffic data, when Steve leans over, pointing at a camera feed on my screen.
“Try this one,” he says, his arm brushing mine.
I nod, already clicking into it. “Good call. I was getting there.”
He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Let me know what you find.” He heads to his desk, and I shake my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. He’s always nudging, but I’ve learned to roll with it. Doesn’t mean I won’t do things my way.
Across the room, Kono’s perched on Chin’s desk, scrolling through her tablet. “You two playing nice today?” she teases, glancing up.
“Always,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Unlike some people who hog desk space.”
She laughs, tossing her hair. “Chin doesn’t mind. Right, cuz?”
Chin looks up, deadpan. “I’m just trying to work here.”
Lou, sprawled at his desk, chimes in. “McGarrett, you bring anybody else breakfast, or is Danny the only one getting VIP treatment?”
Steve doesn’t look up from his screen. “Danny’s the only one who needs bribing.”
“Bribing?” I scoff, pointing at him. “You’re the one who can’t function without me.”
“Keep dreaming, Williams,” Steve says, but he’s grinning, and the team laughs, the room settling into its usual rhythm.
Kono slides off Chin’s desk, walking over. “What’s the deal with this robbery? Anything good?”
I sigh, rubbing my eyes. “Just rich folks missing their shiny toys. No prints, no witnesses. You want to pull neighbor’s security feeds? Might catch a repeat vehicle.”
“On it,” she says, heading back to her desk. Chin calls out, “Steve, you got those traffic logs?”
“Almost,” Steve replies. I glance over, catching the way he’s hunched over his keyboard, like the case is personal. I don’t ask why. Not my style.
At lunch, I suggest we split up to cover more ground. “I’ll take south,” I say, grabbing my keys, already moving.
“North it is,” Steve says, following me out. There’s a beat where he hesitates, like he wants to say something, but he just nods and heads off.
Two hours later, we regroup, and I find traffic logs on my desk for my sector and his. I raise an eyebrow holding up the stack. “You did my homework?”
“Just helping out,” he says, leaning against the wall, casual as ever.
I shake my head, flipping through the logs. “Appreciated, but I had it. Next time, let me pull my own weight.”
He nods, no argument. “Fair enough.”
Kono walks by, sensing the vibe. “You two good, or do I need to stage an intervention?”
“We’re golden,” I say, waving her off. She smirks, heading to the break room.
Back at the office, I notice Steve’s fancy pen on my desk again. I toss it back to his drawer, grabbing my cheap one that clicks too loud. He glances up, smirking but saying nothing. When I step out for a bathroom break, I come back to a printed case report on my desk. His margins, his spacing, his pen on top.
I laugh under my breath, picking up the pen. “You’re relentless,” I say, loud enough for him to hear.
“Efficient,” he corrects, not looking up.
I rewrite the last page with my pen, just to make a point, but I’m not mad. It’s Steve. He’s always been like this, and I’ve learned to pick my battles.
Chin, catching the exchange, shakes his head. “You two are something else.”
Lou leans over. “They’re like brothers. Always gotta one-up each other.”
“Brothers?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I’m the responsible one, then.”
“Sure you are,” Steve mutters, and the room laughs again.
That night, we’re at Steve’s lanai, the usual post-case ritual. He hands me an open beer, and we sit, the ocean’s rhythm cutting through the silence. It’s comfortable, familiar.
After a while, he speaks, voice low. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say, meaning it. “Just navigating your chaos, as usual.”
He chuckles, but there’s a question in his eyes. “You’ve been… pushing back more lately.”
I turn to him, considering. “Not pushing back. Just doing things my way. We’re partners, Steve. Not leader and follower.”
He nods, slow, like he’s turning it over. “I know. Just want us to keep syncing up.”
“We do,” I say, clinking my bottle against his. “Most of the time.”
Kono’s voice cuts through from the driveway. “Hope you’re sharing those beers!”
“Get your own!” Steve calls back, grinning. Kono, Chin, and Lou appear, six-pack in hand, settling into the lanai like it’s their second home.
“Crashing the party?” I ask, leaning back.
“Saving it,” Kono says, tossing Steve a beer. “You two looked like you needed backup.”
“From what?” Steve asks, amused.
“From brooding,” Lou says, cracking open a beer. “You’re both too serious tonight.”
Chin raises his bottle. “To the team. Keeping it real.”
We all clink, the night easing into laughter and stories: Kono’s surf wins, Chin’s tech obsession, Lou’s kid’s soccer drama. Steve’s watching me, just for a second, and I meet his gaze. We’re good. And after five years, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

The morning draped Oahu in a golden haze, the air thick with the promise of heat, heavy with the scent of salt and blooming plumeria carried on a lazy breeze. The sun is already climbing, painting the sky in streaks of coral and amber, as if the island itself is stretching awake. Inside our little slice of chaos, I wake to the grating screech of our ancient blender, a sound like a chainsaw chewing through metal, punctuated by Steve McGarrett’s frustrated growl. It was a noise that could wake the dead or at least me, still groggy from a night of tossing and turning, my dreams a tangle of case files and Steve’s infuriatingly smug grin.

“You piece of junk! Blend, damn it!” His voice carried that dangerous undercurrent he usually reserved for cornered suspects or, apparently, malfunctioning kitchen gadgets. It was the kind of tone that made you want to snap to attention or duck for cover, depending on your relationship with him.

I shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes, my bare feet sticking to the cool, slightly tacky tile floor. The air smelled of burnt coffee, a faint whiff of something grassy, like a lawnmower’s revenge, and the sharp, metallic tang of Steve’s determination. He stands at the counter, broad shoulders hunched, his Navy SEAL physique filling out a faded gray T-shirt that clung to him in ways I was actively trying not to notice. Dark hair was still mussed from sleep, and his jaw was set in a way that suggested he is waging a personal war against the blender.

“You can’t force it, babe,” I say, leaning against the counter, my voice still rough with the gravel of sleep. I cross my arms, the motion pulling at the thin cotton of my own T-shirt. “That thing’s older than both of us combined. It’s practically a museum piece. You should donate it to the Smithsonian under ‘Artifacts of Misguided Optimism.’”

Steve doesn’t look up. He jams the lid down harder, his knuckles whitening, as if sheer willpower could bully the machine into submission. “I need it to work, Danny,” he says, each word clipped and sharp, as he is defusing a bomb instead of making breakfast. “This is non-negotiable.”

I raise an eyebrow, fighting the urge to laugh. “Why? You whipping up another one of your lawn-smoothies? What is that, kale and regret? Spinach and existential dread?”

He snorts, finally pausing to shoot me a look. “It’s a protein blend. For stamina.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close enough to make my chest do a weird little flip.

“Stamina,” I echo, dragging the word out, leaning forward just enough to catch his eye. “For what, exactly? Solving crimes in record time or swimming laps around Oahu with a pack of sharks trailing you?”

He straightens, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and that’s when the full, cocky, and infuriatingly charming smirk breaks free. “Both,” he says, stepping closer. “You questioning my multitasking skills, Danno?”

Before I can fire back with something witty or at least something that didn’t make me sound like a flustered idiot he moves past me, his hand grazing my lower back as he reaches for a glass on the counter. Just two fingers, brushing against the thin cotton of my T-shirt, right at the base of my spine. A casual touch. Meaningless. Except it wasn’t. The warmth of his hand lingered like a static charge, spreading up my spine and rooting me to the spot. My breath hitches, and I hate myself for it. And on top of that my heart gives a single, hard thud, like it is trying to break free and make a run for it. I turn, ready to call him out, but he is already pouring a vile-looking green sludge into a cup, acting like he hasn’t just short-circuited my entire nervous system. His focus is on the drink, his brow furrowed in that way that made him look like a man on a mission. I open my mouth, then close it. What was I even going to say? Hey, stop touching me like that because it’s messing with my head?

Instead, I grab a mug from the cabinet, pour myself some of the burnt coffee, and lean back against the counter, watching him sip his smoothie like it was fine wine. The kitchen is quiet now, save for the hum of the fridge and the distant crash of waves against the shore outside. I study him, the way his throat moves as he swallows, the way his fingers grip the glass just a little too tightly. There was something about Steve in these moments, when the world wasn’t watching, that made him seem… human. Not the invincible SEAL, not the fearless leader of Five-0, but just Steve. A guy who gets pissed at blenders and drinks smoothies that looked like swamp water.

“You know,” I say, breaking the silence, “if you spent half as much energy on paperwork as you do fighting that blender, we’d have the governor’s office begging us to slow down.”

He chuckles, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Paperwork’s your thing, Danny. I’m the action guy, remember?” He leans against the counter opposite me, mirroring my stance, his arms crossed over his chest. The space between us is maybe three feet, but it feels like inches, the air charged with something I couldn’t name.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee to hide the way my eyes keep drifting to his. “Action guy. More like reckless guy. You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, you know that?”

His smirk softens and he tilts his head. “You’re tougher than that, Danno,” he says quieter now. “You can handle me.”

The words hung there, heavy, and I swear the room gets smaller. I swallow, my throat tight, and force a laugh. “Handle you? I’m still trying to survive your cooking.”

He laughs then, a real laugh, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes my stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the coffee. “You love it,” he says, pushing off the counter and heading for the sink, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding like I just ran a marathon. Did he know what he was doing? Did he know how that low teasing tone hit me like a punch I hadn’t braced for?

I watch his back as he moves to the sink, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under T-shirt, the one that was just tight enough to remind me he is built like a weapon, all precision and power. The faucet hisses to life, and he rinses his glass with the kind of focus most people reserved for disarming explosives. Casual. Oblivious. Or maybe not. Maybe he knows exactly what he is doing, tossing out those words, that touch, like grenades he doesn’t stick around to watch explode.

My heart is still hammering, each beat loud enough I was sure he could hear it over the running water. I want to say something, anything, to break the tension coiling tighter in my gut. Something sharp to cut through the haze, to put us back on solid ground. But my mouth is dry, my tongue stuck, and all I can do is stare at the way his hands move: deliberate, steady, like he could dismantle my defenses as easily as he takes apart that blender.

“Danno,” he says, not turning around, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. The nickname rolls off his tongue like it is second nature, but there was something else in it this time, something that makes my breath catch again. “You’re awfully quiet over there. You okay?”

I force a laugh, the sound rough and unconvincing even to my own ears. “Me? I’m fine. Just wondering how you manage to make a smoothie look like a war crime and still act like it’s gourmet.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and finally turns, leaning back against the sink with his arms crossed, the dish towel slung over one shoulder. His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, I forget how to blink. “You’re deflecting,” he says, his lips twitching into that half-smirk that drives me up the wall. “What’s got you so rattled, huh?”

You, I want to say. You and your stupid smoothie and your stupid hands and the way you keep saying my name like it’s a secret we’re both in on. But I just shake my head, take a too-hot gulp of coffee that burns my throat, and mutter, “You’re a menace, McGarrett. That’s what’s got me rattled.”

He laughs again, and the sound is like a match struck in the dark, lighting up something I wasn’t ready to face. He pushes off the sink, closing the distance between us in two easy steps, and for one wild, stupid moment, I think he might touch me again. But he doesn’t. He just grabs his keys from the counter, tosses them in the air, and catches them without breaking eye contact. “Come on,” he says. “We’ve got a day to survive.”

And just like that, he is out the door, leaving me to follow, my heart still racing, my head a mess of questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to.

The call comes in just after noon, shattering the quiet rhythm of our morning. A body had been found near Waimanalo Beach, half-buried in the sand, wallet gone, signs of a struggle etched into the scene. Steve’s demeanor shifts in an instant, like a switch flipping from laid-back partner to Navy SEAL commander. He is on the phone before I can blink, barking orders to the forensics team, his voice sharp and precise as he maps out possible routes the suspect might have taken. It is like watching a machine come online, all focus and purpose, the playful Steve from the kitchen gone in a heartbeat.

I grab my badge and follow him out the door, the weight of the case already settling over us. That’s what I do, I follow him, whether it’s into a crime scene or the kind of trouble that leaves scars.

The drive to Waimanalo is brutal. The sun is a relentless hammer, beating down on the truck’s windshield, turning the cab into a sauna. My shirt clings to my back, damp with sweat, and every bump in the road sends a jolt through my spine. The air conditioning is fighting a losing battle, wheezing like an asthmatic in a dust storm. I glance at Steve, his sunglasses reflecting the glare of the sun. He doesn’t seem to notice the heat, or if he does, he is too stubborn to acknowledge it.

“You okay?” my voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

He doesn’t turn, just gives a short nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About the case?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Among other things.”

I shift in my seat, the leather creaking under me, the heat making my shirt stick to my skin in all the wrong places. The air conditioning is losing its fight, and the cab smells faintly of salt, motor oil, and the clean, sharp scent of Steve’s aftershave. I want to ask. God, I want to ask. What other things? What’s got you so deep in your head that even you, Mr. Navy SEAL Zen, look like you’re wrestling with something you can’t punch into submission?

However the moment slips through my fingers, like sand on that damn beach we are headed to. I glance at him, his profile sharp against the glare of the sun, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the tension in his jaw. He is always like this on cases, but there was something else today, something quieter, heavier. Like he is carrying a weight I couldn’t see.

“You sure you’re okay?” I try again, my voice softer this time, almost lost in the hum of the engine. I didn’t know why I am pushing, why I can’t just let it go. Maybe because I was tired of the unspoken things piling up between us, the half-glances, the touches that lingered too long, the way he’d say my name like it meant more than it should.

He doesn’t answer right away. His thumb taps the steering wheel. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Just… got a lot on my mind.”

I open my mouth to push harder, to demand something concrete, but the radio crackles, Chin’s voice cutting through with an update on the crime scene. The moment snaps shut like a trap, and Steve’s focus shifts, his posture straightening as he responds with a clipped, “Copy that.”

I lean back, my head against the headrest, and let out a slow breath. The truck roars on, carrying us toward the beach, toward the body, toward the kind of chaos that is easier to deal with than whatever is brewing between us. I tell myself it didn’t matter, that I’d let it go. But the question “what other things?” burns in the back of my mind.

The crime scene is worse than I’d imagined. The body - a man in his late twenties - lies partially exposed, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle, his face half-covered by sand. Bruising bloomed dark and ugly across his throat, a map of violence that told a story of rage, not randomness. I crouch beside him, the heat of the sand searing through my pants, and study the marks. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. This was personal.

Steve stands a few feet away, his sunglasses reflecting the glare of the sun, his posture rigid as he scans the scene. “We’re looking for someone close,” he says.

I nod, brushing sand from my hands as I stand. “Family, ex, maybe a roommate. Someone who knew his routines, knew he’d be out here.” I squint against the glare, the salt air stinging my eyes. “This wasn’t random. You don’t choke someone like that unless you’re angry. Really angry.”

He turns to me, his eyes hidden behind those damn shades. “Let’s start with who he was with last night.” Then, without warning, he tosses me the keys to his truck, the metal glinting as they arc through the air.

I catch them, my fingers closing around the warm keyring, and stare at him, my brain short-circuiting for the second time that day. “You’re letting me drive your truck?” I ask, my voice laced with disbelief. Steve’s truck is his baby, his sacred chariot. He doesn’t let just anyone behind the wheel. Hell, he barely lets me touch the radio.

He shrugs, already walking toward the crime scene tape, his boots kicking up little clouds of sand. “Don’t make it weird, Danny.”

But I am already making it weird. I climb into the driver’s seat, the leather hot against my thighs, and grip the wheel a little too tightly as I start the engine. I slide the key into the ignition, my fingers still buzzing from the weight of the keyring, from the way Steve tosses it to me like it is no big deal. The truck’s engine comes alive with a deep, guttural snarl, vibrating through the seat and into my bones, amplifying the restless energy that is building all day. My hands tighten on the wheel, the leather warm and slightly worn under my palms, and I can feel Steve’s presence beside me, a steady heat that is somehow louder than the engine. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not when my head is still spinning from the crime scene, from the way he stands there, all sharp edges and quiet intensity, scanning the sand like he can see the answers written in it. Not when my skin still remembers the ghost of his touch from that morning, a fleeting brush that had no business lingering this long. I shift the truck into gear, the movement jerky, my foot a little too heavy on the gas as we pull away from the beach.

“You’re driving like you’re mad at the road,” Steve’s voice cutting through the low growl of the engine. I can hear the smirk in it, that infuriating mix of amusement and challenge that always makes me want to either punch him or pull him closer.

“Yeah, well,” I shoot back, keeping my eyes on the road, “maybe I’m mad at the guy who thinks tossing me his keys makes him less of a control freak.”

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that fills the cab and makes my chest tighten. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, stretching out in the passenger seat, one arm propped against the window, the other resting casually on his thigh. “Not everyone gets to drive my baby.”

I snort, risking a glance at him. Big mistake. He is watching me, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, his eyes catching the late afternoon light in a way that makes them look like the damn ocean we just left. “Don’t get used to it,” I mutter, forcing my gaze back to the road. “This is a one-time deal. Next time, you’re back to playing chauffeur.”

“Sure, Danno,” he says, and there it is again. I grip the wheel harder, my knuckles paling, and try to focus on the road, on the case, on anything but the way his voice wraps around me. The truck’s growl is steady now, a low rumble that matches the tension in my gut, a reminder that no matter how fast I drive, I can’t outrun whatever this is.

The radio crackles again, Kono’s voice updating us on Kai’s background check. I let Steve handle it, his tone all business as he asks for details, but my mind is elsewhere, tangled in the weight of his keys in my hand, the trust in that small gesture, and the question I still haven’t asked: Why me? Why now?

We track down the victim’s roommate by mid-afternoon, a wiry bartender named Kai with a rap sheet for petty theft and a nervous twitch that screamed guilt. We find him at his apartment, a cramped, dimly lit place that smelled of stale beer and desperation. He is pacing when we walk in, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes darting between us like a cornered animal.

“Kai, sit down,” Steve leans against the wall, arms crossed, every inch the predator sizing up his prey.

“I didn’t do nothing,” Kai stammers, collapsing onto a sagging couch. “I swear, man, I just-”

“Save it,” I cut in, sitting across from him, my notebook open. “You and your roommate, Jason, you had a fight last night, didn’t you? What was it about?”

Kai’s eyes widen, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard and fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. “It wasn’t a big deal, okay? He owed me money, and I… I got mad. But I didn’t mean to-” His voice cracks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Steve slowly pushes off the wall. “You didn’t mean to what, Kai? Push him? Choke him? Leave him out there to die?”

Kai’s head snaps up, his face pale. “No! I didn’t- I mean, I pushed him, yeah, but I didn’t think he’d… I panicked, okay? I didn’t know what to do!”

The confession spills out like water from a broken dam, messy and unstoppable. Kai’s shoulders slump, his bravado crumbling as he admits to the fight, the shove, the moment he realizes Jason isn’t getting up. Steve’s voice cuts through the air, low and teasing, with that familiar lilt that always catches me off guard. “Book ‘em, Danno.”

My heart thuds too loud in my chest. The words hit me like a wave, not because of what they were, but because of how he says them. His voice is warm, anchoring, carrying a weight that feels… different. I glance over my shoulder, and there he is, leaning against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other resting casually on his hip. His sunglasses are off now, and those damn ocean-blue eyes lock onto mine, a half-smirk playing on his lips.

I stand, pulling the cuffs from my belt, the metal cool against my palm. “Kai, you’re under arrest for the murder of Jason Reed,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline humming through me. I grab his wrist, twisting it behind his back, the cuffs clicking into place with a sharp, final sound.

“Get him to the car,” I mutter, shoving him toward the uniforms waiting by the door, trying to shake off the feeling.

Steve doesn’t move, just watches as the uniforms take Kai away. I stay behind, scribble my notes for the report, pen scratching against the paper, but my focus keeps slipping. I can still see him in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he owns the place, his posture loose and his sharp eyes pinning me in place. That smirk. The way he says my name, like it is more than just a catchphrase, like it carries a weight I wasn’t ready to unpack. My fingers flex, the tingling spreading up my arms, and I shake them out, trying to ground myself in the task at hand.

“Detective Williams?” One of the uniforms, a young guy with a buzz cut and a nervous edge, hovers nearby, holding out a clipboard. “Need your signature for the transfer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I take the clipboard, scrawl my name, and hand it back, my eyes drifting to the doorway where Steve is. He is gone now, probably outside coordinating with Chin or checking the perimeter, doing whatever it is he does when the adrenaline starts to fade. But his absence doesn’t make the room feel any less charged, like the air is still holding its breath, waiting for him to walk back in.

I step toward the window, the late afternoon sun slanting through the grimy blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. Oahu stretches out beyond the glass, all vibrant greens and shimmering blues, and it feels distant, like a postcard I couldn’t quite reach. The day is a whirlwind: crime scene, suspect, confession, all of it moving too fast to process. And yet, my thoughts keep circling back to him.

Why did that… stand out this time?

Chapter Text

The air’s thick, oppressive, holding its breath before a storm. The sky’s a bruised gray, clouds low and heavy, promising rain that doesn’t come. My skin prickles, not just from the humidity but from something deeper, a restless hum in my veins. I can’t shake this feeling that something’s off, like the world’s tilted a degree too far.

I pull into the HQ parking lot, tires grinding over loose gravel, the sound sharp in the quiet morning. The sun glares off the asphalt, a white-hot stab in my eyes, forcing me to squint. Steve’s already there, leaning against his truck’s hood, arms crossed, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the light. Two coffee cups rest on the hood, steam rising in lazy curls, catching the sunlight. Why are you here so early, Steve? What’s with the coffee? You waiting for me?

He spots me, and his grin shifts catching light. “Morning, Danno,”.

I force a smirk, stepping out of the car, keys jangling too loud in my hand. “Moonlighting as a barista now?” I toss the words lightly but throat’s still tight.

He doesn’t look up, just nudges one cup with his knuckle, the motion deliberate. “Only for the VIPs. Don’t get used to it.” His tone’s playful, and navy eyes flick up, locking on mine too long, too steady. My shoulders stiffen, a reflex I can’t control. What’s that look, huh? What are you seeing?

“VIP? So since when I’m elite now?” I try for a laugh, but it catches, sounds forced. My pulse ticks up, a dull thud in my chest.

He picks up the second cup, holds it out without breaking eye contact. “Double shot, oat milk, no foam.”

My exact order, down to the detail, delivered with that smooth, flirty bartender drawl he pulls out when he wants to charm. The rich, nutty, with a caramel bite coffee’s aroma hits me, tempting, too perfect. Then he adds, “Figured you’d need it. Late night?”

My hand freezes on my keys, the metal biting into my palm. Late night? You know I was up with Grace. Why ask? What are you fishing for?
“I was up with Grace,” I snap, snatching the cup. The paper’s hot, searing my palm, grounding me. “Homework. Unlike some people, I don’t live alone with a weaponized blender and a pile of unresolved trauma.”

His grin widens, all teeth. “It’s good coffee, Danno.” His voice is too warm.

I take a sip, half to shut him up, half to steady myself. Perfectly smooth, strong, exactly right. Damn you, Steve. The warmth spreads through me, but it doesn’t touch the cold unease crawling up my spine. What’s your game? Why are you watching me like that? His eyes linger, unreadable, and I turn away, pretending to check my phone, but my fingers are unsteady, betraying me.
The coffee burns my tongue as I take another sip, the bitter heat doing little to settle the churn in my gut. Steve’s already walking toward the HQ entrance. I follow, the gravel crunching under my boots, each step heavier than the last. The glass doors slide open with a soft hiss, and the cool, recycled air of the building hits me like a slap. My fingers tighten around the cup, the warmth fading as we step into the briefing room, where the day’s about to unravel.
The briefing room smells of dry-erase markers, the air stale, trapped in this windowless box. The fluorescent lights hum faintly, casting a sterile glow over the whiteboard, where Steve’s neat handwriting maps out Trey Valentino’s life in sharp black lines. I’m leaning back in my chair, feet propped on the table, trying to cut through the morning’s weight with a bad joke. “Come on, Trey Valentino? Guy’s got a name like a soap opera villain. Bet he’s got a secret twin and a penthouse in Miami-”

“Focus, Danno.” Steve’s voice slices through.

The room doesn’t stop, not exactly. Kono’s fingers keep tapping on her laptop, her ponytail swaying slightly. Chin’s flipping through a file, his eyes pausing mid-page, flicking up to Steve, then me, his brow creasing faintly. The air tightens, like a wire pulled taut, humming with tension. My throat closes around the next word, my joke dying unspoken. Strange. My pulse hammers, too fast, like I’ve been caught with my hand in the wrong file.

I nod, once, stiffly, lips pressed into a line. Hate that I do. The pen in my hand feels wrong, too light, and I grip it harder, the plastic creaking under my fingers. You just shut me down, didn’t you?

Steve doesn’t look at me. He’s pointing at the whiteboard, laying out the plan: canvassing, alibis, burner phone pings in that calm tone, like nothing happened. Chin clears his throat, flips another page, but his glance lingers on Steve, wary, maybe he’s trying to read the room without saying it.

I stare at the whiteboard, at the neat lines of his handwriting, but all I hear is Focus, Danno, looping in my head such as a warning I can’t translate. My fingers twitch, itching to throw the pen, to break this silence he’s draped over us. What’s your play here? The room feels smaller, the walls closer, the air thick with the weight of what he didn’t say.
I shove the pen into my pocket, the whiteboard’s neat lines blurring as I stand, chair scraping against the floor. Steve’s already moving, grabbing his keys, his focus locked on the next step like the room’s tension never happened. I trail him out, the HQ’s fluorescent buzz fading behind us.
The midday heat is relentless, the air thick and sticky, my shirt clinging to my back like a second skin. The Camaro’s parked under a palm tree, black paint glinting in the sun. I’m halfway to the passenger door, hand outstretched, when Steve moves faster, opens the door before I can, his hand braced on the frame, his body a wall between me and the car. The warm air shifts too close. A cedar and salt wave of his cologne hits me and my brain stumbles, caught off guard. Wha-a-at?

I freeze, hand hovering in the air, my pulse stuttering unevenly again ‘cause I can’t stop it. His eyes lock on mine, a challenge wrapped in that easy grin. “You getting in or having a moment?”

I swallow, my mouth dry, the taste of coffee lingering bitter on my tongue. “Why are you opening the door?” The words come out almost accusing. You never do that. What’s this about?

He shrugs, hand stays on the doorframe, fingers curling slightly. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Bullshit. I slide into the passenger seat, avoiding his gaze, my hands twitching on my thighs, curling into fists. The door shuts with a soft thunk, and the car feels small, the leather and gun oil scent closing in around me. Steve’s presence is a physical thing, pressing against me even without touch.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with a low growl, and pulls out of the lot in silence. The silence is worse than his voice. It’s heavy, expectant, as the moment before a storm breaks. My fingers dig into my knees, grounding myself against the weight of it. What’s this game you’re playing?
The road blurs past, the Camaro’s engine a steady growl that does nothing to drown out the silence between us. My fingers drum on my knee, restless, as the city gives way to overgrown lots and sagging fences. Steve pulls up to the address, the house looming ahead like a ghost from someone else’s past. He kills the engine, and the sudden quiet is louder than the drive. We step out, the air heavy with decay, and I follow him toward the house, my pulse ticking up like a countdown.
The house is a husk, rotting from the inside out. The air inside is stale, heavy with dust and the sour tang of neglect, like it’s been abandoned for decades, not years. Sunlight filters through cracked windows, casting jagged shadows across the floor. The walls are streaked with mildew, the paint peeling in curls. Rats scurry from a cupboard, their claws scratching warped wood, the sound skittering up my spine. My shoes scuff the gritty floor, kicking up dust that swirls in the dim light, catching in my throat.

Steve’s crouching by a doorway, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom, sharp and precise. His black T-shirt clings to his shoulders, muscles shifting as he moves, all quiet intensity, like the world narrows to whatever he’s studying. I catch myself mimicking his pose: arms crossed, head tilted before I even realize it. My brain should be on the case, on Trey, the girlfriend, the burner phone pings, but it’s stuck on the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers grip the flashlight like it’s an extension of his will. I can’t tell how long I’ve been staring at his fingers wrapped around that flashlight. A second? Forever?
I’m in a narrow hallway, the walls closing in, stained with black mold that smells of decay. Now I’m scanning the floor for prints, fibers, anything to justify being here, but the dust is thick, undisturbed except for our tracks. Steve moves behind me, silent until his shoulder brushes mine, a jolt sparking through me with a static. His breath is warm against my ear, as he says, “You missed a footprint by the door.”

I flinch, my skin burning where his breath grazed me. “Jesus, Steve, what’s your deal?” My voice is too loud in the cramped space, echoing off the walls.

“What?” His tone’s calm, almost bored. “Just pointing it out.” He’s inches away, his flashlight beam steady, but unreadable in the dimness eyes are on me. The hallway’s too small, the air thick with dust and his cologne cutting through the mildew.

“Ever heard of personal space?” I snap, turning to face him. He doesn’t move, his presence a wall. I need to take a step back, but my feet are embedded in the floor. Don't flinch, just don't flinch, Danny.

He tilts his head, there’s a flicker in his eyes, amusement, maybe, or something sharper. “We’ve tackled suspects in tighter hallways than this.”

“That’s work,” I say, and my hands itching to shove him, to break this moment. “What’s this?”

“This is work,” he says, the words slow, and steps back, just enough to give me air.

I glare at him, my chest tight, the air too heavy. He stares back, unflinching, his face blank except for that satisfaction flicker. Then he turns, flashlight beam swinging away, leaving me in the half-dark. My heart pounds, the sound too loud in my ears, and I follow him out, the footprint forgotten.
The dust clings to my shoes as we leave the house, the mildew stench still thick in my nose. Steve’s flashlight beam flicks off. Neither of us speaks, the air between us crackles, charged with words we’re not saying. We reach the Camaro. Steve starts the engine, the low rumble pulling us back toward HQ, where the day’s not done with us yet.
The sun’s lower now, casting long shadows across the road, the palm trees swaying in a sluggish breeze. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers twitching, unable to settle. The silence is a living thing, pressing against me, thicker than the heat outside. Jesus, McGarrett, just say what you’re thinking or blink it out in Morse code.
Steve’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his knuckles brushing the edge of my knee every time he shifts. It’s not deliberate… or is it? Each touch is a jolt that sets my nerves on edge. Stop it, Danny. It’s nothing. But my pulse doesn’t listen, thudding faster and faster. I stare out the window, watching the blur of green and asphalt, trying to anchor myself, even so my eyes keep drifting to him.

I clear my throat, the sound harsh in the quiet. “You gonna say something, or are we practicing for the silent film audition?”

He doesn’t look at me, just tilts his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What’s there to say, Danny?” His hand shifts the gear again, his knuckles grazing my knee. My breath catches, a reflex I can’t hide, and I shift in my seat, pressing closer to the door.

“Nothing, apparently,” I mutter, my fingers curling into fists. Why does this feel like a trap?
His silence is a weapon, and I’m caught in its crosshairs, waiting for the shot.
The drive back is a haze, the road’s rhythm lulling my thoughts into a jagged loop. Steve parks, and the HQ building looms, its glass facade catching the late afternoon light like a mirror. I step out, the air still heavy, my skin prickling as I follow him inside. The open-plan office hits me with a wave of noise: Kono’s fingers flying across her laptop, building Trey’s timeline with relentless focus; Chin on the phone, murmur as he chases burner phone pings.
I’m at my desk, typing case notes, but the words blur, my fingers fumbling, missing keys. I’ve reread the same paragraph five times. My body’s wired wrong, feels like I’m plugged into a buzzing with static live wire.

My coffee cup sits cold on the desk, a ring of condensation pooling around it, glistening under the fluorescent lights. I stare at it, willing it to ground me.

Then he does it again.

He walks up behind me, silent as a ghost until his shadow falls across my desk. He places a file by my keyboard, the motion slow, fingers brushing the edge of the paper. “You’re doing good today, Danno.”

Something snaps, a taut wire breaking inside me.

“Stop.” I shove my chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, a harsh, grating sound that makes my teeth ache. Kono’s head jerks up, Chin lowers his phone, his expression caught between worry and confusion, gaze darting between us. The room freezes, the air thick with the weight of my outburst. What the hell are you doing, Steve? Why are you messing with me like this?

Steve blinks, his jaw flexing once, twice. “What?” His voice is calm, too calm.

“That. Your voice. The coffee, the door, the praise - this game you’re playing.” My hands shake, and I clench them into fists. “I’m not your dog, Steve. You don’t get to train me.”

The silence is deafening, a vacuum swallowing the room. Steve stares at me, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of something crossing his face before it locks down again.

“No one’s training you,” he says, like he’s stating a fact I’m supposed to swallow whole.

“Yeah, try again,” I mutter, trembling with heat. My face burns, a flush crawling up my neck, and I turn for the glass doors, my steps too fast, too uneven. The doors thud shut behind me, the sound final, cutting me off from the room.
I need out of the noise, out of my head.

Outside, the warm air hits me, the storm still holding its breath. I lean against the wall, my hands on my knees, breathing hard, like I’ve run a mile. My pulse pounds, a drumbeat in my chest, and I scrub my hands over my face, stubble rough against my palms. Why did it feel like that? The question burns, relentless, and I’m not sure I want the answer.
The locker room at HQ is quiet, the air cool and damp, smelling of metal and faint traces of sweat. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, casting stark shadows across the tiled floor. It’s late, the team long gone, and I’m here grabbing my jacket, ready to escape the day’s weight. My hands are still unsteady, my pulse a low thrum that hasn’t settled since my outburst. The glass doors, the office, Steve’s voice, they’re all stuck in my head, a loop I can’t break.

The door swings open, and Steve steps in, his boots echoing on the tiles. My stomach twists, a cold knot tightening. Not now, Steve. He stops a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, like he’s holding himself back.

“What do you want?” I think I just rolled my eyes so hard that I saw my conscience. I don’t turn to face him fully, keeping the locker as a barrier between us.

“You’re pissed,” he says, not a question, his voice softer than usual, like he’s trying to de-escalate. “Talk to me, Danny.”

I laugh, a short, bitter sound that echoes off the tiles. “Talk? You’ve been playing me all day: coffee, doors, that damn voice of yours, and now you want to talk?” My hands clench, the jacket slipping from my shoulder. I turn to face him, my chest tight, heat rising in my throat. “What’s your angle, Steve? What do you want from me?”

He steps closer, the air between us shrinking. His cologne hits me again, cedar and salt, sharp enough to cut through the locker room’s dampness. His eyes search mine, not angry, not mocking, just intense, as he’s trying to see through me. “I’m not playing you,” he says. “I’m just… here.”

“Here?” I snap, my voice rising, echoing in the empty room. “You’re everywhere, Steve. In my space, in my head, all damn day. You think I don’t notice? The looks, the comments, the way you-” I stop, my breath catching, because I don’t know how to finish that sentence. The way you make me feel. My pulse races, a hot rush that makes my hands shake. It’s just the coffee. It’s just the heat. It’s just… ugh, okay, not just.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “You’re not wrong,” he says quietly. “I notice you too, Danny.”

The words hit like a shockwave, stealing the air from my lungs. What? My mouth opens, nothing comes out. His eyes are still on me, waiting for me to make the next move. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if I want to.

I grab my jacket, shove past him, my shoulder brushing his, the contact burning through me. “I need air,” I mutter,  and I’m out the door before he can say another word. The hallway’s dark, the air cooler, tastes like metal, a sharp contrast to the way he softens when he says my name. My heart’s pounding, my head spinning, and Steve’s words - I notice you too - echoing like a warning I can’t ignore.
The hallway stretches endless as I walk away. The drive home is a blur, the city lights smearing into streaks of color against the dark. My apartment’s waiting, a quiet cage I can’t escape. I unlock the door, the faint creak of hinges loud in the stillness, and step inside, the weight of the day settling into the shadows. The ocean breeze slips through the window, but it’s not enough to clear the storm building in my head.
The TV flickering on mute, some late-night rerun painting the room in blues and grays. A beer sits untouched on the coffee table, condensation pooling, cold under my fingers when I brush against it. The day’s stuck in my head, a film reel on repeat: Steve’s grin, his voice, the coffee, the door, that moment in the locker room. I notice you too, Danno. The words burn, relentless, like a brand I can’t shake.

I lean back on the couch, the springs creaking under my weight, and scrub my hands over my face, stubble rough against my palms. My heart thuds, unsteady, when I think of his voice, maybe he wanted me to feel it. And I did, damn it. You've always been good at strategy, McGarrett. Only this isn't chess. This is my goddamn heart.

The blinds rattle as a car passes outside, headlights slicing through the slats, casting jagged shadows across the room. My phone buzzes on the coffee table, a sharp vibration that makes me flinch. It’s a text from Kono: Trey’s burner pinged near your place. Be careful. My pulse spikes, a cold jolt cutting through the fog in my head. I sit up, hand reaching for my gun on instinct, my eyes scanning the dark corners of the room. The shadows seem deeper now, like the storm’s finally ready to break.

I don’t touch the beer. I just sit, the silence pressing in, Steve’s voice and Kono’s warning tangled in my head, two threats I can’t outrun. It seems that my brain went out for a smoke and left me alone with all this.

A knock at the door jolts me. My hand’s on my gun before I think, pulse spiking as I cross the room, peering through the peephole. It’s him. Of course it’s Steve, standing there, hands in his pockets, his silhouette sharp against the hallway’s dim light. I open the door, my heart thudding too loud, and lean against the frame, trying for casual. “Really? It’s midnight, McGarrett. You lost your watch?”

He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but his eyes soften, just enough to make my chest tighten. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Figured you couldn’t either.” His cedar-and-salt scent hits me as he steps closer, the air charged, like the storm’s moved inside.

I step aside, letting him in, because what else am I gonna do? He moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine. He stops by the couch, glancing at the untouched beer sweating on the coffee table, then at me, his eyes searching. “You didn’t call about the text,” he says, not accusing.

I shrug, crossing my arms, the gun still a cold weight in my hand. “Didn’t need to. I’m a big boy, Steve. I can handle a ping on a burner phone.”

His lips twitch, almost a smirk, but there’s something heavier in his eyes, something that makes my throat tight. “Never said you couldn’t.” He steps closer, and I’m hyper-aware of the space between us, the way it’s shrinking, the way my pulse is racing to keep up. “But you’re not okay, Danny. Talk to me.”

I laugh. “Talk? You’re the one who’s been playing head games all day. The coffee, the door, that damn Danno in the locker room. What’s your deal, huh? You trying to mess with me?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. “I’m not messing with you,” he says, like he’s laying down a truth I’ve been dodging. “I meant what I said. I notice you, Danny. Always have.”

My breath catches, a sharp hitch I can’t hide. The room’s too small, the air too heavy, and he’s too close. My hands twitch, the gun feeling useless, it can’t protect me from this. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask in a whisper.

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the way his breath stirs the air between us. “It means I see you. The way you push back, the way you don’t let me get away with shit. The way you’re always there, even when you’re pissed.” His voice drops, softer now, almost a confession. “It means you’re not just my partner, Danny.”

I’m frozen, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. The gun slips from my hand, clattering onto the coffee table, and I don’t care. My hands are shaking, my head a mess of questions I don’t know how to ask. “Steve,” I start, but my voice cracks, and I hate how vulnerable it sounds. “What are we doing here?”

He doesn’t answer. His hand lifts, hesitates, then grazes my jaw, his thumb brushing the stubble there. It’s not a kiss, not yet, just more than enough to send my pulse into overdrive, to make my knees feel like they might give out. His eyes are on mine, searching, waiting.

I don’t move. I can’t. The storm’s here, not outside, right here, in the space between us, and I’m not sure I want it to break. However, before I can decide, my phone buzzes again, shattering the moment. I pull back, my hand fumbling for the phone. It’s Chin. “Burner’s moving,” he says. “Kalihi, near the docks. Kono’s en route. You guys in?”

I glance at Steve, his hand still hovering where it grazed my jaw, eyes still locked on mine. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re in.”

He’s still standing there, inches away, and I’m drowning in it, in him, in the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters. The case is calling, but this thing between us is louder, and I don’t know if I can outrun it.

We’re in Steve’s truck, the engine’s growl cutting through the night as we head for Kalihi. The rain’s started, a soft patter against the windshield. His hand’s on the gearshift, close enough to brush my knee, and I’m fighting the urge to shift away or closer. “Chin’s got a lock on the signal,” he says, eyes on the road. “Trey’s not alone. Second phone pinging at the same spot. Could be a meet.”

“A meet?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to focus on the case. “What, like a drug deal? Or is our soap opera villain branching out into espionage?”

He snorts, a quick flash of a grin that makes my chest do something stupid. “Could be anything. That’s why we’re moving now.”

Kalihi’s a maze of warehouses and narrow streets, the kind of place where trouble feels at home. We park a block away, the truck’s engine ticking as it cools. Kono’s waiting, her silhouette sharp against a streetlight, Chin’s van nearby. She nods as we approach. “Signal’s in that warehouse. Two guys, maybe three. No clear ID yet.”

Steve’s hand brushes my arm as he signals me to follow, and my skin prickles. Focus, Danny. I grip my gun tighter, falling into step behind him, our movements synced like always. My pulse is steady now, the case pulling me out of my head, but his presence is a constant hum in my veins.

Inside, the warehouse is a cavern of shadows, the air thick with dust and oil. We move silently, Steve leading, me at his six, our steps matching without thought. My heart’s in my throat. We spot them: two figures near a stack of crates, one pacing, the other still, his posture screaming authority. Trey, probably, and someone bigger, meaner.

Steve signals, and we split, me taking the left, him the right. My boots are quiet on the concrete, my breath shallow as I edge closer. The pacing guy, Trey, spots me, his eyes wide, and bolts. I’m after him, dodging crates, my pulse pounding as I shout, “Five-0!” He’s fast, but I’m faster, tackling him into a stack of boxes that collapse with a crash. He’s fighting, all elbows and desperation, and I’ve got him cuffed in seconds.

Gunshots crack behind me, and my head snaps up. Steve’s got the second guy pinned, his gun on the ground, but there’s a third, shit, a third coming from the shadows, weapon raised. I’m moving before I think, shouting, “Steve, down!” as I fire, the shot clean, the guy dropping with a grunt.

Steve’s eyes meet mine across the dark. “Nice shot, Danno.”

“Book ‘em,” I mutter, dragging Trey to his feet, trying to shake off the way his voice hits me, the way his eyes hold mine. The uniforms take Trey and the second guy, but the third, the one I shot, is still breathing, groaning as Kono cuffs him. Steve’s already on the phone, coordinating with Chin.

The warehouse is behind us, and the adrenaline’s still humming, my hands still shaking as I climb back into the truck. Steve’s driving quietly. I want to ask, what’s with the look? What’s with the touch, the way you’re always there? Even so the words stick, and the rain’s patter fills the silence instead.

Back at HQ, the fluorescent lights are harsh, casting stark shadows across the briefing room.

Lou strolls in, a fresh coffee in hand, his suit somehow still crisp despite the late hour. “You two look like you just ran a marathon,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “What’d I miss?”

“Warehouse bust,” Kono says without looking up. “Trey’s in custody, plus two others. One’s got a bullet in his shoulder, courtesy of Danny.”

Lou whistles, dropping into a chair. “Nice work, Williams. You gonna frame that bullet or what?”

I snort, leaning back, trying to shake off the weight of Steve’s gaze. “Yeah, I’ll hang it next to my Employee of the Month plaque.”

Steve’s lips twitch, keeps watching me. I force myself to look away, focusing on my notes, but my pen’s shaking slightly, betraying me.

I grip it tighter, try to write Trey identified - possible cartel contact, but the letters come out crooked, the ink dragging from a tremor I can’t control. It's not adrenaline. Not anymore. That burned off an hour ago. This is something else.

Steve’s still watching me.

I don’t look up. I pretend I’m squinting at the tablet, pretend the words matter more than the weight of his gaze. I wonder if Kono or Lou notices. I wonder if he knows how loud he is in my head without saying a word.

“You good?” Steve murmurs.

My hand jerks again, the pen skipping across the page, and I drop it like it bit me. “Fine,” I snap. Lou glances over, and I regret it instantly.

“Jesus, touchy much?” he mutters.

“Long day,” I say quickly, forcing a tight smile. “I’m peachy, Lou. Just peachy.”

Steve shifts beside me. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to.

The rest of the debrief blurs. Words float past: interrogation, phone records, Trey’s lawyer already making noise. I’m barely holding on, fingers laced together in my lap, I thought that’ll keep them still, as I’m not vibrating under the surface with every breath Steve takes.

When we’re dismissed, I bolt. I don’t wait. Not for coffee, not for Lou’s wisecracks, not for Kono’s smirk. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear him behind me.

“Danny.”

I keep walking.

“Danny.” Closer now.

I stop. Spin. “What?”

The hallway’s empty. Just us. Just my pulse and his stare and the goddamn fluorescent hum.

He steps into my space again. Always into my space.

“Your hand was shaking.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Try to scoff, but it comes out like a breathless laugh. “Thanks, Sherlock. Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Or maybe you’re not fine.”

I press my fingers to my temples. “Why do you care so much tonight, Steve? Why now?”

He doesn’t blink. “Because I saw your hand shake. And because it was right after I touched you.”

My stomach drops.

He says it so simply. And somehow that’s worse.

I step back, needing air, needing distance. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to just say things and then stand there like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Then what the hell is it?” My voice cracks again, and it’s not anger. Not really. It's the way my chest aches when he looks at me like that. Like I’m breakable. Like I matter.

He steps forward. Slowly. Like I’m a stray about to bolt. “It’s you.”

I swallow hard.

“It’s the way I feel when you’re in the room. It’s the way I can’t stop thinking about you when you’re not. It’s how I noticed your hand, because I’m always noticing you, Danny. You just didn’t want to see it.”

My throat’s tight. I shake my head. “This isn’t… this can’t be a thing, Steve. You and me? We don’t do this.”

He leans in, just enough for his voice to drop. “No, you don’t. I’ve been doing it for a while now.”

I laugh. “Doing what? What exactly are you doing, McGarrett?”

He doesn’t back off. “Falling.”

The word hits like a sucker punch.

I don’t know if it’s the late hour, or the adrenaline still leaking from my system, or the goddamn rain slicking the windows behind him, but I move. I grab his shirt. I pull him in.

I kiss him.

It’s desperate and wrong and too much. And it’s everything. He meets me with heat and precision, like he’s been waiting, like he’s ready. His hands find my hips, anchoring me as I lose the ground under my feet.

When we break apart, I’m breathing hard, forehead against his, trying to come back to earth.

“You still think this isn’t a thing?” he whispers.

I close my eyes. “I think I’m scared shitless.”

“Good,” he says. “Means it’s real.”

My hand finds his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat. “You gonna make this a habit? Showing up at midnight, shaking up my whole life?”

He grins, a real one this time. “Only if you let me stay.”

And for the first time all night, my hand stops shaking.

Chapter Text

The morning after is a jagged and raw wound that I cut open and left to bleed out quietly. My apartment reeks of stale coffee and the faint cedar-and-salt shadow of Steve’s cologne, clinging to the walls as a memory I can’t scrub clean. The sun slices through the blinds in sharp, golden streaks, too harsh for the chaos in my head. That kiss, the one I started, the one where I grabbed his shirt and pulled him into me like he was the answer to a question burned into me. My lips still hum with it, my chest tight with the weight of it, and brain a tangle of what the hell did I do and why did it feel so right. I’m pacing my living room, barefoot, the cool tile doing nothing to anchor the storm inside me. I kissed Steve McGarrett. I crossed a line I didn’t even know I’d drawn, and now I’m staring down a future I can’t predict, a future where every look, every word, every damn breath between us is loaded with something. And the whole damn days before it: the way my heart jumped when he brushed my back in the kitchen, the weight of his gaze in that rotting house, the electric jolt of his knuckles grazing my knee in the truck. From morning to midnight, Steve’s been under my skin, every look, every word, every casual touch lighting me up like a fuse.

What happens now? My mind spins, a reel of possibilities I don’t want to face. We’re partners, best friends, the kind of team that moves like one body, anticipates each other’s steps before they’re taken. But that kiss it’s a grenade, pin pulled, and I don’t know if it’ll blow us apart or fuse us closer in a way I can’t control. Will he look at me differently now, those ocean-blue eyes seeing too much, knowing I’m the idiot who started this? Will the team catch the shift, the way my pulse jumps when he’s near? Or worse, what if nothing changes, and we just carry this like a secret, waiting for the wrong moment to explode? I’m pissed at myself for letting it happen, for grabbing him like that, for letting his stupid grin and his stupid voice unravel me. I’m furious that I’m scared. Scared it’ll break us, scared it won’t, scared I’ll want more and he’ll give it to me until I’m nothing but his shadow. Or worse, will it change nothing, just sit there between us, waiting for the wrong moment to fire? I’m terrified it’ll break us, that I’ve fucked up the one thing in my life that works.

His truck rumbles into my driveway, the low growl slicing through my thoughts such as a warning shot. My pulse spikes, a traitor that knows him too well. I don’t look out the window. I know it’s Steve, same as I know the weight of his stare, the way his voice wraps around my name like it’s his to claim. The door’s unlocked, because I’m a damn fool who often can’t say no to him, so he steps inside, all easy confidence, holding two coffees like he didn’t watch me come undone last night. Like I didn’t kiss him and flip our world upside down.

“Morning, Danny,” he says, voice soft, careful, like he’s stepping around broken glass. He sets the coffees on the counter, his movements deliberate, but his eyes are on me, searching, and it’s too much.

“Don’t,” I say, sharper than I mean to, my voice rough from a night of no sleep and too many thoughts. I’m leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed, putting as much space between us as I can manage. My hands are shaking, and I clench them into fists to hide it.

He pauses, one hand still on the coffee cup, his brows lifting just a fraction. He doesn’t speak, just waits.

“Don’t do that,” I say again, quieter. “Don’t touch me, don’t bring me coffee, don’t… just don’t, Steve. Not right now. No looks, no… nothing. I need you to stop.”

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching under the stubble, and for a second, I see hurt before his face locks down. His eyes don’t leave mine, steady in a way that makes my chest ache. “Okay,” he says, but there’s a crack in voice, a fault line that tells me he’s not as untouched as he seems. He steps back, hands raised slightly, like he’s proving he’s not a threat. “No touching. No coffee. No… anything. I got it.”

“Do you?” I snap, my voice breaking, because I’m not sure he does.
He pauses, gaze sharpening. “Yeah, but not forever, Danny. I’ll give you space, but I’m not staying gone for long.”

My breath catches, a sharp hitch I can’t hide. Not for long. This idiot gives me what I asked for, but he’s already setting terms, reminding me that Steve McGarrett doesn’t let go of what he wants. And what he wants, apparently, is me. It’s infuriating, the way he just knows I’ll come around, the way he’s already planning to pull me back in. “You don’t get to decide that,” I growl. “I kissed you, Steve. I did that, and now I’m drowning here, and you’re just standing there with your damn coffee and your damn smirk, like you’ve got it all under control. I’m not your puppet, McGarrett. I need you to back off. No touches, no… Danno. Just give me a damn minute to breathe.”

He nods. “I hear you, Danny. Space it is.” He grabs his coffee, leaves mine on the counter, and heads for the door. “Briefing at HQ in an hour. You in?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, staring at the untouched coffee. “I’ll be there.”

The door clicks shut behind him, the click of it shutting too loud and final. The silence that follows is a relief, a weight lifting off my chest, and I lean against the counter, my anger simmering down to something like triumph. Good. He’s gone. No more of his looks, his touches, his damn voice messing with my head. I’m free of his orbit for once. I’m not his damn dog, jumping when he calls. I kissed him, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m signing up for whatever this is. I’m in control now, and it feels good, like I’ve finally drawn a line he can’t cross.

But the line’s only as strong as my resolve, and I’m not sure how long I can hold it.
The drive to HQ is a blur of Honolulu’s morning chaos: tourists clogging the sidewalks, delivery trucks double-parked, the ocean glittering under a sun that’s too damn bright for my mood. I crank the AC in my Camaro, the cold air blasting my face as I weave through traffic, trying to focus on the case instead of Steve. My phone buzzes on the passenger seat, a text from Grace: Dad, can you pick me up after soccer? 4pm. I smile despite myself, typing a quick You got it, monkey before tossing the phone back. Grace is my anchor, the one thing in my life that’s never complicated, never messy. Unlike Steve. Unlike this damn case that’s got us chasing a ghost named Trey.

At HQ, the team’s gathered around the smart table in the command center, its glowing surface littered with digital case files and surveillance stills. Kono’s tapping at the screen, pulling up grainy footage from the Kalihi warehouse bust, her focus razor-sharp as she rewinds to catch a glimpse of Trey’s second guy slipping into a side alley. Chin’s beside her, scrolling through phone records on a tablet, his calm focus a stark contrast to the chaos in my head. By the way, why is he always so calm? It’s like the guy’s got a Zen master living in his brain, while I’m over here wrestling with a hurricane. Lou’s leaning against the wall, tossing a stress ball and cracking jokes about Trey’s “soap opera villain” name, deep laugh cutting through the tension in the room. Steve’s at the head of the table, his fingers brushing the edge of the screen as he zooms in on a map of the docks, his posture all business, no trace of the man who stood in my kitchen an hour ago.

I’m on the other side of the table, my own coffee cooling in my hand. I focus on the screen, on the case, on anything but the way Steve’s presence still pulls at me, even when he’s not looking my way. He’s keeping his word, no touches, no “Danno,” no lingering glances. Good. This is what I wanted. No more of his games, no more of his voice in my head. My anger’s still there, but it’s mixed with almost a smug satisfaction. I told him to back off, and he did. I’m in control, and it feels like a win, like I’ve finally taken back something he’s been stealing piece by piece.

“Danny, you got the witness statements from last night?” Chin asks, glancing up from his tablet, pulling me back to the room.

“Yeah,” I say, flipping open my notebook, the motion grounding me. “Trey’s second guy, the one I shot, he’s lawyered up, but the bartender’s still talking. Says Trey was bragging about a shipment, coke, maybe guns, coming in Tuesday, Waikiki, pier 14.”

Kono’s eyes narrow, her finger pausing on the screen. “Cartel’s backing it?”

“Bartender thinks so,” I say, the case pulling me into focus. “He was jumpy, kept checking the door. Said Trey’s meeting a contact, some mid-level guy named Ruiz.”

Steve nods, his eyes on the map, not me. “We hit the bartender again, get more on Ruiz. Danny, you want point on that?”

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my gaze on my notes. “I’ll lean on him this afternoon, see what else he’s got.”

“Good,” Steve says. There’s a pause, a beat too long, and I feel the tension, the weight of his for now still hanging between us. He taps the screen, pulling up a satellite view of the pier. “Chin, cross-check the burner pings with the dock schedules. Kono, pull every camera around pier 14. Lou, get with HPD, see if they’ve got eyes on Ruiz.”

The team moves, the smart table’s glow shifting as Kono swipes through files. I stay put, my coffee bitter on my tongue, my mind split between the case and the man across the table. But Trey’s deal is bigger than my mess. We need to shut this down, and I need to keep my head in the game.

The bar’s a dive in Kalihi, all sticky floors and flickering neon, the kind of place where secrets spill like cheap whiskey over chipped glasses. The bartender, Kai’s buddy from the old neighborhood, is twitchy, wiping the counter for the sixth time as I lean in, my badge gleaming under the dim lights. The air smells like stale beer and regret, and the jukebox in the corner is stuck on some off-key country song that’s grating on my nerves. I slide onto a stool, keeping my posture loose but my eyes hard. “You’re gonna give me more on Ruiz,” I say. “Names, places, or I drag you in for obstruction.”

He cracks faster than I expect, his hands shaking as he polishes a glass that’s already clean. “Carlos Ruiz,” he mutters. “Meeting Trey at a warehouse near pier 14, Tuesday, midnight. Shipment’s coke, maybe guns.” He glances at the door, his eyes darting like he expects someone to burst in. “He’s got a crew: three, maybe four guys. Armed. They don’t mess around.”

I jot it down in my notebook, the case sharpening my focus, pushing Steve and that kiss to the back of my mind. “Where’s the warehouse?” I press, leaning closer, letting him feel the weight of my stare.

“Off Nimitz, old fish processing plant. Red roof, rusted gate. You can’t miss it.” He’s sweating now, beads of it rolling down his temple, and I know he’s not lying.

“Anything else?” I say, tapping my pen against the counter, the rhythm keeping me grounded.

He hesitates, then leans in, his voice dropping even lower. “Ruiz mentioned a boat. Small freighter, coming in from the mainland. That’s all I got, man. Don’t drag me into this.”

I nod, sliding a twenty across the counter for his trouble, though I doubt it’ll ease his nerves. “Keep your mouth shut,” I tell him, standing. “And stay out of trouble.”

Outside, the humid air hits me like a wall, the scent of salt and diesel heavy as I climb into my Camaro. I call Chin from the car, the Bluetooth crackling as I relay the intel. “Warehouse off Nimitz, old fish plant, red roof. Ruiz is meeting Trey, Tuesday at midnight. Small freighter, mainland origin. Bartender says Ruiz has three or four armed guys.”

“Got it,” Chin says. “I’m pulling blueprints for the warehouse now. Kono’s hacking into traffic cams to track any vehicles tied to Ruiz. You heading back?”

“Yeah, after I grab some food,” I say, glancing at the clock - 1:47 p.m. My stomach’s been growling since I skipped breakfast, too wound up to eat. “Be there in thirty.”

I swing by a food truck on Kapahulu, grabbing a plate lunch: kalua pork, rice, mac salad, because I need something solid to keep me going. The guy at the counter, a big Samoan with a gap-toothed grin, tosses in an extra scoop of rice, calling it “cop discount.” I eat in the car, the radio playing some local reggae that does nothing to soothe the knot in my chest. The food’s good, greasy comfort, but it doesn’t fill the hole Steve’s absence has left. I hate that I’m even thinking about him, that I’m noticing the space where his voice, his laugh, his damn Danno should be. Back at HQ, the pieces start coming together, but the tension with Steve lingers similar to shadow. I drop the intel on the smart table, the screen lighting up as I upload my notes. Steve’s there, leaning over the table, his fingers hovering over a map of Waikiki. He doesn’t look up, but I feel him notice me, the air shifting just enough to make my skin prickle.

“Bartender gave up Ruiz,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “Carlos Ruiz, mid-level cartel. Meeting Trey at a warehouse near pier 14, Tuesday, midnight. Shipment’s coke, maybe guns. Chin’s got the details.”

“Good work,” Steve says, his tone all business, no warmth. It’s what I asked for, but it stings, fueling the anger still simmering in my chest. He taps the screen, pulling up the warehouse layout. “We move on this. Kono, get eyes on the warehouse. Chin, pull Ruiz’s file, see if he’s got priors. Lou, coordinate with HPD for backup.”

The team snaps into action. Kono’s already pulling up live feeds from the pier’s security cams, her fingers flying across the tablet as she marks potential blind spots. Chin’s cross-referencing Ruiz’s name with NCIC, his brow furrowed as he digs into the guy’s history, two priors for trafficking, one for assault. Lou’s on the phone with HPD, tossing in a joke about their captain’s bad coffee to keep things light. I watch them, this team that’s become my family, and feel a pang of guilt for letting my personal mess bleed into the work. But they don’t notice, or if they do, they don’t say. They’re too locked in, each of us playing our part in the machine. Still, Steve’s distance is a void I can’t ignore, and every time he speaks concisely, professionally, without the slightest hint of Danno, it’s like a knife twisting in my gut.

I tell myself it’s fine, that this is what I wanted, but the smug satisfaction from this morning is starting to crack. I focus on the case, on the warehouse layout glowing on the smart table, on the plan coming together. We spend the next few hours hammering out details: entry points, sightlines, HPD’s role in the perimeter. Kono suggests a drone for aerial surveillance, and Steve greenlights it, his voice steady but clipped. Chin flags a burner phone tied to Ruiz, its pings clustering near the warehouse over the past week. Lou confirms HPD’s got six units on standby, plus a SWAT team if things go south. By the time we break, it’s past 4 p.m., and I’ve got just enough time to pick up Grace from soccer.

The soccer field is a burst of green under the late afternoon sun, kids running drills while parents chat on the sidelines. Grace spots me from across the field, her ponytail bouncing as she sprints over, her cleats caked with mud. “Dad!” she calls, throwing her arms around me, and for a moment, everything else fades. She’s sweaty and smells like grass, but I hug her back, tight, grateful for the simplicity of this.

“How’s my star striker?” I ask, ruffling her hair as she pulls away, grinning.

“Scored two goals in practice,” she says, proud, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Can we get shave ice on the way home?”

“Only if you say ‘pretty please’ first,” I tease, and she rolls her eyes but complies, her “pretty please” dripping with mock exasperation. We hit a shave ice stand on the way home, her chattering about school and soccer filling the car, and for those twenty minutes, I’m just Dad, not a cop wrestling with a kiss that’s turned my life upside down.

Tuesday night, the air is thick with salt and tension as we stake out the warehouse. The old fish plant looms dark against the night sky, its red roof barely visible under the sodium glow of a single streetlight. The rusted gate creaks in the breeze, and the faint hum of the ocean mixes with the distant clatter of shipping containers. Kono’s got eyes on the pier from a drone, its feed streaming to her tablet, her voice crackling through our comms as she tracks movement near the water. “Two vehicles approaching -black SUV and a pickup. Four guys total, two by the truck, two near the east door.”

Chin’s in a surveillance van a block away, tracking Ruiz’s burner. Lou’s with HPD, positioned a block north, their engines idling as they wait for the signal. Steve and I are crouched behind a stack of crates, the darkness heavy around us, the air smelling of rust and seaweed. He’s close but not touching, keeping his word, and I’m grateful for it. My focus is razor-sharp, the case a tight coil in my gut, pushing everything else, Steve, the kiss, the mess to the back of my mind.

Trey’s pickup pulls in, followed by the black SUV - Ruiz. We wait, silent, as they start unloading crates, the faint clink of glass and metal echoing in the night. Kono’s voice cuts through: “Four guys, armed. Two by the truck, two with Ruiz. Crates are stacked near the east door. Looks like coke, maybe guns.”

Steve signals, a sharp nod, and we move. “Five-0, freeze!” I shout, my gun steady as Trey and Ruiz spin around. Trey bolts, his boots scraping the asphalt, but Steve’s on him, tackling him to the ground with a thud that echoes in my chest. I grab Ruiz, my arm hooking around his neck as he curses in Spanish, his elbow catching my ribs before I pin him down and cuff him. HPD swarms in, their flashlights slicing through the dark as they secure the crates: coke, guns, enough to put these guys away for years. Kono’s already downloading the drone footage for evidence, her tablet glowing as she marks timestamps. Chin’s calling in the lab to process the haul, and coordinates transport.

Lou’s clapping HPD’s lead on the shoulder, his grin wide as he surveys the bust, tossing in a quip about how “Trey’s gonna hate prison showers.”

It’s clean, textbook, the kind of win that should feel like a high. The warehouse is secured, Trey and Ruiz are in cuffs, and the shipment’s in evidence. We’re back at HQ by 2 a.m., the smart table dark as the team wraps up. I’m at my desk, typing up my report, the satisfaction of a closed case settling in my bones. Steve’s across the room, his back to me, his fingers flying over his laptop as he logs his own report. He doesn’t look my way, doesn’t speak, and I tell myself it’s fine, that this is what I wanted.

But as I head for the door, his voice stops me. “Danny.”

I freeze, my heart kicking up, because it’s not Danno, and it feels like a loss I wasn’t ready for. “Yeah?” I say, turning just enough to meet his eyes.

He’s leaning against the table, the blue glow of his laptop catching the sharp lines of his face, his eyes steady but guarded. “Good work tonight. If you need me for the paperwork, I’m here.”

“Got it,” I say, my throat tight. I turn away, heading out, the weight of his words heavier than I want to admit. We closed the case, nailed Trey, but his for now still hangs between us, and I’m not sure what scares me more: the idea that he’ll keep his distance, or the moment he stops.

As I drive home, the city’s quiet, the streets empty except for the occasional late-night delivery truck. The ocean’s a dark smudge on my left, the moonlight glinting off the waves. My hands grip the wheel a little too tight, my mind replaying the night, the bust, the teamwork, Steve’s voice saying my name without that familiar warmth. I wanted space, and I got it, but it doesn’t feel like a win anymore. It feels like I’ve traded one kind of chaos for another, and I’m not sure which is worse.

Back at my apartment, I kick off my shoes and grab a beer from the fridge, the cold glass grounding me as I sink onto the couch. The TV’s on, some late-night rerun I don’t care about, the noise fills the silence. I take a long pull from the bottle, staring at the ceiling, and wonder how long I can keep Steve at arm’s length before one of us breaks. Because if there’s one thing I know about Steve McGarrett, it’s that he doesn’t stay gone forever. And deep down, I’m not sure I want him to.

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since Steve looked at me like I’m something he wants to hold onto, like I’m more than just the guy who’s got his back in a firefight. Three days since his eyes caught mine, heavy with that unspoken weight that makes my pulse trip over itself such as a rookie on his first chase. And yeah, I know why. I know exactly why. Because I’m the idiot who told him to back off. To stop touching me. To give me space. Three days ago, in a moment of stupid, sleep-deprived panic, I said, “Steve, just… don’t, okay? Not right now.” And now I’m sitting in my car and choking on the silence I asked for.

Engine off. Hands still gripping the wheel like I’m waiting for a green light that’s never gonna come. The precinct’s behind me, but I can’t bring myself to go home just yet. Not to that apartment that feels too big and too quiet without his voice bouncing off the walls, without him raiding my fridge and pretending he’s “saving me from expired condiments.”

I’m parked in front of that little diner near Ala Moana, the one with the terrible fries but decent pie. I haven’t gone in. I just… sat here. Watching couples drift by on the sidewalk, brushing shoulders, laughing like it’s easy. Like it’s not terrifying to want someone and screw it up before you even figure out how to want them right.

I check my phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just a lockscreen photo of Gracie, smiling at the beach, and it twists something in my chest because I know she’d tell me to stop being an idiot and talk to him. “Dad,” she’d say, rolling her eyes, “you’re overthinking it. Just say sorry.” Kids, man. They make it sound so easy.

Three days of Commander McGarrett, all sharp angles and cold precision. He’s a walking blueprint now: straight lines, measured tone, radiating clipboard energy that makes me want to punch a wall. No post-case pat on the shoulder. No quick elbow bump when he’s too tired to talk. No low, rough Danno. Just: “Good work, Detective.”

Detective.

Go to hell, McGarrett. Except I can’t even say that out loud, because this is my fault. I’m the one who drew the line, and now I’m tripping over it.

I’m not spiraling. I’m not. I’m Danny Williams, survivor of cartel shootouts, bomb defusals, and Steve’s godawful kale smoothie phase that nearly ended our partnership. But this morning, when I walked into the office and saw my desk, empty of the usual coffee cup with its smudged lid and faint scent of Kona roast, I froze. Stood there like a moron for a full thirty seconds, staring at the empty wood. No coffee. No Steve storming in with his smug grin and cold brew, acting like caffeine can fix murder, mayhem, and the emotional repression we’ve both turned into a goddamn art form.

That’s our thing. Even when we’re screaming at each other, over his reckless cliff-jumping or my “mainland attitude,” as he calls it, he still shows up at my house, all broad shoulders and bad ideas, plunking that coffee on my counter. “You look like you need this more than I do, Danno,” he’ll say, that stupid smirk tugging at his mouth. Except today? Nothing. Just: “Williams, take the marina. I’ll cover the bar.”

Not we. Not you and me, let’s do this. Just a file shoved into my hands, his boots clicking away on the precinct floor like I’m Lou or Chin or some random HPD grunt. Like I’m not the guy who’s been at his side through blood, bullets, and his absurd insistence that protein shakes are a personality trait.

And when we talk, it’s all surface. Tactical. Sterile.

“You check the logs?”

“Run the plates again.”

“Keep me updated.”

No glint in his eye. No half-smirk. No invisible leash pulling us back to the rhythm we’ve built, the one where I rant, he teases, and we somehow make it through another day without killing each other or admitting… whatever it is we don’t admit. And I hate it. I hate how it makes my chest feel tight. And I hate that I did this. I told him to stop. I pushed him away because I was scared of what those touches meant, scared of how much I liked them, scared of what happens if we cross that line and it all goes to hell. And now I'm pissed. At him. At me. Mostly me.

I could’ve just said, “Hey, this is a lot. Can we slow down?” But no. I had to go full shutdown.

Hours drag by, the weight of the day clinging to me like humidity, and by the time I leave the precinct, the sun’s long gone, leaving only the heavy stillness of a Hawaiian night.

I get home late, the kind of late where the island feels too quiet. My apartment smells like salt air and regret, the ceiling fan clicking lazily overhead, mocking me with its steady rhythm.
Sleep’s a lost cause, so I give up on the idea of rest and let the day’s mess follow me into the bathroom, where the mirror reflects a guy who looks as wrecked as he feels.

I shower, standing under the spray until the water turns cold, trying to scrub off this feeling, this thing, sitting under my skin. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. I can’t wash away the memory of my own voice, saying, “Steve, just don’t.” I can’t unsee the way his face shifted in surprise, then something else, that looked like it hurt, before he nodded and walked away.
I step out of the bathroom, steam curling around me, and catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. I look tired, older, like the last three days have carved lines into my face I didn’t notice before. My hair’s a mess, still damp, sticking up in that way Steve used to tease me about, saying I look like a “disgruntled hedgehog.” I’d flip him off, he’d laugh, and we’d move on. Now, I just stare at myself, wondering when I started looking like someone who pushes away the best thing in his life.

I walk past my closet, towel slung low on my hips, and there it is: that stupid blue shirt. The one he likes. The one he mentioned exactly once, last week in that offhand way of his “Looks good, Danny. You should wear it more.” It’s too tight, too flashy, too not me, but I stop anyway. Stare at it, the fabric catching the dim hallway light, and for a second, I think about putting it on. Like it might fix this. Like it might bring back the Steve who looks at me like I’m more than just a partner. Like it might undo the moment I pushed him away and broke whatever us we were building.

I don’t put it on. Instead, I grab a faded T-shirt and jeans, the kind of clothes that don’t make me feel like I’m trying too hard. But as I pull them on, I’m thinking about the little things I didn’t realize I’d miss so much. The way Steve always tosses his keys on my kitchen counter when he comes over, the jangle of metal a weirdly comforting sound. Or how he’ll steal a bite of my malasada when I’m not looking, then act innocent when I call him out, sugar dusting his chin like he’s a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or that time we were stuck on a stakeout, rain hammering the car, and he turned up the radio, humming along to some godawful ‘80s rock ballad, grinning when I groaned. “What, Danno? This is a classic.” Those moments, the ones that felt so small, so normal, they’re gone now.

And that’s when it hits me, like a slug to the chest: I miss him. Not just him, but us. The rhythm we’ve carved out over years of chaos - the banter, the noise, the gravity that keeps us orbiting each other no matter how hard I try to pull away. The way he’ll roll his eyes when I complain about his driving but still ease off the gas just a fraction. The way he’ll stand too close when we’re pouring over case files, his arm brushing mine like it’s an accident, even though we both know it’s not. I miss it so much it feels like a physical ache. And I’m the one who killed it. I’m the one who said stop, because I was too damn scared to find out what happens next.

Now he’s quiet. When Steve goes quiet, it means he’s thinking. Overthinking. Building walls or tearing them down, and I’m left wondering which it is. Wondering if I broke something that can’t be fixed. Wondering if I imagined it all: those glances, those touches, the way his voice softens when it’s just us. Or maybe I didn’t imagine it, and that’s worse. Because maybe this silence is him respecting my boundaries. Maybe it’s him giving me what I asked for. Maybe it’s him saying “okay, Danny, you win” and it feels like losing.

Tomorrow, I’ll see him again. I’ll walk into the office, force a grin, and make some dumb joke about his tactical vest or the ketchup he always gets on his shirt. I’ll toss a file at his chest, watch it bounce off those stupidly perfect pecs, and wait for that smirk, the one that says he’s still in this, still with me. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll call me Danno. Maybe he’ll look at me like I’m more than just Detective Williams, and I’ll find the courage to say, “Hey, about the other day… I didn’t mean it like that.”

Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll stay cold, stay distant, and I’ll have to live with the fact that I pushed away the one person who makes this whole damn island feel like home. And maybe that’s the part that’s starting to unravel me, thread by thread, until I’m not sure what’s left.

I pace my apartment for a bit, open the fridge, close it again. Not hungry. Not anything. The clock ticks past midnight like it’s proud of how long this day managed to be.

And now I’m on my balcony, barefoot, the railing cool under my palms as I lean forward and watch the city twinkle like it’s got no idea I’m falling apart.

There’s music playing from someone’s open window, distant and warped. Some slow love song that feels too on the nose, but I don’t have the energy to be annoyed.

The air smells like ocean and grilled meat. Someone’s having a better night than me.

I close my eyes and try to picture his voice. Not the clipped, professional one from today. The real one. The one that wraps around Danno like it’s his favorite word.

God, I miss that voice. I miss him.

And I don’t know if I’m ready to say anything.

But I’m ready to want to say something.

Does that count for anything?

Chapter Text

I wake up at 6:12 AM, my sheets a sweaty, twisted mess from the Honolulu heat that the ceiling fan barely touches. My boxers stick to my thighs, and my thoughts are a runaway train, none of them safe, all of them loud. The faint coconut sunscreen from yesterday’s case clings to my skin, mixing with the stale coffee on my nightstand from a late-night paperwork grind. Gracie is with Rachel for the weekend, leaving the apartment too quiet, just me and this reckless idea burning a hole in my head.

“This is insane,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face.

My hand slowly drifts down, trying to outrun the guilt if I take my time. It doesn’t work. Doesn’t stop me either.

So three hours. Three fucking hours I give myself like this is some undercover gig where seduction is the mission and failure is not an option. I make coffee, take two sips, dump the rest, my stomach’s in knots anyway, caffeine will only make the shaking worse. I pace the apartment in a towel, running through lines in my head like a goddamn actor. What do I say when he sees me? How do I look at him without giving everything away too soon?

I crank the shower hotter than necessary, until the steam curls around me like a second skin and the heat forces a flush to my chest. I stand there longer than I should, letting it soften me. Letting it prepare me. I wash slow, fingers working the cedarwood body wash into my arms, my stomach, my thighs, letting the smell soak into my skin like a fucking spell. I imagine his face the last time he smells it, eyes flicking toward me, nostrils flaring just enough for me to notice. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel it. I feel him feel it.

After the shower, I don’t just towel off, I exfoliate. I trim the hair at the nape of my neck. I shave with a fresh razor, not because I have to but because I need that clean line along my jaw. I do it slow, pulling the skin tight with my thumb. When I nick my cheek, I swear under my breath ‘cause it ruins the illusion. I patch it up and move on.

I floss, brush my teeth twice. Then I go back into the bathroom twenty minutes later and brush them again.

Standing in the mirror, I pluck a few stray hairs from my brows, even out the lines. I check my chest hair, trim it down with the precision of a guy who pretends not to care but cares a whole fucking lot. I know how it looks when I sweat through a shirt, how it shapes against the fabric. I want it to look natural. Controlled chaos.

After that I moisturize. Yeah, I moisturize. The expensive stuff too - the one Gracie got me for Father’s Day and makes me swear I’d actually use. I work it into my arms, neck, even behind my ears. Steve notices things like that. He doesn’t say it, but he notices. He smells things. Watches hands. Picks up on what’s not said.

I lay out three shirts on the bed, all variations of the same plan: tight fit, rolled sleeves, something that says “fuck me” without actually saying it. My eyes keep drifting to the light blue one. The one Steve noticed last week, when he stood in my kitchen flipping eggs like a smug bastard, telling me it’s my “power color” with that half-smirk. I can still hear his voice, low and certain: “Blue’s better. Trust me.” I hated how right he was, how it clung to my shoulders, hugged my chest just enough to make his eyes linger. I grab it, fingers brushing the soft cotton, and iron it with a focus I don’t usually bother with, pressing every seam like I’m smoothing out my own nerves. I try it on once, take it off, put it back on after standing straighter, shoulders back. Third button undone. No more, no less. It shows just enough chest to look effortless, like I didn’t spend an hour obsessing over it. I lean into the mirror, whispering things like “Hey, partner,” and “Got plans after this?” just to test how my voice sounds when I say it. Practicing inflection like a lunatic.

The tie takes fifteen minutes alone. I knot it three times before I get the looseness right, casual, like I throw it on in a rush, but still tight enough to look like I care. I tug it slightly off-center, then stand back and imagine Steve grabbing it. Pulling me in. I swallow, and undo it again, redo it. The final result: deliberate mess.

Pants are a battle. The charcoal pair fits best. They cup my ass like a secret and stretch across my thighs like they were made to be gripped. I do squats in them. Literally. Just to test the way the fabric shifts when I move. I adjust the waistband more than once, shifting my half-hard cock until it’s comfortable…or uncomfortable enough to notice. I mutter curses at my reflection. My breath fogs the glass.

The socks. I try black, navy, gray. End up with navy, because they match the tie. It makes no logical sense, he’s never once commented on my socks, but I imagine him catching that flicker of blue when I cross my legs and noticing. Just noticing.

The cologne, I overthink. Two sprays? Three? Nah, I go with four. One spritz on each wrist, dabbed together, one at the throat, one low on my stomach where his breath might land if he ever…no, when he bends down. I stare at my reflection, pupils a little blown, neck flushed. The bottle shakes in my hand. I’m already too keyed up.

Then the hair. Twenty-five minutes. Gel, water, brush, fingers. I try neat, then messy, then neat again, then settle somewhere in between. I mess it up on purpose and then spend five minutes trying to make it look like it wasn’t on purpose. My vanity mirror’s covered in fingerprints by the end of it from how many times I lean in and back out again, checking the angles. I keep imagining his hand in my hair, tugging, testing if it’ll hold.

By the time I’m finally done, something between put-together and just-fucked, but there’s a fine tremble in my hands, and I have to grip the counter to stop it. My whole body is tight.

I force myself to eat half a protein bar, just so I don’t pass out. Then I sit on the couch for exactly five minutes, doing nothing but breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like a man about to walk into battle. Or a confessional. Because this shit isn’t just seduction. It’s a confession wrapped in silk and cedar and blue cotton. A prayer dressed up as provocation. And I want him to read every word of it, written all over my body.

And three hours later, I am at HQ, freshly showered and still carrying that restless energy under my skin. I catch my reflection in the Camaro’s window on the way in. Hair too neat, so I rough it up with my fingers, leaving it just messy enough to look intentional.

It is Sunday. No cases, no emergencies, just the hum of the AC and the faint crash of waves outside. I have no reason to be there. But Steve? He’ll be there, hunched over his desk, married to his damn reports like they are his life’s mission. Probably color-codes his highlighters for fun.

I stand outside the glass doors of Five-0’s HQ for a full minute, heart pounding like I’m about to kick down a door on a raid. My palms are damp, and I wipe them on my slacks, the fabric crisp against my skin. I push the doors open, hinges barely whispering. The office is dim, sunlight cutting through the blinds in sharp, golden stripes across the floor, dust motes floating in the air. It smells like industrial cleaner and Steve’s coffee obsession.

I walk to his desk, steps slow, like I’m crossing a line I can’t uncross. His black leather chair, worn smooth from years of him sitting there, is still warm when I sink into it. It smells like him: ocean salt, cedar cologne, and something raw that makes my pulse trip. I lean back, spread my legs just a little wider than necessary, feeling the stretch of my slacks, the way the shirt pulls tight across my chest. I loosen my tie further, letting it hang like a challenge, and rake a hand through my hair, messing it up on purpose.

What am I doing? I think, staring at the ceiling. This is Steve. My partner. The guy who’d jump in front of a bullet for me and then yell at me for it. But the thought doesn’t stop the heat in my gut, doesn’t stop my fingers twitching to touch him.

I wait, every second pulling tighter.

Six minutes later, the door opens. Steve walks in, coffee in one hand, manila folder in the other, his black tee and tactical pants hugging every damn muscle. He stops dead when he sees me.

I don’t look at him right away. Just let my fingers trail down my chest, slow, brushing the exposed skin where the third button is undone. The air feels cool against my heat. “You’re late, Commander,” I say.

Silence, thick and charged. His boots hit the floor slowly. One. Two. Three. Closer. My pulse is a drum in my ears.

“Is this a joke, Danny?” He sounds too calm.

I meet his eyes, lips parting. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

His gaze lazily drags down me. It lingers on my chest, the shirt is thin, and I know he can see the hard outline of my nipples. I laugh, shaky. “What, you gonna keep staring, or you gonna say something? Am I a good boy, Steve?”

He doesn’t blink. Steps closer, reaches out and presses a finger to my nipple, rubbing lightly through the fabric. The sensation hits like a spark, and I suck in a breath, gripping the armrests.

He leans in, lips brushing my ear, his breath warm. “You’ve been… very good.”

I almost moan. My whole body feels like it’s burning. “Steve,” I whisper, barely hearing myself.

His hand curls into the armrest, knuckles grazing my thigh. His voice is tighter now. “Why are you doing this, Danny? Why now?”

I look at him. His eyes dark, pupils blown, and in them my own reflection, jaw clenched. My tie is half-off, dangling from one shoulder, and I feel raw. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” I say. “Because you haven’t touched me in days. Because I’m losing my damn mind, and I need you to do something about it. Right now.”

He doesn’t move, just stares, his chest rising and falling too fast. So I lean forward, our foreheads touching, breath mixing. “Do whatever you want with me,” Words spill out. “Hit me, kiss me, fuck me. I don’t care. Just-”

His mouth hits my collarbone, teeth grazing just hard enough to mark me. Warm tongue follows, dragging slowly over the reddened skin, soothing the sting before he bites again, harder this time. I gasp, hips jerking in the chair, head falling back. The sharp and perfect bite burns, his tongue swirling over the spot, tasting the heat of my skin. My pulse hammers under his lips, and I feel his breath hitch as he sucks lightly, drawing a low moan from my throat. His hands grip my shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle, holding me in place as his lips press harder against my collarbone, sucking gently before releasing with a soft pop. My chest heaves, and I tilt my head further back, exposing more of my neck as his lips linger, brushing lightly over the sensitive skin just below the bite.

He pulls back, breathing hard. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says in a hoarse whisper, his tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip, leaving it glistening.

“Didn’t say it would hurt,” I shoot back, grinning despite my pounding heart. “Don’t make me beg, Steve.”

His eyes burn, and he stands tall, towering over me. “Get up.”

I stand before I can think, the chair creaking. He doesn’t touch me yet, just looks. My lips swollen, shirt half-open, tie a mess.

“On the desk,” he says in a quietly commanding way. “Hands flat. Don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

I nod, trembling, and turn to face the desk, planting my hands on the cool wood. My fingers spread wide, anchoring me, the grain rough under my palms. Shirt hangs open, sleeves catching at my elbows, the tie swinging loose against my chest. My slacks pull tight across my hips as I stand there, legs slightly apart, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but so damn alive. My chest heaves, the air catching in my throat, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on my back.

“You want this?” He sounds low and rough, in a way that makes you obey without thinking.

“I need it,” I say, my shoulders tensing as I lean forward slightly, elbows bending just enough to shift my weight onto my hands. “I want you, Steve. Always have.”

He steps behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath steady, brushing the back of my neck. My spine stiffens, then relaxes, my body caught between anticipation and surrender. I bite my lip, the slight sting grounding me as I wait.

His hand presses between my shoulder blades, guiding me down. I bend forward, my chest lowering toward the desk, hips pressing back against the edge. The wood is cool against my forearms as I brace myself, elbows locked, hands still flat, fingers curling slightly against the surface. My shirt slides further open, exposing more of my chest, the fabric catching on my shoulders like it’s clinging for dear life. My legs stay spread, just wide enough to feel the stretch in my thighs, my slacks taut, outlining every line of my body. I can feel my pulse in my throat, my stomach, everywhere.

“You’re shaking,” he notices.

“I know,” I say, not caring. My head tilts slightly, hair falling into my eyes, and I don’t bother to shake it away. I feel raw, cracked open, every nerve screaming for him.

His fingers trace my spine, starting at the base of my neck and gliding down, over each vertebra. Down, down and then up again. My back arches slightly under the touch, instinctive, my hips shifting back just a fraction, pressing harder against the desk. His hand pauses at the small of my back, then slides up again, teasing, making my skin prickle. I exhale shakily, my elbows bending a little more, lowering my chest closer to the desk, my weight shifting forward.

“You do all this just to get my attention?”

I laugh, breathless, my head dropping forward, forehead nearly brushing the desk. “Well, it works, doesn’t it?” I shift my hips again, feeling the edge of the desk bite into my thighs.

He leans in, his chest brushing my back, close enough to make me feel the heat of him. His lips graze my neck, then my ear, his breath hot and steady. “You think I haven’t noticed you?” he says. “You think I haven’t been watching you strut around in those damn shirts, driving me insane?”

My knees buckle, just for a second, and his arm shoots around my waist, catching me, holding me up. His grip is firm, fingers digging into my side, his other hand sliding under my shirt, spreading across my bare chest. My head tilts back, resting against his shoulder, my body sagging into his hold, my hands still braced on the desk but trembling now. “You’re insane,” he says softer, lips brushing my temple.

“Then fuck me like I am,” The words slip out again. My hips rock back against him, instinctive, and I feel him, hard, aching, pressed against me through our clothes.

He goes still, his grip tightening for a second. Then, slowly, he pulls me upright, turning me to face him, my back now against the desk, hands sliding back to brace myself on the edge. My legs are still spread, one knee bent slightly, my foot flat on the floor, the other hooked loosely around his calf, pulling him closer. My shirt hangs open, tie dangling off one shoulder, chest exposed, heaving. Navy blue eyes lock on mine, hands resting on my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me feel it.

“Danny,” he says, almost breaking, “you’re killing me.”

“Then do something about it,” I say, leaning forward, my hands gripping the desk behind me. “Don’t make me wait, Steve.”

He kisses me. Teeth clash, tongues meet, and I loudly moan into it. His hands slide up my sides, under my open shirt, palms hot against my skin, thumbs brushing my ribs. I arch into him, my back curving, hips pressing forward, my legs tightening around him as he steps closer, pinning me against the desk. His lips press firmly against mine, moving with slow, deliberate pressure, his tongue sliding along my lower lip before pushing deeper, exploring my mouth. My hands grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle, pulling him closer as my head tilts slightly to deepen the kiss, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps against his lips. His teeth graze my upper lip lightly, tugging it before releasing, and his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing just below my collarbone, making my chest tighten.

“You taste like coffee and sin,” he growls against my lips, his hands sliding higher, fingers grazing my chest, making me shudder.

“You taste like everything I’ve been running from,” I whisper, my head tilting back as his lips move to my jaw, my neck.

He stops for half a second, eyes searching mine, then kisses me harder, deeper, like he’s trying to erase every doubt. His lips lock onto mine again, firmer this time, his tongue sweeping against mine in a slow, controlled rhythm, his hands sliding to my lower back, pulling my hips tighter against him. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly, urging him closer as my lips part wider, letting him take control, my breath hitching when his teeth scrape my lower lip. The desk hits the backs of my thighs, and his hands are under me, lifting me onto it. I sit back, legs spreading wider, pulling him in, my hands gripping his arms as pens and papers scatter to the floor. I don’t care. My knees bend, feet hooking behind his thighs, locking him against me, our bodies pressed together, clothed but so far from untouched. I can feel him, hard and desperate, grinding against me, and I match it, my hips rolling, seeking more. He bites my neck, just below my ear, and I gasp, “Do it again.” My head tilts to the side, giving him more access, my hands sliding up to grip his hair, tugging lightly. His teeth sink into the same spot again, a sharp nip that makes my breath catch, followed by his lips closing over the skin, sucking gently as his tongue flicks over the tender area.

Another sharp bite - the collarbone, enough to be painful. A third, right by the mark on my shoulder. My back arches, chest pressing into his, my shirt slipping further off one shoulder. “Yours,” I pant, head spinning, my hands dropping to brace myself on the desk again, elbows bent, body leaning back slightly. “I’m yours, Steve.”

He pulls back, looking at me. I must look ruined, and I want him to see it. His eyes burn, chest heaving, hands still on my hips, fingers digging in.

“Not like this,” he says. “Not… all the way.”

I flinch, my heart dropping, my hands tightening on the desk. “Why the hell not?”

His fingers brush my cheek, gentle now, tracing my cheekbone. “Because if I do what I want to you right now, Danny, you won’t walk straight for days. And I want to take my time with you.”

I swallow hard, throat tight, my body still trembling from his touch. “That’s the point,” I say, half-joking, half-pleading, my hips shifting forward, brushing against him.

He smirks, but it’s tight, restrained, his hands steadying me on the desk. “Not yet, babe.” He leans in, softly kisses the corner of my mouth, hands sliding to rest on my thighs, thumbs brushing the creases of my slacks. “I want you too much to rush this.”

My heart twists, and I nod, wordless, trusting him, my hands still braced on the desk, my body leaning back slightly, legs still hooked loosely around his.

He doesn’t leave me hanging. He drops to his knees, his hands lifting my shirt, exposing my stomach inch by inch. I lean back further, elbows bending, weight shifting onto my forearms, my hips tilting up slightly as I sit on the edge of the desk. My legs spread wider, one foot resting on the floor, the other hooked over his shoulder, pulling him closer. His lips press firmly against my stomach, moving in a slow line from my navel upward, his hands steadying my hips as his breath brushes my skin. His tongue traces a small circle just below my ribs, and his lips close over the spot, sucking lightly, making my hips jerk slightly against the desk.

When his mouth grazes the waistband of my pants, I gasp, my head falling back, hair brushing the desk. My hands grip the edge, my chest heaving as I try to breathe. He doesn’t go further, just presses one last kiss there, right above the button, his hands steadying my hips as I tremble. I can feel his breath on my cock through the fabric, and I swear I almost sob.

He stands slowly, towering over me again, his hands resting lightly on my thighs. I’m still leaning back, propped on my elbows, shirt open, tie a mess, bite marks blooming across my skin. He leans in with a low growl. “Next time, Danny, you won’t get to beg. I’ll take everything.”

He kisses my throat, lips pressing against the pulse point, tongue flicking lightly over the skin as his hands slide up to cup my face, thumbs brushing along my jaw before he steps back. “Go home,” he says. “Before I lose the last shred of self-control I’ve got.”

I don’t move right away, still propped on the desk, my chest heaving, slacks too tight, body buzzing. My legs are still spread, one foot on the floor, the other dangling, my shirt hanging off one shoulder, bite marks like bruised petals across my skin. What the hell just happens? I stare at the empty doorway as his footsteps fade. I feel alive, aching, and completely, impossibly owned.

Chapter Text

I wake to the buzz of my phone alarm, the room still dark, the air heavy with Honolulu’s relentless heat. My sheets are a tangled mess, damp with sweat, clinging to my skin like a second layer of regret. My neck stings where Steve’s teeth leave their mark, a pulsing ache that flares when I shift. I touch the spot, and my pulse jumps, like my body’s already chasing him. My fingers linger, pressing harder, and the pain blooms, a hot reminder that makes my breath catch. God, Danny, what are you doing? You’re lying here, heart racing like a teenager, because of a bite mark. Because of him. Three hours last morning, primping like goddamn pageant queen who thinks a blue shirt and a tie will make him look at you again. And then Steve, pinning me to his desk, mouth mapping my skin from collarbone to stomach. What the hell is wrong with you? And him?

I drag myself out of bed, boxers sticking to my thighs, the fabric chafing against skin still tender from the intensity. Every step to the bathroom makes my neck throb, the bite marks burning like a brand when I turn my head. The mirror doesn’t lie: I look wrecked. Hair a mess, eyes shadowed, a faint purple bloom on my neck where Steve’s lips linger too long. My skin remembers every graze, every bite, and it feels like he’s still here, standing too close, his voice: You’re being very good, Danny. Get it together. You’re not this guy. You’re not the one who falls apart over a man who doesn’t even acknowledge it. I shudder, gripping the sink. “Get it together, Williams,” I mutter, but my voice cracks, and I’m not convincing anyone, least of all myself.

And don’t kid yourself, Danny. You know he won’t bring it up. You’re not that naive, right? Just because he kissed you like you were something he needed, like he could swallow you whole, doesn’t mean he’ll say a word. He’ll walk away, like always, leaving you to pick up the pieces. Right? Stupid me. Pathetic, overthinking, underslept me who spends twenty minutes staring at the same two shirts this morning like one of them might summon that version of Steve back into his own damn office.
Now, pulling into the HQ parking lot, I’m still a mess. My hands grip the steering wheel too tight, as I try to shake the fog of last day. The asphalt shimmers under the morning sun, a haze of heat rising. I swear, it’s mocking my inability to cool down, inside or out. Steve’s already there, of course. Look at him, standing there, by his truck, arms crossed, sunglasses on, the sun doing things to his biceps that should be illegal in a workplace setting and like he owns the world and he didn’t leave bruises on my skin that pulse with every heartbeat. His dark-grey shirt clings to his chest just enough to remind me of how it feels under my hands, taut and warm, and I hate how my brain betrays me with the memory. When I walk up, he looks at me, nods, smirks a little. No comment. No reminder. No... anything. Just: “Morning, Danno.” His voice is casual, clipped, like we’re just partners, just colleagues. I want to punch a wall. My neck throbs as I nod back, the pain a cruel echo of his teeth, and I wonder if he even notices the way I flinch when I turn my head. Does he see the mark he left? Does he care? Or is it just another day for him, while I’m unraveling like a cheap suit in the heat?

I force my legs to move, each step toward the HQ entrance feeling same as wading through molasses. My collar rubs against the bite marks, and I clench my jaw to keep from hissing. Inside, the air conditioning is a fleeting relief.

Steve walks ahead, his stride easy, confident, and seems like he really owns the world and I’m just a guest in it. I trail behind, my eyes catching the way his shoulders shift under his shirt, and I curse myself for noticing. I’m supposed to be a professional, not some lovesick idiot chasing a ghost of a moment that probably meant nothing to him. But my neck won’t let me forget, and neither will my traitorous brain, replaying his breath against my skin, his hands pinning my wrists, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room. 
Inside, the team’s gathered in the main room, the smart table glowing with case files. The case is arson, suspected insurance fraud at a small warehouse on the North Shore, owned by a guy named Marcus Hale, who’s dodging financial ruin. The fire is sloppy, contained to a single storage unit, but the damage screams intent: accelerant trails, tampered electrical wiring, and a propane tank that doesn’t belong. Chin leans over the table, pulling up property records, his brow furrowed. “Hale’s got three mortgages on this place,” he says. “Two liens, too. Guy’s drowning in debt. Fire’s a convenient way to cash out.”

Kono’s next to him, scrolling through surveillance footage on her tablet. “I get a hit on a truck leaving the scene ten minutes before the first 911 call,” she says, zooming in on a grainy still. “No plates, but the model’s distinctive - Toyota Tacoma, late ’90s. I’m running it through the DMV database now.” She glances at Steve, then me, her eyes catching the way I adjust my collar for the third time. “You okay, Danny? You’re fidgeting like you got ants in your shirt.”

I’m not okay, Kono. I’m a mess because the guy standing across this table left marks on me that won’t shut up, and I can’t focus on anything but the way he’s not looking at me now. “I’m fine,” I snap. “Just… hot.” She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push, turning back to her screen. Steve doesn’t look up, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch, and I swear he’s remembering the exact reason I’m squirming. Bastard.

Lou’s at the other end of the table, flipping through fire inspector reports. “This ain’t Hale’s first rodeo,” his Chicago drawl cutting through the room. “Report from ’09 says he has a suspicious kitchen fire at his old restaurant. No charges, but the insurance payout is just enough to keep him afloat. Pattern’s clear as day.” He tosses the file onto the table, looking at Steve. “We bringing him in now or letting him sweat?”

Steve leans back, arms crossed. “Let him sweat,” he says this in a calm way, but laced with that edge he gets when he’s three steps ahead. “Danny, you’re with me to check the scene. Chin, Kono, keep digging into Hale’s financials and that truck. Lou, cross-reference his known associates, anyone who might help him pull this off.” His eyes flick to me. “Let’s move.”
The car ride to the warehouse is quiet, but not the comfortable kind. Steve’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a rhythm to some godawful rock song that’s all screeching guitars and angst. My neck stings every time the seatbelt shifts, the bite marks screaming under my collar, taunting me with every movement. I keep my eyes on the road, trying to focus on the case, on the warehouse, on anything but the man sitting two feet away. The ocean flashes by outside, all turquoise and endless, but it doesn’t calm me. Not when my skin betraying me, every nerve ending tuned to Steve’s presence like a radio stuck on his frequency. I shift in my seat, and the seatbelt scrapes the marks again. I bite back a hiss, but Steve notices, his eyes flicking to me. “You good, Danno?” he asks casual as ever.

“Peachy,” I mutter, staring out the window. I’m not good, you idiot. I’m drowning in you, and you’re just driving, acting like last morning didn’t happen. And I want to ask you what it meant, what I am to you. Do you even care? Or am I just a moment you’ve already forgotten? My fingers digging into my thigh to keep from touching my neck. He doesn’t push, just turns up the radio, and the music fills the silence. I’m stuck replaying the way his hands grip my hips, the way his voice drops low when he says my name while I watching how his fingers tap the steering wheel, and I wonder if he feels anything at all.
Thinking about this makes my chest ache, and I press my fingers harder into my thigh, willing myself to focus on the road.

At the warehouse, the air smells like charred wood and gasoline. The fire’s out, leaving only blackened walls, melted plastic, and a propane tank that looks planted to scream “arson.” I spot something the first responders miss: a cluster of melted wires near the tank, insulation stripped like someone wants the spark to look accidental. I crouch, point it out, my neck protesting as I turn to Steve. “Sloppy work,” I say, keeping steady tone. “Whoever does this doesn’t expect us to look this close.” Focus, Danny. Do your job.

Steve kneels beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “Nice catch,” his breath grazing my ear for a split second before he pulls back. My heart lurches, and I freeze, waiting for one more look, or touch, anything. That’s it? Nice catch? You unravel me, leave me marked, and all I get is ‘nice catch’? But he’s already standing, scanning the scene like nothing happens. I’m left in the ash, my neck throbbing, my brain screaming for him to say it like he does before, when his voice is a promise and a threat all at once.
Back at HQ, the team pieces it together. Chin cracks Hale’s phone metadata, pulling up a call log that shows him talking to a burner phone ten times in the last week. “Same number pings a tower near the warehouse the night of the fire,” he projects the data onto the smart table, his fingers moving with precision as the map lights up with red dots tracing the signal’s path. “Hale’s not working alone. Someone’s covering his tracks.” His eyes narrow, and he’s in his element, piecing together the puzzle with a focus that almost makes me jealous. Almost. My own focus is shot, ‘cause thoughts split between the case and the way Steve’s standing too close to the table, hands braced on the edge.

Kono narrows the truck down to three possibles, all registered to low-level grunts with ties to Hale’s old restaurant crew. “One of ’em, Ricky Voss, has a history of petty arson,” she says, pulling up his rap sheet on her tablet, the screen casting a faint glow on her face. “Caught setting a dumpster fire for a bookie in ’15. No jail time, but he’s got the know-how.” She leans forward. “I say we tail him. If he’s the muscle, he’ll lead us to the brains.” She glances at me, and I swear there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes. She sees it, doesn’t she? I shift my weight, my collar scraping the bite marks, and I force a nod, hoping it looks convincing.

Lou digs through Hale’s financials, his eyes narrowing as he spots something. “Check this,” he slid his tablet toward Steve, the screen showing a scanned document with red flags all over it. “Hale’s got a second cousin, Eddie Voss - Ricky’s brother. Eddie’s a licensed electrician. Guess who does the wiring job on the warehouse six months ago?” He taps the screen, showing a work order with Eddie’s signature scrawled in black ink. “That’s our guy for the melted wires Danny finds. Bet my left nut he rigs it to spark.” His grin is all Chicago swagger, but there’s a respect in his eyes when he looks at me, so I guess, I caught something big at the scene. It should feel good. It doesn’t. Not when Steve’s standing there, silent, with unreadable face, and I’m still waiting for something that acknowledges what happened between us.

Steve nods, lips quirking. “Nice work, Lou. Kono, great eye on the truck. Chin, solid connection on the phone logs.”

And me? Just ‘nice catch’ hours ago. That’s all I’m worth? I could snap a pencil in half right now. My neck’s screaming, and you’re acting like I’m invisible. I could snap a pencil in half right now. So I lean over the smart table, and clench my fists to keep from swearing out loud. I open my mouth, to say what, I don’t know, probably something sarcastic, maybe something cruel, but Steve beats me to it.

He tosses a file my way and says, “You wanna take lead on the next interview?”

I blink. “Me?”

He nods. “You read the guy better than I do. You’ll get more out of him.”

Oh.

Okay.

Well... fuck.

That’s… something. Real trust. Praise that means something. Maybe you do see me, Steve. Maybe this is your way of saying it. I catch myself starting to smile a little, ridiculous, I know, but I can’t help it. I nod, my neck throbbing, but it feels earned now, like a mark I’m proud to carry.
In the interrogation room, Hale’s a sweaty mess, his eyes darting like a cornered rat. I take lead, like Steve suggests, leaning forward, my neck throbbing as my collar shifts. The pain is a constant pulse, grounding me, keeping me sharp despite the chaos in my head. “Marcus,” I say calmly, “you’re not good at this. Three mortgages, two liens, and a fire that screams insurance scam. You really think we don’t notice the propane tank? Or the calls to a burner phone?” I slide Chin’s call log across the table, the paper rustling in the quiet room, watching him squirm. His hands twitch, fingers curling into fists, and I know he’s feeling the walls closing in. “Who’s helping you? Ricky Voss? Eddie?” I lean closer, my eyes locked on his, daring him to lie. I’m sharp, focused, because of you, Steve. This ache in my neck is keeping me here, keeping me on point, even when my head’s a mess and also a reminding of your presence, even now, leaning against the wall behind me, arms crossed, watching me work. It’s distracting, but I channel it, letting the ache in my neck fuel my focus, letting it sharpen my words. “You’re wasting time,” I say. “We’ve got your cousin’s work order. We’ve got your truck on camera. You wanna go down alone, or you wanna give us something useful?” 

Hale folds after ten minutes, spilling about Eddie rigging the wiring and Ricky setting the fire. “I don’t want it to go this far,” he mumbles, head in his hands. “Just need the payout.” I glance at Steve, expecting… something. A nod, a smirk. He just says, “Clean work, Danny,” and walks out.
Clean work. Two words, and I’m hanging onto them like they’re everything. Pathetic, Danny.
Back at the table, the team debriefs. Kono’s tail on Ricky pays off, she and Chin catch him meeting Eddie at a dive bar, both now in custody. “Ricky tries to bolt,” Kono says, grinning, her eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. “Chin tackles him like a linebacker. You should see it.” She mimes the takedown, her hands slicing through the air, and the room feels lighter for a moment, her energy infectious. Chin chuckles, rubbing his shoulder, a faint wince crossing his face. “Gonna feel that tomorrow,” he says, and I hear pride in his voice, a quiet satisfaction in closing the loop. Lou’s got Eddie’s full contract history, linking him to two other suspicious fires. “Family business, huh?” he says, shaking his head. “These guys are dumber than a bag of hammers.” He leans back, arms crossed, and I catch the way he glances at me, like he’s waiting for me to chime in, to add something sharp or sarcastic like I usually do. But I’m quiet, my neck still pulsing, my thoughts tangled in Steve’s two-word praise and the way it feels like both everything and nothing at all. 

Later, at Steve’s place, the sunset paints the sky in shades of orange and pink, bleeding through the open windows of his lanai. The ocean hums in the distance. We’re sprawled on his couch, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table - greasy cartons of fried rice and loco moco, the kind of food that’s as much a comfort as it is a heart attack waiting to happen. Steve tosses me a cold bottle of beer, and says almost lazy, “You do good today.”
Do good? That’s it? I’m sitting here, my neck screaming, head replaying every second of you pinning me down, and you’re giving me ‘do good’? I nod, sip the beer, the bitterness sharp on my tongue. It’s not enough, Steve. You’re sitting there, shirt unbuttoned, looking like everything I want, and I’m drowning in you. Say something real. Please. The room smells like salt air and soy sauce, and the ceiling fan spins lazily above us, stirring the humid.

“You’re quiet tonight, Danno,” he says, not looking at me, his eyes on the carton as he scoops rice with a plastic fork. Quiet? I’m screaming inside, actually. I’m choking on the words I can’t say, on the way you kissed me like I was yours, then walked away like I’m nothing. I shrug, “Just tired,” and lie. He glances at me then, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, maybe he’s trying to read me, and for a split second, I think he’s going to say something real, something that acknowledges the way he unraveled me. But he doesn’t. He just leans back, takes a pull from his own beer, and says, “Case is wrapped. Hale’s done, Voss brothers are booked, insurance company’s notified. Clean win.”

Clean win. Right. For you, maybe. For me, it’s a loss every time you look at me like I’m just your partner. I nod again, my fingers tightening around the bottle, the glass cool against my palm but not enough to ground me. I want to scream at him, to grab him by the shirt and demand to know why he’s sitting here acting like we’re just buddies sharing takeout when I can still feel his teeth on my neck. I take another sip, and watch the way his jaw moves as he chews, the way his throat bobs when he swallows. It’s torture, and I’m a willing victim, sitting here chasing scraps of him in every glance, every brush of his knee against mine.

The lanai door’s open, and the breeze carries the scent of the ocean, mingling with the faint musk of his cologne, and it’s too much. I set the beer down, harder than I mean to, the clink loud in the quiet. He looks at me again, one eyebrow raised, and I swear there’s a flicker of something in his eyes amusement, maybe, or recognition, like he knows exactly what’s eating me alive. “What’s with you, Danny?” he asks, and this time his voice is softer. What’s with me? I’m in love with you, you idiot, and you’re killing me with every word you don’t say. My heart stutters, and I open my mouth to say something, but the words choke me again. So I just shake my head, mutter, “Nothing,” and grab another carton, shoving food in my mouth to keep from spilling everything.

He watches me for a moment longer, then leans forward, elbows on his knees, and says, “You sure?” And it’s so close to what I want him to say, so close to an acknowledgment, that it hurts. I nod, not trusting my voice, and he lets it go, turning back to his food, the moment slipping away like sand through my fingers. The case is wrapped, the sunset’s fading, and I’m still here, stuck in this limbo where he’s everything and nothing, and I’m too damn weak to walk away.
When I get home, the lights stay off. I sit on the edge of the bed, shoes still on, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles ache. My neck burns, a constant pulse of pain tethering me to him. I think about his voice, his mouth, his hands. How he bends me over his desk like I’m made for it. How his tongue tastes me like a confession. How he says, You want this? / I need it. And how now, none of it happens. Not a glance, not a word. The room feels too small, the air too thick, Honolulu’s heat has followed me inside, pressing against my skin. I replay every moment of the day, searching for a sign, a hint that he feels it too, but all I get is clean work and you do good, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. I lie back, stare at the ceiling, the fan spinning lazily above me, cutting through the dark. You kissed me like I was yours. Now you act like I’m background noise. I don’t know what’s worse: that you’ve forgotten, or that you remember and choosing to ignore it. I close my eyes, and the ache in my chest drowns out the pain in my neck. I’d do anything to make you say it again. To make you look at me like you did, like I’m more than a partner, more than a case file, more than a fleeting moment you can walk away from. My fingers drift to my neck, tracing the marks, and I press down, chasing the pain, knowing I’ll wake up tomorrow and do it all again. 

Chapter Text

I wake up to Steve’s voice slicing through the quiet of my apartment, leaking through the half-open bedroom door like a siren I can’t ignore.

“Danno. We’ve got one. Up.”

No coffee. No banter. Just up. Like the world’s on fire and I’m the only one still in bed.

I groan, roll out from under the tangled sheets, and immediately stub my toe on the dresser. Pain rockets up my leg and I curse, biting down on the instinct to yell. My neck burns slightly, the spot where Steve bit me hurts less than it did yesterday. I drag on a crumpled T-shirt from the floor, half-sure it’s clean, and stumble into the living room.

He’s already there. Dressed in black, pacing, gun holstered, radio clipped to his vest. Phone pressed to his ear. His voice is tight, the way it gets when things are bad.

He sees me, cuts the call with a sharp tap. “Hostage situation. Bank in Maunawili. Two suspects, one wounded, HPD can’t get a visual inside. Negotiator’s on scene.”

I blink at him, still foggy. “And you decided not to let me sleep through this one?”

His lips twitch, eyes stay cold. “Gear up.”

So I do. Vest, boots, sidearm. I check the clip twice, just for something to focus on.
Why’s he so wired? I think as I grab my keys. He’s already halfway down the stairs, truck engine growling like it’s as impatient as he is. This better not be another one of his gut feelings gone nuclear.
The drive is fast. Faster than it should be. Trees blur past the window, and the sunlight’s glaring, sharp, catching on Steve’s jaw, on the tight set of his mouth. I glance sideways at him. He’s leaning forward, white-knuckling the wheel, like speed alone can fix whatever’s waiting for us at the end of this road. 

The truck smells faintly of salt and gun oil, a mix that’s so Steve and it’s almost grounding. My fingers tap against my knee, restless, trying to shake off the fog of being yanked out of sleep. I notice the dashboard clock - 6:47 a.m. Too damn early for this. Too early for anything but coffee, which you didn’t even make, you jerk. The radio’s off, but the hum of the engine fills the silence, vibrating through my chest like a warning. 

Outside, the road curves through Maunawili, the jungle pressing in close, leaves heavy with last night’s rain. A stray drop hits the windshield, smearing under the wiper’s lazy swipe. Steve’s knuckles flex on the wheel, and I catch a faint scar on his left hand, one I’ve never asked about. Probably some SEAL thing he’d dodge talking about anyway. His focus is razor-sharp, but there’s a twitch in his jaw, a tell he doesn’t know he has. He’s not just driving to a scene, he’s already there, in his head, mapping out every angle, every exit. 

I shift in my seat, the vest digging into my ribs. My neck stings where he bit me, a stupid, heated moment after too many thoughts and not enough words. It’s not pain exactly, just a pulse under the skin, a reminder of him that’s as annoying as it is distracting. I rub at it absently, then stop when I catch him glancing my way. His eyes flick back to the road, but I swear there’s a ghost of a smirk. Bastard. 

“You didn’t even make coffee,” I mutter. 

He doesn’t smile. “Didn’t have time.” 

Liar. You just like dragging me into your chaos. I huff, leaning back, the seatbelt cutting into my shoulder. The air feels too warm. I crack the window, let the damp morning air rush in, carrying the scent of wet earth and something faintly floral. It doesn’t help. My gut’s already twisting, not just from the lack of caffeine but from the way Steve’s sitting. Too still, too coiled, like a spring about to snap. 

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so wound up?” I ask, keeping my tone light, prodding. 

His eyes stay on the road. “Just another day, Danno.” 

Right. And I’m the Queen of England. 

The truck hits a pothole, jarring my teeth, and I grip the door handle. Steve doesn’t flinch, just pushes the gas harder. I glance at the speedometer: ninety-five. Jesus. I want to tell him to slow down, but I know better. This is Steve on a mission, and I’m just along for the ride. For now. 

When we pull up, it’s already chaos.
Yellow tape flutters in the humid air. HPD cruisers block the street, their lights splashing red and blue across the glass facade of the bank. Cops crouch behind open car doors, weapons drawn. A negotiator with a bullhorn is repeating a name I can’t quite hear. Someone screams from inside the building.

The heat hits me like a wall as I step out of the truck, the asphalt radiating warmth through my boots. The bank’s glass front reflects the morning sun, blinding for a split second before I shield my eyes. The air’s thick with the smell of exhaust and fear, maybe, or the metallic tang of blood already spilled. A crowd’s gathered across the street, civilians craning their necks, phones out, recording like this is some goddamn movie. I spot a kid, no older than ten, clutching his mom’s hand, eyes wide. I want to yell at them to get back, to go home, but there’s no time.

Steve’s already moving, his boots silent on the pavement, rifle slung low but ready. I follow, my own gun heavy in my hands, the weight of it grounding me. The negotiator’s voice cracks through the bullhorn again “…Michael, we just want to talk…” but it’s drowned out by another scream from inside. My stomach lurches. I’ve heard screams like that before. They don’t end well.

I glance at Steve, catching the way his shoulders tense, the way his head tilts like he’s listening to something I can’t hear. His eyes scan the building, the roof, the alleys. There’s a bead of sweat on his temple, glinting in the sun, and I realize I’ve never seen him sweat like that, not from heat, anyway. What’s got you rattled, babe?

The HPD sergeant jogs over, face grim, radio crackling. “McGarrett, Williams. Two suspects, one’s bleeding out. Hostages in the vault room. No clear shot from the front.”

Steve nods, already turning toward the east side. “Rear stairwell.”

I follow, my boots crunching on loose gravel as we skirt the building. The air shifts as we move into the shadow of the bank, cooler and heavier, like the world’s holding its breath. I notice a shattered window on the second floor, glass glittering on the pavement below. Did someone try to get out? Or in? My mind spins, trying to piece it together, but Steve’s already at the stairwell door, his gloved hand testing the handle. Locked. He pulls a small tool from his vest - lockpick, because of course he carries one, and has it open in ten seconds flat.

I want to make a crack about his Boy Scout preparedness, but the look in his eyes stops me. They’re not just focused, they’re haunted, like he’s seeing something I can’t. I swallow the joke, my throat dry, and follow him into the dark.

I count my breaths. Four in, four out. The stairwell’s dim, the concrete slick under my boots. We descend like shadows. The shouting’s louder here, closer. One voice ragged and hoarse, another sharp, terrified.

The air in the stairwell is stale, heavy with the damp smell of mold and something metallic, blood, maybe, or just the rusting pipes overhead. My boots catch slightly on the slick steps, and I shift my weight to keep from slipping. The dim light from a flickering bulb above casts jagged shadows on the walls, making every corner feel like a threat. My grip tightens on my gun, the textured handle biting into my palm, grounding me.

Steve’s ahead, his silhouette sharp against the faint glow. His movements are fluid, deliberate, but there’s a tension in his shoulders I don’t usually see. His head tilts slightly, like he’s tracking the shouts echoing from below. I notice the way his free hand hovers near his vest, fingers twitching, ready to grab a knife or a flashbang. I think he’s expecting something to go wrong. That’s what’s got my stomach in knots. Steve’s gut is never wrong.

The shouting spikes, words clearer now. “You set me up!” the hoarse voice screams, raw with desperation. The other voice, higher, female maybe, “Please, just let us go!” My chest tightens. Hostages. Plural. The briefing said one, but now I’m not so sure. I glance at Steve, his eyes are locked forward, scanning the next landing. I want to ask if he heard it too, but we’re in silent mode, and I know better than to break it.

My neck itches where that damn bite mark is, a faint throb under my collar. It’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about his teeth, his breath hot against my skin. Now, it’s like a tether, pulling my focus when I need it most. Not now. I shake it off, force my eyes to the stairwell’s peeling paint, the graffiti scratched into the wall: “Kimo was here.” Great. Where’s Kimo when I need him?

Steve and I slip around the back, guns drawn, moving tactical silent. We’ve done this dance a hundred times, but today feels different. The air’s too heavy, pressing down on us, making every step deliberate. Even Steve, usually sharp-edged and unshakable, has a different look in his eyes. Not just focus. He’s scanning every shadow, every corner, like he expects something to lunge at us.

We descend, steps muffled, guns steady. Inside, the shouting gets louder. A man’s voice yelling about being set up. Another voice pleading for something, anything. Then a single gunshot rips through the air.

The sound is deafening in the confined space, a crack that echoes off the concrete and slams into my chest. My ears ring, and for a split second, I’m back in Jersey, hearing a shot like that in a botched robbery, the smell of gunpowder choking the air. I blink it away, focus on Steve. He’s frozen, just for a moment, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump.

Steve’s eyes meet mine, a flicker of something unreadable passing between us. Fear? Doubt? No, not Steve. But it’s something close, something human, and it scares me more than the gunshot. He gestures two fingers, then a sharp motion forward. We inch down the stairwell, pressed tight to the wall, the damp concrete cold against my shoulder. My pulse is loud in my ears, but I keep it steady, matching Steve’s rhythm.

The cold seeps through my vest, a sharp contrast to the sweat trickling down my spine. I notice a crack in the wall, spiderwebbing out like a bad omen. My breath catches as I hear footsteps above. Fast. Coming closer. Not the heavy tread of boots, but something lighter, frantic. A civilian? Another suspect? My mind races, but Steve’s already reacting, his body shifting to cover the angle above us.

Steve looks at me. We nod.

It’s muscle memory now, the way we move as one. My heart’s hammering, hands are steady, gun up, finger off the trigger. I notice Steve’s glove is torn at the knuckle, a small detail that sticks in my head for no reason. The footsteps are louder, almost on us, and I brace for whatever’s coming.

We breach through the rear stairwell door, guns up, and the world tilts into chaos.

The hallway is carnage. Blood spatter paints the wall in jagged arcs, a smeared trail leading to the vault room. The door’s kicked open, hanging off its hinges. One suspect lies twisted by a cabinet, his body unnaturally still, chest not rising. His eyes are open, staring at nothing.

The sharp smell of blood hits me first, mixed with the acrid burn of gunpowder. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one flickering like it’s about to die, casting a sickly strobe over the scene. The suspect’s hand is still clutching a knife, the blade slick with blood, and I wonder if he got a swing in before he went down. My stomach churns, but I push it down, scanning the room.

The hostage is on the floor, pale as death, wrists bound with zip ties, blood streaking from a gash on his temple. He’s alive, though, his eyes wild with terror, trying to shout something through the gag in his mouth. The sound is muffled, desperate, swallowed by the sudden crash of another door behind us.

I notice the hostage’s shoes: dress shoes, scuffed, one lace untied. He’s not a bank teller; maybe a manager, caught in the wrong place. His gag is a strip of cloth, torn from a shirt, and it’s soaked with spit and blood. His eyes lock on mine, pleading, and I feel a pang of guilt for not getting here sooner.

A flash. Movement. A tall shape surges from a supply closet like a cornered animal.

The guy’s huge, bigger than I expected, his face twisted with rage or fear or both. His clothes are torn, a sleeve hanging by threads, and there’s blood on his knuckles. The pipe in his hands is rusted, heavy, the kind you’d find in a maintenance room. It catches the light as he swings, and my heart stops. Oh, shit.

“Steve!” I yell, instinct pulling me forward as the guy barrels toward him, a metal pipe raised over his head, glinting under the fluorescent lights.

Steve twists just in time, the pipe missing his skull by inches, clanging against the wall with a hollow ring. He moves like lightning, kicking out, catching the guy’s leg. It’s not clean, though, not like the smooth, choreographed takedowns we’ve pulled off before. It’s messy, a tangle of limbs and grunts as they crash into a desk, papers scattering like confetti.

I see Steve’s face for a split second, teeth bared, eyes blazing, not just fighting but surviving. The desk they hit is cheap, particleboard, and it groans under their weight. Papers flutter to the floor, a coffee-stained memo, someone’s handwritten note about a birthday cake. It’s surreal, these normal things in the middle of hell.

I move to help, my boots pounding the floor, but before I can get there, I hear a click. Unmistakable. A gun being cocked.

Second guy. Behind me. Too close.

The sound is so sharp it’s like a knife in my spine. I turn, but he’s already on me, a blur of motion. His breath reeks of cigarettes and something sour, and his eyes are bloodshot, pupils blown. He’s not just angry, desperate, and that makes him dangerous.

He slams me down before I can react. I hit the floor hard, my head bouncing off the tile. Pain rips through my skull, and the world tilts sideways. Then he’s on top of me, straddling my hips, knees pinning my arms, and his hands go straight for my neck. Get up, Danny, get up!

The tile is freezing against my back, a shock that cuts through the pain in my head. Get off me! I taste blood, maybe from biting my tongue, and my vision swims. His weight is crushing, his knees digging into my biceps, and I can’t move my arms. His hands are rough, calloused, and they clamp down like a vice.

The second they close around my throat, it’s like the air disappears.

He squeezes. Tight. Like he means it. Like he knows how to do this.

My back arches. My boots scramble uselessly against the smooth tile. The cold seeps through my shirt, grounding me in a sick, dizzying way. My lungs scream, but nothing gets through. My hands claw at his wrists, at his face, at anything, but I can’t get enough leverage. He’s heavy. Angry. High, maybe. His eyes are wild. The edges of my vision go hazy.

I hear Steve’s fight in the background, something breaking but it’s distant, like I’m underwater. My nails rake across the guy’s wrist, drawing blood, but he doesn’t flinch. His face is close, too close, and I see a scar cutting through his eyebrow, a detail my brain latches onto as my body screams for air.

I try to shout Steve’s name, a curse, anything, but only a dry, broken sound comes out. My chest convulses. My body starts to panic for me. Muscles twitch. My legs kick. He shifts his weight, choking me deeper into the floor.

My back slams once more, and I feel the sting of bite mark flare up just under my collar. A weird, surreal reminder that Steve was the last one to press against me like this wanting me, not destroying me. Focus, damn it.

The thought is fleeting, drowned by the roar in my ears. My vision tunnels, the fluorescent lights above blurring into a white haze. I see Steve in my mind’s eye, not here but two nights ago, his hands gentle, his voice low, calling me Danno like it’s a prayer.

I blink.

My fingers go numb.

Then bang.

The weight collapses.

I suck in a breath like it’s the first one I’ve ever taken. Wet, choking, ragged. My body arches off the tile, dragging in air too fast, too sharp. My chest burns. My throat burns. The world spins, then tilts, then folds into a blur of fluorescent lights and Steve’s shaking voice. “Danny! Stay with me. Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe, babe-”

I see him now, real, not a memory. He’s kneeling over me, his face pale, eyes wide with something I’ve never seen before. His hands are shaking as they touch my neck, my chest, my face, checking for damage, for life. There’s blood on his knuckles, not his, and his vest is torn at the shoulder. The guy with the pipe is crumpled behind him, motionless.

I try to speak, but all I manage is a cough so deep it tears something inside me. I curl sideways, gasping, clutching at his wrist like it’s a lifeline. Stay with me, Steve.

The room smells like blood and sweat now, and the hostage is still whimpering, his muffled cries cutting through the haze. I notice a spilled coffee cup by the vault door, the liquid pooling on the tile, reflecting the flickering light. My brain clings to these details, trying to anchor itself as my body fights to catch up.

Then everything fades.
•
•
•

I wake up to light. Soft, fluorescent, sterile. Everything hurts. Where am I?

The first thing I register is that my throat’s raw. Like I swallowed glass. My ribs ache with every breath. I shift and hiss, my whole torso lights up like it’s been licked by fire. A groan escapes before I can stop it.

The hospital smell hits me next: antiseptic, latex, and that faint, sickly sweet undertone of sickness. The light is too bright, even through my closed eyelids, and I squint against it. There’s a faint hum from the machines beside me, a steady beep that’s both annoying and reassuring. My skin feels sticky where the tape holds wires to my chest, and there’s an IV in my arm, the needle a dull ache I only notice when I move.

Then - movement.

A chair scraping. The creak of leather. Shoes against tile.

“Danny.”

His voice is the first thing that lands right. I don’t care how raw I feel. The way he says it makes the pain hum quieter, makes my brain slow down enough to register one thing: Steve’s here.

I force my eyes open, the world blurry for a moment. The ceiling tiles are stained, one corner yellowed from a long-ago leak. The walls are a sterile white, but there’s a crack in the paint near the door, like someone slammed it too hard. I focus on Steve, sitting beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. His hair’s a mess, sticking up like he’s been running his hands through it. His shirt’s untucked, the blood on the cuff dark and crusty now, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek he hasn’t noticed.

“You’re awake,” he says. It’s not a question.

His voice is steady, but there’s a roughness to it, like he’s been talking too much or not at all. I notice his knuckles are bruised, the skin split on one, and I wonder if it’s from the guy with the pipe or something else. His eyes are bloodshot and there’s a faint tremor in his hands when he unclasp them.

“How long-”

“Six hours,” he cuts in. “You passed out in the vault. EMT said your airway was swelling. I told them to give you epinephrine. You’re lucky I was there.”

I blink again. “You…told them?”

His mouth twitches. “Of course I did.”

There’s a tightness in his jaw, a flicker in his eyes like he’s still down there with me, trying to get that guy off my throat. I remember flashes. Hands. Pressure. Panic. Then Steve’s voice, loud and close, and nothing.

I notice the window behind him, the blinds half-open, letting in slants of late afternoon light. Outside, I can just make out the tops of palm trees, swaying slightly in the breeze. The room feels too small, too quiet, except for the beep of the monitor and Steve’s breathing, which I realize I’m matching without meaning to.

“You scared me,” he says.

I scared you? I try to joke, but it comes out hoarse. “You scared me too, bursting in like a wrecking ball.”

“You looked at me like you didn’t know who I was,” he murmurs. “That was the worst part.”

His words hit harder than they should. I don’t remember looking at him like that, but the thought of it twists something in my chest. I see it in his eyes now, that moment replaying. He reaches forward and brushes my hair back from my forehead. Don’t do that. His fingers linger, just a little. Just enough.

His hand is warm, rough from calluses, and I notice a faint scar across his thumb, one I’ve never seen up close. When did you get that? His touch is gentle, like he’s afraid I’ll break. My hair’s damp with sweat, and I’m suddenly aware of how I must look: pale, bruised, hooked up to machines. Not exactly my best moment.

“I told you to stay behind me.”

I huff. “I was behind you. The floor doesn’t count as moving ahead.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just watches me. His hand slides down, warm against my temple, then lower to my neck. Two fingers graze over the tender skin there, where it still stings. It should make me flinch, but it doesn’t. I lean into it, like an idiot.

The bite mark throbs under his touch, and I’m hit with a flash of memory of his mouth on me, the way he held me after like he didn’t want to let go. Now, his fingers trace the bruises, not the bite, and I wonder if he’s thinking about it too. His eyes are dark, unreadable.

“You’re okay,” he says.

I close my eyes. Let myself feel that for a second. His voice. His touch. The quiet surety that I made it out, and he’s not leaving.

“You shouldn’t talk too much,” he adds, thumb brushing over the side of my jaw. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing,” I whisper, annoyed and grateful and probably still high on whatever they’ve got me on.

He exhales slowly. But his hand doesn’t leave me. It settles on my chest, grounding me.

I notice the weight of his hand, the way his fingers spread slightly. Feel that heartbeat? That’s for you. The bandage under his palm itches, and I’m suddenly aware of the tape pulling at my skin. My ribs ache with each breath, but his touch makes it bearable, somehow.

“Don’t do that again.”

I peek up at him. “Get strangled? Wasn’t on my to-do list, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

Something about his tone makes the room feel smaller. Not threatening, just… dense. Like there’s more behind those words than he’s letting on. I don’t ask. I don’t want to break whatever this is.

“I packed a bag for you,” he says. “You’re staying at my place until you’re better.”

I stare at him. “You what?”

“You’re not gonna be alone while you’re healing. I’m not letting you fall asleep with a bruised windpipe and no one around.”

You’re gonna babysit me? I exhale, shaky. My ribs protest again. “So, what, you gonna glue yourself to me twenty-four-seven?”

His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. “If that’s what it takes.”

A pause.

Then his palm slides. Fingers spread, tracing the bandages.

“You need to breathe slower,” he says. “You’re spiking your own pain.”

“Gee, thanks, Doc McGarrett.”

He doesn’t respond. Just watches me.

I notice his watch, the one he always wears, the face scratched from some mission he won’t talk about. The second hand ticks silently, and I realize how quiet the room is, just the two of us and the machines. My throat’s still raw, and I swallow, wincing at the burn.

“I want a real bed,” I mumble.

“You’ll have it.”

“You better not be offering the couch.”

“I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not,” I mutter.

He smirks. Barely. But I see it. A flicker of something softer. And then he leans in and kisses my forehead. Oh… My breath catches.

The kiss is soft, but it sends a jolt through me. His breath is warm, and I smell the faint trace of his aftershave, something woodsy that’s so him it hurts. My heart monitor beeps faster, and I’m sure he hears it, but he doesn’t pull back.

“Steve.”

“Shh.” His lips ghost along my temple, down to my ear. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Don’t let go.

Another pause.

“I’m not letting you go.”

His hand slides behind my neck, lifting me ever so slightly. The movement hurts like hell, but he holds me steady. Supporting, guiding, controlling. Then he whispers, close:

“You feel that?” He presses just a little harder on my chest. “That’s mine. You get that, Danno?”

Yeah, I get it. I nod. I can’t speak. My throat’s too tight.

Good. He likes that. I can tell.

And maybe… maybe I like it too.

I notice the way his thumb brushes my collarbone, just above the bandage, a small, unconscious gesture that feels more intimate than it should. His eyes are on mine, and for a moment, I see everything: fear, relief, something deeper I don’t dare name.

A nurse knocks lightly and enters. Steve straightens instantly, Mr. Governor’s Task Force again. All calm smiles and handshakes. She checks the machines, gives me pain meds, and disappears again.

The nurse’s shoes squeak on the tile, and I notice her name tag Leilani before she’s gone. The pain meds hit fast, a warm fog creeping into my limbs, and I sink deeper into the bed.

When she’s gone, Steve sits back down, but this time, closer. His hand rests on my thigh now. Still not moving anywhere inappropriate, but every second it lingers is a loaded gun.

His hand is heavy. I notice a faint tremor in his fingers, gone as soon as I register it. The blanket’s thin, and I feel the heat of his palm through it, a contrast to the cold room. Don’t move it, please. Outside, the palm trees are still swaying, and I wonder what time it is, how long he’s been sitting there, watching me breathe.

Chapter Text

I wake up alone.

Not to the scream of sirens tearing through Honolulu’s dawn. Not to Steve’s voice, sharp and commanding, yanking me from sleep like a lifeline. Just… stillness. A quiet so deep. Early light spills through the blinds, pooling in soft, golden patches against the far wall of Steve’s bedroom. Outside, palm fronds rustle in the trade winds, a low, soothing whisper that feels too gentle for a morning after yesterday’s chaos. My throat burns from where that bastard’s hands tried to crush the life out of me. My ribs throb with every shallow breath, a reminder of how close I came to not waking up at all. But that’s not what drags me out of sleep.

It’s the absence.

The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool where Steve should be. I sit up slowly, wincing as the motion tugs at every bruise, every strained muscle. Steve’s bed is massive, a king-sized fortress with a mattress firmer than I’m used to, the kind that forces your spine to behave. The pillows soaked in his scent of ocean salt, something sharp and clean like eucalyptus, and a faint undercurrent of coffee baked into the fabric from years of early mornings. Each inhale makes the empty sheets beside me ache all the more. My skin’s sticky with sweat, the Hawaiian humidity clinging to me despite the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. I swing legs over the edge, my ankle protesting with a sharp stab, ribs screaming louder. I grit my teeth, ready to stand, to shuffle toward the kitchen, bracing for the emptiness of a house left behind by a man who’s always three steps ahead.

Then I hear a faint clink from the kitchen, the low hum of a coffee maker.

He’s still here.

My heart does a weird stutter, and I pause, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress. Steve, still here, not halfway across Oahu chasing a lead or barking orders at the team. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I ease myself to my feet, ignoring the way my body protests, and limp toward the kitchen, the hardwood cool under my bare feet.

He’s there, standing by the counter like a statue carved from sunlight and stubbornness. Shirtless, barefoot, in low-slung sweatpants that cling to his hips. He’s holding a coffee mug, staring out the window at the ocean beyond, the early light catching the sharp angles of his shoulders. His posture is all business. But he’s here. Not gone. Not leaving me to wake up in an empty house.

He doesn’t turn when he hears my footsteps. I know he clocks me. He always does.

“I told you to stay in bed,” he says.

“Good morning to you too,” I croak, the words scraping like sandpaper.

He glances over his shoulder, and there’s no smirk, no playful glint in his eyes. Just a slow scan that starts at my face, lingers on the bruises blooming across my bare chest, and dips to the loose sweatpants he slipped me into last night when I was too out of it to notice. His jaw ticks, a tiny muscle jumping under the stubble.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion.

“I was. I’m rested. Ish.” I limp to the counter, ignoring the sharp stab in my ankle, and grab the second mug he’s poured for me. The coffee’s black, strong, the way he likes it, but he’s added a splash of cream. I don’t comment, but it warms something in my chest. “You always this bossy in the morning?”

“You almost died yesterday.”
I flinch before I can stop myself. My grip tightens on the mug, the heat biting into my palms. He notices, of course he does.

“I’m fine, Steve,” I say, but the words sound hollow, even to me. I’m not fine. My body’s a map of aches, my head’s a mess of half-formed thoughts, and every time I close my eyes, I see bloodshot eyes, a scarred eyebrow, the tile cold against my back. I’m not fine, but I don’t know how to say it.

“You keep saying that.” He turns to face me fully, leaning against the counter with that effortless grace. He’s too close, the heat of him cutting through the morning chill. Or maybe he’s just close enough. The light catches a bruise on his collarbone, a purpling mark where the pipe clipped him during yesterday’s fight. It’s a reminder he’s not invincible, no matter how much he acts like it. I want to reach out, press my fingers to it, feel the warmth of his skin under the discoloration. However, my hands stay wrapped around the mug.

“I meant what I said last night,” he says quieter.

“Which part?” I ask, trying to deflect the weight of this moment. “The threats or the part where you climbed into bed like a protective boyfriend?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze with those damn blue eyes that see too much, that strip me bare without trying. “Both.”

My heart skips, a traitor in my chest. My mouth goes dry, and I don’t know if it’s the coffee or the way he’s looking at me.
 “Okay,” I manage, the word barely audible, a surrender I didn’t mean to give.

“You’re not going back to your place for a while,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a fact, delivered with the same certainty he uses when calling a play in the field.

“Steve-”

He steps forward, closing the distance in one smooth stride. “You’re staying here. You’re not working until I say you’re ready. If you go anywhere, I go with you. End of discussion.”

I stare at him, searching for the line between overprotective and… whatever this is. This thing that makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with my ribs. “You realize how that sounds, right?” My voice cracks, and I wince, hating how weak it sounds.

He tilts his head, just enough to make my pulse jump. “Safe?”

“Controlling.”

“I don’t care.”

And the worst part is…I don’t either. Not really. Because my chest is still tight from yesterday, from the moment I thought I wouldn’t make it out. Because his bed, his house, his presence was the first place I’ve felt warm, grounded, in weeks. Because there’s something about the way he says these things, with that unshakable certainty, that makes me feel like I belong somewhere. Like I’m not just drifting through my own life, a detective playing at being whole.

I take a sip of coffee to cover the silence, the bitter heat grounding me. “So what, you’re gonna chain me to the couch?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You’re not moving until you can walk without limping. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor,” I point out, but there’s no heat in it. I’m too tired to argue, and deep down, I know he’s right. My body’s screaming for rest, and my head’s not far behind.

He steps closer, and I don’t move away. His hand comes up slowly, fingers grazing my jaw where the bruises are darkest. “You did good,” he murmurs. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

It shouldn’t be. I’m a mess of aches and doubts, a detective who’s supposed to have it together but feels like he’s unraveling. But when he says it, it feels true. Like it’s enough just to be standing here, in his kitchen, with his hand on my face, the ocean whispering outside.

I lean into his palm, my exhale shaky. “You gonna say that every morning now?”

He smiles a little. The kind of smile that promises trouble and safety in equal measure. “If you want me to.”
The moment stretches, heavy with everything we’re not saying. I swallow hard, my throat aching, and force myself to step back, breaking the contact before I do something stupid like close the gap entirely. “Coffee’s good,” I mutter, turning to the counter, needing the distance to breathe again.

He lets me go, but I feel his eyes on me, as I limp toward the kitchen table.
The morning unfolds slowly, a rare pause in the relentless rhythm of our lives. Steve doesn’t let me out of his sight, and for once, I don’t fight it. The kitchen smells of coffee and the faint, sweet tang of mango from the tree in his backyard, its branches heavy with fruit that sways in the trade winds outside the open window. The counter is cluttered with the evidence of Steve’s morning routine: a half-empty bag of Kona coffee beans, a cutting board with mango peels curling at the edges, and a knife moves smoothly in his hands, slicing the fruit into perfect wedges, the juice dripping onto the counter. It’s domestic in a way that feels almost alien for a guy who thrives on high-stakes chaos.

He’s at the stove now, his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he flips eggs in a skillet with the kind of precision you’d expect from a SEAL. He’s still shirtless, the sweatpants riding low enough to reveal the faint tan line at his hips, a detail I shouldn’t notice but do.

“Stop staring,” he says without turning.

“I’m not staring,” I lie, my throat still raw, the words scraping like gravel. I shift in the chair at the kitchen table, wincing as my ribs protest. “Just… admiring your culinary skills. Didn’t know you could cook anything that didn’t come out of a blender.”

He snorts, sliding the eggs onto a plate with toast and a fan of mango slices, the vibrant orange glowing against the white ceramic. “You’re lucky I’m feeding you at all, considering you’re supposed to be in bed.”

He sets a plate in front of me, his movements gentle. I try to crack a joke about him being a domestic goddess, but it falls flat when I catch the way he’s watching me, like he’s memorizing every wince, every hitch in my breath.

“Eat,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me. It’s not a request.

I roll my eyes but pick up the fork, my hands shakier than I’d like to admit. The eggs are fluffy, the toast crisp, the mango bursting with flavor that feels like a small rebellion against yesterday’s darkness. We eat in silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware, the distant crash of waves, and the soft hum of the ceiling fan. It’s… nice. Too nice. The kind of nice that makes me nervous, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I glance at the fridge, where a single photo of Steve and Mary is pinned under a magnet shaped like a surfboard. It’s slightly faded, the edges curling, and I wonder when it was taken, what version of Steve smiled for that camera.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I reach for it out of habit. Steve’s hand is faster, snatching it before I can. “Nope,” he says, tucking it into his pocket. “No work. No team. Just you, me, and rest.”

“You can’t just confiscate my phone,” I rasp, the effort making my throat burn. I cough, and Steve’s eyes narrow, like he’s ready to call a medic.

“Watch me,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his bare chest. The bruise on his collarbone catches the light again, and I can’t stop staring at it. He notices, because Steve McGarrett notices everything. “What?”

“You got hit,” I whisper, nodding at the bruise. “You’re not bulletproof either, you know.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Takes more than a pipe to slow me down.”

“Yeah, well, maybe slow down anyway,” I mutter, and the words slip out before I can stop them.

His eyes soften, before he leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not the one who needs slowing down, Danny. You’re staying put. Couch. Bed. Pick one.”

“Couch,” I croak, mostly to be contrary, but also because lying in his bed all day feels too… intimate. Too much like crossing a line I’m not sure I’m ready for, even if it’s the only place where I’ve felt safe in weeks. The couch is neutral ground, a way to keep some distance between us, even if it’s just in my head.

He nods, like he’s won some unspoken battle, and gestures toward the living room. “Move.”

I limp to the couch, easing myself down with a grunt. The cushions are soft, worn in, the kind of comfortable that makes you want to stay forever. Steve follows, carrying a blanket and a glass of water, and I can’t help but laugh, even if it makes my ribs ache. “You’re really leaning into this nurse thing, huh?”

“Shut up and drink,” he says, handing me the glass. But he’s close again, closer than he needs to be, and when he drapes the blanket over me, his fingers brush my shoulder, lingering too long. I catch the faint scent of his soap, something crisp and oceanic, and it grounds me even as it sets my nerves on edge. The blanket is old, slightly frayed at the edges, and I wonder if it’s one he’s had forever, maybe from his Navy days, carried through years of missions and moves.

I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I just look at him, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between us. The warmth of his hand, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his eyes hold mine like they’re searching for something.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “I’m not gonna break.”

“I know,” he says, but his hand doesn’t move. “But I’m not taking any chances. Not with you.”

The words hang in the air, and I don’t know what to say to that. I just nod, letting the blanket settle around me. He steps back, breaking the moment, but the warmth of his touch lingers, a quiet anchor in the stillness of the morning.

Around noon, the doorbell rings, shattering the quiet like a gunshot. I tense, my body reacting before my brain catches up, heart races, throat tightens, and I flash to yesterday, to the click of a gun, the hands on my neck. Steve’s already on his feet, his posture shifting to that alert, predatory stance he gets when there’s a potential threat. He glances at me, a silent stay put, before heading to the door.

I hear muffled voices, then a familiar, high-pitched one that makes my chest ache in a different way. “Danno?”

“Grace?” I call out, my voice cracking. I try to sit up straighter, ignoring the stab in my ribs, as Steve steps back into the living room, followed by my daughter and the entire team. I notice the way the light catches Kono’s earrings, small silver hoops that glint as she moves, and the faint stubble on Chin’s jaw, like he hasn’t shaved since yesterday’s chaos. Grover’s wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, the kind he claims is “classic”.

Grace barrels toward me, her backpack bouncing, and throws her arms around my neck before I can brace myself. The hug hurts like hell, but I don’t care. I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo, and for a second, everything else fades away. “Hey, Monkey,” I whisper. Talking feels like swallowing glass, but I push through for her. “What’re you doing here?”

“Mom said you got hurt,” she says, pulling back to look at me, her brown eyes wide and searching. She’s too smart for her age, too perceptive, and I see the worry etched into her face. Her gaze lands on the bruises around my neck, and her eyes widen. “Danno… your neck…” Her fingers hover near the marks, and I see her lip tremble before she catches herself. It’s a punch to the gut, knowing she’s seeing me like this.

“I’m fine, Gracie,” I say, forcing a smile, and I guess, she’s not buying it. She frowns, her little hands still gripping my shoulders, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. I notice a small sticker on her backpack, a glittery unicorn, and it’s such a normal, kid thing that it almost breaks me. She’s still my little girl, even if she’s growing up too fast.

“You don’t look fine,” she says, and I can’t help but laugh, even if it makes me wince.

“She’s got you there, brah,” Kono says, leaning against the arm of the couch with a grin. She’s trying to keep it light, but her eyes are cataloging every bruise on my face, every stiff movement. “You look like you went ten rounds with a bulldozer.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter, easing back against the cushions. Grace climbs onto the couch beside me, careful not to jostle me too much, and curls up with her head on my shoulder. I rest my arm around her, grateful for her warmth, her presence.

Chin steps forward. “Good to see you in one piece, Danny. You had us worried.” His voice is even, but there’s a weight to it, a reminder of how close yesterday was. I catch the way he glances at Steve, a quick, silent exchange, and I wonder what they’re not saying, what details of yesterday they’re shielding me from.

Grover’s less subtle. He plants himself in the armchair across from me, his bulk making the furniture look comically small. “Man, you look like you got hit by a truck. Next time, duck, yeah?”

“Appreciate the advice,” I deadpan, but there’s a warmth in my chest at their concern, their presence. This team, this family…they’re my tether, even when I feel like I’m fraying.

Steve’s been quiet, standing near the doorway, his arms crossed as he watches the scene unfold. But he’s not detached. His eyes track every interaction, lingering on Grace’s head against my shoulder, on the way Kono’s hand rests briefly on my arm. He’s orbiting, like he did this morning, a steady, gravitational pull that keeps me grounded.

Grace looks up at me, her voice soft. “Uncle Steve said you’re staying here so he can take care of you. Is that true?”

I glance at Steve, who meets my gaze with that unreadable expression. “Yeah, Monkey,” I say, ruffling her hair. “Uncle Steve’s playing nurse. Don’t let him fool you with that tough-guy act.”

She giggles, and the sound is like sunlight breaking through clouds. “He made me pancakes this morning,” she says, like it’s a secret. “With chocolate chips.”

“Traitor,” I mutter, shooting Steve a mock glare. He just shrugs, a small, dangerous smile tugging at his lips.

“Somebody’s gotta keep her fed while you’re slacking,” he says, and the team laughs, the tension in the room easing just a fraction.

Grace shifts, reaching for her backpack, and pulls out a small sketchbook, its edges worn from constant use. She flips it open, revealing a page filled with colored pencils and a half-finished drawing of a beach scene: waves crashing, a palm tree leaning into the wind, and two stick figures standing side by side. One has short, spiky hair and a badge; the other’s taller, with a surfboard under one arm. I don’t need to guess who they are.

“Whatcha got there, Monkey?” I ask.

She glances up, her brown eyes catching the light. “It’s for you,” she says, holding the sketchbook out. “So you feel better.”

I take it carefully, my chest tightening as I trace the lines of the drawing. The badge on the smaller figure is a lopsided star, but it’s unmistakable. The surfboard has a tiny Five-0 logo scribbled on it, and I can’t help but smile, even though it pulls at the bruises on my face. “This is amazing, Gracie,” I say. “You’re getting good at this.”

She beams, leaning into me again, and I catch Steve watching from the doorway. Kono notices too, scooting closer to peek at the drawing. “Whoa, Grace, you’re an artist,” she says, her voice warm. “You gonna frame this for Danno’s desk?”

Grace nods, her cheeks pink. “Maybe. If he wants.”

“I want,” I say quickly, ruffling her hair. “This is going on the wall, kiddo. Right next to my badge.”

Chin leans over. “You got talent, Grace. You ever think about doing a mural? We could use one at the office.”

Her eyes light up, and she launches into a story about a school art project, her voice bubbling over with excitement. I listen, my arm around her, and for a moment, the aches in my body fade, drowned out by her laughter and the team’s quiet attention.

Kono pulls out a bag of takeout from a nearby diner, setting it on the coffee table. “We figured you’d need something better than Steve’s protein shakes,” she says, unpacking containers of loco moco and malasadas. The warm and comforting smell hits me, and my stomach growls despite the ache in my ribs.

“You guys didn’t have to do this,” I say, but my voice is rough, and I know they hear what I’m not saying. Thank you. I needed this.

“Family shows up,” Chin says simply, and that’s that.

We eat, the room filled with the sound of chatter, Grace’s laughter, and Grover’s loud complaints about the latest case.

Steve stays close, sitting on the arm of the couch beside me. He doesn’t eat much, just watches, his hand occasionally brushing my shoulder when he thinks no one’s looking. But Grace notices, her eyes flicking between us, and I wonder what she sees. What she understands.

Later, after Grace has dozed off against my shoulder, her sketchbook still open on her lap, Kono slides onto the couch beside me. The others are in the kitchen, cleaning up the takeout mess. She’s close enough that I can smell her coconut shampoo, and her silver hoop earrings catch the light as she tilts her head, studying me.

“You scared the hell out of us, you know.” Her dark eyes scan my face. “When Steve called… I thought we were too late.”

I swallow, my throat burning, and try to deflect. “Takes more than that to get rid of me, Kono.”

She doesn’t smile. Instead, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on my wrist, her fingers cool against my skin. “I’m serious, Danny. You’re not allowed to do that again. We need you.”

The words hit harder than I expect, and I look away, focusing on Grace’s steady breathing against my side. “I’m here,” I say, and I feel the weight of her worry, her care, like a blanket I don’t deserve.

“I know you are,” she says finally, squeezing my wrist before letting go. “But you gotta let us take care of you too, yeah? You’re not Superman.”

I snort, wincing as it tugs at my ribs. “Tell that to McGarrett. He’s the one who thinks he’s bulletproof.”

She glances toward the kitchen, where Steve’s rinsing plates. “He’s not,” she says quietly. “Not when it comes to you.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, my eyes drifting to Grace’s drawing still clutched in my hand. Kono stays for a moment longer, then stands, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Rest, Danny. We’ve got your back.”

As she heads to the kitchen, I catch Steve’s eye across the room. He’s watching again, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me like that.

Grover’s still in the armchair, his massive frame making it creak every time he shifts. The team’s winding down now, the takeout containers cleared away, and Grace is still asleep, her head heavy on my shoulder. Chin’s on the phone with Malia, while Kono’s flipping through one of Steve’s old surfing magazines on the floor. Grover, though, is staring at me, his eyes narrowed like he’s sizing me up.

“Alright, Williams,” he says, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’m gonna give it to you straight. You look like crap, and you’re not fooling anybody with that ‘I’m fine’ routine.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Lou. Real motivational.”

He doesn’t laugh. “I’m serious, man. You went through hell yesterday, and you’re sitting here like it’s just another day. You gotta let yourself heal, physically and up here.” He taps his temple, his gaze steady. “I’ve seen guys try to push through worse and end up breaking. Don’t be that guy.”

I shift uncomfortably, Grace’s weight anchoring me. “I’m not pushing through anything.”

Grover leans back, crossing his arms over his loud Hawaiian shirt. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that? You got people who care about you. Let ‘em in.” He nods toward Steve, who’s now leaning against the counter in the kitchen, pretending not to listen. “Especially that one. He’s been a wreck since yesterday.”

I glance at Steve, catching the way his shoulders tense, I think he knows we’re talking about him. “Yeah, well, he’s good at hiding it,” I mutter.

Grover snorts. “Not as good as you think. Man’s been glued to your side since we got you out. That’s not just partner stuff, Danny.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just look down at Grace, her face peaceful in sleep. Grover doesn’t push, just stands, stretching his arms. “Get some rest, Williams. And don’t make me come back here and tie you to that couch.”

“Noted,” I say, and he gives me a nod before heading to the kitchen, clapping Steve on the shoulder as he passes.

The team’s about to leave, and the living room feels emptier already, the warmth of their presence lingering like an afterimage. Chin hangs back, his hands in his pockets, his expression calm but heavy. Grace is awake now, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. She’s chatting with Kono about some new surfboard design, her voice bright despite the late hour.

Chin sits on the edge of the coffee table, close enough that I can see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “You holding up okay, Danny?”

I shrug, wincing as the movement pulls at my ribs. “Been better, been worse.”

He nods, like he expected that. “You know, when I was with HPD, I had a case go bad. Real bad. Took me months to shake it.” He pauses, his eyes distant. “Malia used to say the only way through is to lean on the people who’ve got your back.”

I swallow, my throat tight. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a pretty good crew,” I say, glancing at Grace, then at Steve, who’s saying goodbye to Kono and Grover at the door.

“You do,” Chin says. “And you’ve got him.” He nods toward Steve, his voice dropping even lower. “He’s not gonna let you go through this alone, whether you like it or not.”

I laugh, a rough, quiet sound. “Yeah, he’s made that pretty clear.”

Chin smiles. “Good. Let him. And let Grace keep you grounded.” He stands, resting a hand on my shoulder for a moment. “We’re family, Danny. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

He heads to the door, joining the others, and I watch them go, promising to check in tomorrow, Grace lingers, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She hugs me again, gentler this time, and whispers, “Get better, Danno. I love you.”

“Love you too, Monkey,” I say and kiss her forehead, breathing her in one last time before she pulls away. Steve walks her to the door, promising to bring her back tomorrow, and I hear her giggle as he teases her about something I can’t catch.

When he comes back, the house feels quieter, but not empty. He sits beside me on the couch, close enough that our shoulders brush. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, and for the first time today, it feels like it might be true. “Thanks for… you know. Letting them come. Taking care of Grace.”

He nods. “You don’t have to thank me, Danny. This is what we do.”

And maybe that’s it.

I lean back, letting the blanket settle over me, letting his presence settle over me too. “Don’t get used to this nurse thing,” I mutter, closing my eyes.

He chuckles, and I feel it in my chest. “Too late.”

By mid-afternoon, I’m half-dozing with a dog-eared copy of The Sun Also Rises on my lap, but I haven’t read a word. The sound of the ocean and Steve’s quiet movements lulling me into a haze. He doesn’t leave, doesn’t go to work, doesn’t answer his phone when it buzzes with what I’m sure are urgent calls from HPD. He stays, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself rest. Really rest. Not because I want to, but because he’s here, holding the line, keeping the world at bay.

Time to time my eyes keep drifting to him, where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a pile of old photos he pulled from a box under the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Cleaning,” he says without looking up. He holds up a photo, a faded Polaroid of a younger Steve, maybe twenty, in a Navy uniform, grinning beside a woman with light hair and his eyes. His mom, I realize, and my throat tightens.

“Spring cleaning in June?” I deflect, shifting to sit up straighter, ignoring the twinge in my ribs.

He shrugs, setting the photo aside. “Figured it’s been a while. Found these in the garage last week.”

I watch him sort through more: pictures of Mary as a kid, Steve surfing, a group of SEALs laughing on a beach somewhere. Each one feels like a piece of a puzzle I’ll never fully solve, a life before me, before Five-0. He pauses on one, his fingers lingering, and I catch a glimpse: him and Catherine, arms around each other, the ocean behind them. My chest does a weird twist, and I look away, focusing on the book I’m not reading.

“You ever miss it?” I ask before I can stop myself. “The Navy. That life.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just sets the photo face-down and leans back on his hands, studying me. “Sometimes,” he says finally. “But this-” he gestures vaguely, encompassing the house, the team, me on his couch “-this is better.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My fingers trace the edge of the book, the pages soft from years of use. “You’re full of it,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. I want to believe him, want to think this messed-up, beautiful life we’ve built is enough for a guy like Steve McGarrett.

He moves suddenly, sliding onto the couch beside me, close enough that our thighs brush. He takes the book from my hands, his fingers grazing mine, and sets it on the coffee table. “You’re thinking too hard,” he says, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “Stop it.”

“Easy for you to say,” I rasp, meeting his gaze. His eyes are too much, too knowing. “You’re not the one who almost-” I cut myself off, swallowing the rest. Almost died. Almost left Grace. Almost lost this.

He doesn’t flinch, just reaches out, his hand settling on my knee. “You’re here, Danny. That’s what matters.”

I want to argue, want to push back against the simplicity of it, but his hand on my knee feels like the only thing keeping me tethered. I nod, letting out a shaky breath, and he doesn’t pull away. We sit like that, the photos forgotten, the afternoon light slanting through the windows, and for a moment, I let myself believe it’s enough.

The sun sets fast in Hawaii, like someone flipped a switch, and by evening, Steve’s living room is bathed in deep oranges and purples, the ocean outside a dark, endless expanse. The ceiling fan hums above us, and I’m still on the couch, a glass of water in my hand, the book long abandoned. Steve’s in the kitchen, heating up leftovers from the team’s visit. The smell of beef and gravy fills the air, comforting in a way I didn’t expect.

He walks in with two plates, setting one in front of me on the coffee table. “Eat,” he says softer now, less like an order and more like a request. He sits beside me, closer than he needs to, his knee brushing mine. The contact is small, but it sends a jolt through me, like static.

“You ever gonna stop feeding me?” I ask, picking up a fork and poking at the rice. My appetite’s coming back, slowly, but every bite still feels like a victory.

“Not until you stop looking like you’re about to keel over,” he says, but there’s a teasing edge to it, a lightness that wasn’t there this morning. He takes a bite of his own food, chewing slowly, his eyes on the ocean outside.

We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of forks and the distant crash of waves. I set my plate down, half-finished, and lean back, studying him. The bruises on his collarbone are darker now, the light catching the edges, and I can’t stop thinking about how he got them. How he threw himself into that fight to get to me.

“Tell me something,” I say, breaking the silence. “Something I don’t know about you.”

He raises an eyebrow, setting his plate aside. “What, you think you’ve got me all figured out?”

“Hardly,” I say. Steve’s a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve since the day we met, all sharp edges and hidden depths. “Come on. Humor me.”

He leans back, stretching his arms along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing my shoulder. “Alright,” he says. “When I was a kid, I used to sneak out at night and sleep on the beach. Just me, a blanket, and the stars. Felt like the ocean was the only thing that made sense.”

I picture it: a young Steve, all gangly limbs and restless energy, curled up on the sand with the waves as his lullaby. It’s so vivid it hurts, and I realize I want to know more, want to peel back the layers of this man who’s become my anchor. “You still do that?”

He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not in a long time. But sometimes… I think about it.”

I nod, letting the image settle in my mind. “Your turn,” he says, his eyes on me now. “Something I don’t know.”

I laugh, my throat still raw. “You already know too much, McGarrett.” But I think for a second, searching for something real, something that matters. “When I was a rookie, I used to keep a picture of Grace in my locker. Not just for luck, but… to remind me why I was doing it. Why I kept going out there, even when it scared the hell out of me.”

His smile fades, replaced by something softer. “You’re a good dad, Danny.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. “I try. Doesn’t always feel like enough.”

“It is,” he says, and his hand moves to my shoulder, squeezing gently. The touch is warm, and I don’t pull away. We sit there, the sunset fading into twilight, and for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe.
And so time slowly moves towards midnight, and the house is dark except for the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. The ocean’s louder now, a steady roar that fills the silence. I’m still on the couch, too stubborn to admit I’m too sore to make it to the bedroom. Steve’s been in and out, checking on me every hour like I’m a kid with a fever, but now he’s sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, a beer in his hand. He offered me one earlier, but I passed, ‘cause my head’s fuzzy enough without it.

“You’re gonna regret sleeping on the floor,” I say. “You’re not as young as you think you are.”

He chuckles. “Says the guy who’s been camped out on my couch all day. You planning to move in permanently?”

I snort, shifting to look down at him. His head’s tipped back, resting against the edge of the couch, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his throat moves when he takes a sip of his beer. “Don’t tempt me,” I mutter. “Your house is nicer than mine.”

He turns his head, meeting my eyes, and there’s something unguarded there, something that makes my chest tighten. “You’re welcome here, Danny,” he says.

I swallow, my throat burning, and change the subject. “You ever think about… I don’t know, slowing down? Doing something normal for once?”

He laughs quietly, with a hint of sadness. “Normal’s not really my thing. You know that.”

“Yeah,” I say. Steve’s a hurricane, a force of nature, and I’ve been caught in his orbit for years. But tonight, with the house dark and the ocean loud, he feels human. Breakable, even. “Maybe it should be. Just for a night.”

He doesn’t say anything, just takes another sip of his beer, his eyes on the ceiling. Then he sets the bottle down and stands, offering me his hand. “Come on.”

I blink, confused. “What?”

“Outside. You wanted normal. Let’s do normal.”

I hesitate, but his hand is steady, and I let him pull me up, wincing as my ribs protest. He doesn’t let go and leads me out to the lanai. The night air is cool, the stars bright above the ocean, and he grabs a blanket from a chair, spreading it on the grass near the water’s edge.

“Steve, what the hell-” I start, but he’s already sitting, patting the blanket beside him.

“Sit,” he says, and it’s not an order this time, just an invitation. I lower myself carefully, the grass soft under the blanket, and he lies back, hands behind his head, staring up at the sky. I follow, slower, my body screaming but my heart oddly calm.

The stars are endless, a map of light against the dark, and the ocean’s rhythm is a heartbeat. Steve’s shoulder brushes mine. “This is normal?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“As close as I get,” he says, and there’s a smile in his tone. “You complaining?”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “No,” I say, and I mean it. We lie there, side by side, the world reduced to the stars, the ocean, and the steady warmth of him beside me. For the first time in days, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Chapter Text

The sun is low in the sky, thick with gold and warmth, casting long shadows over the beach. My toes sink into soft, sun-warmed sand. The lazy ocean murmurs calmly. Somewhere to my right, Grace is laughing. Really laughing, like when she was five and didn’t know how to fake it yet. She’s running toward the water with her arms spread wide, a pink hoodie tied around her waist and her hair loose and wild in the wind.  She’s so free out there, like she’s still that kid who’d draw hearts in the dirt for me and her mom. I can’t stop watching her, the way she spins toward the waves. Makes my chest ache in a good way, like I’m doing something right for once.

Steve sits beside me on the sand, his arm brushing mine. His skin glows in the evening light, and his smile is soft, that rare version he only shows in moments like this. No tension in his jaw. No weight in his eyes.

Between us and the water, Grace has drawn something in the sand. Two stick figures, slightly off-balance but smiling. One wears a badge, the other carries a surfboard. A crude heart connects them, drawn with her finger in the middle of the sand. She sees us like that, doesn’t she? A unit. A family. The tide hasn’t reached it yet.

“She got your height wrong,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

“She got your badge perfect,” Steve replies. “Star and everything.”

I don’t say anything. Just breathe. The air is thick with salt and coconut sunscreen, the kind Grace insists on using because it smells “like vacation.” My shoulder bumps Steve’s again. He doesn’t move away.

He hums under his breath. “This could be it, huh?”

I turn to look at him. “What?”

“This. Beach. Grace laughing. You and me. I could stay right here forever.”

I want to say something, but chest’s too full to answer, like if I open my mouth, something too honest might spill out. So I just nod, let the moment sit heavy between us. Don’t want to ruin it by talking.

Then the tide rolls in.

The waves reach the drawing, licking the lines away. The stick figures blur. The heart dissolves. The colors of the sky shift from golden to navy. And suddenly, it’s night.

The office is dark. Dim light seeps through the slats of the blinds, casting harsh lines across the desk, the chairs, the floor. I’m on that desk. My palms pressed flat against the wood. My body tense, breath shallow.

Steve stands between my legs, his hands on my thighs, strong and steady. He leans forward, his face close to mine, lips brushing against my jaw. “You sure?” he murmurs, voice gravelly, loaded.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I want this.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

His mouth is on mine first and then he starts moving lower. Down my neck, across my chest, over my stomach. I watch his head dip, breath catching, a soft whine caught in my throat. My pants are already undone. No idea when he did that, and I think, it doesn’t matter. I lift my hips and let him pull them down.

Cool air hits me, and then his hands and his mouth.

My head drops back with a dull thud against the desk. I gasp helplessly. His wet lips wrap around me, tongue moving like he’s memorizing every shape, every sound I make. My thighs tremble. I reach for his hair, fingers sinking into it, not to guide, just to feel.

His name slips from my mouth.

But he doesn’t stop. One of his hands slides up my chest, resting flat over my heart, which beats erratically beneath his palm.

He hums low in his throat, the vibration sending shudders through me, and I arch desperately, unable to express my feelings. Heat coils deep in my gut, pressure building, impossible to contain. My legs shake. I’m so close I could fall apart.

And then…

Something brushes my cheek.

A soft pressure. Warm and gentle lips.

His?

But his mouth is still…

Another kiss. This time slower.

My brain jerks sideways. The office flickers. Blurs. The desk beneath me fades. Steve’s mouth disappears like smoke.

And I wake up.

The kiss lingers.

For a moment, I don’t open my eyes. I’m still suspended in that warm pressure on my cheek, the scent of ocean salt and aftershave, the ghost of Steve’s breath against my skin. My body is taut, oversensitized, every nerve lit up despite the dull ache radiating from my ribs and the throbbing in my head. My heart’s still racing from…

Jesus Christ.

I jerk awake, breath catching in my throat. The living room floods back into focus. The ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above me. The couch. The blanket tangled around my legs. My skin is damp with sweat, and my bruises pulsing under the bandages. My hand is clutching the cushion like it’s an anchor.

And Steve is leaning over me, lips just pulling away from my cheek.

“Morning,” he says in a soft way it shouldn’t be. Not when I can still feel his mouth between my legs. Not when I’ve just… God.

My hips twitch involuntarily. I suck in a sharp breath and close my eyes for a second. Gotta calm down. Focus on the pain in my ribs, not the dream. Not him. But it’s no use. My body hasn’t caught up with my brain. I’m hard. Fully. And the pain in my side, my neck, my skull mixing with the arousal, making everything feel too sharp. Why now? After all these years, why is my brain doing this to me? I’m not… I don’t… do I?

And Steve is right there.

I try to clear my throat.

“You- uh…” I gesture vaguely toward my cheek, still not meeting his eyes. “Was that a necessary wake-up protocol?”

Steve chuckles, way too casual. “You weren’t waking up. Figured it’d be nicer than yelling.”

“You figured wrong,” I mutter, but it’s weak because my voice still cracks, and I’m too busy mentally screaming at my own dick to stand down.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t say anything. Instead, he steps back, tossing a folded T-shirt onto the armrest. “Coffee’s ready. Shower’s yours if you want it.”

And just like that, he’s gone, padding into the kitchen barefoot like he didn’t just completely obliterate my subconscious.

I sit up slowly, groaning as my sore ribs protest. The movement drags the blanket off my lap and, yeah, okay, that’s a problem. I shift it quickly back into place and let my head fall into my hands.

What the hell was that?

I mean, I know what it was. Every detail of it. Every sound and movement.

His tongue…

Fuck.

I don’t dream like that. I don’t… I’ve never. Not about him.

Except apparently now I do.

I take a deep breath. Try to will the blood back to my brain. And why it didn’t feel like fantasy? It felt real. Like I could still taste the salt of his skin. Like my thighs are still trembling from it.

I glance toward the kitchen, where I can hear mugs clinking. Steve humming something low under his breath.

He’s fine. Unbothered.

Meanwhile I just had the most intense wet dream of my life about my partner and woke up with his mouth on my cheek.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I drag myself to my feet, adjusting the blanket in front of me like some kind of Victorian prude with a scandalous petticoat situation, and shuffle toward the hallway.

“Gonna take that shower,” I call out, trying to sound normal.

“Try not to pass out in there,” Steve says lightly. “I’m not pulling your naked body out of a tub. Again.”

“Noted,” I fire back, thankful for the banter, for the one thing that still feels solid in this surreal fog of mine.

But as I step into the bathroom, close the door, and lean against it, I know I’m not okay. My ribs are a dull ache, my neck feels like it’s been crushed all over again, and my head’s spinning worse than it did yesterday.

Because that dream didn’t just turn me on. It meant something. And that scares the hell out of me.

I manage to peel off the T-shirt and jeans without passing out, each movement slow to avoid aggravating my injuries, and step under the water. It’s not hot enough to scald, but it’s close. I lean forward, palms on the tiles, breathing steam, and try not to think about his hands on my hips. His mouth on my ribs. His voice whispering things no partner should say. My bruises throb under the spray, and the steam makes my head feel heavier.

I last six minutes before I realize I forgot the clean towel.

I crack open the door, steam billowing out like some kind of erotic ghost, and shout, even if my throat still raw:

“Steve! Towel!”

Silence. Then - footsteps.

And of course he doesn’t knock.

The door opens wider, and he’s just there, shirt slightly damp from yardwork, forearms flexing as he reaches for the rack behind me.

I flinch back. “Dude! Jesus… boundaries?”

He doesn’t blink. Just hangs the towel on the hook. “You called me.”

“Yeah, for a towel. Not a full-service perv delivery.”

He tilts his head. “I didn’t look.”

“Oh, what restraint.” I grab the towel and half-wrap it around my waist, trying to cover what’s already obvious. “You done? Or do you need to supervise me brushing my teeth too?”

“I thought you might need help.”

I freeze.

There’s nothing in his tone. Nothing obvious. Just… calm. But his eyes? They flick once down to where the towel’s tucked low on my hip, then up to my chest, still damp, collarbone marked from where his mouth touched.

And I feel my heartbeat in places I wish I didn’t.

“Help?” I repeat, voice dry. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He doesn’t move. Just takes a step forward, close enough that the steam clings to him too now, beads on his neck. I smell his soap, sweat, and that cedar cologne that makes my brain shut off. He reaches up, and brushes a strand of wet hair from my forehead. His fingers linger too long, and I flinch, not from pain but from the way my body reacts despite the ache in my ribs.

I step back, nearly slipping on the tile.

“Nope,” I say. “No. We’re not doing that.”

His brow creases. “Doing what?”

“That thing. The silent, smoldering… heat vision thing. You’re not Superman. You don’t get to X-ray me with your cheekbones.”

Steve’s mouth twitches.

“You’re still running a fever,” he says softly, stepping back finally. “Shouldn’t be alone in case you pass out.”

“Nice try. But I’m fine. So you can leave now and go… organize your guns or whatever it is you do when you’re not emotionally confusing your partner.”

He opens his mouth then closes it. Nods.

But before he leaves, his hand grazes my lower back light enough not to hurt but firm enough to make my breath hitch.

The door shuts. I’m left alone again, towel damp, heart racing, pulse hammering in my throat like I’m the one chasing him.

I grip the edge of the sink, water still dripping down my chest, and glare at myself in the mirror. The bruises on my neck are stark, purple fingerprints fading to green, and my eyes look too wide, too tired.

“God, you’re an idiot,” I almost laugh.

Yeah, Danny. Great plan. Fall in love with the one guy who could kiss you like he means it and then pretend you didn’t like it. Then beg him to back off. Then get pissed when he does. And now what?

Great work, Detective.

I step out of the bathroom with wet hair and shaky legs, wearing the T-shirt Steve left for me, a Navy SEAL training camp one, snug across the chest and clinging at the sleeves. I don’t know if he did that on purpose, but it feels like he did.

The kitchen’s too quiet. He’s there, of course. Waiting.

“Coffee’s in your mug,” he says without looking up, flipping something in the pan. “Sit.”

I slide into the chair, wincing as I lower myself and watching his back. Tight grey T-shirt, broad shoulders. The muscles shift under the fabric as he moves. It’s too early to be noticing this shit, but I do. My body won’t let it go. Every move he makes echoes some version of that dream.

He sets a plate in front of me: eggs, toast, perfectly sliced avocado. Nothing fried. Nothing indulgent. “You need protein,” he says, sitting across from me. “And hydration. You were dehydrated yesterday.”

“Is this breakfast or boot camp?”

He smirks, eyes scan my throat, collarbone, the bruises on my neck. I feel seen, and not in a pleasant way. More like inspected.

I pick up the fork and take a bite. It’s good, of course. It always is. He watches me chew, like he needs to confirm I’m swallowing. And when I reach for the salt, he moves faster, one hand closing gently over mine.

“You don’t need that.”

It’s not harsh. Not firm. But it’s absolute. I freeze. His thumb grazes the inside of my wrist slowly, making my head throb harder.

“Your body’s recovering. Don’t make it harder.”

I nod. Not because I agree. Because I can’t think. Because his thumb is still there.

When he finally pulls back, the loss is unbearable in a way I don’t understand.

I’m barely done with breakfast when Steve stands, grabs the first aid kit from the counter, and sets it next to my plate. No warning. No “you up for this?”

“Shirt off,” he says, casual, but I feel it vibrate somewhere low in my spine.

I raise an eyebrow. “Not even a please?”

He looks at me. “Danny,” he says, softer this time. “I need to check the stitches.”

Right. The stitches. The bruises. The actual reason I’m here.

I sigh, tug the hem of the T-shirt over my head, and immediately feel raw. My skin’s hypersensitive to the air, the light, his gaze. Especially his gaze.

He crouches beside me, fingers deft and warm as he unwraps the gauze across my ribs. His hands are too steady. Too gentle. And way too close.

“You’re healing fast,” he mutters, inspecting the edges of the wound. “No signs of infection. But you’re still tender.”

No shit.

He runs a fingertip lightly over the bruises blooming along my side, just above my hip. I’m clenching my teeth to keep from making a sound, fists gripping the sides of the chair.

“You okay?” he asks.

No, I’m not. My skin is humming. My breathing’s shallow, partly from the pain, partly from the way he’s looking at me. My groin aches with the aftershock of that damn dream. But I nod, lie through my teeth, because what else can I do?

He doesn’t push. Just finishes rewrapping me. His thumb brushes just below my navel, and I jolt.

His eyes flick up. “Sorry. Sensitive?”

The way he says it like he knows.

I look away. “Little bit.”

He straightens, but doesn’t step back. He stands there, between my legs, just there, heat radiating off him like the sun. I can smell the coffee on his breath. The warmth of his skin. Every inch of me wants to lean forward, press into that heat, lose myself.

“You want to lie down again?” he asks, voice low. “Or… I could set you up on the lanai. It’s cooler out there.”

I swallow hard. “Lanai’s good.”

He helps me up, one arm around my waist, careful not to press on the bruises, his other hand steady under my elbow. Too close. Too stable. His touch is solid in a way that makes everything else feel weak, like I’m melting through the floor and he’s the only anchor keeping me vertical.

The air outside is crisp and salty, the ocean breeze tugging at my hair. Steve settles me into the cushioned lounger like I’m some fragile thing, adjusting the pillow behind my back, tucking a thin throw over my legs even though I’m not cold.

“You don’t have to do all this,” I mutter, but it’s weak. Embarrassed.

He kneels in front of me, rests one hand on the armrest, just inches from my hip. His other hand brushes back a lock of hair from my forehead.

“Let me,” he says. Simple. Final.

And I let him.

He sits beside me, not on another chair, right beside me, hips close enough to feel the body heat, his leg brushing mine whenever he shifts. He pulls out a book from somewhere, For Whom the Bell Tolls, I think, and starts reading silently, like this is a normal, I don’t know, weekend.

It’s not.

Because now I’m hyperaware of every inch of my body. My skin remembers his hands. My mouth remembers the dream. And when his knee bumps mine again, I swear to God, it feels deliberate.

But he doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

He just… exists. Loudly.

I try to focus on the waves. On the soft rustle of pages beside me. On the distant seagulls circling over the water like they’ve got nowhere better to be. The lanai breeze is cool against my chest, but not cool enough. Not with him sitting there, one leg stretched long and the other bent close, his thigh grazing mine every time he shifts.

The book creaks faintly in his hands as he turns a page. My eyes flick sideways, just for a second. His brow is furrowed in that way it gets when he’s concentrating. Like war and death and Hemingway are casual reading. His lips are slightly parted. His fingers twitch once against the page, like he’s about to underline something in his head.

I stare at the horizon, pretending I’m not tracking every breath he takes. Pretending I’m not aching like a damn teenager who just discovered skin. Pretending I don’t want to roll toward him and bury my face in his shoulder like that might quiet the chaos in my skull, despite the pain radiating through my body. Steve shifts again, scratches his jaw, and finally glances over.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod. Too fast.

“Yeah,” I say. My voice cracks like an old record, and I clear my throat. “Yeah, fine. Just… sun’s nice.”

He studies me for a beat too long. Then nods, goes back to his book. But his leg doesn’t move.

My fingers twitch over the edge of the blanket. I want to move away, make space, but I don’t. Because I don’t want to. Because I told him to back off days ago, and it hurt when he listened. I hate that I miss the way he ignored me. I close my eyes, lean my head back against the cushion, and let the wind skate across my skin. Maybe I can sleep. Maybe if I drift off again, I’ll go right back to that desk and his mouth and the way his hand curled around the small of my back like he never wanted to let go, even if it means waking up to more pain.

Jesus.

I exhale hard through my nose, wincing as my ribs protest.

“Danno.”

His voice is quiet. That careful, Commander-trying-not-to-spook-an-animal tone.

I open one eye. He’s watching me over the edge of the book, thumb still hooked inside the spine.

“What?” I ask.

“You just made a sound like you’re trying to die without drawing attention.”

I roll my head to the side, squint at him. “That obvious?”

He shrugs. “Only to someone who’s been watching you for five years.”

My throat works. “Right. Of course.”

He closes the book, sets it aside. “You sure you’re okay?”

I should lie. Say I’m sore. Tired. Sun-drunk.

Instead, what comes out is:

“I had a dream.”

His brows raise, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“A bad one?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. That’s the problem.”

He goes still. Completely.

I regret saying it instantly.

“Danny-”

“It’s fine,” I say too sharp. I scrub a hand over my face, dragging across my jaw like maybe I can scrape the shame off. “It’s not important. Just heatstroke or… brain stuff. Don’t make it weird.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“What kind of dream?”

I laugh. “Don’t ask me that.”

“I need to know if it’s something I did.”

I look at him. Because yeah, it was something he did. Or something he stopped doing. Or something I pushed him into stopping. And now I’m in this purgatory of wanting and denying and rewinding every second between us like maybe I’ll find a loophole.

So I say the only thing I can say.

“Recently I told you to back off. And you did. And I don’t like it.”

The words hang there, fragile and ugly.

Steve’s eyes search mine.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” I echo, defensive already.

He nods once. “Then I’ll stop listening to you.”

He stands. Just like that. No fight. No drama. He reaches out, grabs my empty mug and his own, turns toward the door.

And I sit there, stunned, pulse thundering like the surf, wondering what the hell I just invited back into my life.

I let him take the mugs and step back inside. I watch the screen door click shut, and the breeze stirs the blanket over my legs like it's trying to fill the space he left behind.

But something in me snaps.

I can’t let it go. I toss the blanket off, stand too fast, my vision swims and follow him inside. My legs feel weak, ribs pull tight, but I don’t stop.

He’s at the sink, rinsing out the mugs.

“Hey,” I say.

Steve glances over his shoulder. “You okay?”

“No.” I cross my arms. “What the hell was that?”

He pauses. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” I take a step closer. “Sunday.”

He stills.

I watch the tension settle into his shoulders like someone flipping a switch. His grip tightens on the rim of the mug.

“You remember Sunday,” I press sharper now. “You kissed me. Not just kissed… You practically climbed me. And then you stopped. No explanation. No aftermath. Just... back to 'pass the eggs, Danny.' What was that?”

Steve doesn’t turn. Just sets the mug down a little too carefully.

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it,” he says after a beat.

“I didn’t,” I snap. “But now I do. Because apparently I’m having dreams that are way too detailed, and I’m waking up to you kissing me in real life, and my brain is trying to separate what actually happened from what I made up, and I’m losing. I’m losing, Steve.”

That gets him.

He turns slowly. Eyes on mine. No jokes. No cool detachment.

“You wore that shirt,” he says quietly. “That stupid tight one you only put on when you want attention.”

I blink, my head throbbing. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted me to lose control. And I did. I touched you. I kissed you. And then I stopped. Because you looked at me like I’d just ended something, not started it.”

Silence.

A bird shrieks somewhere in the distance. A car drives past on the next block. The ocean keeps doing its ocean thing. But all I can hear is the pounding in my ears.

He takes a step closer. Then another.

“You think I didn’t want to keep going?” he asks. “You think I didn’t want to push you back on that couch and find out what kind of sounds you make when you’re not dreaming? You ask me why I didn’t do all that yet?”

His jaw clenches. “Because you’re still healing. Because you were scared. Because I don’t want to hurt you. Physically or…” He exhales. “…any other way.”

We’re both silent for a second. My heart is hammering in my throat.

“So that’s it?” I ask unsteady. “You’re just gonna, what, wait for a green light I don’t even know how to give?”

Steve looks at me for a long time. Then, softly:

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll take your questions as permission.”

I swallow hard.

Then I nod. Once.

“Good,” I say. “Because I’ve got more.”

I’ve got a hundred.

Why does he look at me like I belong to him when he thinks I’m not watching? Why does his voice go soft when I’m hurt? Why does he remember how I take my coffee but forget every boundary we’ve ever had?

But I don’t ask those.

Not yet.

Instead I take a step forward, until we’re nearly chest to chest.

“And what now?” I ask a little unsteady.

Steve meets my gaze. Calm. Grounded.

“You tell me.”

Steve steps even closer now, hands hover at my hips but don’t touch, not until I exhale and that’s all it takes. One palm lands soft against my side, warm through the fabric of the shirt.

“I can help you lie down again,” he says, quiet.

“I’m fine.”

He tilts his head. “That wasn’t a no.”

I want to laugh. Or yell. Or run straight into his chest and bury my face there like it’ll make the ache in my ribs and brain and groin go away. Instead I just nod.

He walks me to the couch like it’s a ritual. Lowers me down with hands steady on my arms. Kneels to fix the blanket, his face close enough that I can feel the heat of him again.

“You okay?” he whispers.

My chest tightens. “Yeah.”

And when I say it, I mean: Not really. But I want you to stay.

Steve doesn’t move.

Then he slowly sits behind me on the couch. Not beside me, behind. His arms stretch forward and pull the blanket up higher over me, then stay there. Around me.

I go still.

“What are you doing?” I murmur.

“Keeping you warm.”

That’s not what he’s doing.

I don’t stop him. So I lean back just a little. Enough to feel his chest behind me.

And that’s it. That’s the line crossed.

Chapter Text

God, how long was I out? Feels like I blinked and the world shifted. My head’s fuzzy, like I’m wading through fog. Did I dream?

The light’s changed. Softer now. Cooler. The lanai breeze pushes through the open door in slow, lazy breaths. I’m curled on my side, back pressed to something solid… well, someone. And I don’t have to check who.

Steve’s arm is still draped over me, warm and anchored across my middle. His chest rises against my back. I lie there a moment, pretending I’m not awake. Pretending this is still sleep. The kind you don’t want to end, because everything outside of it feels heavier. Louder. Less… held.

This is dangerous. I know it is. I’m not an idiot. I’m lying here, letting his arm pin me like it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away, and I’m pretending it’s fine. Like it’s just a nap. Like I don’t feel every inch of where he’s touching me, like my brain isn’t screaming that this is too much and not enough all at once. But… hell, it’s warm. Safe. When’s the last time I felt safe like this?

His fingers twitch once.

Don’t move. Don’t ruin it. Just stay here a second longer, where it’s quiet and nothing hurts. He’s just being a good friend. That’s all this is. Right?

“You awake?” he murmurs.

Dammit. I don’t answer right away. My voice is somewhere under the ocean outside. It takes me a second to find it.

“Unfortunately.”

His chest rumbles with a soft laugh. “That bad already?”

He’s laughing. That’s good, right? Means he’s not reading too much into this. Or maybe he is. God, I hate how he makes me second-guess everything. Why does he have to sound so… calm? Like he’s got it all figured out while I’m over here drowning in my own head.

“Not bad,” I say. “Just… weird to wake up still warm.”

He shifts behind me. Doesn’t pull away. “You looked like you needed it.”

I hum. Don’t disagree.

For a few minutes, we don’t move. I listen to the wind. A bird screeches somewhere up in the palm trees. I feel his breath against the back of my neck.

It’s not fair how okay this feels.

“I could get used to this,” Steve says after a while.

Oh, don’t say that. Don’t put that in my head. You think I haven’t already thought it? You think I haven’t already imagined what it’d be like to have this every day? Stop making it sound possible, Steve.

“Don’t,” I mumble. “Dangerous thought.”

Dangerous. Understatement of the century. If I let myself think about it, I’m done for. I’ll start wanting things I can’t have. Things I don’t deserve. Things that’ll break me when they fall apart.

“You already did.”

That earns a small, reluctant smile from me. “Shut up.”

“I mean it.”

I roll onto my back slowly, careful not to jostle my ribs, and turn my head to look at him. His eyes are already on me, calm and open in that terrifying way that makes it impossible to hide.

Oh, God. Those eyes. Stop looking at me like that, Steve. I can’t breathe when you do.

“You’re staring,” I say.

He shrugs. “You’re interesting.”

“More like a medical case.”

Yeah, that’s safer. Keep it clinical. Keep it distant. Don’t let him see how much you’re clinging to this moment.

“That too.”

Ouch. Okay, fair, but ouch. He’s not wrong, though. I’m a mess. Bruised ribs, bruised ego. Why’s he still here, anyway?

I groan and rub a hand over my face. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“You kinda were.”

He sits up finally, stretches once, his shirt pulling tight across his chest, and I immediately regret waking up. He stands, glancing down at me with something unreadable in his expression.

“I’ve gotta swing by HQ. Just for an hour.”

“Alone?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.

Why did I say it like that? He’s not going far. He’s not abandoning me. But my brain’s already running worst-case scenarios: car crashes, ambushes, or maybe just him walking out and deciding he’s done with my mess. Stop it, Danny. He’s coming back. He always does.

“I’m not leaving the island,” he says. “Chin said he might drop by. Kono too. You okay with that?”

He’s reassuring me. He heard it in my voice, didn’t he? That stupid edge of panic. God, I’m transparent. Okay, focus. Chin and Kono. Good. They’ll keep me from spiraling. Maybe.

“Long as no one brings flowers or sympathy cards.”

Steve leans down. Brushes his fingers once across my forehead like he’s checking for a fever, but I think he just wants to touch me again.

Oh, God. Don’t do that. Don’t touch me like I’m fragile. Like I’m something you need to check on. My heart’s gonna give out before my ribs do. Why does your hand feel so good?

“You need anything before I go?”

You. Stay. Don’t go. But I can’t say that. I won’t. I’m not that guy. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I shake my head. “You’ve already mothered me enough for one morning.”

Deflect, deflect, deflect. If I keep joking, maybe I won’t fall apart. Maybe he won’t see how much I want him to stay.

He straightens, smirks faintly, and heads toward the door.

“Steve?” I call before he disappears.

He stops. Waits. Patient bastard. Say something, Danny. Don’t screw this up.

I clear my throat. “Don’t be gone long.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything. Just smiles once and then he’s gone.

The screen door clicks behind him.

I exhale. And it feels a little colder when he’s not in the room.

The quiet settles in like it’s been waiting for its turn. Too heavy. Too still. I lie there a while longer, trying to hold onto the shape of Steve’s warmth against my back, but it’s already slipping. My ribs ache with every breath, a dull reminder that moving’s a bad idea. So I don’t. I just stare at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles, each blade blurring into the next. Maybe if I stay still enough, I’ll disappear into the couch cushions and wake up in a world where none of this feels like it matters so much.

But the truth is… it does.

The truth is, the second Steve walked out that door, something in my chest clenched like it was waiting for bad news. Like it’s trained to assume absence means danger. Or disappointment. Or that he won’t come back the same. Or won’t come back at all.

Which is insane. He’s coming back. Of course he is. He said he would. And Steve doesn’t lie. Except when he thinks it’s for your own good.

Time drags. The light outside shifts, but it’s hard to tell how much. Minutes? An hour? My phone’s on the coffee table, too far to reach without regretting it. I could call someone. Grace, maybe. Hear her voice, let her ramble about school or those stickers she’s obsessed with. But the thought of talking, of pretending I’m fine, feels like lifting a weight I don’t have the strength for.

Grace would know something’s wrong. She always does. Kid’s got a sixth sense for when I’m faking it. And what would I even say? “Hey, monkey, your dad’s losing his mind because Uncle Steve held him too close and now he can’t think straight”? Yeah, great parenting, Danny. Real gold star material.

I close my eyes instead. Try to drift back to that dream from last night, the one that felt so real it left my chest tight when I woke up. Steve’s hands. His voice. But the details are fuzzy now. All I’m left with is the ache it carved out, the kind that makes you wonder if you’re losing your mind or just your grip.

The breeze from the lanai picks up, rattling the blinds. I open my eyes. The room’s empty, but it doesn’t feel like it should be. Steve’s book is still on the side table, dog-eared at a page he’ll probably never finish. His mug’s by the sink, half-full of coffee gone cold. Little pieces of him, scattered like breadcrumbs, reminding me he was here. Reminding me he’s not.

I shift, wincing as my ribs protest, and push myself up to sit. Ow. Okay, bad idea. Moving is pain. Everything is pain. But I can’t just lie here like a corpse. I’ve gotta do something. The effort leaves me lightheaded, and I brace a hand on the couch armrest, waiting for the room to stop tilting. When it does, I reach for the glass of water on the table. It’s warm now, but I drink it anyway, slow sips to fill the silence.

The bird outside screeches again. Same one, maybe. Or maybe they all sound the same when you’re stuck in your own head. I lean back, glass still in hand, and let my eyes wander to the lanai. The ocean’s out there, steady and endless, but it feels too far away. Like I’m cut off from it. From everything.

I think about getting up. Making toast, maybe. Something to do. But the kitchen’s ten steps away, and that feels like ten too many. So I stay put, the glass sweating in my palm, the fan humming overhead. My mind keeps circling back to Steve. To the way he looked at me before he left, like he was trying to memorize something. To the way his fingers brushed my forehead.

“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. My voice sounds wrong in the quiet, too loud and too small at the same time. I set the glass down harder than I mean to, and it clinks against the table.

The house creaks, settling or maybe just mocking me. I rub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble I haven’t bothered to shave. I should. I should do a lot of things. Shower. Eat. Take the damn meds sitting on the counter. But all I can do is sit here, trapped in this loop of waiting. Waiting for Steve to come back. Waiting for the team to show up. Waiting for something to make this feel less like I’m unraveling at the seams.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s been an hour. Maybe more. No one’s here yet. No footsteps, no voices. Just me and the weight of this room. I shift again, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt, but every move pulls at my ribs, my shoulder, and somehow at my thoughts too. I let out a slow breath, trying to shove it all down, but it’s like pushing against a tide.

I close my eyes again. Not to sleep. Just to stop looking at the empty space where Steve should be.

Just then, a car door slams outside.

I freeze.

My breath catches, and for a split second I think it’s him. That maybe he changed his mind. That maybe he felt it too, this weight, this silence, and turned back before reaching HQ.

Please be him. Please. I don’t know how much longer I can sit here with this hole in my chest. I need to see him walk through that door, smirk like nothing’s wrong, and make this room feel like it’s mine again. Come on, Steve. Don’t make me wait.

My eyes flick to the door.

My whole body leans forward before my brain catches up.

But the footsteps are lighter. Quicker. Familiar in a different way.

Not boots.

Not him.

And something in me deflates before I can stop it.

I sit back against the couch, trying to play it off even though no one’s here to see me. Trying to swallow down the lump that rose up so fast it burned.

The door handle turns.

“Knew it,” I mutter under my breath, just as it swings open.

“Kono,” I say aloud, already pasting on a smirk.

Kono. Good. She’s safe. She’s easy. She won’t ask too many questions. Just keep it light, Danny. You’ve got this.

"Hope you're not naked, Danny," Kono calls. "Because I brought dessert."

God, I love her. She’s like sunshine in human form. Always knows how to break the tension. But she’s gonna see right through me if I’m not careful.

I open my mouth to reply, but of course she doesn’t wait. She barrels in like always, a paper bag in hand, sunglasses perched in her hair, grin wide and bright.

"What've you got there?" I ask, pushing up on one elbow.

"Homemade banana bread and iced passionfruit tea. Grace said you haven’t had sweets in three days, and I figured that’s a violation of some Geneva convention.”

“You’re an angel,” I say, and for the first time today it sounds real. “If I ever rewrite my will, know that you’re in it.”

She laughs, setting the box down on the table. “Also… Steve asked me to remind you that if you forget your meds again, he’ll personally make you swallow them with lime juice.”

“Tell him that sounds suspiciously erotic.”

Oh, God, did I just say that? Out loud? To Kono? I’m losing it. But it’s funny, right? She’ll laugh. She won’t read into it. Right?

Kono lifts an eyebrow. “Not my business, but… noted.”

Dammit, Kono, don’t look at me like that. I’m not ready to explain this. Not to you. Not to myself.

I grab the glass of tea, grateful for the cold against the heat simmering under my skin. The taste of passionfruit lingers on my tongue, sharp and sweet and oddly grounding.

The door opens again. Slower this time. Softer steps.

“DAD!!”

Grace. Oh, thank God.

I barely get my arms out in time, Grace launches herself toward me, hugging my shoulder gently, but with that same weight of total, wordless love.

“Hey, monkey,” I rasp. “What, not scared of my bruises anymore?”

“Mom said I could be here for twenty minutes if I don’t bug you,” she says seriously. “But I told her I’m not a bother, I’m your favorite.”

“Also true,” I agree, and kiss her temple.

She smells like sunscreen and crayons. Like home. Like everything I’m fighting for. Don’t cry, Danny. Don’t you dare.

She cuddles closer, then pulls something out of her backpack. “I made you a new drawing. No markers this time. But it still kinda smeared.”

Another drawing. My heart can’t take this. She’s too good. Too pure. I’m gonna lose it if I look at it.

I unfold the paper. Two stick figures. Me with a giant head, Steve with a surfboard again. A big heart and the words “TEAM OHANA FOREVER” scribbled across the top. She even gave us sunglasses.

Oh, Gracie. You’re killing me. That heart. It’s just a kid’s drawing, but it feels like a spotlight. Like she’s seeing something I’m too scared to look at. Me and Steve, forever. Like it’s that simple. Like I could just let it be that simple. But it’s not. It’s messy and terrifying, and I don’t know how to be the guy in that drawing.

Kono, peeking over my shoulder, says, “Okay but that’s canon.”

I don’t get a chance to reply, because the door opens again.

More people? I’m already overwhelmed. Who’s this now?

“Afternoon, wounded one,” Chin says with that calm half-smile.

“Don’t start a group therapy session,” Grover mutters, closing the door behind him. “I brought ice cream.”

“You guys are serious about this whole recovery thing,” I say, accepting the container gratefully.

“You’re on the brink,” Grover says. “Your kid’s drawing hearts around you and McGarrett, and Kono brought dessert.”

“Why is everyone so obsessed with the heart?” I mutter. “It’s just… art.”

Defensive much? They’re gonna see right through me. Shut up, Danny. Just eat the ice cream and shut up.

But no one says anything.

There’s a weight to the quiet now, something between concern and suspicion.

"Okay, twenty minutes," Grace announces, flopping down beside me on the couch like a timer just started ticking. "Mom was very specific."

"That sounds ominous," Chin says, pulling up a chair near the window.

"It always is," Grover mutters, already digging into the ice cream. “Single moms have a tone. You don’t ignore that tone.”

“She also said if I make you laugh too hard and you pop a stitch, it’s her hospital bill to deal with.”

“She said that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Grace grins. “Well, she implied it.”

Kono chuckles from the kitchen, where she’s cutting the banana bread into slices. “Okay, but who’s actually popped stitches from laughing?”

Grover raises his hand.

Chin raises his, too.

I groan. “God, I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Idiots. Yeah, but they’re my idiots. And they’re keeping me from falling into the hole in my head. I need to stop thinking about him. I need to focus on Grace, on the team, on anything else.

Grace kicks her feet off the couch, swinging them as she looks at me. “Are you in pain right now? One to ten.”

Oh, God. She’s doing triage. My kid is doing triage. Where did she learn this? I’m so proud I could burst, but also… stop growing up so fast, monkey.

I blink at her. “Why are you doing pain scale triage?”

“I saw it on a drama. One being you’re chill, ten being you’re screaming like when you stub your toe at night.”

“...Solid system.” I tilt my head. “I’m probably at a four. Five if I breathe too deep. Seven if Steve’s around.”

Did I just say that? Out loud? Seven if Steve’s around? Oh, God.

Grover snorts. “Now it’s a drama.”

Dammit, Lou. Don’t make it worse. Don’t make it real. I’m trying to keep this under control.

Kono brings the banana bread over and hands a slice to Grace first. “You get priority. Nurse slash emotional support daughter.”

“I accept this role,” Grace says, solemn as ever, before biting into her slice.

For a few minutes, the conversation floats around normal things, how school’s almost over, Grace’s obsession with making sticker designs, Chin’s discovery of some obscure jazz vinyl, Grover threatening to join Steve’s morning jogs “just to spite him.”

I let the sounds settle in. The comfort of it. The warmth of my people.

And then Grace leans over, whispering, “Are you and Uncle Steve fighting?”

I nearly choke on a sip of tea.

How am I supposed to explain this when I don’t even understand it myself?

“No,” I say too fast. “No, why would you-?”

“’Cause he usually texts me every night,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And he didn’t last night. I figured that meant something happened.”

I stare at her. Thirteen years old and already reading dynamics like a trained therapist.

She’s right. Steve didn’t text her. And I’m betting it’s because he was too busy holding me together last night. Or maybe he’s as messed up about this as I am. No, that’s wishful thinking. Steve doesn’t get messed up. He’s Steve. He’s got it together. Unlike me.

“Maybe he was just busy,” I mumble.

She shrugs. “Okay. But you should tell him you miss him.”

I blink at her. “You are… way too observant for someone who still watches cartoons about magical cats.”

“They’re time-traveling magical cats,” she corrects, then leans back against the couch like the conversation’s over.

I glance around. They heard it. I know they did. Kono’s probably smirking in the kitchen, Chin’s got that knowing look, and Grover’s just waiting to drop some comment about my “drama.” And I deserve it. I’m a walking soap opera right now.

Eventually, Kono stands and claps her hands. “Alright, I’m gonna take Grace to her mom before Rachel sends an army.”

Grace sighs dramatically but stands, brushing crumbs from her shirt.

“Wait,” I say. “Come here.”

One more second. I need one more second with her. Just to hold onto something real.

She walks back over and leans in. I kiss the top of her head.

“You were perfect today.”

She smiles. “So were you.”

Perfect. Yeah, right. I’m a mess, Gracie. But you make it feel like I’m not. You make it feel like I can keep going, even when I’m falling apart. I don’t deserve you.

Kono tosses me a wink. “You want me to drop Chin and Lou too?”

Grover waves her off. “I’ll go. Chin can ride with me.”

“Don’t argue,” Chin says with a smirk. “You’re just hoping she’ll stop for malasadas on the way.”

“You read me like a damn book,” Grover says, already heading for the door.

I watch them gather up their things, easy and familiar. Grace squeezes my hand once before disappearing down the hall. The front door clicks behind them. Quiet settles in their wake.

The house is still.

And Steve’s still not back.

I glance toward the kitchen. His mug is still by the sink. His book’s still folded open on the side table. He lives here in the edges of things. In the way the room feels just a little fuller when he’s in it. In the way my body’s still reacting to the ghost of his hands, like touch-memory is stronger than logic.

I lean forward and run a hand through my hair.

“Get it together, Williams,” I mutter. “You’ve survived worse. Shootouts. Ex-wives. Preschool dance recitals. You can survive falling in-”

I cut myself off.

Nope.

Not saying that.

Not even in an empty room.

Instead, I push myself off the couch, stretch carefully, and shuffle to the sink to rinse Grace’s glass. My body hurts, but it’s manageable. Familiar. Like pain with a purpose.

The sunlight outside shifts just slightly, warmer now. I glance through the kitchen window and catch a glint of motion.

A dark truck pulling into the driveway. Tires crunch over gravel. Heat shimmers off the hood.

Steve’s home.

He’s home. Thank God.

Midday like clockwork. The rhythm of a man who lives on schedules and muscle memory.

I stay where I am, one hand braced on the counter.

Don’t move. Don’t run to the door like some eager puppy. You’re not that guy. You’re cool, calm, collected. Except I’m none of those things right now.

Because I don’t know what version of Steve is about to walk through that door.

But I know I’m not the same version of me who watched him leave this morning.

The front door opens with that familiar soft creak, followed by the low thud of boots landing just inside. I don’t turn around yet.

I hear the soft rustle of a plastic bag, the fridge door opening.

“You’re still standing,” he says after a second.

I shrug one shoulder without looking. “It’s part of my recovery regimen. Standing near sinks. Real Olympic stuff.”

Smooth, Danny. Real smooth. Make a joke, keep it light, don’t let him see how much you missed him.

He steps closer. I can feel the floor creak slightly under his weight.

“Team leave?”

“Yeah.” I finally glance over. He’s in a plain T-shirt now, damp at the collar, a sheen of sweat still on his neck like he just finished something physical. His hair’s slightly windblown, and his eyes flick quickly across my face.

God, he looks good. Too good. Sweaty, messy, perfect. Stop staring, Danny. He’s gonna notice. Those eyes. He’s looking for something. What? What does he see?

He nods once. “Grace okay?”

“She was perfect,” I say quietly. “Asked if we were fighting.”

He doesn’t react. Just closes the fridge door and tosses a bottle of water my way. I catch it one-handed, wincing a little as it jostles my ribs.

Nice catch. Ow. Okay, bad idea. But he’s looking at me like he’s proud. Or worried. Or both. Stop looking at me, Steve.

“Are we?” he asks then, with that maddening calm.

I uncap the bottle. Take a slow sip. “No. Not exactly. Just…” I search for a word that doesn’t make me sound like a guy spiraling over one dream and a kiss. “Weird.”

Steve nods like that’s fair. “Weird’s better than silent.”

He leans against the kitchen counter across from me. His arms cross over his chest, veins visible, and I force myself not to track the movement too long.

“Did they bring food again?” he asks.

“Yeah. Banana bread and unsolicited wisdom.”

His mouth quirks. “Grace?”

“She said I should tell you I miss you.”

His brow lifts, just a fraction. “And do you?”

Do I? God, Steve, you know I do. You know I missed you the second you walked out that door. But saying it feels like jumping off a cliff.

I look at him, heart thudding. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t press. Just waits.

I set the water down on the counter, exhale slowly, and shrug. “I think you already know the answer.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just studies me. Then:

“You look tired.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Couch or lanai?”

“You offering a nap menu now?”

“I’m offering options.”

I look down, the tension in my shoulders heavier than it should be.

“I’ll stay inside for now. It’s cooler.”

He nods, pushes off the counter, and crosses to me. “You want help getting back to the couch?”

I hesitate.

But I want him to. I want his hands on me, even if it’s just to help me walk ten steps. I’m so screwed.

And then: “Yeah. But don’t make it weird.”

He doesn’t. He slides one arm gently behind my back, the other steadying me at the elbow.

When I lower onto the cushions again, he pauses and adjusts the pillow behind me.

Our eyes meet.

Too close.

Too quiet.

“Thanks,” I say, throat dry.

Steve straightens, but doesn’t step away. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie again.

I’m not good. I’m the opposite of good. I’m a mess, and you’re the reason, and I don’t know how to tell you that without ruining everything. So I lie, because it’s easier.

He watches me a second longer. Then nods, finally stepping back.

But not far.

Steve lingers in the room, moving toward the kitchen like he’s got a purpose, but I can tell he’s just filling space. The clink of a glass, the soft thud of a cabinet door. I hear him pour water, maybe for himself, maybe just to have something to do. My eyes drift to the coffee table, where Grace’s drawing is still folded, the edge of a heart peeking out. I don’t reach for it. Don’t want to see those stick figures again, not right now.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but not easy either. I shift slightly, trying to ease the ache in my ribs, but the movement pulls a sharp twinge, and I hiss under my breath. Steve’s head snaps up from the kitchen.

“You alright?” he calls, already halfway back toward me.

“Fine,” I mutter, waving him off. “Just… gravity being a jerk.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches, and he stays where he is, leaning against the doorway now, arms crossed again. Watching. Always watching.

“Stop staring,” I say, not looking at him. “It’s creepy.”

“Checking for signs of life,” he shoots back. Just that quiet steadiness that makes my chest ache for reasons I don’t want to name.

I roll my eyes, but it’s half-hearted. My fingers tap against the couch armrest, restless. I should say something to fill this gap, but every word I reach for feels too heavy, too close to the truth. So I just sit there, listening to the hum of the fridge, the distant waves through the open lanai door, and the faint creak of the floor as Steve shifts his weight.

He moves again, this time to the side table, picking up his book like he’s actually going to read it. But he doesn’t open it. Just holds it, thumb brushing the spine, and I know he’s waiting for me to give him a reason to stay close. Or maybe a reason to leave the room. I don’t know which one I want to give him.

“You gonna stand there all day?” I finally ask.

He glances over, one eyebrow raised. “You got a better idea?”

I don’t. And that’s the problem. I shrug, wincing again, and his eyes narrow. I hate how exposed it makes me feel, like he’s peeling back layers I’ve spent years nailing down.

“Go do something useful,” I mutter. “Like… I don’t know, mow the lawn. Save a turtle. Whatever you do when you’re not hovering.”

He snorts, soft and low, and sets the book down. “You’d miss me if I left.”

“Debatable,” I say, but the words lack heat, and we both know it.

He doesn’t push back. Just nods once, like he’s filing that away, and heads toward the lanai door. “I’ll be outside. Yell if you need me.”

The screen door clicks shut behind him, and the room feels bigger. Emptier. I exhale, slow and shaky, and let my head tip back against the couch. The fan spins overhead, stirring the air, but it doesn’t touch the weight in my chest. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the noise in my head, but it’s louder now without him here to drown it out.

Why does it hurt this much?

I don’t know how long I sit like that, caught in a loop of half-formed thoughts. The dream from last night keeps creeping back, fragments of Steve’s voice, his hands, the way it felt like everything made sense for once. But it’s tangled up with reality now, his arm around me this morning, the way he looked at me in the kitchen, the words Grace said about missing him. It’s too much, and I don’t have the energy to sort it out.

The sound of a lawnmower starting up outside pulls me back. Steve, probably. Doing something useful, like I told him to. I can picture him out there, shirt sticking to his back, focused in that way he gets when he’s working with his hands. It’s a distraction, but not the kind I need. My fingers curl into the blanket draped over my lap, and I force myself to breathe deep, even though it pulls at my ribs.

How does he do it? How does he just… keep going, like none of this is eating him alive? Or maybe it is, and he’s just better at hiding it. God, I hope he’s as messed up as I am. That’s awful, isn’t it? Wanting him to hurt like I’m hurting.

I reach for the water bottle he tossed me earlier, still sitting on the coffee table. The plastic’s cool against my palm, grounding me for a second. I take a sip, then another, trying to focus on the simple act of drinking, but my mind keeps drifting. To Steve. To the team. To the way this house feels like it’s holding its breath, just like me.

The lawnmower cuts off abruptly, and the silence rushes back in. I strain to hear something, footsteps, a voice, anything, but there’s nothing. Just the waves and the fan and my own pulse, too loud in my ears. I set the bottle down, my hand shaking just enough to notice, and I curse under my breath. I’m not this guy. I don’t fall apart over a quiet room or a guy who’s ten feet away. But here I am, unraveling anyway.

Silence. I hate it. It’s too loud, too empty. Where is he?

I glance toward the lanai door, half-expecting Steve to walk back in, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s giving me space, like I asked. Like I always ask, even when I don’t mean it. I don’t want space. I want him here. I want him close. I rub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble, the tension in my jaw, and I wonder how long I can keep pretending I’m fine before it all spills out.

But I hear his steps again. “Hey.”

Jesus, you scared me. How do you do that? Sneak up like a damn ninja? I’m gonna have a heart attack one of these days.

I look up.

Steve stands there, sunglasses perched in his hair. Sunlight hits the sweat at his collarbone. His shirt clings in the middle, darkened from yardwork. His forearms are bare, tensed, veins standing out like he’s been gripping something hard. His boots are dusted with grass clippings, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his wrist. He’s real, solid, and too close to the version of him that’s been haunting my head all day.

God.

“You okay?” he asks, already halfway toward me.

Okay? No, I’m not okay. I can’t tell you how much it hurts to look at you right now, how much I want to reach out and hold onto you like you’re the only thing keeping me together.

I shrug one shoulder. It hurts. I flinch.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Sit still,” he murmurs, already putting down the sunglasses.

I try to look at anything but him. The table. The mango slices. The blanket. But my body has a different agenda. My whole nervous system fires up just from proximity. The same one that’s been betraying me since I woke up with his mouth on my cheek and the taste of him still ghosting my tongue.

He crouches down in front of me, palms braced on his thighs.

“You tired?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

Because tired isn’t the word. Not even close.

I’m vibrating. Restless. My skin doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like it’s been rewired to respond to him.

“You didn’t eat enough,” he adds lower now. “Want me to make you something else?”

“You’re always making something,” I mutter. “Toast, eggs, mango… I’m eating it, you know.”

His mouth quirks, a faint spark in his eyes. “Yeah, noticed the plates are cleaner than my truck. Just checking if you’re still hungry.”

I let out a weak snort, and it pulls a ghost of a smile from him. But it fades quickly.

His eyes flick across my face, then lower.

“I should’ve stayed,” he says suddenly. “After I helped you to the couch.”

“Why?”

“So you wouldn’t overthink everything.”

“Too late.”

Too late. Story of my life. I’m always too late to figure this stuff out. Too late to stop myself from falling. Too late to keep you from seeing it.

He shifts, one hand lifting, not to touch but hovering. Maybe he wants to reach for my knee, or my side, or the place just under my ribs that still aches when I laugh. And then he lowers it again, his fist clenching briefly before relaxing. The movement is small, but it’s enough to make my chest tighten. He’s holding back. Why? Does he know? Does he feel it too? That pull? That need? Or is he just being careful because I’m a mess?

“Danny…”

My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “I’m not okay.”

“I know.”

“You don’t. You don’t know what’s going on in my head.”

“Then tell me.”

I meet his eyes. They’re soft. Open.

I shake my head, eyes falling to his damp in the middle, stretched across his chest shirt.

“I don’t have the words,” I mutter. “It’s all just... noise.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t press. Just shifts forward, one knee on the floor now, his arm resting on the side of the couch. His presence is solid, grounding, but it’s also unraveling me, pulling at threads I’ve spent years tying down. “I’m tired,” I add, quieter. “But not the kind sleep fixes.”

His hand settles lightly over my shin, warm through the blanket.

I don’t move away.

The silence between us isn’t tense now. It’s thick, soft around the edges. He waits, like he always does when it matters, his eyes never leaving my face. I can feel them, even when I’m staring at the blanket, at the faint crease where his hand rests.

“I keep… replaying things,” I admit. “Moments. Sounds. You walking away.”

It’s like a loop in my head. You leaving this morning, you leaving last night, you leaving every time I push you away. I hate how much it hurts, how much I need you to stay.

His thumb brushes once over the edge of the blanket.

“And then that dream last night,” I go on, “it just-”

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. “It rewrote it. And it felt better.”

“I know which version I wanted too,” Steve says quietly.

That almost breaks me.

I shift, just slightly, leaning forward until my elbow brushes his arm. He’s still here. He didn’t pull back. That’s something, right? That’s everything. I need him closer. I need him to stay.

“You ever feel like your body remembers stuff before your brain does?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

But he gives me one anyway.

“Every time I wake up sweating,” he says. “Every time I walk into a room and forget why, but my heart’s already racing.”

I let out something between a breath and a laugh.

“Yeah. That.”

He glances at me, and it’s not a look asking for permission, but it’s not assuming either. Then he reaches up, and cups the side of my neck. His palm is warm, calloused from years of handling weapons and ropes and steering wheels. His fingers spread, resting just below my jaw, and my whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for that exact contact. My pulse jumps under his thumb, and I know he feels it, but he doesn’t say anything. Just holds me there, steady, like he’s trying to pull me back from the edge of whatever cliff I’m teetering on. And something inside me quiets. Not all of it. But enough.

I close my eyes, exhale through my nose, and let myself lean into his hand. The pressure of his palm is grounding, real, and for the first time all day, I feel like I’m not about to shatter.

“Don’t let go yet,” I murmur.

Don’t let go. Please. I need you here. I need you to keep me together, because I can’t do it alone.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says.

His palm is still there, thumb brushing absent circles just under my jaw. I don’t know how long we stay like that. A minute? Two? Long enough for my body to forget the stiffness in my ribs and remember how it feels to soften into something. Long enough for the noise in my head to dull.

I lean forward. Just enough for my forehead to rest against his shoulder. His shirt is soft from the sun, faintly damp, and smells like outside.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even shift. Just lets me be there, his hand sliding from my neck to my upper back, slow and careful, fingers splayed wide across the cotton of my shirt.

My cheek presses against him now, the fabric of his shirt warm against my skin. I feel his breath change, a slight hitch, then it evens out, steady again. His arm curls around me enough to hold me in place, enough to make me feel like I’m not about to drift away. My ribs protest, a dull ache that flares with every inhale, but it’s drowned out by the rhythm of his breathing, the faint thump of his pulse where my temple rests against his shoulder.

The whole house is quiet. No footsteps, no voices. Just the hum of the fan and the open window letting in the distant push of waves. It’s too early in the day for stillness like this, but here we are. Caught in it like it chose us.

Steve shifts eventually, not to pull away but to adjust, his arm settling more fully around my waist now, anchoring us both where we sit on the couch. His thumb strokes the back of my shoulder. His other hand rests on his knee, fingers loose.

I don’t know what this is. A pause. A moment where I’m not okay and he’s okay with that makes it enough. My head’s still a mess, thoughts circling like sharks, but they’re farther out now, less likely to bite. My body’s heavy, bruised and aching, but it’s also warm, grounded by the weight of his arm, the rise and fall of his chest. I think this is the second time today I’ve felt like I might actually be okay.

So I breathe.

And stay.

Chapter Text

Oh, nice, I’m out again. How does this keep happening? One second I’m here, the next I’m gone, I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, because the last thing I remember was the weight of Steve’s hand on my back and the quiet rhythm of his breath.

Dark already? How long was I out? The TV’s off. The ocean’s still murmuring through the windows, but it sounds further away somehow. Like it knows I’m not really here.

Steve’s not in the room.

Where is he? He was just here. Or was that hours ago? My head’s all fuzzy. Did he leave? No, he wouldn’t. Would he? God, stop. He’s probably just in the kitchen or something. Don’t panic.

The blanket’s tucked tighter around me than I remember. My ribs still throb, dull and insistent, but not enough to stop me from pushing myself upright. My shirt’s damp along the side. Sweat or fever, I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter.

The floorboards creak a little as I shift my legs down. My feet don’t quite touch the floor. I stare at them for a while, unreasonably annoyed. Everything about this house is just a little off from what I need. Or maybe it’s me that’s off.

I don’t know why I get up. Maybe I just want to find the bathroom. Maybe I want to prove I can move on my own again. Maybe I just want to see where he went.

But halfway down the hall, the ache in my side flares sharp and deep, and my vision tunnels for a second. Oh, shit. Bad idea. Bad idea. Too far, too fast. Why didn’t I stay put? I’m gonna hit the floor. Dammit.

Steve’s there before I even call out. How does he do that?

His hands are under my arms, too fast, too practiced. He says something, my name, I think, but my head’s ringing. I try to tell him I’m fine, that I can walk, but the words don’t come out right. My legs buckle. He lifts me like it’s nothing.

And I don’t fight.

•

•

•

I wake up in his bed.  Why does it have to smell so good? It’s messing with my head. It’s too familiar, too right, like I’ve been here a thousand times in my head. I breathe in deeper, letting the scent of cedar, salt, and something warmer, like sun-baked sand after a long day at the beach scent anchor me, because for a moment, I’m not sure where I am. The room is dim, the kind of soft gray that comes just before dawn, with light seeping through the slats of the blinds. The mattress is firm, unyielding, not like the sagging one in my apartment that’s molded to my shape over years of restless nights. This bed’s too perfect. And it’s holding me together, even if I’m not sure I want it to.  Do I want it to? I don’t even know anymore. I’m too tired to figure it out.

My ribs ache, a dull pulse that syncs with my heartbeat, reminding me of the stitches pulling at my side. I shift slightly, and the sheets slide against my skin, cool and crisp, catching on the bandage I know is there but can’t bring myself to touch. The air in the room is heavy with the ocean’s breath, that salty tang that clings to everything in this house. It’s Steve’s world.

I close my eyes again, not because I’m tired, but because staying awake means facing the fact that I’m here, in his bed, wrapped in his scent, his care, his everything. It’s too much, but it’s not enough, you know? I’m in his space, breathing him in, and it’s so damn easy to just let go. My chest tightens, and not just the pain. It’s the weight of him being there last night, catching me when my legs gave out, lifting me like I was something fragile. I don’t want to be fragile. I don’t want to need this. But the sheets are soft, and my body sinks deeper into the mattress, and for a second, I let myself pretend this is normal. That I belong here. 

And then I fall asleep again, the sound of the ocean pulling me under like a tide I can’t fight. 

Afterwhile the sound of a spoon clinking against ceramic wakes me before I open my eyes.

It’s too soft to be accidental.

Too deliberate to ignore.

Too Steve.
He’s doing it on purpose, isn’t he? Making sure I know he’s there without making a big deal out of it.

My eyes stay shut. Pillow smells like cedar. The mattress is too firm for my apartment. There’s a faint ache running down my ribs, reminding me why I’m here.

Don’t open your eyes. Not yet. Just stay here, in this moment, where it’s just the smell of him and the ache in my side. Where I don’t have to face what this means. I’m in his bed. His bed. And it hurts, but it’s a good hurt. A safe hurt.

Somewhere in the house, Steve moves. Barefoot steps. The whisper of a cabinet door. The kettle clicks off. He’s not trying to be quiet. He just is. I wish I could feel that way anywhere.

I open my eyes when I hear the doorway creak.

He’s there, already holding a mug in one hand. The other rests against the doorframe like he’s posing for some kind of government-issued “trust me, I’m calm” campaign.

“I made coffee,” he says.

Like the coffee’s the main thing happening here. Not me, in his bed. Not him, watching like he’s waiting for me to bolt.

I push myself up slowly, and the pain’s manageable if I don’t breathe too deep. Which is, of course, impossible. The stitched wound along my side flares, and I hiss through my teeth. Ow. Okay, bad idea. Why do I keep forgetting how much this hurts?

Steve doesn’t flinch.

He walks in. Sets the mug on the nightstand. Not in my hand. Just close enough to reach if I really want it.

“How’s the pain?” he asks.

I shrug one shoulder. Regret it instantly.

“Didn’t take your meds last night.”

“Didn’t need ‘em.” Liar. You needed them. You just didn’t want to admit it.

He gives me a look. Not angry. Just… disappointed. Why does it feel worse than him yelling?

“You wince every time you breathe.” Yeah, because it hurts.

“I’m dramatic. You knew that before you brought me here.”

That earns me the flicker of a smirk, barely there. He adjusts the blanket at my waist, fingers brushing skin that didn’t ask to be exposed. But I don’t move. He tucks it tighter.

“Eat,” he says. “Then shower.” Bossy as ever.

“Oh good,” I say. “The return of the schedule.”

“You’re easier to handle when you’ve got tasks.”

“I’m not a project, McGarrett.”

He stands, stretches, turns toward the kitchen. Don’t go. Stay. I need you here.

“You are now.” Great.

The kitchen smells like warm pancakes, toast, and something vaguely citrus. Steve’s standing at the stove, humming under his breath, the faint sizzle of batter on the griddle filling the air.

I ease myself into one of the chairs, bracing my weight on the table. My ribs protest the movement. Steve doesn’t look over.

“You should’ve called me to help,” he says, flipping a pancake with a flick of his wrist, still not turning around.

“Didn’t want to interrupt your Gordon Ramsay moment.”

He grunts, noncommittal, and slides a plate toward me with the kind of precision you only get from years of disarming bombs and serving breakfast to injured detectives against their will.

“You didn’t eat enough yesterday,” he adds.

“I ate.”

“Half a mango, banana bread, and two bites of toast doesn’t count.”

He’s counting my bites now? God, he’s worse than my mother.

“It does if the mango was good.”

He gives me a look. It’s a look I’ve seen too often lately. A look that says he knows when I’m lying even before I do.

I stare at the food. A short stack of pancakes, golden and slightly crisp at the edges. Toast buttered at the edges. He even added a couple strawberries, like I’m some kind of pampered brunch guest instead of a half-broken mess in his bed.

I eat. It’s good. Too good. Why does everything he does have to be so perfect?

He doesn’t sit across from me. He stands, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for something. Maybe for me to finish. Maybe for me to fall apart again.

“You’re quiet today,” I say.

“I’m always quiet.” Bullshit. You’re quiet when you want to be. When you’re thinking too much.

“Not when you’re lecturing me about operational readiness and seatbelt safety.” Come on, Steve. Give me something. A laugh. A fight. Anything.

That earns a flicker of a smile. There it is.

I finish half the pancakes, the syrup soaking into the soft center, sweet and warm. I push the rest around. My stomach feels tight, like it’s bracing for impact. Maybe it’s the meds.

“Still hurts?” he asks.

“I’m not gonna give you a daily pain index, Steve.”

“I didn’t ask for a number. I asked if it hurts.”

I look at him. He’s wearing that black shirt that clings a little across the chest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His jaw’s tight. His fingers tapping against his bicep, a beat I can’t decode.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You’re not.”

“And you’re not my handler.”

“Don’t need to be,” he says. “You’re doing a great job falling apart all on your own.”

My fork stills. Don’t say anything. Don’t argue.  He’s not wrong. Because maybe part of me wants him to say worse.

He exhales. Walks to the sink. Pours a glass of water and places it in front of me. Then he holds out his hand.

A single pill rests in his palm. No. Not this again.

White. Small. Nothing alarming.

But I feel my stomach drop anyway.

“I said I didn’t need them.”

“You said that last night too. Then I had to catch you in the hallway before you collapsed.”

“That’s not-”

Don’t argue. He’s right. You know he’s right.

“Take it.”

I don’t move.

He waits.

The silence stretches.

Then I slowly push back the chair.

“I’m not taking it.”

His eyes slightly narrow.

Just that steady, unshakable weight of Steve McGarrett deciding something for you whether you like it or not.

“I’m not gonna fight you, Danny.”

Good. Because I don’t have the strength to fight you.

“Good. ‘Cause you’d lose.”

He doesn’t smile. He’s serious. Dead serious. I’m in trouble.

He just steps closer.

One hand still holding the pill.

The other reaching.

And for a second I think he’s going to back off.

But he doesn’t.

His fingers brush my jaw. He tilts my head back.

My body tenses.

“Steve-”

“You’re gonna take it.”

“I said-”

His thumb presses against my chin, the pressure just enough to part my lips. My pulse spikes, a traitorous heat curling through me as his fingers slide along my jaw, anchoring me. His touch is steady, like he knows exactly how far to push. His eyes lock on mine, and I can’t look away, can’t move, can’t think past the warmth of his hand. The bitter pill touches my tongue before I can decide whether to resist. His fingers linger, the pad of his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver down my spine. This shouldn’t feel this good, should it? But it does. His smell, his touch, he’s rewriting the pain, making it something I can handle. Then he lifts the glass, the cold rim pressing against my lower lip, tilting it just enough for the water to follow. I swallow, automatic, the cool liquid chasing the pill down, my throat tight not from the medicine but from the way he’s looking at me. He doesn’t let go right away. His hand stays there, fingers curled lightly against my cheek, his thumb resting just below my lip. The kitchen is quiet, the sizzle of the griddle gone, the ocean’s murmur faint beyond the windows. My breath is shallow, each inhale tugging at my stitches, but I barely notice the pain over the heat pooling in my chest, the way my skin hums under his touch. Don’t step back. Stay. Please. His eyes flicker, searching mine, and for a moment, I think he might lean closer. But he doesn’t. He steps back, his hand falling away, leaving my skin cold in its absence.

Not smug. Not victorious. Just calm.

I don’t say anything. Not because I’m mad, but because I’m not sure what to say. My ribs ache, my head’s still fuzzy, and there’s this weird warmth spreading through me that I can’t pin down. Maybe it’s the meds kicking in. Maybe it’s just him.

“You’re gonna have to work on your bedside manner, McGarrett.”

He glances over, one eyebrow twitching upward. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Yeah, it worked. I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat in it. I’m too tired for heat. Too tired for much of anything, really. I lean back in the chair, letting my shoulders slump, and stare at the half-eaten plate of eggs. The bright and untouched strawberries are still there.

Steve tosses the rag into the sink and turns to face me fully. His arms cross again, that same easy stance he always falls into when he’s trying to look like he’s not analyzing every move I make. But I know better. He’s always watching. Always calculating.

“You need anything else?” he asks, voice low, like he’s testing the waters.

“World peace. A new set of ribs. Maybe a vacation.”

That gets a real smile. “I’ll see what I can do about the ribs.”

I snort, then wince as the movement tugs at my stitches. He notices but he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps standing there, like he’s waiting for me to give him a mission.

I don’t. Instead, I push the plate away and stand, slower than I’d like. The room doesn’t spin this time, which I’m counting as a win. Steve’s eyes track me, but he doesn’t move to help. Good. I don’t need him carrying me around like some damsel in distress.

“I’m gonna shower,” I say, mostly to fill the silence.

He nods. “Towels are in the bathroom. Left side of the sink.”

“Got it.” Don’t look at him. Just go. Don’t make this harder than it is.

I make it three steps toward the hallway before I pause. Something about the way he’s standing there, all quiet and steady, makes me turn back. “Hey.” Don’t say it. Don’t say anything stupid. Just say thanks and go.

He looks up, expectant.

“Thanks,” I say. It’s quick, almost too soft, but I mean it. For the coffee. For the food. For catching me in the hallway last night. For not making a big deal out of any of it. Thank you. For everything. Don’t ever stop.

He doesn’t say anything back, just gives me a nod, but there’s something in his eyes that feels heavier than words. I don’t stick around to figure out what it is.
The tiles are cool under my feet, smooth and slick from the humidity that lingers in the air. The bathroom is already fogged up, the mirror a clouded blur from Steve’s shower earlier, and the steam carries his cedar soap, sharp and grounding, mixed with the faint metallic edge of hot water on old pipes. I could breathe it in forever and still want more. I don’t look at my reflection. I know what I’d see: bruises blooming like storm clouds under my skin, stitches pulling tight like a seam about to burst, a guy who’s been through one too many fights and come out looking like he lost. Instead, I focus on the task. Shower. Clean clothes. One step at a time. 

I turn the faucet, and the pipes groan before the water sputters out, hot and steady. It hits my shoulders, and I hiss at the initial sting, the heat prickling against the raw edges of my wounds. But then it settles, loosening the tightness in my muscles, easing the ache in my side like a hand smoothing out a crumpled sheet. I stand under the spray longer than I need to, letting it pour over me, drowning out the noise in my head, the questions, the doubts, the way Steve’s voice keeps echoing, calm and certain, like he knows I’ll break if he pushes too hard. The water traces paths down my arms, pooling at my feet before swirling down the drain. I close my eyes and breathe in the steam, thick with that cedar scent that’s everywhere in this house. It’s like he’s here, even when he’s not, his presence woven into the walls, the air, the very act of standing under his showerhead. My fingers graze the bandage on my side, slick and heavy now, and I wonder how long I can keep pretending I’m fine. The hot water is a mercy, a moment where the pain feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. I stay until my skin feels raw, until the steam is so thick it’s hard to breathe. Then I turn off the water, and the sudden silence is jarring, the drip-drip of the faucet loud in the quiet. I step out, the tiles cold again, and grab the towel from the rack. It’s softer than I expected, thick and worn in a way that feels deliberate, like Steve picked it out because it’s practical but still good. I wrap it around my waist, the fabric warm against my damp skin, and wipe the steam off the mirror with my hand. My face looks less like death warmed over than it did yesterday, eyes a little clearer. Progress. Maybe. 

There’s a knock at the door, sharp and quick, cutting through the lingering hum of the shower’s aftermath. “You good in there?” Steve’s voice is muffled and close, maybe he’s standing just on the other side, ready to barge in if I don’t answer fast enough.

“Yeah,” I call back rougher than I’d like, sound scraping against the back of my throat. “Not drowning, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“Wasn’t.” A pause, heavy with the weight of things unsaid. “Clothes are outside the door.” 

I wait a beat, listening to the soft retreat of his footsteps, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Then I open the door a crack, just enough to let the cooler air from the hallway slip in, sharp against my still-warm skin. A stack of clothes sits neatly folded on the floor. Sweatpants and a T-shirt, both too big, but clean and soft. I grab them, the fabric cool in my hands, and close the door again, leaning against it for a moment as the steam swirls around me. 

I pull on the sweatpants first, the drawstring loose enough to sit low on my hips without pressing against the bandage. They’re Steve’s, no question, gray, practical, with that faint cedar-and-salt scent that seems to cling to everything he owns. The T-shirt is black, faded at the seams, and it hangs off my shoulders, the sleeves brushing past my elbows. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for a second, I don’t recognize the guy staring back. Not because of the bruises or the stitches, but because I’m wearing his clothes, standing in his bathroom, and it feels like I’ve stepped into his world in a way I can’t walk back from. My fingers linger on the hem of the shirt, tracing the worn fabric, and I try not to think about how it smells like the kind of safety I don’t know how to ask for. I run a hand through my damp hair, pushing it back, and take a slow breath. The air is still thick with steam, but it’s starting to clear, and with it, the fog in my head feels a little less heavy. I’m not fixed, not even close, but I’m standing. For now, that’s enough. 

Back in the living room, Steve’s sprawled on the couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. He’s flipping through a magazine. Some dog-eared issue of Surfer he’s probably read a dozen times, the pages curling at the edges from years of salt air and careless hands. The afternoon light slants through the windows, painting the room in warm golds and soft shadows, catching the faint dust motes that drift in the air. The ocean’s murmur is a constant undercurrent, seeping through the open windows, mingling with the scent of cedar and something sharper, like the tang of metal from the old fan humming in the corner. I ease myself onto the couch, careful to keep a measured distance between us, not because I want to, but because my body’s too raw, too unguarded, to trust itself this close to him. The cushions sink under my weight, softer than I expect, and I wince as the movement tugs at my stitches. The meds are kicking in, smoothing the edges of the pain, but they’re also making me feel loose, my thoughts are slipping through my fingers, blurring at the edges. I can still feel the ghost of the shower’s heat on my skin, the borrowed T-shirt clinging to my shoulders, too big. 

Steve looks up, scanning me with that quiet intensity he’s mastered. His gaze lingers on my face, then drops to my hands, which I realize are fidgeting against the seam of the sweatpants. I force them still, but it’s too late, he’s already seen it, that restless twitch I can’t quite hide. 

“Feel human again?” Human. Barely. I feel like I’m falling apart, but cleaner. Thanks to you.

“Close enough,” I say, leaning back against the couch, trying to look more relaxed than I feel. The fabric of the cushion scratches lightly against my neck, and I shift to find a better angle, one that doesn’t make my side scream.

He shifts, stretching his legs out further, one arm draped along the back of the couch. His fingers are close enough to brush my shoulder if he wanted to, and the thought makes my skin prickle. He doesn’t move closer, just watches me with that unreadable expression. 

“You gonna sit there staring all day, or you got a plan?” I ask, mostly to break the quiet that’s starting to feel too loud. 

“Got a plan,” he says lazily, but there’s a glint in his eyes that says he’s already three steps ahead again. “You’re gonna rest. Heal. Not do anything stupid.” 

Rest. Heal. Don’t be stupid. Like it’s that simple. Like I can just… stop. Stop moving. Stop thinking. Stop wanting you.

“That’s a terrible plan,” I shoot back, leaning my head against the couch. The movement tugs at my stitches, and I swallow a wince, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“It’s a great plan. You’re just bad at following orders.” His tone is lighter now, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s daring me to argue. I don’t. I’m too tired to fight him when he’s calm, certain, like he’s already decided how this day is gonna go.

He tosses the magazine aside, letting it land on the coffee table with a soft thud, the pages splaying open to a photo of a wave curling against a sunset. His elbow stays draped along the back of the couch, his fingers now closer, not touching but near enough that I can feel the warmth of his hand. 

“You look better,” he’s stating a fact he’s been tracking for days. 

“Thanks. It’s the McGarrett Spa Package. Excellent service, borderline fascist medication policy.” I try for sarcasm, but it comes out quieter. 

That earns me a light huff of breath, the closest thing to a laugh I’ll get from him today. I’ll take it. He leans in just enough that I catch that mix of cedar soap and salt air, the scent that’s woven into every corner of this house, every fiber of the clothes I’m wearing. It’s overwhelming, like he’s everywhere, and I want to lean into it

“You hungry again?” he asks, his eyes still on mine, steady and searching. 

Hungry. No. Yes. Not for food. For you. For this. For whatever this is. Stop asking questions I can’t answer.

“I just ate.” 

“You didn’t finish.” 

I glance toward the kitchen, where the empty plate still sits on the counter, one bright red strawberry left untouched, vivid against the white ceramic. It’s the kind of thing only Steve would bother with, adding a strawberry like it’s a statement, like he’s trying to make this feel normal when nothing about this is. 

“I’m good,” I say, but my voice wavers, and I know he hears it. 

His eyes don’t leave mine. “You sure?” 

I nod. My fingers twitch again, pressing into the couch cushion. The meds are making my head fuzzy, softening the edges, but they can’t touch the tightness in my chest, the way his presence makes everything sharper and hazier all at once. 

“Pain meds kicking in?” he asks, tilting his head. 

I shrug, wincing at the pull in my side. “Maybe.” 

“You seem… quiet.” 

“Guess I’m easier to handle when I’ve got tasks,” I throw his words back at him, hoping for a spark, something to lighten the weight in the air. It works. He gives me a half-smile, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle just enough to remind me he’s human under all that Navy SEAL steel. Then, after a beat, he says, “Nap.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?” What? Nap? Now? With you sitting there?

“You should rest. You’re swaying.” Damn meds.

“I am not.” 

“You are. And your pupils are dilated.” 

“You checking my pupils now?” I snap from exhaustion and the faint hum of the meds making me feel like I’m floating an inch above myself. 

Don’t snap. He’s trying to help.

“I check everything.” 

I let my head fall back against the couch, just for a second, the cushion cradling my neck, trying to convince me to give in. His voice follows me as I drift, low and certain, cutting through the haze. 

“I’ll be here.” 

That’s the problem, Steve. That’s the whole damn problem. 

The air shifts before I even open my eyes, a subtle change in pressure. A low rumble rolls in from outside, distant but insistent, and I realize it’s not just the meds making the world feel heavy. The ocean’s murmur is drowned out by a new sound. I crack my eyes open, and through the window, I see the sky darkening, clouds rolling in thick and heavy, swallowing the last of the sunlight. The first drops of rain tap against the glass, tentative at first, then harder, a steady patter that grows into a rush. The sound is relentless, filling the room, wrapping around us and shutting out the rest of the world. Steve’s still there, sprawled at the other end of the couch, but he’s not looking at the magazine anymore. His eyes are on the window, tracking the rain as it streaks down the glass, his jaw tight, like he’s reading something in the storm I can’t see. The fan’s hum is swallowed by the rain’s rhythm, and the air feels cooler now, carrying the sharp, clean scent of wet earth and salt. 

“Rain’s here,” his words almost lost in the sound of the downpour. 

No shit, Sherlock. But your voice… it’s like it’s part of the storm.

“No kidding,” I mutter, shifting to sit up straighter. The movement pulls at my stitches, and I bite back a hiss, but Steve’s already looking at me. 

“Easy.”

“I’m fine,” I say softer now, the fight drained out of me by the meds and the rain and the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. 

He doesn’t respond, just stands and crosses to the window, his bare feet silent on the floorboards. He pushes the window open a crack, and the sound of the rain grows Pravides a sharper edge, a cool, damp breeze slipping into the room. The scent of wet leaves and ocean air curls around us, mingling with the cedar and salt of the house. Steve stands there, one hand braced against the window frame, his silhouette sharp against the gray light, like he’s part of the storm itself. 

“You like the rain?” he asks, not turning around. 

Rain. Sure. Why not? But it’s not about the rain. It’s about you. About how you make everything feel… more.

“It’s fine,” I say, leaning my head back against the couch, watching the way the rain blurs the world outside. “Makes everything feel… smaller, somehow.” 

He glances back at me. “It does that.” 

He closes the window but doesn’t latch it, letting the rain’s rhythm fill the silence. He moves back to the couch, sitting closer this time, his knee brushing against mine as he settles. I swallow, trying to focus on the sound of the rain, the way it hammers against the roof, relentless, like it’s trying to wash the whole island away. 

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m not,” I say, but my hands are trembling slightly, and I tuck them under my thighs, hoping he doesn’t notice. The meds are making me feel loose, untethered, and the rain’s chill is seeping through the open window, raising goosebumps on my arms. 

Steve doesn’t say anything, just reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. It’s the same one he tucked around me last night. He shakes it out and drapes it over my shoulders, fingers brushing my neck as he tucks it in, deliberate but gentle. My breath catches, and I hope the rain’s noise covers it. 

“You don’t have to-” I start, but he cuts me off with an unshakable look. 

“Shut up, Danny,” he says. 

Shut up. Yeah. Okay. I’ll shut up. You win.

I pull the blanket tighter, the warmth of it sinking into my skin, and stare out at the rain. It’s coming down in sheets now, blurring the palm trees into smudges of green and brown, the ocean a gray haze in the distance. The room feels smaller, closer and I let myself sink into the warmth of the blanket, the scent of Steve’s soap, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside me. 

“You ever just… sit?” I ask. “No plan, no mission, just… this?”

Say yes. Say you can do this. Just sit. With me. No agenda. Just… us. Please.

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I think maybe he won’t answer. Then he shifts, his arm resting along the back of the couch again. “Not much,” he says finally. “But I could get used to it.” 

God, don’t say that. Don’t make me hope. I turn to look at him, and his eyes meet mine. My heart stutters, and I blame the meds, the pain, the storm, anything but the way he’s looking at me, like he’s seeing something I’ve spent years trying to hide. 

“Careful, McGarrett,” I say. “You’re starting to sound human.” 

That earns me a real smile, small and bright, like a break in the clouds. He leans in just a fraction, and for a second, I think he might say something, do something, but then he just exhales, settling back against the couch. 

“Rest,” he whispered. “I’ll be here.” 

The rain keeps falling and I let my eyes drift shut, the blanket warm, his presence warmer. I don’t want to fight it. Just for now. Just for you.

Chapter Text

The scent of coffee curls into my senses before I even crack my eyes open, a warm, bitter tendril weaving through the morning haze. It drifts through the house in soft, invisible waves, carrying the faint promise of something grounding, something real. My face is half-buried in the pillow, the cotton warm from my own heat, still clinging to traces of cedar, his cologne, and the faint musk of last night’s closeness. God, his smell. It’s everywhere. On the pillow, on me. Like he’s marked me without even trying. I linger there, suspended between sleep and waking, letting the moment hold me. I’m not sure what pulls me fully awake, the coffee’s pull or the silence that wraps around it. It’s not an empty silence, though. It’s alive with him. The soft clink of cabinet doors shutting, the low groan of weathered floorboards under his feet, the delicate scrape of a spoon circling the inside of a ceramic mug. Each sound is a thread, stitching the morning together, and I lie there like a fool, soaking them in as if they’re a secret message meant just for me. As if they’re permission to exist in this space, in this moment, with him. Wait, permission? Why do I even need that? This is my house too, isn’t it?

I’m waiting for something to shift, for the courage to move. Come on, get up. You can’t stay here forever, daydreaming about him. Eventually, I do. The sheets slide away, cool against my skin, and I wince at the small tug in my side. It’s not sharp, not unbearable, just a quiet ache. Still fragile, still breakable, though I’d never admit it out loud. I sit up slowly, the mattress creaking softly, and the air feels heavier now, charged with the weight of morning and everything unsaid.

He’s in the kitchen when I shuffle in, my bare feet scuffing against the cool hardwood. He’s barefoot too, shirtless, his focus trained on the stove with an intensity that feels almost sacred. Why does he have to be shirtless? Like I need another reason to lose my mind. The morning light spills through the window, painting his skin in soft golds and shadows, catching the faint sheen of sweat along his shoulders. He’s glowing. Actually glowing. Like some kind of goddamn sun god. He’s stirring oatmeal, definitely oatmeal now, the air thick with its warm, nutty scent and the muscles in his back ripple with each slow turn of the spoon, a quiet rhythm that feels like it could anchor the world.

God.

I don’t speak right away. I just stand there, leaning against the doorway, watching him like some kind of voyeur, memorizing the way his shoulder blades shift, the way his dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, damp from the humidity. He senses me before I’m ready, glancing over with soft eyes.

“Morning,” he says in a quiet, unhurried tone, like the first note of a song I don’t know the words to yet.

“Fourth morning in a row I made it here without collapsing,” I say, forcing a smirk to cover the way my heart stumbles. “That’s gotta be worth something.”

He quirks an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Should I give you a medal?”

“I’d settle for a sticker. Gold star, maybe.” I step closer, reaching for the coffee pot on the counter, the glass warm under my fingers. Do something normal. Pour coffee. Don’t think about how close he is. How good he smells. I pour a stream of dark liquid into blue mug, mostly to give my hands something to do, something to ground me. I take a sip, too fast, and the heat burns my tongue. I wince, unprepared for what comes next.

My voice slips out before my brain catches up. “Can’t tell if it’s my ribs or just that I miss your hands on me.” What the hell…

A beat. Too long. The air thickens, heavy with the weight of my words. I look down, stirring nothing in my cup, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. “...Kidding,” I add, too quickly. “Kinda.” Kinda. Understatement of the century. I’m not kidding. I miss your hands. I miss you. I’m terrified of how much I miss you.

It’s a gamble, a reckless toss of the dice. I want him to call me on it, to see through the flimsy armor of my sarcasm. I want him to step into the space I’ve left open, to touch me again, to make me feel solid. I want those hands on me again.

And he does.

He steps closer and rests his palm on my shoulder. The weight of it is steady, but it sends a shiver racing down my spine.

“Still hurts?”

I shake my head, my throat tight. “Not really. Just... feels different.”

His hand lingers, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I don’t move. I don’t dare.

Don’t pull away. Don’t ruin it. Let it happen. Let him want to touch you. Let yourself need it.

He steps back to the stove, stirring the oatmeal again, the spoon scraping softly against the pot. The air smells sweeter now. Maple syrup, definitely, simmering in a small saucepan on the side, its surface bubbling gently, releasing tiny bursts of steam. When he leans over to check it, I catch the curve of his waist, the smooth slope of his lower back, the way the light catches the faint dusting of hair there. It’s not fair. It’s too much. My fingers itch to trace it.

“You’re really leaning into this domestic life, huh?” I say, leaning against the counter, my hip brushing the edge.

He chuckles. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t live off takeout and sarcasm.”

He’s teasing. And it’s working. I’m smiling, and I hate it. I hate how easy he makes this.

“Rude,” I say, stepping closer. “But fair.”

He doesn’t flinch when I move beside him, our arms nearly brushing. He hands me a spoon, a small dollop of dark, glossy glaze clinging to it, warm from the pan. I taste it, the rich and smooth sweetness blooming on my tongue. I nod.

“Not bad.”

“Just not bad?” His eyebrow lifts again, teasing.

I shrug, my lips twitching. “Could use a little more heat.”

He scoffs, turning back to the pan, his fingers dipping briefly into the syrup to check its consistency. They come away slick, glistening faintly in the light. Before he can wipe them off, I act on impulse, grabbing his wrist. His skin is warm, the pulse beneath it steady but quickening under my touch. His pulse. It’s fast. Like mine. He stills, his eyes locking on mine. Those eyes. I’m drowning. Don’t look away, Steve. Don’t let me go. I don’t break the gaze. I lean in, my lips brushing the pad of his finger, tasting the sticky sweetness of the syrup, the faint salt of his skin beneath it. God, he tastes like everything I want. My tongue traces the edge, before my lips close around the tip with just enough pressure to make my intention clear. My heart hammers. Don't let go, just a little longer.

I step back, releasing his wrist, and lick a stray bit of syrup from my bottom lip, acting casual, like my blood isn’t singing in my veins. “Tell me if I crossed a line,” I say, daring him to respond.

He exhales. “You planning on doing it again?”

God, I want to see how far I can push him. I want to know if he still wants me like that, if he feels the same pull that’s clawing at me. I set the mug down, the ceramic clicking softly against the counter, and the air between us hums with possibility.

The moment lingers, suspended, until the oatmeal threatens to bubble over, pulling his attention back to the stove. Saved by the oatmeal. Of course. Just when I thought I had him. He mutters something under his breath, turning down the heat, and I take the opportunity to slip away, my heart still racing from the gamble I just took. I mumble something about needing to check my phone, retreating to the small dining nook just off the kitchen. The table is a sturdy wooden thing, scratched and worn from years of use, but it feels solid, dependable. I slide into a chair, the wood cool against my thighs, and fiddle with my phone, scrolling aimlessly to give myself something to do. The kitchen’s warmth still lingers on my skin, and I can hear him moving behind me, the soft clatter of bowls being set on the counter, the faint sizzle of the maple syrup as he adjusts the heat.

He joins me a moment later, carrying two steaming bowls of oatmeal, each topped with a swirl of syrup and a handful of fresh blueberries that glisten like tiny jewels in the morning light. Perfect Steve, making perfect breakfast.  He sets one in front of me, the ceramic warm against the table, and slides into the chair across from me. The distance feels deliberate, like he’s giving me space to breathe, but his eyes keep flicking to mine, searching, as if he’s trying to read the words I didn’t say.

“Thanks,” I murmur, picking up a spoon and stirring the oatmeal, watching the syrup melt into the creamy grains. The first bite is perfect. Warm, sweet, with a burst of tartness from the berries. I don’t realize how hungry I am until the food hits my stomach, grounding me in a way I didn’t expect.

He’s watching me, not eating yet, his spoon resting against the edge of his bowl. “Good?”

I nod, swallowing. “Better than not bad,” I say, echoing our earlier banter, and he grins.

“By the way…” I say, swallowing another spoonful of oatmeal, “…any chance I can score another one of those magic pills from the great master today?” I glance up at him.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression caught between amusement and curiosity. “Great master?”

I tilt my head, meeting his gaze, the corners of my mouth lifting just a fraction. “Well, you do like to keep a tight leash on the dosage.” Push a little. See if he bites.

He doesn’t respond right away, his eyes holding mine for a beat longer than necessary. Then, without a word, he rises from the chair, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.  He’s moving. Is this good? Bad? He crosses the kitchen and opens a small cabinet above the sink. The pill bottle rattles softly as he retrieves it. Then returns, but instead of handing the pill to me, he pauses, standing just a step away, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Why’s he holding it like that? Is he daring me? He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t offer it outright, just stands there, gaze locked on mine. I set my spoon down, the soft clink against the bowl louder than it should be. Don’t think. Just do it. My heart kicks up, a steady thrum in my chest, as I lean forward, closing the distance between us. His fingers don’t waver, but I see the slight hitch in his breath, the way his eyes darken as I move. I don’t take the pill with my hand. Instead, I tilt my head, my lips brushing against his fingers as I take it directly from them, the bitter mingling with the faint salt of his skin. The warmth of his touch lingers on my lips, sending a spark of heat curling low in my belly, a fire that’s been smoldering since I tasted the syrup on his skin. I pull back slowly, holding his gaze, my tongue darting out to catch the lingering bitterness. Don’t look away. You started this. Finish it. I swallow the pill, the bitter aftertaste grounding me, but the fire in my core burns hotter, urging me to push further, to see how much closer I can get before one of us breaks. I want to break him. I want him to break me.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the soft clink of spoons against ceramic and the distant hum of the refrigerator. The morning light filters through the window, catching the steam rising from our bowls, and I steal glances at him between bites. His hair is still mussed from sleep, and there’s a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, rough and inviting. I want to reach across the table, to brush my fingers along it, but I keep my hands busy with the spoon instead.

“You sleep okay?” he asks suddenly.

I shrug, poking at a blueberry. “Well enough. You?”

He nods, but I see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he’s holding back a question. “You were restless,” he says finally. “Kept muttering in your sleep.”

My cheeks heat, and I look down at my bowl, stirring it unnecessarily. “Yeah? What’d I say?” Please don’t say it was about you. Please don’t.

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Couldn’t make it out. Something about gold stars, maybe.”

I laugh, the sound a little too loud, and it breaks the tension like a crack in ice. “Dreaming of my well-deserved accolades, obviously.”

He shakes his head, his grin softening, and takes a bite of his oatmeal. The moment feels lighter now, but there’s still an undercurrent, a pull that keeps me hyper-aware of his presence, of the way his fingers curl around his spoon, the way his throat moves when he swallows.

When we finish, he stands to clear the bowls, and I follow, insisting on helping. Don’t let him do it all. Show him you’re not just… taking. Our hands brush as we stack the dishes in the sink, and I feel that same jolt from earlier, the one that makes my skin hum. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. We stand there for a moment, the faucet dripping softly, the air thick with the scent of syrup and coffee and something unspoken.

“I’ll wash,” he says finally, breaking the silence, and I nod, stepping back to let him take over. He’s pulling away again. But I don’t leave. I lean against the counter, watching him scrub the bowls with a quiet focus, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each movement. Eventually, I murmur something about needing to stretch, and I wander toward the living room, the hardwood cool under my feet. Get out of there before you do something stupid. The couch sits invitingly under the soft glow of the morning light, its worn leather creased and familiar. I settle onto it, pulling my knees up, and try to steady my breathing, still buzzing from the kitchen, from the taste of syrup on his skin, from the weight of his gaze. I hear the soft clatter of dishes, the fridge opening, then shutting again. There’s a brief pause, the quiet rustle of fabric as he pulls a shirt over his head, and then his footsteps follow.

He appears in the doorway, holding a laptop. “Thought we could watch something.” Oh, so he wants to stay. He wants to be here with me.

I nod, patting the cushion beside me. “Only if you pick something better than that cooking show you’re obsessed with.”

He chuckles, crossing the room and dropping onto the couch beside me. The laptop balances precariously on his knees as he opens it, the screen casting a faint blue glow across his face. The room is dim, the late morning light filtered through heavy curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the leather. Some cooking competition blares on the screen with more yelling than actual cooking, a chaotic symphony of clanging pans and overly dramatic music. I don’t care. It’s just noise, a flimsy shield against the things I can’t say out loud, the things I’m too afraid to let spill.

I shift to get more comfortable, tucking a pillow behind my back, the fabric cool against my skin. As I move, my fingers brush his thigh, the denim rough under my touch. I leave them there, casual, like it’s nothing. Except it’s everything. My pulse thrums in my fingertips, each beat a quiet plea for him to respond, to press his hand over mine, to anchor me in this moment. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. But he doesn’t pull away either. His thigh is warm, solid, and I can feel the faint flex of muscle beneath the fabric, like he’s holding himself still, holding himself back. I stare at the screen, pretending to care about some guy flambéing a steak, the flames licking up in a brief, bright flare, but my focus is gone. It’s all on him: the heat of him, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his arm rests just close enough to graze mine. I shift again, letting my forearm press against him now, a deliberate weight. He still doesn’t move, but I swear his breath deepens, a subtle shift that sends a thrill through me. My hand drifts, just once, my fingers brushing the seam of his pants, slow and deliberate. I feel him tense, just for a second, and it’s enough to make my heart stutter.

A few minutes pass like that. We don’t talk. Just sit, barely touching, the air thick with everything we’re not saying. My hand stays on his leg, my fingers curling slightly against the denim, and I can feel the warmth of him seeping into me, slow and intoxicating, like a drug I don’t want to quit.

His voice cuts through the quiet. “You want me to get your shoulder?” God, yes. Please.

I nod, too fast, my pulse spiking. “Yeah. Think I slept on it weird.”

He shifts behind me, the couch creaking softly as he moves. His hands settle on my shoulders, fingers finding the knots with practiced ease. The pressure is perfect, firm and careful, and I let my head fall forward, exposing the back of my neck. Take the hint. Please. My breath slows, deepens, each inhale pulling in the faint scent of cedar, coffee, and the faintest hint of maple from the kitchen still lingering on his skin. I arch my back slightly, just enough to press closer to him, to feel the solid warmth of his chest against me. His breath ghosts across my skin, stirring the fine hairs at the base of my neck. My skin prickles, every nerve awake and humming. I close my eyes, imagining his mouth there, lips grazing down the curve of my neck, just a little lower, a little closer. But it doesn’t happen. His hands stay steady, professional, working the tension from my muscles with slow, deliberate circles. His thumbs slide closer to my neck, and I feel his exhale, warm against my hairline, sending a shiver down my spine. I want him to notice the way I’m leaning into him, the way I’m not pulling away. I want him to see it, to call me out, to meet me halfway. But as his fingers work deeper into the knots, a subtle heaviness begins to creep into my limbs, a soft, creeping fog that I recognize too well. The pill. Damn it. It’s kicking in. Not now. My shoulders loosen under his touch, but so does my focus, my thoughts blurring at the edges. I blink, trying to shake it off, to stay anchored in the moment, in the warmth of his hands, the quiet rhythm of his breathing. But the fatigue is there, undeniable, weaving itself into the heat of his touch, making my body feel heavier, my eyelids just a fraction more reluctant to stay open.

“Better?”

I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.” But there’s a slight tremble in it from the way my body is starting to betray me, the pill’s effects settling in like a slow tide. My fingers, still resting on his leg, press a little harder, as if I can hold onto him to keep myself steady, to keep the world from slipping too far.

His hands slow, but they don’t stop, thumbs tracing lazy circles along the base of my neck. The room feels smaller, the air heavier with the weight of the afternoon. Outside, the sky darkens, the first low rumble of thunder rolling in the distance. The rain is coming, I can feel the humidity thickening, pressing against the windows. I shift, reluctant to break the moment, but my body aches from sitting too long, and I murmur something about needing to stretch. He pulls back, his hands falling away, and I feel the absence like a physical thing. I stand, stretching my arms, but the motion feels slower, like moving through water. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, too quickly, forcing a small smile to cover the way my head feels just a little too heavy. “Just… the pill, you know. Kicks in sometimes.” I wave it off, trying to keep my tone light, but my legs feel unsteady as I lower myself back onto the couch, the leather cool against against my skin.

“I’ll get the blanket,” he whispers, and I nod, settling back as the first drops of rain begin to fall. The soft patter against the windows grows steadier, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and salt from the nearby ocean. Hawaii in the summer, it always comes back, the sky opening up in a sudden, warm deluge that blurs the world outside. The room feels smaller now, cocooned in the sound of the storm, the light dim and silvery through the glass.

Steve disappears into the hallway, his footsteps fading into the soft creak of the floorboards. He returns a moment later, carrying the thick, soft blanket, the one from that first night, when he’d draped it over me with a care. The memory of it lingers in the weight of the fabric as he tosses it over me, the fibers catching the faint scent of him, of us. I catch the edge of the blanket, lifting it slightly, a wordless invitation. My heart kicks up, a nervous rhythm, as I wait to see if he’ll take it. Come on, Steve. Sit with me. Stay with me. He hesitates, his eyes flickering to mine, searching, questioning. Then he sits closer than before. Yes. His thigh presses against mine, a steady warmth that feels like it could burn through me. I let it happen, let the blanket settle over us both, a shared cocoon against the storm outside. This is what I wanted. This is everything.

I shift, just enough to lean into him, my head dropping to his shoulder. The cotton of his shirt is soft, warm from his body, and I can feel the faint rise and fall of his breath. My hand slides across his chest, under the blanket, fingers brushing over the fabric, then finding the edge where cotton meets skin, the muscle beneath firm and alive. I don’t grab, don’t cling, just rest there, letting the moment stretch. Don’t push too hard. Just let it be.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But he lets me stay, his breath slow and even now, a steady rhythm that grounds me. He’s not pulling away. Thank God. One of his hands hesitates, hovering for a moment, then settles softly against my hip, his fingers curling just enough to hold me there.

We don’t say anything. Outside, the storm builds, the rain drumming harder, the wind rattling the windows. Inside, I’ve already given in, surrendered to the pull of him, to the quiet storm brewing between us.

Chapter Text

Time’s a ghost in this darkness, slipping through my fingers like smoke. Why does it always feel like I’m chasing something I can’t catch? The world’s collapsed into a heavy, velvet void. No waves crashing outside, no sliver of moonlight cutting through the blinds. Just the humid press of the night, thick with the kind of stillness that makes every sensation sharper, every breath louder. My skin’s buzzing, like I’ve been dipped in honey and left to melt into Steve’s sheets. Why am I here? It’s safe here, in this cocoon of scent and heat, but my body’s betraying that safety, stirring under the weight of something primal. I’m half-lost in that syrupy haze of sleep, my mind drifting in a cottony fog, when something tugs me toward the surface. A sound, maybe. Wet. Close. What the hell is that? The soft catch of breath against skin. Wait, breath? Where? Why?

And then heat.

Wet, open-mouthed heat.

Oh, shit. That’s not a dream.

My pulse stumbles, confused, but my body knows before my brain catches up.

Wet. Heat. There.

I inhale sharply. Jesus, my whole body’s lit up like a live wire. How does he do this to me? Muscles contract, involuntarily. But I’m pinned by the weight of a firm hand, spread low on my hip, keeping me right where he wants me. Fingers splayed wide, pressing just enough to hold me still. And then there’s a mouth. His mouth. Hot, unrelenting, moving with a purpose that sends a jolt straight through me.

Oh fuck.

Yes, yes, yes. My thighs twitch, instinct rising like a spark under the skin, but they’re already parted. When did that happen? Did he move me, or did I just… let him? His stubble grazes the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, a rough counterpoint to the slick heat of his tongue. It’s not frantic, not rushed, just methodical. He’s savoring every inch of me, mapping me out with a patience that feels almost cruel. My body hums, caught between surrender and shock, but I don’t move.

He groans, the hungry sound vibrating through me like a plucked string. Fuck, that sound. Like he’s been starving for this, and the realization sends a jolt straight to my core. My cock throbs, already hard, already leaking, and he’s right there to catch it, lips closing around me with a suction that’s just shy of overwhelming.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

He hums against me in reply, like he’s pleased I’m awake. Like he wants me conscious now, just in time to feel every stroke, every suck, every slow descent. The vibration sinking deeper, curling my toes against the sheets. My hand twitches above the covers, fingers curling into a fist, unsure whether to grab his hair or the mattress or just hold on for dear life. My pulse is a wild thing, hammering in my throat, my chest, my fucking ears, but the rest of me is pinned, paralyzed by the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue. He’s relentless. Slow at first, teasing, licking up the underside of my cock with a flat, broad stroke that makes my hips jerk involuntarily. Fuck, that’s unfair. His hand presses harder into my hip, a silent command to stay still, to let him set the pace. And God help me, I do. He knows exactly what he’s doing, alternating between languid, exploratory licks and greedy, purposeful suction, pulling me into his mouth like he’s trying to drink me down. His tongue swirls around the tip, teasing the slit. Oh, fuck, that’s too much. I’m gonna- I press my forearm over my eyes and bite my lip so hard I taste the sharp tang of iron. Don’t come yet. Don’t you dare. Hold on.

The room’s pitch black, a void where sight doesn’t exist, but it only sharpens everything else. The dark’s amplifying him, making every touch louder, every sound dirtier. The wet sounds of his mouth working me over, the soft creak of the mattress under his shifting weight, the faint hitch in his breath when I pulse against his tongue. He’s into this. Really into this. That little hitch- fuck, it’s like he’s losing control too. I can’t see him, but I can feel every inch of him, his broad palm splayed across my hip, his fingers digging in just enough to bruise, his nose brushing the base of my cock as he takes me deeper. His fingers. They’re gonna leave marks. Good. I want them. I want proof this happened. That he was here. It’s too much and not enough, and my brain’s short-circuiting, caught in a loop of fuck, yes, more.

My hips stutter, chasing the heat, but he’s in control, slowing down just when I think I can’t take it, dragging out the pleasure until it’s a slow burn under my skin. He flattens his tongue, dragging it up the length of me, then sucks just the tip. Fuck, Steve, you’re killing me. My breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps, little noises I’d never admit to making in the daylight.

“Steve,” I try to say, but it’s just a broken exhale, a plea I didn’t mean to let slip. Did I just beg? Shit, I did. He’s gonna love that. He doesn’t stop, just digs his fingers into my thigh. His other hand slides up, cupping my balls, rolling them gently, and I’m fucking done for. Oh God, that’s it. The pleasure spikes, sharp and electric, and I’m teetering on the edge, every muscle coiled tight, every nerve screaming. can’t hold on much longer. He’s gonna break me.

He takes me deeper. Slowly. Purposefully.

I groan louder this time and the sound of it startles even me. Fuck, that was loud. Did I always sound like this? It cracks open something raw in my chest. I feel him smile around me, the curve of his mouth cruel in its patience. He’s enjoying this way too much. Smug bastard. Then he starts to move. Shallow pulls at first, head bobbing in a lazy rhythm, then deeper, wetter, messier. The sounds are obscene: slick, sucking, gasping. And it shouldn’t be hot, Jesus, it shouldn’t, but it is. It so is.

My thighs start to shake. My hand finds the back of his head, buried in the mess of his sleep-warm hair, and I grip just to hold on. His hair’s so soft. Why’s it so soft? It’s not fair. He groans again. The vibration shoots through me like a pulse of lightning, and I buck before his fingers tighten in warning. Still. Stay still.

I do. Because I can’t do anything else.

His tongue flattens again, drags up, swirls around the head. Then he does it again. And again. Torturous. Precise. My thighs are spread so wide it hurts, but I still want him closer. Deeper. All the way inside.

My whole body’s coiled so tight I feel like I’m going to snap in half.

“Steve-” I breathe it this time. Don’t say it. Don’t beg again. My head drops back into the pillow, mouth open, panting. “Steve, I… fuck- just-”

But he doesn’t let up.

Doesn’t speed up either.

He sucks me in deeper, and his other hand comes up, fingers stroking low on my stomach, sliding between my thighs.

It’s not fair.

It’s so fucking good… and it’s cruel. Perfectly, beautifully cruel.

I want to warn him, want to tell him I’m close, but my voice is gone, swallowed by the heat and the dark and the relentless rhythm of his mouth. He knows, though, fuck, he knows. He slows just enough to keep me there, hovering on the brink, drawing it out until I’m trembling, until my whole body’s a live wire. I’m gonna die. I’m actually gonna die from this. His tongue flicks against me, precise and devastating, and I’m gasping, clutching the sheets, trying to hold on, trying to make this last. Don’t end. Please don’t end. But he’s merciless, patient in a way that’s almost sadistic.

And just when I think I’ll go over, when my spine arches, and the moan cracks out of my chest like a sob, he pulls back.

He pulls back. Just enough. No, no, no, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

I whimper. Actually fucking whimper.

The need doesn’t go away, it just shifts, curls deeper into me. I’m shaking now. Helpless. His to ruin.

Then he mouths me again, so soft it’s almost a kiss. Then harder. Then deeper. Throat tightening around me, and I lose it. My back arches off the bed, a full-body jerk that feels like it’s ripping me apart. The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, crashing through me, and I come with a strangled moan, spilling into his mouth as he swallows every drop, his tongue still moving, milking me through it until I’m shaking, oversensitive and spent. I collapse back into the mattress, boneless, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The world’s still spinning, but the dark holds me together, wraps me in its heavy embrace. There’s a soft sound: him swallowing, the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts, pulling the blanket back over us both. Like he didn’t just take me apart and put me back together with nothing but his mouth and his hands.

He settles beside me, his thigh brushing mine, warm and solid. His breathing’s slow, steady, a quiet anchor in the dark. His fingers find mine under the covers, lacing together in a single, deliberate squeeze. A grounding touch, a reminder that he’s still here, that this is real.

I exhale, long and shaky, trying to find my voice. “Next time,” I rasp, throat raw from moans I didn’t know I could make, “wake me up before you go full Special Ops on my dick.”

His laugh is soft, a warm huff against my neck, and it’s the only sound in the world that matters. That laugh. I’d do anything to hear that laugh again.

Chapter Text

The air’s warm by the time I wake up. Not hot, not suffocating, just heavy with stillness. There’s no scent of coffee today. No quiet clatter from the kitchen. No creak of floorboards to anchor me. Just silence. Which isn’t silence at all. It’s loaded. Too quiet in the way that tells you someone’s already moving around, just not where you can hear them. Where is he? He’s always up before me, clanging around like he’s trying to wake the whole island. And now he’s up, doing something I’m not part of. Again.

The blanket's twisted around my waist, one leg kicked out like I was reaching for space or heat. The sheets are warm under me, and they smell like him. Not just cedar and salt and all that ridiculous masculinity he exudes without trying. This is sharper. Skin. Sweat. Last night. It's fading, but it’s there. A ghost of what happened. Or didn’t. Depends how you look at it.

God, what even happened?

I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember his mouth. His breath. The weight of him not on top of me but around me. And now I’m awake, and he’s not here, and I’m already spiraling. Great start to the day.

I drag a hand over my face, rough against the stubble I didn’t bother shaving last night. There’s a tug in my ribs when I sit up, but it’s dull now, a leftover ache, the kind your body carries just to remind you not to do anything stupid. Too late.
The house still hums. That soft ambient sound you only notice when you’re trying not to think. Refrigerator, distant hum of the AC, a faint birdsong from outside. 

I let myself sit on the edge of the bed a little longer, feet not quite touching the floor. The hardwood’s cool when I finally stretch my legs and make contact. It grounds me.

My back complains when I stand, a tight pull just beneath the ribs. I press my hand there automatically and shuffle out into the hallway. I don’t rush. I shuffle into the hallway. There’s no one waiting. Just the quiet, and the lingering scent of linen and him. Like he passed through recently. Like he’s still here. Just... somewhere else. He’s here, but he’s not. Typical Steve. Always half in, half out. Like he’s guarding something, or someone. Me? Or himself? God, I’m overthinking this. Just move, Danny. Find him. Figure out what’s going on.

I’m shirtless, skin prickling in the breeze from the vent, only wearing boxers that sit too low on my hips. Every step is too loud. Even when I try to walk light. Like a guest.

Which is funny.

Or maybe not.

I am a guest. Not just in this house, in this strange liminal space where I’m someone he touches, but doesn’t talk to. Someone he feeds, but doesn’t explain himself to. He touches me like he means it, but he talks to me like I’m a case file. What am I supposed to do with that? Push him? Ask him what’s going on? Or just shut up and be grateful he’s letting me stay?

I expect to hear him in the kitchen. I imagine it before I turn the corner: kettle hissing, spoon scraping, his low off-key hum threading through the air. Please be there, Steve. Please be normal.

But when I get there - nothing.

No hiss. No smell of fresh coffee. No Steve. It makes everything look... too clean. Like no one actually lives here.

This isn’t right. His kitchen’s always a mess. Not a bad mess, just… lived-in. Where’s the coffee? Where’s the chaos? Where’s him?

Oh, there’s a mug on the counter, half-full. His. I know it by the chipped handle, from that one time he dropped it during a storm and tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. I touch the ceramic. Still warm.

So he’s here. Somewhere. Not gone, not vanished, just not where I need him to be. I pour myself the last of the pot. The coffee’s gone bitter, left too long on the plate warmer, and it scalds the tip of my tongue. Good. I kind of need it to. I need something sharp. Something real. Something that’ll wake me up or burn the memory of his mouth off my skin.

One of those.

And then I hear him.

Low sound, hallway. His voice, just a hum, talking to someone? A phone call maybe. The words aren’t clear, but his tone is. Not soft. Not warm. Measured. Controlled.

I need to know. Who’s on the other end of that call? Why’s he talking like that? Why’s he not talking to me?

The coffee burns my throat as I take another sip, the bitter taste sharpening my focus. My bare feet move before I decide to, drawn toward the low murmur of his voice like a moth to a flame.

I slowly follow the sound down the hallway, not because I’m trying to snoop, not really, but because the floor creaks when you move like you own the place. And I don’t. Not today.

He’s in the spare room. The door’s cracked just wide enough to let out light and half of a conversation. Not closed, not open. The kind of halfway measure that says I’m not hiding, but I don’t want company either.

His voice is low. That careful register he uses when he’s talking to someone who matters, someone official. It’s not the voice he uses for me. Or Kono. Or Chin. No bite, no sarcasm. Just diplomacy. And that’s not my Steve. That’s Commander McGarrett. The one who shuts everyone out. Who’s he talking to? Why’s he using that voice?

“Yeah. He’s awake. Walking’s better than a few days ago..”

Silence. I can’t make out the reply, whoever’s on the other end is either far away from the mic or not loud to begin with. A man? Who is it? HQ? The governor? Someone else? Why can’t I hear them? Why’s he keeping this from me?

Steve makes a sound in response, barely a word. More like a hum. His fingers tap wood, probably. Desk or windowsill. He only does that when he’s nervous, or when he’s talking around the truth.

“No. I haven’t told him. He doesn’t need to worry about that right now.”

What “that”? What the fuck is “that”? And why the hell am I not supposed to know about it?

I’m not a case file, Steve. I’m not something you “handle.”

And I’m already worrying about everything.

My heart does this weird little skip. That drop you get when you miss a stair. That’s the kind of sentence that never leads anywhere good.

There’s another pause. Longer this time. Steve lets out a sigh

“I’ve got it under control. He’s staying here for the next few days.”

Under control? Staying here? Not he’s staying with me, not he’s recovering. Just… staying.

My chest tightens in that way that has nothing to do with the bruised ribs. He’s not talking like I’m in the room next door. He’s talking like I’m a detail to be managed.

Another beat. Then, quieter:

“No. Not yet. I’ll handle it when he’s... steadier.”

Steadier? What does that even mean? I’m steady. I’m fine.

And I don’t know what it is. But the fact that there is an “it” and I’m not supposed to know about it.

A chair scrapes. Footsteps shift. I register too late that I’ve been standing in place too long to pretend I just walked by. So I move. Not fast, but with enough purpose to sell the lie. Shit. Move, Danny.

Coffee mug in hand. Casual. Just passing through.

He steps out of the room before I can think up anything to say. Stay calm.

His eyes catch mine, and for a split second, he pauses. Just enough to read me. To check how much I might’ve heard. And then that flicker replaced with smooth, easy Steve again.

“Hey,” he says. The phone’s already disappeared into his back pocket. “You good?”

I nod, lifting my mug. “Refill,” I offer, like it’s a full sentence.

He smiles with his mouth, eyes stay unreadable. “Was just about to check on you.”

Of course you were.

Who was that? It wants to come out. But I swallow it. Don’t ask. Not now. You’ll push him away. And you can’t handle that right now. Just… let it go. For now.

Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, just long enough for him to notice. I look at him and he meets it.

Then he brushes past me, his hand grazing my arm like always. Like nothing’s changed.

Except it has. I don’t know what, or how deep, but something’s shifted.

And whatever it is, it’s not mine to know.

He moves ahead of me, back into the kitchen like nothing’s off. Like there wasn’t just a whole conversation I wasn’t meant to hear. The scent of coffee’s still warm in the air, blending with the faint trace of whatever soap and cologne he uses, that clean, sharp cedar clings to his skin like a goddamn signature.

He’s got the bottle in his hand before I even realize I’m standing there waiting.

“Need another?” he asks, shaking the pills just once. Casual. Too casual.

I nod. I should say something else, maybe make a joke, lighten the moment, but my mouth is slow, stuck on that he doesn’t need to worry about that right now.

That I haven’t told him.

That I’ll handle it.

Steve holds the pill between his thumb and forefinger again. Doesn’t hand it to me. Doesn’t offer water this time either. Just stands there, waiting. I know what he wants.

I step closer. Slower this time. I know the script by now.

He lifts the pill just slightly, and I lean in just enough to let my lips brush against his fingers as I take it from him. His skin tastes faintly like salt and citrus. I let it sit on my tongue for a second too long before swallowing it dry. Just to make a point. I’m not even sure which point anymore.

His fingers linger before pulling back.

I swallow, and the bitterness kicks in a second later. But not the usual kind. This one tastes like silence.

“Thanks,” I murmur, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I don’t look at him when I say it. If I do, I’ll start asking the wrong questions.

But Steve’s watching me. I can feel it. That kind of stare that tries to read beneath the skin, looking for signs I’m slipping. Or worse… catching on.

“You sleep alright?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

I nod, grabbing the edge of the counter for something solid. “Yeah. You?”

He hums something noncommittal. Neither yes nor no. His gaze flicks away just long enough to break the tension, then he opens the fridge like we’re normal again. Like we ever were.

He pulls out blueberries. Two bowls of oatmeal already on the counter, like he had it planned.

“You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to.”

It cuts off whatever I was going to say.

I don’t answer. I just watch him scoop the berries with the kind of precision that shouldn’t belong to a guy who can break down a Glock in six seconds. Look at him. So careful. So deliberate. Like he’s putting on a show. Like he’s trying to keep me from asking questions.

He pushes one bowl toward me. And I take it. Because that’s what we do now. I let him feed me, medicate me, run my recovery like a silent contract I don’t remember signing. And I keep my mouth shut. Because I want to believe that it’s about care. Not control.
When I’m done, I push the bowl away, the spoon clinking against the ceramic, too loud in the quiet. My ribs ache dully, a reminder of every move I make, and my skin feels sticky, the day’s already clinging to me. I need to wash it off, to feel something other than this heavy stillness. “I’m hitting the shower,” I mutter, not waiting for Steve’s response. I can’t keep sitting here, drowning in his silence. He’s still in the kitchen, rinsing his own bowl, his back to me, all broad shoulders and deliberate silence. He’s not looking. Good. I can’t handle his eyes right now.

The bathroom’s down the hall, and I move slowly, each step measured to keep the pain at bay. The tiles are cool under my feet, and the air smells faintly of salt and the sharp, clean scent of Steve’s soap. I turn the water on, letting it run hot, the steam rising in lazy curls. I strip off the boxers, wincing as I lift my arms, and step under the spray. The water stings at first, hitting the bruises and the stitched-up wound along my side, but then it’s just warm, loosening the tension in my shoulders. I brace one hand against the wall, letting the heat soak into my skin, washing away the coffee’s bitterness, the weight of that overheard conversation, the ghost of his touch from last night. For a moment, it’s just me and the water, and I can almost pretend the world outside this room doesn’t exist.
I don’t linger too long. My body’s not up for marathon showers yet. But as the water runs over me, I notice something different. The pill I took earlier isn't dragging me down like it did a few days ago. Back then, it hit me like a freight train, making my eyelids heavy, limbs sluggish, like I could’ve curled up on the floor and slept for hours. Now it’s just a faint hum in my system, a dull edge taken off the pain without pulling me under. It’s working, sure, I can feel it softening the ache in my ribs, but it’s not knocking me out. I’m awake. Alert. Maybe more than I want to be, with all the questions still swirling in my head. When I step out, the mirror’s fogged, and I wipe a streak across it with my hand. The guy staring back looks tired, stubble thicker than yesterday, bruises fading but still there, like smudged ink on a page. I grab a towel, wrap it around my waist, and shuffle to the spare room where my clothes or rather, Steve’s are stashed. My own stuff’s still at my place, and I’m not about to ask for a field trip. I dig through the stack he left me, pulling out a faded navy T-shirt, soft from too many washes, with a faint Navy logo on the chest. It smells like always - cedar, salt, that maddening hint of him and it’s too big, hanging loose on my frame, but it’s comfortable. I pull it on, careful not to tug at the stitches, and run a hand through my damp hair. Good enough.

I’m barely back in the living room when there’s a knock at the door. Steve’s already moving, his bare feet silent on the hardwood, and he opens the door before I can even sit down. I don’t know if Steve told them to come or if they just decided to. I hear Kono’s laugh, cutting through the quiet like sunshine. Chin’s voice follows a second later, that steady rhythm I’ve missed without realizing.

“Look who’s alive,” Kono says with a grin, coming straight toward me.

“I’ve been alive the whole time,” I shoot back, opening my arms automatically. She folds me into a gentle hug, her body angled just right to avoid the worst of my ribs. God, I missed that. The physical proof that people care.

Chin follows with a nod and a smile that feels like home. “You look better than I expected,” he says.

Better than expected. High praise. I look like hell, Chin, but thanks for the lie.

“Yeah, well, that’s the power of Steve’s gourmet oatmeal and military-grade painkillers,” I reply, smirking. “And his tyrannical bedside manner.”

Steve’s standing off to the side now, arms crossed, watching. Not hovering exactly, but not not-hovering either.

We sit, mostly in the living room. Kono kicks her shoes off and curls up in the armchair. Chin takes the far end of the couch, careful not to bump me. Steve disappears briefly and returns with more coffee like he’s hosting a brunch instead of, y’know, managing the human version of a recovery ward.

“So, Danny,” Kono starts, leaning forward. “You gonna tell us how you’re really doing, or are you sticking with the ‘I’m fine’ routine?”

How am I doing? Hell if I know. I’m alive, I’m here, but I’m stuck in this weird limbo with Steve, and I don’t know how to explain that.

I roll my eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “I’m fine, Kono. Ribs are still sore, but I’m walking, eating, sleeping. Not climbing any mountains, but I’ll live.”

Chin tilts his head. “You sure? You look like you’re carrying more than just bruises.”

I freeze for half a second. Dammit, Chin. Don’t do that. Don’t see me like that. I’m trying so hard to keep it together, and you’re calling me out. I’m not about to spill my guts about Steve’s cryptic phone call or the way his silence is starting to feel like a wall. “Just adjusting to being a houseguest,” I say, forcing a grin. “You know how Steve’s place is. Too much open space, not enough chaos.”

Kono laughs, but her eyes flick to Steve, who’s leaning against the wall now, his expression neutral. “Yeah, well, you’re lucky he’s got you on lockdown. Last thing we need is you trying to play hero again.”

“Hero?” I scoff, shifting in my seat. “I was just doing my job. Wrong place, wrong time.”

They press me for details about how I’m holding up. Kono asks if I’m sleeping through the night or if the pain’s keeping me up. Chin wants to know if I’m eating enough, if I’m staying off my feet like I’m supposed to. I deflect with sarcasm where I can, tossing out quips about Steve’s cooking and his tendency to hover like a drill sergeant. But it feels good, their concern. It’s not smothering like Steve’s can be, it’s just… them.

“So what’s the plan, Danny?” Kono asks, sipping her coffee. “You staying here until you’re back to chasing bad guys?”

I glance at Steve, who’s still standing, still watching. His jaw tightens just enough for me to notice. “That’s the million-dollar question,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Apparently, I’m under house arrest until Commander McGarrett deems me fit for society.”

Kono snorts, but Chin’s watching Steve now, his expression thoughtful. “You’re in good hands,” he says. “Just don’t push yourself too hard, yeah?”

Good hands. Sure. But why does it feel like those hands are holding me at arm’s length?

I nod, but my mind’s still snagged on that phone call. Who was Steve talking to? Why’s he keeping me in the dark? I want to ask the team if they know anything, if they’ve heard whispers about whatever “it” is that Steve’s handling. But I don’t. Not with him in the room, his presence like a low hum in the background.

Instead, I shift gears. “What about you guys? What’s going on at Five-0? You catching any cases, or is it all paperwork while I’m out?” Change the subject. Keep it light. Don’t let them see how much this is eating at you. They don’t need to know about Steve’s secrets.

Kono grins, leaning back. “Oh, you know, just keeping the island safe while you’re playing invalid. Caught a smuggling ring last week, Chin’s been digging into their financials, and I’ve been charming the harbor guys for intel.”

Chin chuckles. “She means flirting with the dockworkers.”

“Hey, it’s effective,” Kono shoots back, tossing a cushion at him. It misses, landing on the floor, and for a moment, the room feels alive, normal, like we’re back at headquarters trading barbs over takeout.

I laugh, and it feels good, even if it pulls at my ribs. “You two are gonna have to fill me in when I’m back. Don’t let Kono sweet-talk her way into running the whole operation.” If I’m back. What if I’m not ready? What if Steve doesn’t let me go? What if I don’t want to?

“Grace called me,” Kono says, her tone softening. “She’s been asking when she can visit.”

My chest tightens. I glance at Steve, who’s still standing like a sentinel. “She should be in school,” he says evenly. “But we’ll call her. Today.”

I raise an eyebrow. We? Kono catches it, her lips twitching, but she doesn’t push. Chin gives her a subtle nudge, like he’s telling her to drop it. They get it. They see the way Steve’s orbiting me, the way the air feels heavier when he’s around.

They don’t stay long, maybe twenty minutes. Kono gives me another tight and quiet hug before they leave. Chin rests a hand on my shoulder, his grip steady. “Call if you need us,” he says, and I know he means it.And then they’re gone.

Steve closes the door behind them, a little slower than necessary. The echo of laughter still lingers in the walls, but it fades quickly, replaced by something heavier. He’s closing them out. Closing us in. Why does it feel like a trap? I keep replaying that phone call in my head, the one I wasn’t supposed to hear. ‘He doesn’t need to worry about that right now.’ What’s ‘that’? Why’s he keeping me in the dark? It’s not just about my recovery, is it? There’s something bigger, something he’s carrying alone, and I’m stuck here, half-broken, trying to piece together a puzzle I can’t even see. I want to trust him. I do. But trust feels like a tightrope when he’s playing gatekeeper with the truth. And I’m not even sure I want to know what he’s hiding. Not because I’m scared of it, but because I’m scared of what it’ll change. Between us. If there even is an ‘us.’ God, Danny, get a grip. You’re sitting here, overthinking like it’s your job, when all you’ve got is a cold mug and a gut that won’t shut up.

“You good?” he asks.

I don’t look at him right away. I’m not sure what he’s asking.

“I’m fine,” I say. Then softer: “They didn’t have to come.”

He walks past me, into the kitchen, rinsing out the empty mugs without a word. He’s avoiding me. Or maybe I’m avoiding him. I don’t know anymore.

I sit there for a beat too long.

Then: “You said something about calling Grace?”

His back stiffens for half a second before he nods.

“Yeah. I set up the tablet already.”

The tablet’s waiting on the coffee table. The screen’s dark for now, black and reflective, and I catch my own face in it for a second. Hair a mess, healing bruises faint around my jaw. I look better than I feel. Worse than I want to.

Steve doesn’t say anything. Just gestures toward the couch and hands me a fresh mug of water.

I take my seat, square up in front of the tablet like I’m bracing for a press conference. Steve sinks into the armchair just off to the side, not close enough to be in the frame, but not far enough that I forget he’s there.

The screen lights up with a soft chime, and there she is.

“Monkey,” I say before I can even help it.

Grace’s face lights up, and the little ache in my chest gets immediately worse.

“Hi, Danno!” she says, her voice a burst of sunshine, crackling slightly through the speakers.

I smile. “You look taller already. What the hell are they feeding you over there?”

“Broccoli,” she says with a dramatic eye-roll. “Every night. It’s like a punishment.”

Broccoli. Of course. Rachel’s on her health kick again. Poor kid.

“I told your mom, that stuff’s basically a hate crime.”

There’s a soft laugh from off-screen, and then Rachel leans into the frame. Just enough to let me know she’s there. Not enough to feel casual.

She looks tired. Not in a bad way. Just... stretched thin.

“Daniel,” she says, nodding.

Daniel. Not Danny. Not Danno. Just… Daniel. Like I’m a stranger. Maybe I am.

“Rachel,” I reply. My tone’s even. I’m not picking a fight today.

She gives me the kind of smile that isn’t really a smile and moves back out of frame, letting Grace dominate the screen again. Good. Let Grace take over. I need her more than I need Rachel’s judgment.

She asks about everything: the bruises, the cast, how much it hurts, how long I’ll be stuck in the house. I try to keep it light. Avoid the words shooting, hospital and all that. I give her the version she can handle. The version she deserves.

Steve doesn’t speak. I glance over once and he’s watching the screen. He’s quiet. Too quiet. What’s he thinking? Is he listening? Or is he somewhere else?

“Uncle Steve’s taking care of you, right?” Grace asks, and my smile twitches a little. Uncle Steve. Yeah. Taking care of me. If you can call it that.

“Oh yeah,” I say, keeping my tone even. “He’s got me on a very strict routine. Bedrest, vitamins, sarcasm only in small doses.”

Grace giggles. “Is he bossy?”

I glance at Steve. He doesn’t move. Look at him. Just sitting there. Like he’s not the center of my universe right now.

“The bossiest,” I say, and for some reason it comes out quieter than I meant it to. “But don’t worry. I’m surviving.”

There’s a pause and Grace shifts on the screen, like she’s trying to find the right words. She’s thinking. She’s too smart. She’s gonna say something that breaks me.

“I miss you,” she says finally. Oh, God. There it is. My heart can’t take this.

My throat tightens. I swallow against it. “I miss you too, Monkey. So much.”

Her face softens, eyes big and watery now. “Can I visit soon?”

Before I can answer, I hear Rachel’s voice off-screen. “We’ll talk about it later, sweetheart.”

Grace doesn’t pout, but she doesn’t smile either. She’s disappointed. I’m disappointed. I’m failing her. Again.

I don’t argue. Not here. Not now. But I clench the edge of the cushion just a little tighter.

We talk a little more about her classes, her new shoes, a funny story from school. I let it all wrap around me.

Eventually, Rachel’s voice comes back on. “Alright, Grace. Say goodbye.” Goodbye. Already? I’m not ready.

She pouts. “Okay. Love you, Danno.”

“Love you more.” Always. Forever. No matter what.

The screen goes dark a second later. The silence after feels louder than anything else.

I let the tablet rest in my lap for a moment. My hand’s still curled around the side like I’m afraid it’ll slip away.

Steve doesn’t say anything.

I don’t either. What’s there to say? I’m a mess. He knows it. I know it.

But when I finally look over at him, his jaw’s tight and not in a way I can read easily. There’s something there, just under the surface.
The weight of Grace’s voice lingers, her absence carving a quiet ache in the room as the day slips into dusk. The light shifts, softening the edges of the furniture, casting long shadows across the floor.

The sun’s dropped behind the trees now, and the house feels quieter than it should. Not peaceful. Just muted. Like someone turned the volume down on the whole world and left me stuck in the static.

I haven’t moved from the couch.

The blanket from earlier is still draped over my legs. The empty coffee mug’s cold on the table. My phone’s still flipped screen-down, like I’m waiting for something to happen. A call. A touch. A shift in air pressure that says he’s coming back.

Steve’s in the kitchen again. I hear the sound of silverware clinking, a drawer shutting, a cabinet. Another drawer. He’s not rushing. But it’s not relaxed either. It’s the kind of noise you make when you want someone to hear that you’re busy.

He doesn’t say anything when he walks into the room a few minutes later. Just sets a plate down in front of me: chicken, rice, some bright slices of mango on the edge. Beside it, a glass of water. Exact. Purposeful. Like he took his time making it look casual.

No words. No eye contact.

He turns and walks away without a glance.

“You’re not eating?” I ask.

He pauses by the hallway. “Later.”

Then he disappears into the spare room and closes the door.

My appetite drops straight through the floor.

Eat. Just eat. He made it for you.

So I eat anyway. The food tastes good, really, but it doesn’t land right. Everything feels like it’s floating half an inch above the ground.

When I’m done, I don’t move. I just sit there, the plate cold in front of me, my body still wrapped in the blanket like it’s holding me down.

And Steve never comes back out.

Not to check if I ate. Not to ask how I’m feeling. Not even to fake a casual pass-by.

Eventually, the silence gets too loud, and I get up.

The hallway’s dim now, lit only by the last of the daylight bleeding through the blinds. His door’s still closed. Just closed, not locked. I knock once. Soft. Stupid.

No answer. So he’s ignoring me. Or he didn’t hear. Or he doesn’t care.

I open it anyway.

Here we go. No turning back now. Whatever’s on the other side of this door, I’m facing it.

Steve’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Shirtless. Elbows on his knees. His head’s low, like he’s either tired or thinking too hard.

He doesn’t look up when I step inside. Why won’t he look at me?

“Hey,” I say.

A beat.

“You need something?” Still no eye contact. Need something. Like I’m a stranger. Like I’m bothering him. What the hell, Steve?

That tone. It’s not cold. It’s impersonal. Like I’m a guest overstaying. That’s worse than cold. Cold I could handle. This… this is like I don’t matter.

“I didn’t mean to push earlier,” I say. “About the walk. About Grace. I just… I needed something normal.” Normal. Like that’s even possible. I just needed you.

He exhales through his nose. Then finally looks at me. Finally. Those eyes. But they’re not… they’re not mine. His eyes aren’t angry. Just guarded. Like he’s checking the perimeter of a room before stepping into it. He’s shutting me out. Why? What did I do?

“You want normal?” he asks.

I nod. Yes. Normal. Please. Give me something I can hold onto.

He stands. Walks toward. He stops in front of me, doesn’t touch. Just looks.

“Normal isn’t asking me if you can walk outside when your stitches aren’t healed.”

“I know.” I know. I’m sorry. I’m just… lost.

“Normal isn’t holding eye contact with me like you’re waiting for something.” Yeah. I’m waiting. For you. For us. For something to make sense.

I swallow. My throat is suddenly dry. “What do you think I’m waiting for?”

His hand lifts, fingers curling into the collar of my shirt. Not rough. Just… steady.

“You want me to guess?” Guess. Please. Tell me what I want. Because I can’t say it.

I don’t answer.

His hand stays right there, a quiet question written in the way his fingers rest. He’s waiting. He’s giving me a chance. But I’m frozen.

“You said you want more,” he says lowly. “Then ask.” More. He remembers. Last night. I said it. Or did I?

“Ask what?”

His eyes drop to my mouth. Then back up.

“I’m not playing games, Danny. If you want something, use your words.” Use my words. Like it’s that easy. Like I’m not terrified of what happens if I say it.

My chest tightens. The air between us feels warm and heavy and full of every unspoken thing I’ve spent days trying to swallow. Say it. Just say it. You’re gonna lose him if you don’t.

“I want you to stay,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Did I just ruin everything?

“Not because I’m hurt,” I add. “Not because I’m sick. Just… stay.” Please. Stay. Be mine. Don’t shut me out.

There’s a pause. Long enough that I start to second-guess saying it out loud. Shit. I shouldn’t have said it. He’s gonna pull away. He’s gonna leave.

Then he steps in and our bodies line up, chest to chest, close enough to feel the tension hum between us.

He leans in. Not touching yet, but close.

“I’m already here,” he whispers at my ear. “But next time… don’t ask. Just wait.” Wait. He’s telling me to wait. For what? For him? I’ve been waiting. I’m tired of waiting.

Then he pulls back. Leaves my shirt alone. Leaves me standing in the middle of the room like something just broke open and I haven’t caught up yet.

He turns, walks back to the bed, and sits again. Doesn’t look back.

But he pats the space beside him.

No command. Just a quiet invitation.

I go. I can’t stop myself. I need to be near him.

Still barefoot. Still unsure if this is a beginning or something else entirely.

I sit beside him. Not too close. Not touching.

Eventually, he lies back, movements controlled, slow. He lifts the blanket. Leaves space. Leaves room.

I follow.

The ache in my ribs flares when I lie down, but I ignore it.

His arm brushes mine.

His hand finds my side.

I don’t ask what it means. Because if I do, he’ll put the walls back up. And right now, I just want the warmth, even if it burns. And when he shifts a little closer, breath warm at the back of my neck, fingers curled loosely against my waist, I let myself fall into the stillness.

It’s not what I thought I wanted. Well, I don’t know what I wanted. But this… this is something. And I’ll take it.

Chapter Text

I wake up, but the world feels blurred, like a thin veil’s been draped over my eyes. What the hell is this? Did I sleep too long? Not long enough? God, I don’t even know what time it is. Everything feels… off. Like I’m one step behind myself. Sunlight cuts through the blinds of Steve’s bedroom, spilling golden streaks across the hardwood floor, but it doesn’t touch the haze in my head. It’s too bright out there. My eyes are heavy, lids gritty like they’re caked with sand. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the air in the room thick, pressing against my bruised ribs like it wants to pin me down. I breathe slowly, tasting the fog that’s settled in my lungs, mingled with the faint cedar scent that clings to everything in this house. Why can’t I shake this?

I don’t know how long I stay like that. Minutes, maybe longer. My mind drifts, thoughts slipping like water through my fingers, circling back to him. I know I need to move, but it feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s limbs. Finally, I force myself to sit. The edge of mattress is firm under my palms, grounding me when nothing else does. I inhale, and the air carries salt from the ocean outside, cutting through the cedar and a faint trace of coffee from the kitchen downstairs.

I step barefoot onto the cool hardwood, the boards creaking softly, muffled like they’re part of a dream. I pull on an old NAVY shirt, its fabric smelling of his drawer, cedar again, mixed with a hint of my own sweat from yesterday. I grab shorts without thinking, my movements mechanical, no energy to care. I don’t look in the mirror hanging on the wall, its silver frame tarnished at the edges. I don’t need to see the mess of bruises blooming across my skin or the confusion clouding my eyes. I just shuffle toward the door, because staying still feels like sinking deeper into the fog, letting it swallow me whole. Outside, the sun is unrelenting, glinting off the ocean beyond Steve’s backyard, the waves catching the light like shattered glass. The brightness doesn’t clear the haze in my head, though. It’s like staring at the world through frosted glass, every edge softened, every color muted. I step onto the grass, and the cold dew clings to my feet, each blade a small, sharp shock against my skin. I walk, not sure where, just needing to move, to outrun the weight in my chest. The world is too sharp out here. Green palms swaying lazily, their fronds casting jagged shadows; the sky a relentless blue, stretching wide and indifferent. My steps slow, cautious, afraid of breaking something in this fragile morning.  The salt air follows me, carried on a breeze that rustles the leaves, and I swear I catch another whiff of coffee, like Steve’s already up, brewing it in that damn machine he loves.

I don’t know how I end up by the gate. It just appears, rusty and weathered, its iron bars flaking red into the damp earth. The gate. Why am I here? I didn’t mean to come this far. Did I? Am I running? No. I’m not. I can’t. I stop, the fog in my head thickening, my chest tight with something I can’t name. What is this? Panic? Fear? Why can’t I breathe right? But my hand reaches for the cold metal anyway, fingers brushing the bar, searching for an answer in its chill. I didn’t plan to walk this far. Didn’t plan anything. I just stepped outside because the air in the house was getting thick again. Too much silence pressed into the walls, too many unsaid things crowding the rooms.

The breeze nudges my shirt against my skin. His shirt. God, I’m wearing his shirt, and it feels like a claim. Like he’s wrapped around me even when he’s not here. I exhale slowly. I don’t know how long I stand there, fingers curled around the gate’s cold metal, the rust biting into my palm. The fog in my head swirls thicker, like it’s trying to drown out the salt air that keeps sneaking in, sharp and clean, pulling me back to Steve’s house. The ocean hums in the distance. I should go back inside. Go back. Go back to him. It’s safe there. It’s… home. But why can’t I move?

I hear the crunch of gravel before I hear his voice. Measured steps, not rushed, but steady, maybe he knew I’d end up here. The fog in my head doesn’t clear, but it shifts, making room for the weight of his presence. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stops a few feet behind me. I don’t turn around.

Then, finally, his voice:

“You going somewhere?”

Even. The kind of calm that isn’t really calm at all.

I glance over my shoulder.

He’s close.

“No,” I say, blinking once. Why can’t I think straight? “Just... standing here.” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw from the morning and the weight of last dreams about his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was something he could keep. I shake my head, trying to shove the images down, but they stick, tangled in the fog.

A beat.

“You sure you’re not trying to leave?”

Leave? No. Yes. I don’t know. I don’t want to leave.

I huff out a quiet breath. “If I wanted to leave, I’d probably wear shoes.” My bare feet shift against the damp grass, the cold seeping into my soles, grounding me in a way his words can’t.

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. Instead, I hear the soft crunch of grass under his steps as he moves forward.

I don’t turn.

Then I feel warmth. His hand land on my shoulder. Heavy in a way that feels less like comfort and more like claiming.

I swallow hard.

“Next time,” he says close to my ear, breath warm against my skin, “tell me where you’re going.”

His voice. Low. Commanding. Like he owns me. And God help me, I want him to.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” I answer quieter.

“You almost did.” His thumbs press slightly.

Almost. You’re right. I was running. Or thinking about it. But I couldn’t. Not from you.

The gate’s still closed. The world still on the other side. But with him behind me, I don’t know which side I’m really on anymore. Maybe I crossed that line days ago and didn’t notice.

Then his breath brushes the shell of my ear.

“You’re still mine to watch.” Mine. He said mine. My heart’s gonna give out. He’s claiming me, and I’m letting him. And it feels right, it feels like home.

My body leaning into the weight of his touch like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. I can feel the tension in my shoulders ease, just a fraction, as if his hand is pulling the fog apart, letting me breathe.
He steps back, just enough to let the cool breeze slip between us. I turn, finally, and he’s standing closer than I thought, ocean-blue and too damn sharp for this early in the morning eyes locked on me. He’s in a plain gray T-shirt now, not the sweatpants I imagined, but it’s still him, all lean lines and quiet intensity, holding that chipped mug. The coffee smell hits me again, pulling me back from whatever edge I’m teetering on. The breeze ruffles his hair, and for a moment, he looks younger, softer, like the man he might have been before the world carved him into this. He’s beautiful. God, he’s beautiful. And I’m staring. Stop staring, Danny.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say quieter now. I mean it. I’m not. I can’t. You’ve got me, Steve. Whether I want it or not.My hand drops from the gate, the grass cold under my feet.

“You’re staying here,” he says, not a question, not even a suggestion. It’s a fact. “Until you’re better.” I don’t argue. What’s the point? He’s not asking. And I’m too tired to pretend I want something else.

The salt air brushes my skin, and I shiver, the cedar scent wrapping around me. I cross my arms, trying to hold myself together, to keep the fog from swallowing me again. The scent of cedar clings to my shirt, to my skin, and I wonder if I’ll ever smell anything else, if this house, this man, will ever let me go.

“Fine,” I mutter, looking away, out toward the ocean where the waves glint under the sun. I’ll stay. I’ll do what you say. Because it’s easier. Because it feels right. “But if you’re gonna play nurse, at least make more coffee.” I glance at him, hoping for a reaction.

He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften, and that’s worse. It’s too much like the way he looked at me in the hospital, when I woke up to him sitting there, elbows on his knees, like he’d been holding the world together while I was out. He nods once, then turns back toward the house, expecting me to follow. Of course I’ll follow. I always follow. Like a damn puppy.

I do. Barefoot, the grass slick under my feet, the smells of cedar, salt air, and coffee trailing behind us. The path back to the house feels shorter than it should. The sun is higher now, warming my shoulders, but the chill in my bones lingers. I glance at Steve’s back, at the way his shoulders move, and I wonder what he’s thinking, what he saw when he found me at the gate. Did he think I was running? Did he think I could? I couldn’t. I can’t. I’m his, and I hate how much I love it.

We don’t talk about the gate. Good. Don’t. I don’t want to explain it. I don’t even understand it myself.

Not when we walk back toward the house. Not when he passes me a kitchen towel wordlessly so I can wipe off the dew clinging to my calves. Not when I watch him open the fridge like it didn’t just happen. Like I didn’t just scare him. Like he didn’t just scare me.

He doesn’t ask if I’m hungry. He just starts pulling out eggs, spinach, some sad-looking tomatoes.

I lean against the counter, arms crossed. My ribs protest a little, but I ignore it. The counter is cool under my elbows, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room. I watch him move, the way his hands crack the eggs with precision, the way he tosses the shells into the sink without looking.

“You trying to make me breakfast or impress me with your multitasking again?”

Steve doesn’t look up. “Why not both?”

I smirk. “You’re missing an apron. And dramatic flair.” I try to keep my tone playful, but it’s forced, and I know he hears it. My fingers tap against the counter, a nervous rhythm, and I force myself to stop, to focus on the moment, on the smell of eggs cooking, on the way the light slants through the window, catching the steam rising from the pan. Focus. Don’t drift. Stay here. With him.

He finally glances at me.

“Cut the tomatoes,” he says, sliding the cutting board in my direction. A task. He’s giving me a task. Like he knows I need something to hold onto. The cutting board scrapes against the counter, and I take it, grateful for something to do with my hands. Thank you. I need this.

I roll my eyes and take the knife. “You know I’m not allowed near sharp objects in my condition.”

“You’ll live.”

Will I? Because some days it doesn’t feel like living. Just moving.

The domesticity of it all is ridiculous. Two men, half-broken, trying to act like this is normal. Like we’re not walking tightropes around each other. But the knife feels steady in my hand, the tomato obedient under the blade, its juice seeping onto the cutting board in faint red streaks. The kitchen feels like a bubble, separate from the rest of the world, and for a moment, I let myself believe in it. The tomatoes yield easily, their flesh soft and yielding, and I focus on the motion, on the way the knife moves, on the way Steve’s presence fills the room without trying. I can hear his breathing, steady and even, and it anchors me, pulls me back from the edge of the fog.

“Too thick,” Steve mutters.

I glance at him. “Excuse me?”

He nods toward the slices. “The tomatoes. You’re cutting them too thick.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Would you like to come over here and do it yourself, Commander?” Commander. Why did I say that? It’s like I’m begging him to take charge.

He doesn’t answer. Just takes a step closer. Then another. Until he’s right behind me again.

Deja vu.

He reaches around, close enough to feel the heat from his chest on my back. His hand closes gently over mine on the knife handle.

My breath stutters.

“Here,” he says, guiding the motion. “Like this.” The knife moves smoothly now, the slices thinner, more even, and I let him guide me, let him take control, because it’s easier than fighting the fog, the pull, the weight of his presence.

It’s unnecessary. I know how to slice a tomato. But I don’t stop him.

His hand stays a moment longer then it pulls back.

I swallow and keep slicing. “I’m starting to think you like giving instructions.” A weak attempt to break the tension, but it’s all I’ve got. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s still there, closer than he needs to be, eyes locked on mine.

“Only when someone needs them.”

His voice is quietly teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a truth that cuts deeper than I want to admit. I turn back to the cutting board, my hands moving automatically now, and I wonder if he’s right, if I need his instructions, his presence, his hand on mine to keep me from drifting away.

We finish cooking in something that feels like silence but isn’t. More like a hum underneath everything. Shared glances. The way his fingers brush mine when he hands over the plate. The plate is warm in my hands, the eggs and spinach and tomatoes arranged with a care that feels absurd, given the chaos in my head. I sit, and he sits next to me, his knee brushing mine under the table. The hum of the fridge, the clink of forks, the faint sound of waves through the open window… it’s all too much, too real, and I focus on the food, on the act of eating, because it’s easier than meeting his eyes, than acknowledging the way he’s watching me.

By the time we finish eating, the light outside has shifted again, creeping up the walls in soft gold lines. The plates are mostly empty. My fork lies idle beside a half-eaten piece of tomato. Steve doesn't say anything, just collects both our plates with a nod and rinses them.

I drift toward the living room, not really thinking. Just following where the warmth feels thicker, where the couch looks familiar and sunlit. I pause by the shelf, hand brushing over a stack of magazines and then...

The chessboard catches my eye.

Wooden. Worn. Square in the middle of the table like it’s waiting.

He walks in behind me, drying his hands with the edge of a dish towel. His eyes follow mine.

"You wanna play?"

And for some reason, I nod. Why am I nodding? I’m terrible at chess.

Because the idea of moving pieces on a board feels simpler than dealing with the ones moving in my chest.

The sun has shifted from the kitchen window, spilling a pale rectangle of light across the living room table. I’m sitting across from Steve, a wooden chessboard between us, its pieces slightly worn, the kind that feel like they’ve survived actual battles, not just metaphors. Its edges smoothed by years of hands, and I wonder who Steve played with before me, who sat in this chair, who faced him across this board.

“You ever play?” he asks, casually and leaning back in his chair, one arm resting on the table, the other draped over the back of his seat, and it’s such a relaxed pose that it feels deliberate, like he’s trying to put me at ease.

I glance down at the board, then up at him. “Only when I wanna feel humiliated slowly.” Which, apparently, is exactly the mood I’m in today.

He doesn’t smile, just starts setting up the pieces with quiet precision. His fingers move deliberately, placing each white piece on his side: pawns in a neat row, rooks in the corners, knights beside them, bishops flanking the king and queen. I fumble with my black pieces, mirroring his setup, but my pawns aren’t as straight, my queen slightly off-center. He notices but doesn’t comment.

“I’ll go easy,” he says, as he pushes his king’s pawn two squares forward: 1. e4. The soft clack of wood on wood echoes in the quiet room, sharper than it should be.

I hesitate, staring at the board. My fingers hover over my pawns, unsure. I settle on mimicking him, pushing my king’s pawn: 1. …e5. Safe. Familiar. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it feels like a start.

He nods, barely, and moves his knight: 2. Nf3.

I swallow, scanning the board. My knight feels like the safest bet, so I mirror him again: 2. …Nc6. The piece feels heavy between my fingers, the wood cool and smooth. I set it down too hard, and the board vibrates faintly.

“You’re giving me too much room,” I glance at him, and his eyes are on the board, but I know he’s listening, know he’s hearing more than just the words. His knight is already threatening, controlling the center, and I’m just reacting.

“I’m seeing what you do with it.”

He moves again: 3. Bb5. The bishop slides diagonally, pinning my knight to my king. The Ruy Lopez. I recognize it vaguely, something I read years ago when I thought I’d learn chess to impress someone. Didn’t stick. I stare at the board, my pieces feeling chaotic, half-developed. I push a pawn: 3. …a6. It’s a reflex, something to challenge his bishop, but I’m not sure if it’s right.

He doesn’t hesitate: 4. Ba4. His bishop retreats, but it’s still there, looming. His fingers linger on the piece for a moment, and I notice the calluses on his knuckles, the way his thumb brushes the bishop’s rounded top before he lets go.

I fidget, my leg bouncing under the table. I’m losing ground already. I move another pawn: 4. …b5. It’s aggressive, maybe too aggressive, but I need to do something. The board is starting to feel like a trap, his pieces boxing me in, cutting off my options without him ever raising his voice.

He leans forward slightly, studying the board. “You do this in combat too?” I ask, squinting at my scattered pieces. “Wait for them to make a mistake and then crush them quietly?”

His eyes meet mine, steady, unreadable. “It’s the cleanest way.”

I swallow, my throat dry. The game feels like more than chess now. His calm is infuriating, and I want to push back, to make a bold move, but every option feels like it’ll cost me. I move my knight: 5. …Nf6. It’s a standard move, I think, but it feels like I’m flailing.

He responds instantly: 5. O-O. He castles, tucking his king safely behind a wall of pawns. His pieces are coordinated, purposeful, while mine are scattered, unsure. Just like me.

I try to focus, but the fog in my head swirls, making it hard to see the board clearly. I move my bishop: 6. …Be7. It’s defensive, trying to protect my king, but it feels like I’m just stalling.

Steve’s eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but like he’s solving a puzzle. He pushes a pawn: 6. d4. It’s bold, opening the center, challenging my pawn structure. I feel the pressure, like he’s closing in, not just on the board but on me.

I stare at the board, my fingers hovering. I could take his pawn, but it feels like a trap. Instead, I move another pawn: 6. …d6. It’s safe, or so I think, but his next move 7. c3 builds his position further, reinforcing his center, making my side of the board feel smaller, more constricted.

“You’re not thinking far enough ahead,” he moves again: 8. Re1. His rook slides to the center file, adding pressure. I’m losing control, and I know it.

I push a pawn: 8. …h6. It’s a weak move, just buying time, but I don’t know what else to do. My pieces are pinned, my options shrinking. He’s outmaneuvering me, and I’m letting him.

The phone buzzes against the tabletop just as I reach for my queen. Oh, God. Not now. I flinch before I even look at it. I glance at the screen. Chin. Good. Safe. But not what I need right now. I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen. I swipe to answer.

“Hey. Yeah, I’m okay. Just… taking it easy. Steve’s got me on lockdown.” My voice is lighter than I feel, a performance for Chin, for myself, for the man sitting across from me. I lean back in my chair, trying to sound normal, trying to sound like I’m not drowning in fog.

I try for a laugh, but it lands flat in my own ears. Chin says something about the team, asks how I’m healing, tells me Grace says hi. I nod, answer automatically. Grace. My girl. I should focus on her. But I can’t. Not with him here. It’s background noise. I’m not really in the call. I’m in this room. With Steve. Who’s suddenly watching me like the phone’s done something wrong. He’s jealous. Of a phone. And I’m… flattered? God, I’m pathetic. I notice the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers curl around the edge of the table. Then his hand reaches out, palm open.

“Give me that.”

I hesitate. My fingers tighten around the phone, that small act of defiance feels hollow, like I’m fighting a battle I’ve already lost. Defiance. Ha. Who am I kidding? I’m his. Chin’s voice is still in my ear, asking something about the team, but I can’t focus, can’t hear him over the hum of the room. Chin. I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. He’s here.

His fingers stay outstretched.

I hand him the phone. There. It’s yours. Take it all.

“He’s resting,” he says into the receiver. “Don’t call again.”

He ends the call. Places the phone down on the table with an audible click. Not hard, not angry. Just final. Done. He’s in control. And I’m… relieved.

I stare at him. “What the hell was that?” What was that? Why am I even asking? I know what it was. He’s taking care of me. The fog is swirling again, thicker now, and I feel like I’m losing ground, like I’m slipping further into something I don’t understand.

“You looked tired,” he says simply. “I took care of it.”

My jaw tightens. Part of me wants to argue, to shout, to demand the phone back. But the other part that's been moving on autopilot since I woke up in that hospital bed?

That part exhales in relief.

Steve gets up, walks around the table, and starts putting the chess pieces back into the velvet box one by one. I stay frozen. Watching his hands, watching the way his fingers linger on the knight, the way his thumb brushes over its carved head before setting it down. And suddenly I remember. The pills. Shit. I didn’t take them this morning. My eyes flick to the clock. Nearly two. I’m losing track of time.

“Am I supposed to take something now? The rib thing… or whatever else I’m apparently broken from.” Ask him. Let him decide.

He doesn’t look at me, but his head tilts slightly.

“Not today,” he says. “You’re clear.”

I snort. “And who decided that?” The words are sharper than I mean them to be, a reflex to push back against his control. I

He closes the box, snaps the little brass latch shut, then finally meets my eyes.

“I did. I checked with your doctor this morning.”

I glance away. “So you’re my pharmacist now too?” Weak. So weak. Stop fighting it, Danny. You want this.

“If it helps you heal faster,” he says, calm again. Like it’s logical. Like there’s no reason to question it.
The house is too quiet now. The kind of quiet that gets under your skin if you let it.

I don’t ask. I just get up from the couch and walk to the coffee maker. The one he swears by. It takes a moment to figure out the settings, but my fingers move like they’ve done this before. I open the cupboard. The mugs are arranged with military precision, of course. I reach for the one with the chipped rim, the one he always uses. Not because I’m trying to be cute. It’s just… familiar. Easier than picking one at random.

The smell starts to bloom and I close my eyes for a second. Just breathing. The kind of breath that doesn’t catch in your throat. The kind that actually feels like it reaches your lungs.

The machine hisses, clicks.

I pour two mugs. For Steve’s, I grab the butter from the counter, stirring in a pat until it melts into that creamy, golden swirl he’s obsessed with. For mine, I splash in some milk, watching it cloud the dark brew.

When I turn, Steve’s already there. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. Not in that way he used to. This is something else. Quieter.

I hold one mug out to him. Take it. Please. Let me do something for you.

He takes it.

A pause. Then, almost too quiet to catch:

“You remembered how I take it.” His says softly, and it catches me off guard, makes me realize I did remember - that weird butter coffee he swears by, no sugar, just the way he likes it. I don’t know why it matters, why it feels like a victory, but it does.

I shrug, sipping mine. “You’re predictable.”

His gaze stays on me for a second longer, and I feel the weight of it settle.

Like something natural you stop fighting without noticing.

We drink in silence.

And for the first time all day, it feels like the room doesn’t need anything else.

We don’t talk much after that. He drinks his coffee slowly, leaning against the counter. I drink mine faster, like it might keep me grounded. Then we move through the house like ghosts. He opens windows, I straighten the couch cushions, neither of us saying much but both existing in the same rhythm.

Afternoon fades into evening in that lazy way Hawaiian light always does. Gold to amber, amber to dusk. The sky melts into pink and steel blue, and the breeze carries salt through the open window. It’s beautiful. Too beautiful.

At some point, he disappears upstairs. I linger in the living room for a while, the coffee mug cooling in my hand.

When I finally climb the stairs, it’s already dark. The curtains flutter in his bedroom from the open window, moonlight pooling on the floor like water. I stand there for a second, just staring at the bed. At the sheets he straightened this morning. At the way the pillow on the left dips in just a little more.

I don’t ask if I’m allowed.

I just crawl into bed.

And wait.

The bed is too big, the sheets too clean, and I feel out of place, like I’m trespassing in a space that’s not mine. It’s not mine. But it’s his. And he’s mine. Or am I his? I don’t know anymore.

Not lights-out dark, just the kind that seeps in through the windows when no one bothers to turn anything on.

I’ve been lying here for twenty minutes, maybe more.

Blanket pulled up to my ribs. The room too still. The kind of still that makes you hear every shift in the house: floorboard, door hinge, breath. My breath. And I focus on it, on the rise and fall of my chest, trying to keep the fog from creeping in, from swallowing me whole.

I don’t know if I’m waiting.

But I’m not asleep.

The knock is soft. Barely a suggestion.

Then the door opens.

Steve stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, one hand resting against the frame. His shoulders are tense. Too squared for casual, too calm for confrontational.

“I didn’t mean to scare you earlier.”

I blink at him. Scare me? You didn’t scare me. You saved me.

“You didn’t,” I want to say more, to tell him I’m not scared, not really, but the words don’t come.

He nods once. Doesn’t move. His eyes scan the room like he’s checking for something. Or maybe just delaying.

“You should’ve said where you were going.”

“I didn’t know I was going anywhere,” I answer honestly. For once. I’m so lost, Steve. Help me.

He takes a breath through his nose. His hand drops from the doorframe, and for a moment, I think he’s going to step into the room, to close the distance between us.

Then:

“…Don’t do it again.” It sounded like a command and a plea, all wrapped into one.

I nod once, barely visible under the blanket. I won’t. I promise.

He stays in the doorway. Doesn’t come in. Doesn’t step away.

Just watches.

And somehow, that does more than if he’d shouted. More than if he’d begged.

He stays there until I reach over and flick off the bedside lamp.

Only then does he turn and walk away, quiet as always.

But I can still feel the tension he left behind. The unsaid rules. The way his voice wrapped around my ribs tighter than the bandage ever did.

I lie back in the dark and close my eyes. The bed is too big, the room too quiet, and I can feel the fog creeping back in, wrapping around my thoughts, my heart, my breath. I try to focus on the ocean, on the hum of the waves, on the scent of cedar, but it’s not enough, not enough to keep the fog at bay.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

Not when you’re learning the difference between being watched… and being kept.

Chapter Text

I wake up without opening my eyes and already know that something’s changed. Is this what normal feels like? I don’t trust it. The air’s too soft, too kind. And why can’t I remember yesterday?

The air in the room settles on my skin differently. More softly, I guess. Feels like morning humidity before a storm, but without the weight. Sometimes it’s like that in the ocean, when you dive deep and suddenly realize the pressure’s gone. The water doesn’t crush you anymore. It holds you. The sensation is so unfamiliar that I linger in it, letting it wash over me, testing its edges for cracks. My mind drifts to the first time I felt the ocean like this, years ago, diving off Oahu’s north shore with Steve, his laughter echoing through the water as he pointed out a sea turtle gliding past. The memory feels like a tether, pulling me back to a time when my body didn’t fight me, when the world felt simpler.

My body doesn’t ache. For the first time in... God, I don’t even know how long I’ve been waking up counting my ribs by the pain. The absence of it feels like a stranger in my bones, unfamiliar but welcome. I lie still for a moment, testing the edges of this new sensation, waiting for the usual twinge to betray me. No pain? Wow.

I open my eyes slowly, letting the world come into focus. The room is bathed in the dim, golden light of early morning, stretching lazily across the wall, painting it in soft hues of amber and gray. This light’s too perfect. I lie there, sprawled on my stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow’s soft cotton, waiting for the familiar stab to return, to remind me of my limits. It doesn’t come. I should be grateful, right? No pain, no weight. But why can’t I remember yesterday? Okay, wait, I remember his voice behind me, asking if I’m going somewhere, the gate, the chessboard. The gate? Why? Was that yesterday? Or before? I breathe deeply, testing the air, and it flows easily, no tightness, no shallow gasps. Just the steady rhythm of my chest rising and falling, like the tide outside the window. This feels too good, too clean. Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Where’s yesterday, damn it? Why’s my head so empty when my body feels so full?

Is this... it? Is this what it feels like to be whole? Nah, that’s too much to hope for. But damn, it’s close. Makes me nervous, waiting for the universe to notice and take it back. I roll over cautiously, half-expecting the old familiar pain in my side or the knot in my neck to snap me back to reality. But there’s only a faint tension in my muscles, the kind you get after a good run, the kind that feels earned, alive, like my body is finally my ally. I stretch my arms out, fingers brushing the headboard, and the motion feels like a victory. A wave of calm washes over me, so gentle and smooth it steals my breath for a moment. I exhale, not from exhaustion but from a relief so deep it feels like surrender. I could get used to this, but I don’t know if I should. Feels too good, like I’m borrowing someone else’s life. Maybe Steve’s. He’s always been better at this living thing than me. I sit up, the sheets sliding off my shoulders, their cool touch grounding me as they pool around my waist. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet meeting the hardwood floor, its grain cool beneath my soles. Every movement used to be a negotiation, a careful bargain with my body’s limits. Now, it’s fluid, effortless, like I’ve been given permission to exist without resistance. Permission? From who? Myself? God, that’s a weird thought. I stand, stretching my arms above my head, feeling the slight pull in my shoulders, the faint crack of joints settling into place. The room smells faintly of salt and cedar. Cedar, salt, him. Makes it hard to think straight sometimes.
I walk to the bathroom, the hardwood creaking softly under my steps, each sound a quiet conversation between me and the house. The tile is cold against my bare feet, grounding me further, pulling me into the moment. I flick on the light, and it’s too sharp, a harsh contrast to the morning’s softness, but my eyes adjust without flinching. The mirror greets me, and I pause, studying the reflection staring back. My eyes are slightly cloudy, still shaking off sleep, but they’re steady, no longer darting to the corners of my vision, searching for threats that aren’t there. My jaw is relaxed, free of the tension that’s been my constant companion. My shoulders sit low, unburdened, no longer hunched as if bracing for a blow. I don’t look broken. I look like someone who finally stopped drowning. I tilt my head, catching the faint scar above my eyebrow, barely visible now, a relic from a case gone sideways years ago. It used to be a reminder of failure; today, it just feels like a story I’ve outlived. I look… okay. Not like the guy who’s been dragging himself through the last year. Maybe this is what Steve sees when he looks at me. Not the mess, just… me. Makes me wonder what else he sees that I’m missing.

I lean over the sink, turning on the faucet, and cold water rushes out. I splash it on my face, the shock of it pulling me fully into the present, droplets clinging to my eyelashes and dripping from my chin and try to pull the fragments together. There’s the gate, the chessboard, the kitchen, his voice on the phone, Kono’s hug, Grace’s face on the tablet screen. My brain stumbles, trying to process the clarity of the moment, and for a second, something feels off. A flicker of unease, like I’ve forgotten something vital. Yesterday’s fragments tug at me: the way my body obeyed without protest, the cadence of his voice, the weightless way I lay in bed, and then that strange ringing. Was it a phone? A dream? Or something else, something just out of reach? My mind starts to dig, sifting through the haze of memories, but they slip through my fingers. I freeze, staring at my reflection, water dripping onto the sink’s edge. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m standing here, feeling better than I have in years, and I’m chasing shadows. What was that? I want to say it out loud, to make it real, but the words stay trapped.

I sigh, muttering to myself, “Probably just stress. Too much going on.” The words feel like a dismissal, a way to shove the unease back into the shadows. My brain relents, the fragments sinking back into the depths of my mind, buried for now. I grab a towel, its faint lavender scent lingering from the last wash, and dry my face, the soft fabric grounding me further. I run my fingers through my hair, tugging lightly at the roots, feeling the slight pull against my scalp. What happened yesterday? Was I standing at the gate, or was I cutting tomatoes? Was I playing chess, or was I listening to Steve on the phone, hiding something? The fragments won’t stay still, and the harder I try to grab them, the more they slip, like water through my fingers. And the mirror shows someone who looks like me but feels like a stranger, someone who might actually belong in this moment, in this body, in this life. I linger on that thought. Belonging. It’s not a word I’ve ever trusted, not with my history of fractured homes and broken promises. But here, in this quiet bathroom, with the morning light spilling in, it feels possible.

I step out of the bathroom, and the coffee scent hits me first. Familiar scent in the way that makes you think of home. Not the one you built, but the one someone else made for you. The kind of home you didn’t know you needed until it was there. But now it’s laced with something sweeter, tropical, like ripe fruit warmed by the sun. Not the usual eggs, then. He’s up to something. Eggs and bacon are his default, but this? This is him trying to make a point. What’s he playing at?  The house is quiet, save for the faint sizzle from the kitchen, a soft rhythm that feels like a heartbeat. I follow the aroma down the hall, my bare feet soft against the floorboards, each step a little lighter than the last.

I step into the kitchen, and there he is. Steve’s standing by the counter, slicing a mango, barefoot, his shirt slightly wrinkled, a faded navy tee that clings to his shoulders. The morning light filters through the blinds, casting golden stripes across his back, highlighting the lean lines of his shoulders. For a moment, I just watch him, the way he moves with purpose, the way the light catches the faint stubble on his jaw. The air is rich with the sweet, tropical scent of ripe mango, pineapple, and something softer, maybe papaya, mixing with the familiar warmth of coffee. But I can’t let myself get lost in it. Not when I know he’s dodging something.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears me, his eyes catching mine briefly before flicking back to the stove. “Morning, Danny.”

There’s a blue mug on the table. Mine. The one I always pick because it fits my hand just right. How much of me he’s got memorized?
I sit without a word. The chair doesn’t creak, and I settle into it, the wood cool against my thighs. This chair’s seen me at my worst, slouched over, bitching about something. Today it feels like it’s welcoming me, like I belong here. The light through the blinds is soft, forgiving, carrying the quiet promise of island mornings, where yesterday’s weight doesn’t have to follow you. A small vase on the table holds a single plumeria flower, its creamy white petals curling gently, a yellow heart glowing at its center, likely plucked from the garden just outside. For me? Or just because that’s who he is? God, Steve, you make it hard to keep up. The scent of it mingles with the coffee, a delicate sweetness cutting through the richness. I brush my fingers over the plumeria’s petals, soft as velvet, and think of the garden outside, the way Steve tends it with the same care he puts into everything that matters.
I take the mug in both hands, the warmth seeping into my palms. Steve sets a bowl in front of me, not the usual eggs and bacon, but something lighter. Thick Greek yogurt swirled with golden honey, layered with slices of mango, pineapple, and papaya, dusted with toasted coconut flakes. The kind of breakfast that tastes like sunshine. There’s a small spoon resting beside the bowl, and a plate of lightly buttered toast on the side. Something I didn’t expect, but it fits.

“Trying something new?” I murmur, eyeing the tropical mix. What’s he up to?

He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. “Felt like you needed something easy. Gentle.” I scoop a bite of fruit, the sweetness bursting on my tongue, tempered by the cool, tangy yogurt. He sits across from me, sipping his coffee, one elbow propped on the table, his posture loose but deliberate.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, carrying that calm that always seems to settle me.

I nod, swallowing a bite of toast. “Yeah. First good night in a while. Didn’t wake up feeling like I got hit by a truck.” I don’t mention the dream, where I was running through a maze of dark alleys, the ringing in my ears growing louder with every step. It’s too vague to pin down. Don’t tell him about the dream. He’ll worry, and then he’ll hover. Worse, he’ll try to fix it, and I’m not ready for that kind of scrutiny.

He meets my eyes, and there’s something steady, searching in his gaze. He’s trying to read me, figure out if I’m gonna push. I want to, but God, those eyes make it hard to think straight.
“Good,” he says. His thumb traces the rim of his mug, a small habit I’ve started to notice, like he’s grounding himself the same way I am. Is he nervous? Or is that just me projecting?

We eat in silence after that, the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. The kind that says everything’s settled, everything’s known, everything’s... his. I glance at him, catching the way the light catches his eyes, turning them a shade of green that reminds me of the ocean at dusk. It’s a color that makes me want to stay here forever.

But as I chew, that fragment from last night tugs at me again. The ringing. The way his voice sounded, not here in the kitchen but somewhere else. I glance at him, his head slightly tilted as he scrolls through his phone, the morning light catching the faint lines around his eyes. He looks so ordinary, so here. But there’s a flicker in my mind, a memory of his voice, saying something I can’t quite grasp. “I haven’t told him. He doesn’t need to worry about that right now,” he’d said, but was it real? Or just another trick of my tired brain?

I set my spoon down, the clink against the bowl sharper than I intended. He looks up, one eyebrow raised, his coffee mug paused halfway to his mouth. “You okay?”

I hesitate, my fingers curling around the mug. “Yeah, just... did you hear anything last night? Like a phone or something?” I have to know. That ringing’s eating at me.

He frowns, just slightly, setting his phone down on the table. “No. Nothing like that. You sure it wasn’t a dream?” He’s too quick to dismiss it. That’s not like him. He’s hiding something.

“Maybe,” I say, but the word feels hollow. I take another sip of coffee. “Probably.”

He watches me for a moment longer, then nods, like he’s decided to let it go. “You’ve been stressed. Probably just your brain playing tricks.” He’s trying to smooth it over, make me drop it. But that look in his eyes. He’s worried. About me? Or about what I might figure out?

“Yeah,” I echo, my mind is still sifting, still chasing that elusive thread. I force a small smile, pushing the unease aside, and take another bite of mango. “Probably just overthinking it.” He’s watching me like he knows I’m not letting it go. Good. Let him sweat a little. I’ll get it out of him eventually.

Steve leans back in his chair, his coffee mug cradled in one hand. “You’ve got that look,” he says. “Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t exist.” There it is again. He’s deflecting, trying to make me doubt myself. But I know better. There’s a puzzle here, and he’s the one holding the pieces. I laugh, a little too quickly, and it sounds forced even to me. “Maybe I am. Just... feels like I forgot something important.” Or maybe you’re not telling me something important. Come on, Steve, just give me a hint.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You’d remember if it was important.” His tone is gentle, but there’s a weight to it, like he’s trying to convince me of something. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. No, I’m not. He’s doing that thing where he says just enough to keep me from digging deeper.

I shrug, pushing the papaya around my plate. “Guess so.”

Guess I’ll play along for now. But I’m watching you, McGarrett.
The silence settles back in. Outside, the gulls cry faintly, their calls drifting in through the open window. The air smells of salt and damp earth, the island waking up around us. A faint breeze carries the scent of hibiscus from the garden, mixing with the coffee and cedar, weaving a tapestry of this place that’s starting to feel like mine, even if I’m not sure I’m ready to claim it. This place feels too good to be mine. Too much like his world, and I’m just borrowing it. But I want it to be mine. I want him to be mine.

Steve stands, gathering his plate and mine, and heads to the sink. “Tide’s low today,” he says over his shoulder, the sound of running water punctuating his words. Good time to walk the shore. Might find something interesting.” He’s changing the subject. Typical. Let’s not talk about the ringing, let’s go play beachcomber. Fine, I’ll let it slide for now, but I’m not forgetting.
I nod, though he can’t see it. “Sounds good.” I glance at the counter, where my phone sits, screen dark. No missed calls. No messages. I finish my coffee, the last sip lukewarm, and stand to join him at the sink. He hands me a dish towel, and we fall into a rhythm where him washing, me drying. It’s mundane, but that uneasy feeling lingers.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, this time quieter, his hands still in the soapy water. There it is again. He’s fishing, trying to see if I’ll push. He’s worried I’m onto him. Good.

I pause, the towel halfway around a plate. “Yeah,” I say, and this time I almost believe it. “Just adjusting, I guess. It’s... weird to feel good.” I want to tell him about the ringing, about the way it feels like a warning, but the words stay locked behind my teeth, afraid of breaking this fragile peace. I want to trust him, I do. But he’s not making it easy, dodging like this. I’ll let it go for now, but only because I don’t want to ruin this moment.

He chuckles. “You’ll get used to it.”

Will I? Even if feeling good’s not my default setting?
The dishes are done, stacked neatly in the rack, and the kitchen feels quieter now, the morning settling into its rhythm. Steve wipes his hands on a towel, tossing it onto the counter with a casual flick. “Ready for walk?” he asks, already moving toward the door, not waiting for my answer.

I nod anyway, grabbing my slippers from the corner. They’re still crusted with sand, and I shake them out over the mat. Steve’s already outside, his silhouette framed against the brightening sky, hands in his pockets, waiting. The door creaks as I step out, a familiar sound that feels like part of this house’s language, welcoming me into the day. The air hitting me with that salty tang of the coast. The sun’s climbing higher, but the breeze keeps it gentle, tugging at my shirt. Well, his shirt, actually, one of his old flannels, too big in the shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to my wrists. It smells faintly of cedar and I catch myself pulling it closer as I follow him down the path toward the shoreline. The path is lined with low shrubs, their leaves brushing my calves, and I notice a small lizard darting across the dirt, its scales glinting like tiny emeralds in the sunlight.

The coast near Steve’s house is rugged, all jagged rocks and patches of coarse grass giving way to stretches of pale sand. The waves roll in lazily, lapping at the shore like they’re too tired to make a fuss. We walk side by side, our steps falling into an easy rhythm, the kind you don’t have to think about. The sand is cool under my slippers, still damp from the night’s tide, and I feel the grains shift with each step, grounding me in a way the hardwood floors never could.

“You’re quiet today,” Steve says, glancing at me. “Still chasing that dream of yours?”

I shrug, kicking at a pebble, watching it skitter toward the water. “Maybe. Just... taking it all in, I guess.”

He hums. “Good. You need to slow down sometimes, Danny. Let things settle.” Settle. Like it’s that easy. Like I can just ignore the way my brain’s screaming that something’s off.
The horizon stretches out before us, a soft blur of blue and gold where the ocean kisses the sky, and we keep walking. The rhythm of our steps carries us further down the shore. The sand giving way under my slippers, soft and yielding, like the island itself is cradling each step. I steal a glance at him, his profile sharp against the horizon, the wind ruffling his hair, dark strands catching the light like polished obsidian. He catches me looking and smirks, the kind of smirk that sends a spark through my veins, warming my face despite the cool breeze. “What?” I ask, defensive, but there’s a grin tugging at my lips. Caught me.

“You’re wearing my shirt again,” he says, his eyes flicking over me, lingering on the way the flannel hangs loose, the fabric catching the wind like a sail. “It’s starting to look like you’re claiming it, Danny.” Maybe I want to claim more than just the shirt.

I laugh, tugging at the hem. “It’s comfortable. And you’ve got, like, a hundred of these. You won’t miss one.” I’m not giving it back, though. Not when it smells like you, feels like you.

“Doesn’t mean I’m giving them all to you,” he shoots back, stepping closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “Besides, you're going back to work next week. Can’t have you showing up looking like you just rolled out of my closet.” Work. Right. The real world’s coming for me.
 He pauses, his hand brushing the small of my back, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver up my spine, and I wonder if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I raise an eyebrow, stopping to face him. “ What, you don’t think I can pull it off?” I strike a mock pose, hands on my hips. Let’s see how far you’ll push this, Steve. You want me in your clothes? Fine, but I’m gonna make you work for it.

He chuckles, and steps into my space, so close that I can smell the coffee on his breath. “Oh, you pull it off fine,” his eyes locking onto mine. “But I’m not letting you walk into HQ looking like you belong to me.”
Belong to you. Jesus, Steve, you can’t just say that and expect me to keep my head on straight. My breath catches, and I know he hears it because his smirk widens. “What’s wrong with that?” I manage, my voice lighter than I mean it to be, teasing but not quite hiding the way my heart’s pounding. I’m playing with fire, and I know it, but the way he’s looking at me makes me want to burn.

He tilts his head, considering me, and for a second, I think he’s going to close the distance entirely. Instead, he reaches out, tugging gently at the collar of the flannel, his fingers brushing the skin at the base of my neck. “Nothing’s wrong with it,” he says. “But I’m the only one who gets to know it.” And there it is. That line that makes my heart stop and my brain scream all at once. He’s claiming me, in his own way, and I’m letting him. But I’m still not sure what’s behind that look, what he’s not saying. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, and he steps back, still watching me, though, that steady, knowing look that makes me feel like he’s already mapped out every thought in my head. I look away first, pretending to focus on the waves, but the heat in my face betrays me. He doesn’t say anything more, just stands there beside me, close enough that our arms brush.
He takes a breath like he’s about to say something else, but instead, he turns and starts toward the rocks up ahead. I follow him without a word, our steps crunching softly over sand and stone until we reach the edge.

The ocean’s rhythm steadies me as we continue, the waves a constant murmur that drowns out the lingering echo of that strange ringing from last night. I let the sound of the ocean and Steve’s quiet presence pull me forward, the path ahead curving toward a cluster of rocks where the shore meets the cliffs. The morning feels alive, vibrant, and for a moment, I let myself believe I can hold onto this lightness, this ease, without the shadows creeping back in.

We reach a cluster of rocks, smoothed by years of tides, their surfaces worn to a glossy sheen. Steve climbs up onto one, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. He pats the space beside him, and I climb up, the stone cool against my palms. The ocean spreads out before us, endless and restless, and for a moment, we just sit, watching the waves roll in. I steal a glance at him, and he’s looking out at the water, his expression softer than usual, like he’s lost in thought. He looks… peaceful. I just want to stay here, in this moment, before whatever he’s hiding pulls us under. The wind carries the faint scent of seaweed, and I notice a small shell embedded in the rock, its spiral worn smooth by the water.

“Seriously, though,” he says after a moment, his tone shifting back to practical. “We’ll hit the shop. Get you some stuff that fits. Can’t have you tripping over my sleeves all day.”

“Fine,” I say, mock-sulking, leaning back on my hands, the rock’s texture pressing into my palms. “But I’m keeping this shirt.” It’s mine now, Steve.

His warm laugh wrapping around me like the morning sun. “Deal. But only because it looks better on you.” His hand brushes mine as he shifts on the rock, and I don’t pull away, letting the warmth of his skin linger against mine.

We sit there a little longer, the ocean stretching out before us, the gulls calling overhead. That strange ringing from last night feels further away now, drowned out by the waves and the easy rhythm of Steve’s voice.

“C’mon,” he says finally, hopping down from the rock and offering me a hand. “Let’s head back.”

I take his hand, his grip warm, and for a moment, I let myself believe that him, the beach, the lightness in my chest, that's enough to keep the shadows at bay. Always leading, always pulling me along. And I’m following, because it’s you.

The walk along the coast leaves a lingering warmth in my chest, the kind that comes from Steve’s words and the way he looks at me, like he’s already decided how this day’s going to go. We head back to the house, the sun climbing higher, painting the ocean in shades of turquoise and gold. Hawaii’s mornings have a way of making everything feel possible, the islands themselves are whispering promises of something better. The light dances on the water and I catch myself smiling, caught up in the beauty of it, in the way it feels like the world is opening up for me.

The walk back to the house is slower, deliberate, like we’re both reluctant to let the morning slip away. The path curves through a grove of palm trees, their fronds rustling overhead, and I notice a small bird, a red-crested cardinal, hopping along the ground, its bright feathers a stark contrast to the muted greens around us. Steve’s quiet, but his presence is loud, filling the space between us with an unspoken understanding. The way he walks a little ahead, hands in his pockets, but keeps glancing over his shoulder. It feels intentional. Like he’s making sure I’m still here, still following. The breeze lifts his hair and I think, absurdly, that I could watch him like this forever. There’s peace in his rhythm, and I find myself matching it unconsciously. Even the birdsong seems to fall in step with us, as if the island itself approves.

Back at the house, Steve grabs his keys from the counter, tossing them in the air and catching them with a grin. “Let’s go, Danny. Time to make you look respectable.” Ha, like he’s not the one who’s got me wearing his clothes, living in his house, falling into his life like it’s mine.

I roll my eyes. “Respectable’s overrated.” I follow him out to his truck, the familiar blue Silverado parked in the driveway, its paint chipped from years of salt air and island roads. I’m still in his flannel, the sleeves flapping a little as I climb into the front passenger seat. Steve slides in behind the wheel, giving me a quick glance before starting the engine. “You’re gonna thank me when you’ve got clothes that don’t make you look like you’re drowning in fabric,” the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, buckling my seatbelt. “You just like playing dress-up with me.” And I’m letting you, because I like the way it feels when you’re focused on me.

We’re barely ten minutes in when the traffic slows to a crawl. Up ahead, a delivery truck’s stalled, its hazard lights flashing lazily. A few locals lean out their windows, chatting across the gap between cars, no one in much of a rush. This is Hawaii, things move on their own time. Steve drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Great,” I mutter, slumping back in the seat. “What’s this, twenty minutes of our lives we’re never getting back?”

Just when I’m starting to feel good, the universe throws in a roadblock.

“That’s why I’m driving.” He stretches his arm across the back of the seat, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. “Relax, Danny. We’ve got time. Enjoy the view.” Oh, you’re good. That touch, that voice. You know exactly what you’re doing. Making me forget why I’m even annoyed.

I roll my eyes but turn to look out the window, the ocean a deep blue now, shimmering under the climbing sun. The coastline stretches out, dotted with palm trees and the occasional surfer paddling out to meet the waves. He’s right, it’s not a bad view. But that calm way he says it makes me settle back, my irritation fizzling out. He’s got that effect on me. “Yeah, well, I’m not the one who’s gonna be late picking out my new wardrobe.” I glance at him, catching the way his lips curve. He’s enjoying this too much.

We sit in silence for a while, the radio playing some soft island tune, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in a tourism ad. Steve’s hand rests on the gearshift, his fingers tapping lightly to the rhythm. I catch myself watching him, the way the sunlight catches the lines of his jaw, the way his eyes flick to the side mirror scanning for something.

“Stop staring,” he says without looking at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. Caught me again. Damn it.

I scoff, crossing my arms. “I’m not staring. I’m... observing.”

“Uh-huh.” He finally glances my way, and there’s that look again. “Observe the road, Danny. You’re distracting me.” His smirk widens, and I feel my face heat up, knowing he’s got me exactly where he wants me. Distracting you? Please. You’re the one distracting me, with that look and that damn smirk. You know it, too. I grin, leaning back. “Me? Distracting you? That’s a first.” My grin feels genuine, and I notice the way it pulls at my cheeks, like a muscle waking up after a long sleep. I stretch my legs out, my knee brushing against the console, and I don’t miss the way his eyes flick down for a split second before he looks back at the road. Gotcha. You’re not as smooth as you think.

He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitch. The traffic starts moving again, slow at first, then picking up as the truck ahead gets towed to the side. Steve shifts gears, and we’re back on our way, the road opening up toward town. As the scenery blurs past, the open road carries us closer to Honolulu, the hum of the engine blending with the distant crash of waves. Twenty minutes later, the van’s finally towed off, and we’re moving again, pulling into the parking lot of a small boutique in Honolulu. It’s one of those places that’s trying to look upscale but still has that island vibe: wooden floors, racks of bright shirts, and a faint scent of coconut from some diffuser in the corner. The shop’s windows are lined with potted ferns, their leaves spilling over the sills, and a small sign above the door reads “Island Threads” in curling script.

Inside, the air’s cool, a relief from the heat outside. A saleswoman, mid-twenties, dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail looks up from the counter and flashes a smile that’s a little too bright when she sees Steve. “Aloha! Welcome in,” her eyes lingering on him as she steps out from behind the register. “Anything I can help you gentlemen find today?” Her name tag glints under the lights, and I catch her name Kiana before she steps closer, her perfume sharp and floral, cutting through the coconut scent. Her smile is practiced, but there’s a spark in her eyes. She’s sizing Steve up, and it sets my teeth on edge. Oh, great. Here we go. She’s got that look, like she’s already decided Steve’s her next conquest. Back off, Kiana. He’s not here for you.
Steve gives her a polite nod, already scanning the racks. “Just looking for some work clothes for him,” he says, jerking his thumb toward me.

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m right here, you know.” Don’t talk about me like I’m not standing here, Steve.

Kiana laughs a little too eagerly, and steps closer to Steve. “Well, I’m sure we can find something perfect. You look like you know exactly what you want.” Her voice dips, flirty, and she tilts her head, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Her earrings catch the light, small silver shells dangling as she moves, and I notice the way her smile widens when Steve glances at her. Her flirtation is so obvious it’s almost painful, and I feel a sharp twist in my gut, a possessiveness I didn’t expect. Really? She’s gonna flirt with him right in front of me? Does she not see me standing here?

Steve just nods again, his expression neutral, and moves toward a rack of button-downs. “Yeah, something sharp. Professional but not stiff. He’s got a job that needs him to look put-together.” He’s ignoring her. Good. Focus on me, Steve.

I trail behind him, half-listening as Kiana keeps talking, her attention fixed on Steve. “Oh, I totally get it. We’ve got some great options. Maybe something in navy? It’s super flattering.” She reaches past him to pull a shirt from the rack, her arm brushing his as she does. Oh, come on. That was deliberate. She’s practically throwing herself at him. And he’s just standing there, letting her. I know he’s not interested, but damn it, it stings.

Steve doesn’t react, just holds up the shirt and squints at it before shaking his head. “Nah, too dark. He needs something lighter. Blue, maybe.” He glances at me, his eyes flicking over me like he’s already picturing it. “Brings out his eyes.” Well, you always know what works for me.

I feel my face heat up, and I cover it with a scoff. “What, you’re my stylist now?” I try to sound annoyed, but the grin tugging at my lips betrays me. He’s got me blushing like an idiot. In public. Great. I can’t help it, he’s got this way of making me feel seen, like I’m the only one in the room.

He grins, undeterred, and pulls a light blue button-down from the rack, holding it up against me. “Try this. And don’t argue.” Don’t argue? Like I ever win an argument with you.

Kiana’s still hovering, undeterred by Steve’s focus on me. “Great choice,” she says, stepping closer again, this time leaning in to adjust the shirt in Steve’s hands, her fingers grazing his. “You’ve got a good eye. I bet you pick out clothes for all your friends.” Oh, for God’s sake. Friends? Really?

I feel an unexpected prickle of irritation. She’s trying too hard, and Steve’s not even looking at her, but it’s the way she’s acting like I’m not here that gets under my skin. I step forward, closer to Steve, and pluck the shirt from his hands. “I got this,” I say a little sharper than I mean it to be and I immediately regret it. “You don’t need to flirt with him to make a sale, you know.” Shit. That came out harsher than I meant. But I’m not sorry. You’re pushing too hard, and I’m not invisible.

Kiana blinks and laughs nervously. “Oh, I wasn’t- I mean, I’m just helping out.” Yeah, right. Helping out. Sure. Back off.

Steve’s lips twitch, and he gives me a sidelong glance, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Easy, Danny,” he says, I hear there’s a warmth in his tone, that makes my stomach flip again. He’s enjoying this, the bastard. He leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine, and whispers, “Jealous much?” His breath is warm against my ear, and I have to fight the urge to pull him closer. Jealous? Me? Okay, maybe a little. But can you blame me?

I roll my eyes, heading toward the fitting room, the blue shirt clutched in my hands. “Yeah, whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” Gotta get out of here before I make an even bigger fool of myself.  The fitting room curtain is a faded green, sticking slightly as I pull it closed, shutting out the world for a moment. I slip out of his flannel, folding it carefully on the bench, and pull on the button-down. It fits perfectly, hugging my shoulders without being tight, the light blue crisp against my skin. I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. He’s right, it does bring out my eyes, the blue catching the light in a way that makes them stand out. Okay, fine, he’s got taste. This shirt’s perfect. The fabric feels cool, smooth, and I notice a small tag stitched inside the collar, a local brand with a tiny wave embroidered next to the name. I run my fingers over it, grounding myself in the moment. When I step out, Steve’s waiting, leaning against a rack with his arms crossed, Kiana nowhere in sight. His gaze slowly sweeps over me, and he tilts his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Not bad,” he says, but the way his eyes linger says a lot more. Not bad? That’s all I get?

I cross my arms, trying to play it cool. “What, blue makes me less slutty or something?” Come on, give me more than that. Let me see how much you’re liking this.

His smirk widens, and he steps closer, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone that always gets me. “Nah,” his eyes locked on mine. “Blue makes you look like trouble. The kind I like.”

Huh, that’s better, he’s playing dirty now. I swallow and mutter, “You’re impossible.” But I don’t move away, and he knows it.

He hands me another shirt, this one a pale gray, and nods toward the fitting room. “Try this one too.” His fingers brush mine as I take it. I head back to the fitting room, the curtain rattling as I pull it closed, and take a deep breath, trying to shake off the heat creeping up my neck. I slip into the gray shirt, its fabric softer than the blue, almost silky against my skin. It’s looser, but still tailored, and I catch myself smoothing it down in the mirror, wondering what Steve will say. I step out again, and he’s still there, watching me with that same steady gaze. “Keep that one too,” he says, nodding approvingly. “You’re starting to look like you belong in a boardroom, not a bar fight.”

A boardroom? Me? You’re got big dreams. But I’m keeping these because you like them, not because I care about looking professional. I snort, but I can’t hide the grin tugging at my lips. “High praise, coming from you.” I glance at the racks, feeling a sudden urge to keep going. “What else you got? I’m not done yet.” I’m surprised by my own enthusiasm.

His eyebrow quirks, and he gestures to a rack of t-shirts, their colors ranging from soft whites to bold reds. “Pick a few. You need more than just button-downs.” He steps closer, pulling a white t-shirt from the rack, its fabric lightweight and perfect for the island heat. “Try this. Something casual for when you’re not trying to impress anyone but me.” Impress you? Oh, you’re good. So, you know I’m already trying. I roll my eyes and take the shirt, heading back to the fitting room. The t-shirt fits snugly, hugging my chest and arms in a way that feels confident, not constricting. I try on a few more: a navy one with a subtle palm tree print, a gray tank top that shows off my shoulders, even a pair of khaki pants that Steve tosses over the curtain with a grin, saying, “Let’s see if you can pull these off too.” The pants are surprisingly comfortable, tailored but not stiff, and when I step out, Steve’s whistle is low and teasing. “Damn, Danny. You’re making it hard to focus.” Good. Let’s see how you like it when I’m the one messing with you.

I laugh, shaking my head, but the compliment lands, warm and heavy in my chest. We spend another half hour in the shop, Kiana occasionally circling back but keeping her distance now, her earlier flirtation replaced by a more professional demeanor. Good. She got the message. Stay away from my guy.  Steve keeps handing me things to try: another t-shirt, a pair of shorts, even a lightweight jacket that feels like it was made for evenings on the lanai. Each time I step out of the fitting room, his eyes linger a little longer, his comments a mix of teasing and something deeper, something that makes me feel like I’m more than just Danny, more than just the guy who’s been fighting to keep his head above water.
As we wrap up, I catch the faint sound of Kiana’s voice from the counter, offering to help another customer, her tone bright but clipped. I glance toward her, noticing the way she avoids looking at us now, her earlier confidence dimmed. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on sorting through the pile of clothes we’ve picked out.
A few minutes later, outside the fitting room I hear Kiana’s voice again, offering to help with something else, but Steve’s response is curt, distracted. Good. Let her try. He’s already made it clear who he’s here for. I hear her heels click against the floor as she walks away, and I wonder if she’s giving up or just regrouping for another try.

As I change, that ringing from last night flickers in my mind again. But for now, I push it aside, focusing on the weight of Steve’s gaze, the way he’s already decided how this day’s gonna go. And I’m okay with that. More than okay. I catch myself smiling in the mirror, and I wonder when I started feeling like I could belong here, in his world, in his clothes, in his life.
When I go out, I catch one last glance at Kiana through the reflection in the store window. She’s still watching us, lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flicking to. It makes my skin prickle. There’s a satisfaction in knowing she saw the way he looked at me, the way his hand lingered on my shoulder like it belonged there. And that’s a dangerous kind of high. Yeah, keep looking, Kiana. He’s not yours. And I’m not sharing.

Steve nudges me with his elbow, snapping me out of it. “You good?” he murmurs, not waiting for an answer before pushing the glass door open. We step into the heat like it’s a new world.

The boutique bags rustle in my hands as we step out into the Honolulu heat, the sun now high and unrelenting, baking the pavement until it shimmers. Steve’s carrying a couple of bags too, his stride easy as he leads the way to the truck, his boots scuffing lightly against the asphalt. The light blue shirt I tried on first is folded neatly in one of the bags, along with the gray shirt, a couple of t-shirts, the tank top, and the khaki pants. He insisted on buying them all, waving off my protests with a look that said arguing was pointless. The heat wraps around us and I notice a small bead of sweat trailing down Steve’s neck, disappearing into his collar. I look away before he catches me staring again. The sweat glistens in the sunlight, and I have to fight the urge to reach out, to trace its path with my finger, to feel the warmth of his skin. He’s gotta stop looking like that, all effortless and perfect. Makes it hard to stay mad about that call.

“We need to make one more stop,” Steve says, tossing the bags into the backseat of the truck. “Pharmacy. Running low on a couple things.” Pharmacy? What’s he need? Bandages for his next crazy stunt?

I nod, one hand on the passenger door. “You planning on getting into a fight or something?”

He turns to me, eyes narrowing slightly, I can see a glint of mischief in them. “Hold up, Danny,” his tone carrying that low, persuasive edge that always means trouble. “You’re wearing that flannel again. C’mon, put the blue shirt on.”
Oh, here we go. I’ll play your game. But I’m gonna make you work for it.

“What? Now? I’m not changing in a parking lot, Steve. We’re going to a pharmacy, not a fashion show.” Come on, push harder. I know you want to.

He steps closer, leaning against the truck, blocking my way to the door. His arms cross, and that damn smirk creeps onto his face. “You looked good in it, Danny. Real good. That blue? It’s your color. Makes those eyes pop.” His gaze flicks to my face. “Just put it on. For me.” You know I’m not gonna say no, but I’m not giving in that easy.  I roll my eyes, trying to brush it off, but the heat in my neck is betraying me. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not changing out here. I’ll wear it later, alright? Let’s go.” Keep pushing, Steve. Let’s see how much you want this.

But Steve doesn’t budge. He reaches into the bag in my hand, pulling out the neatly folded blue shirt with a deliberate slowness, holding it up like it’s some kind of trophy. “Nah, Danno. Now. You’re not getting in this truck until you’re wearing this.”  Oh, you’re good. You’re really doubling down, huh?

“Steve,” I groan, rubbing a hand over my face. “You’re being insane. It’s a shirt. I’ll wear it tomorrow.” Come on, give me more. Make me do it.

He steps even closer. “Danny, I’m not asking. That shirt on you? It’s doing things to me. You wanna argue, fine, but you’re not winning this one.” His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s that look again. Doing things to you? Oh, you bastard. Fine, you win.

I huff, snatching the shirt from his hand, and mutter, “Fine. You’re impossible.” I glance around the parking lot. Empty, thankfully, except for a couple of tourists across the street, too busy with their shave ice to notice us. “But I’m not stripping out here like some kind of exhibitionist. I’ll change in the truck.” I want to see that look on your face when I step out in this shirt.

Steve’s grin widens, victorious, as he opens the passenger door for me with a mock bow. “After you, princess.”

I flip him off but climb into the truck, pulling the door shut behind me. The cab is warm, the leather seats sticking slightly to my skin as I yank off my flannel, tossing it onto the backseat. Steve’s watching through the window, leaning against the hood now, his arms crossed and that smug look still plastered on his face. I shake my head, muttering under my breath about pushy SEALs, and slip on the blue button-down. The fabric feels just as good as it did in the store, hugging my shoulders just right. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, and yeah, okay, he’s not wrong.

I button it up, leaving the top one undone, and step out of the truck, spreading my arms, presenting myself. “Happy now, McGarrett?” Go on, tell me how good I look. I know you want to.

Steve pushes off the hood, his eyes sweeping over me slowly. “Oh, yeah. That’s more like it.” He steps closer, his hand brushing my shoulder as if to smooth the fabric, but his fingers linger, warm against my collarbone. “Told you. Trouble.” You’re the trouble, Steve, looking at me like that. But I’m not complaining.

I swallow, and shove my hands in my pockets to keep from doing something stupid, like pulling him closer. “You’re gonna owe me for this,” I mutter, but the grin tugging at my lips gives me away. Well, I’d do this a hundred times just to see that look on your face.

He chuckles, stepping back and rounding the truck to the driver’s side. “Worth it,” he says, tossing the last of the bags into the back. “Now let’s move before you start complaining about the heat again.”
I finally climbing into the passenger seat, the blue shirt still feeling new and a little too polished for me. “So, you really planning on getting into a fight or something?”

He chuckles, starting the engine. “With you around, Danny? Gotta be prepared for anything.” He reaches over, giving my knee a quick squeeze, and I freeze, caught off guard by the casual intimacy of it.

“Keep your hands on the wheel, McGarrett,” I say, the grin stays as we pull out of the parking lot and head toward a small pharmacy a few blocks away. The drive is quick, the streets less crowded now, and the island’s rhythm feels lazy under the midday sun.

As we pull up to the pharmacy, the quiet hum of the engine fades, replaced by the distant sound of waves and the occasional call of a seabird. We step out into the warm air, the pavement radiating heat beneath my shoes.

The pharmacy is one of those small, local spots, tucked between a shave ice stand and a surf shop. The bell above the door jingles as we step inside, the air cool and tinged with the sterile scent of antiseptic. Steve heads straight for the counter, where an older pharmacist in a white coat is sorting through prescriptions. “Hey, Kimo,” Steve says, using a warm and somehow businesslike tone. “Got a minute?”

I linger near the aisles and trail my fingers along the metal shelf edge as I walk, trying not to think too hard about what Steve might be picking up. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, and I wander down a row of over-the-counter meds, my eyes skimming the shelves. Cold remedies, antacids, allergy pills, nothing out of the ordinary. I’m half-reading labels, half-lost in thought, when something catches my eye.

A small orange prescription bottle, tucked between some allergy meds and a display of antacids. My stomach twists sharp enough to make me pause. I know that bottle. Not the brand or the label, but the shape, the color, the way it feels when Steve holds it, tipping a single white tablet into his palm. And he’s never told me what they are. Why?

I remembered his fingers, brushing against my lips as I lean in, my tongue catching the bitter pill from his hand. The way his eyes lock onto mine, daring me to look away. My face heats up, and I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting Steve to be watching me. He’s not. He’s still at the counter, talking to the pharmacist, his back to me. He doesn’t see me. Good. I don’t need him knowing I’m freaking out over a bottle.

I set the ibuprofen down and pick up the orange bottle, turning it over in my hands. The label’s for someone else, some name I don’t recognize, but it’s the same kind. Same size, same weight. I wonder if he’s picking up a refill right now, if he’s planning to slide another pill between my lips today, his thumb lingering too long. The thought makes my pulse quicken, and I put the bottle back, suddenly aware of how warm the store feels despite the AC.

“Danny,” Steve calls, cutting through my thoughts. He’s walking back, a small paper bag in hand, his expression unreadable. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets to hide the slight shake. “Find what you needed?”

What’s in that bag, Steve? Tell me it’s just toothpaste.

He nods, holding up the bag. “Toothpaste, some bandages. Basics.” His eyes flick to the shelf behind me, and for a second, I swear he knows exactly what I was looking at. He steps closer, his boots quiet on the linoleum, and I catch the faint scent of cedar again. But he doesn’t say anything, just jerks his head toward the door. “ Come on. Let’s get that fish before the market closes.”

I follow him out, the bell jingling again as we step back into the humid evening air. The orange bottle stays in my mind, though, a quiet weight I can’t shake.

The short drive to the market is filled with the low hum of the radio, playing some local station that Steve seems to know every word to. He taps the steering wheel lightly, and I try to focus on the scenery blurring past.

The market smells like the ocean with a hint of diesel from the boats docked nearby. Stalls line the pier, their tables piled high with glistening ahi, mahi-mahi, and snapper, scales catching the sunlight like tiny mirrors. Steve’s in his element here, weaving through the crowd with a purpose, exchanging quick greetings with vendors who seem to know him by name. His confidence is magnetic, and I can see the way people light up around him. He’s like a damn celebrity here. Everyone loves him. And I get it, I do. But I’m the one he’s coming home with.
I trail behind, feeling a little out of place among the locals haggling over prices. Steve stops at a stall manned by an older woman with a sharp smile and a worn apron. “Hey, Auntie,” he says, leaning in to inspect a pile of fresh-caught opah. “What’s good today?”

She laughs, swatting his arm. “Everything’s good, Steve. You know that. Pick something before I choose for you.”

I watch them banter, the easy familiarity of it making me feel like an outsider for a moment. Steve glances back at me, catching my eye, and jerks his head for me to join him. “Danny, come here. Tell me what you’re in the mood for.”

I step up, peering at the fish. “I don’t know, man. You’re the expert. I’m just along for the ride.” I shrug, but I’m grateful for the invitation, for the way he pulls me into his world without hesitation.

He smirks, picking up a slab of opah and holding it up for me to see. “This. Grilled with some lemon and herbs. You’ll love it.” He holds the fish like it’s a prize, his eyes flicking to mine, and I can tell he’s already planning the meal, picturing us back at the house, the smell of it filling the kitchen.

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “You’re real bossy today, you know that?” I’m teasing, but there’s a truth to it, and I like the way it feels.

His eyes glint. “You complaining, Danny?”

My pulse jumps, and I hold his gaze, feeling that familiar pull, the way he can make a crowded market feel like it’s just the two of us. “Not yet.”

Auntie clears her throat, breaking the moment, and hands Steve the wrapped fish. “You two done flirting, or should I get you a room?”

Steve laughs loudly and carefree, and I feel my face heat up as I mutter, “Jesus, Auntie.” I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to play it off, but I can feel the eyes on us, and it’s both embarrassing and oddly thrilling.

She winks at me, and Steve claps me on the shoulder, steering me toward the next stall. “Come on, Danno. Let’s get some pineapple for dessert.” Danno. There it is again. He’s gonna kill me with that.

The market’s energy lingers as we head back to Steve’s truck, the wrapped fish and a bag of pineapples tucked under his arm. The sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the pier, and I feel the day settling into something softer, more intimate, as we drive back to his place.

Back at Steve’s place, the sun’s dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, the kind of sunset that makes you think the world’s putting on a show just for you. Steve’s backyard hums with the rhythm of the island, crickets starting their evening chorus, the distant crash of waves, a soft breeze carrying salt and the faint sweetness of plumeria. We’re in his kitchen, the sliding door to the lanai wide open, letting the outside spill in. The counter’s a mess of prep: a cutting board with lemon wedges, a bowl of marinade, and two thick opah fillets, their pinkish flesh glistening under the overhead light. Steve’s at the stove, a cast-iron skillet sizzling with olive oil.

“You gonna help or just stand there looking pretty?” he says, glancing over his shoulder, that half-smirk tugging at his lips.

I roll my eyes, grabbing a lemon wedge and squeezing it over the fish, the sharp citrus scent cutting through the warm air. “Pretty? I’m a masterpiece, Steve. You’re just jealous you can’t pull off this level of Jersey charm.” I toss the lemon rind into the sink, aiming for casual.

He chuckles, flipping the opah in the skillet. The fish hisses, the smell of charred lemon and herbs filling the kitchen. “Jersey charm’s overrated. You’re lucky I’m here to class you up.” He nudges a bowl of chopped parsley toward me. “Sprinkle that. Evenly.”

“Evenly,” I mimic, grabbing a pinch of parsley and scattering it over the fillets, deliberately messy just to mess with him. “You know, for a guy who dives into gunfire without blinking, you’re awfully bossy about garnish.”

He doesn’t look up, but his smirk widens. “Gotta have standards, Danno.” He slides the fish onto a plate, the edges crispy golden, and hands me a spatula. “You’re on plating duty. Don’t screw it up.”

I take the spatula, our fingers brushing. I ignore it, or try to, focusing on transferring the opah to two plates without breaking the fillets. We work in sync, me plating, him tossing a quick salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, a drizzle of balsamic. We carry the plates out to the lanai, the wooden floor cool under my bare feet. The Adirondack chairs are weathered but sturdy, angled to face the ocean, where the last of the sunlight glints off the waves like scattered coins. I set the plates on the small table between us, and Steve grabs two beers from a cooler by the railing, the bottles sweating in the warm evening air. He pops the caps with a flick of his thumb, handing me one before sinking into his chair, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his body loose but never fully relaxed.

The opah is perfect, flaky, rich, with a tang of lemon that cuts through the buttery fish. We eat in silence for a bit, the only sounds the clink of forks and the ocean’s steady rhythm. The beer’s cold, sharp against my tongue, and I lean back, letting the lanai’s calm wrap around me. This is my favorite part of his house, this open space where the world feels far away, where it’s just us and the horizon. But that phone call from last night keeps nagging, a splinter in my mind. “He doesn’t need to worry about that right now.”

“You were quiet at the market,” he says, not looking at me, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Something on your mind?”

I take a sip of beer, the cold biting my tongue. That orange bottle from the pharmacy flashes in my head again, and I almost tell him. Almost ask why he’s never mentioned what those pills are, why he’s always the one to give them to me. But the words stick in my throat, and instead, I shrug. “Just tired, I guess. Long day.”

He turns his head, studying me, and I can feel the weight of his gaze, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had. “You sure that’s all?”

I meet his eyes, and for a moment, I think about pushing back, about demanding answers. But then he leans forward, his hand brushing mine as he takes my empty bottle and sets it aside. The touch is fleeting, but it’s enough to make me forget the question.

“You look good in that shirt,” he says. “Told you blue was your color.” He’s changing the subject. Again. And it’s working.

I snort, trying to play it off, but my heart’s pounding. “Yeah, well, you’re biased.”

He grins, and leans closer, his elbow resting on the arm of my chair. “Maybe. But I’m right.”

I laugh, shaking my head, and the tension eases, just a little. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He knows he’s won this round. The plates are empty now, stacked on the table.

Later, the house is dark, the only light from a lamp in the living room. We’re on the couch, Steve flipping through a case file, me pretending to read a book, some crime novel I grabbed from his shelf. The ringing from last night creeps back, louder now. I set the book down, unable to ignore it.

“Steve,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “That ringing last night... it wasn’t a dream, was it?” My heart’s pounding, and I can feel the weight of the question, like I’m standing on the edge of something dangerous.

He looks up, his expression unreadable. “What’re you getting at, Danny?” He’s dodging. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

I swallow, my hands tightening on my knees. “I don’t know. Just... feels like you’re keeping something from me. Like that call. Or those pills.”

He sets the file down, leaning forward. “You think I’m hiding something?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, frustration creeping in. “But I feel it. Like there’s a piece I’m missing.” I hate how vulnerable I sound, but I need to know, need to understand why the world feels off-kilter. But I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.

He’s quiet for a long moment, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Danny, I’m not hiding anything you need to worry about. That call... it was nothing. Work stuff. And the pills? They’re for your recovery. You know that.”

I search his face, wanting to believe him. “Then why do I feel like I’m in the dark?” Because you’re keeping me there, Steve. And it’s killing me, not knowing if I can trust you completely.

He reaches out, his hand resting on my arm. “Because you’re still healing. Your head’s trying to make sense of things that don’t need it. Trust me, okay?”

I nod slowly, his touch anchoring me. “Okay.” I’m letting you win this one, but I’m not done asking questions.

Later still, the lamp’s off, and the house is quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the distant waves filtering through the open windows. We’re in Steve’s bedroom, the moonlight spilling across the hardwood, turning the room into a patchwork of silver and shadow. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands clasped between my knees, the mattress firm under me. Steve’s leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, his silhouette sharp against the soft light. The air’s heavy, not with tension exactly, but with something unspoken, something waiting to break.

I take a breath, the cedar scent of his room filling my lungs, and I can’t hold it in anymore. “Steve, I need to know.” My my heart’s hammering like it’s trying to break free. “That call last night… who was it? What was it about? And don’t give me that ‘work stuff’ line again. I’m not stupid.” Don’t dodge this time. I know what I heard, and I’m not crazy.

He doesn’t move, eyes lock onto mine, and I can see the wheels turning, like he’s weighing how much to give me. “Danny,” he starts, his voice careful, measured. “You don’t need to-” Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare shut me out again.

“No,” I cut him off, standing now, my throat aching with the memory of those hands crushing it. “Don’t tell me what I need. I’m not some broken thing you have to fix, Steve.” I’m tired of feeling like I’m on the outside of my own life. “I heard you, Steve. ‘He doesn’t need to worry about that right now.’ What’s ‘that’? Why can’t I know?” My hands are shaking, and I shove them in my pockets to hide it, but I keep my eyes on him, refusing to back down. I’m not backing down this time. You’re not getting away with half-answers.

He exhales irritably and pushes off the dresser, closing the distance between us in two steps. “It was about the case. The guy I shot, the one who had you pinned to the floor, choking you.” His voice catches, and I see the flash of something raw in his eyes. “Chin’s got a lead on his partner, someone who might’ve been in on it. I didn’t tell you because you’re still waking up gasping, Danny. You think I don’t hear you at night? You think I don’t see the way you flinch when someone moves too fast?”

You saw that? I flinch now, his words cutting deeper than I expected. “So you just decide for me?” I say, quieter now. “I’m your partner, Steve. Not some… some victim you have to shield.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to shut down, walk away like he did always. But then his hand comes up, cupping the back of my neck. “You’re not a victim,” he says softer. “You’re my partner. And I’m trying to keep you safe. That call was Chin, Danny. We’ve got a name, a location, but it’s not solid yet. If I told you, you’d be out there, half-healed, chasing a ghost. And I can’t-” He stops, his thumb brushing against my neck, and his eyes drop, like he’s said too much. You can’t what, Steve? Lose me? Say it. Just say it. I need to hear it.

I swallow, my throat tight, his hand anchoring me in a way I didn’t expect. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?” The fight draining out of me. “I can handle it, Steve. I need to know you trust me.” Trust me, Steve. Please. I’m not gonna break, not when I’ve got you.

He looks at me. “I trust you,” He whispers. “More than anyone. But I can’t lose you again, Danny. Not after…” He trails off, his hand tightening briefly on my neck before he lets go, stepping back like he needs the space.

My chest aches. “You’re not gonna lose me,” I say, and I mean it, even if it scares me to say it out loud. “But you gotta let me in. No more secrets.” I can’t keep doing this, feeling like I’m half in your world and half out.

He nods, his eyes still on me. “No more secrets.”  You mean it? Or is this just another way to keep me calm?

I take a step toward him, closing the gap he made. “Okay. Then we’re good?” We’re good, right? Tell me we’re good, because I need this to be real.

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he reaches out, his hand finding mine, his fingers lacing through my own. The moonlight catches his eyes, and for once, they’re not guarded, not hiding anything.

“Come on,” he says, tugging me gently toward the bed. “You need sleep.”

I let him lead me, because of course I do. The bed’s big, the sheets cool against my skin as I slide in, and he follows, settling beside me. His arm brushes mine, and he doesn’t pull away. The cedar scent wraps around us, the waves a soft lullaby outside.

He shifts, his hand resting on my side, and I feel his breath against my shoulder. “You’re staying.” Like I could ever leave you. You’re my anchor, Steve, even if you drive me crazy.

“Yeah,” I whisper back, my eyes closing. “I’m staying.” Because even with the secrets, even with the ringing, you’re the one thing I can’t walk away from.

And as the darkness settles, the weight of his hand, the warmth of his body beside me, it’s enough to keep the fog at bay.

Chapter Text

I wake up warm.

My cheek is pressed into skin, the kind that smells like salt and sleep, and there’s the faint, steady rhythm of a heartbeat under my ear. This is better than any alarm clock. And God, that cedar scent of his… I don’t even think before I shift closer, inch by inch, until I’m half under Steve’s chin, half buried in the hollow of his throat. You’re too damn comfortable, you know that? I press my nose into the curve of his neck and breathe him in. It’s unfair, really, how his skin feels like it was made to fit against mine. My nose brushes the pulse point there, and I let my lips graze the skin, soft, unthinking, a quiet claim I don’t name. Something instinctive, greedy. My fingers curl just slightly against his side, and I feel his ribs expand under my palm. I fit myself more snugly into his front, leg sliding in between his, until we’re tangled in the kind of way you only get by accident or long practice. His arm tightens around me in his sleep. I don’t question it. Don’t even open my eyes all the way. My body’s too used to this stillness, this heat, this safety that clings to me like a second skin when he’s close. I press closer under the weight of his arm, my thigh sliding against his, the cotton of his sleep shorts soft against my skin. This is my favorite kind of morning.

His chest rises and falls slowly. The window’s cracked open, and I can hear the ocean, its rhythm a low murmur that weaves into the quiet of the room. A bird calls, too distant to bother with, and somewhere in the house, wood creaks. The ceiling fan spins lazily above, stirring the air just enough to lift the edge of the sheet draped over us. Time doesn’t move here. The morning light spills through the slats of the blinds, painting thin stripes across Steve’s chest, catching the faint scars that crisscross his skin. Stories I know some of, but not all.

I could stay like this forever.

Eventually, Steve shifts, a low grunt escaping him. I feel the press of his jaw on my forehead before he tips his head back slightly and mutters, his voice rough with sleep, like gravel under tires: “Thought you snuck out on me in the middle of the night.” Snuck out? Like I could ever leave you, you idiot.

I shift just enough to press another kiss to his throat, this one firmer, my lips lingering against the steady pulse, feeling it quicken slightly under my touch. There it is, that jump in his pulse. He feels me, even half-asleep. God, I love that. He stirs, a soft hum vibrating through his chest, and I feel the weight of his hand settle at the base of my neck, fingers threading gently into my hair “Thought you were gonna strangle me in your sleep with that death-grip bicep.” Teasing him’s easier than admitting how much I love his hands on me. How much I love that he doesn’t pull away, even when I’m a smartass. He chuckles. It’s raspy, barely awake, and vibrates right against my cheek. “Occupational hazard.”

“Being your boyfriend?” I mumble into his neck, my breath warm against his pulse. Boyfriend. It’s such a small word for what you are to me, but it fits, doesn’t it?

“Being a human pillow,” he says, deadpan. “You’re clingier than Grace was as a toddler.” Clingy? Nah, I’m just claiming what’s mine. I make a noise halfway between a scoff and a sigh, still not bothering to lift my head. Instead, I press another kiss to his throat, feeling the way his pulse jumps under my lips, and I smile against his skin. Got you. That little hitch in your breath is all mine. “Yeah, well. Grace didn’t have to deal with you snoring like a buzzsaw.”

I’m lying. You don't snore that bad. But I love the way you react, like you’re ready to argue but too comfortable to care.

“I do not snore.”

Oh, you’re defensive. It’s cute. You’re so damn sure of yourself, but this? This he’s sensitive about. I love that I can get under your skin like this.

“You do snore. It’s like sleeping next to a Harley Davidson with asthma.” I shoot back, my fingers trailing lazily along his ribs, mapping the familiar planes of his body.

His hand drifts lazily up and down my back, fingers grazing the curve of my spine, each touch sending a quiet spark through me. Neither of us moves to end this. We just lay there, trading half-lucid bullshit while the light through the window grows stronger and the world, for once, doesn’t demand anything from us. I shift again, tucking my face closer to his throat, my nose brushing the edge of his jaw. His stubble scratches lightly against my cheek, and I let myself linger, breathing cedar, salt, and something uniquely Steve that makes my chest ache. Can’t get enough of this. I press another kiss to his throat, softer this time, as an apology for teasing him, and his breath hitches.

“You keep doing that, Danno,” he murmurs, “and we’re not getting out of bed today.”

Good. I’d stay here all day if you’d let me. I laugh, my lips brushing his collarbone as I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re half-lidded, blue catching the morning light like sea glass. “You say that like it’s a threat, McGarrett.”

Threat. Ha. It’s the opposite. It’s an invitation, and I’m already half-gone, ready to say yes to whatever he’s offering.

He grins, that slow, dangerous grin that always makes my pulse jump, and tugs me closer, his arm tightening around my shoulders. “Just stating facts.” His thumb brushes the base of my neck. We stay like that for a moment longer, tangled in the sheets, the world outside forgotten. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, and it’s enough to make me think maybe I could stay here forever, just like this.

Eventually, I feel him shift, his lips brushing my forehead in a soft kiss. “We should get up,” he murmurs, but there’s no urgency in his voice, no real desire to move.

“Five more minutes,” I mumble, burrowing closer, my nose pressed into the curve of his shoulder. I slowly kiss his throat once more, feeling the way his breath hitches again, and I smile against his skin, knowing I’ve got him just as hooked as he’s got me. It’s not enough. I need more, need to keep you close, need to make this permanent.

He chuckles, his hand sliding down to rest on my hip, fingers splayed possessively. “You’re gonna make this a habit?”

“Already is,” I muffled against his skin, and I feel his laugh vibrate through me, like the ocean outside.

We linger like that, tangled in each other, until the light through the window grows too bright to ignore, and the world starts to creep back in. Steve finally stretches, muscles shifting under my hand, and lets out a long, contented sigh. “You planning on staying glued to me all day, or you gonna let me up?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes my chest tighten. Let you up? Never. But I’ll pretend I’m civilized for now.

“You’re warm,” I mutter, reluctant to move. “And I’m comfortable. Sue me.” But I roll onto my back, letting my arm flop across the pillow, my fingers still brushing his side. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me, his hair a mess, pillow creases etched into his cheek. He’s beautiful in a way that’s unfair, and I have to look away before I do something stupid, like kiss him again.

“Alright, lazy,” he says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Coffee’s calling.” He stands, stretching his arms above his head, the muscles in his back flexing under the morning light. I watch, unashamed, as he pulls on a pair of shorts, the waistband sitting low on his hips. Not a bad view to start the day. He glances back, catching me staring, and smirks. “You’re gonna burn a hole through me, Danny.”

“Just admiring the view,” I shoot back, sitting up and running a hand through my hair. It’s a mess, sticking up in every direction, but I don’t care. Not when he’s looking at me like that.

He shakes his head, still smiling, and tosses me his navy blue t-shirt from the dresser. “Put this on. You’re not wandering around my house half-naked.”

“Says the guy who’s practically allergic to shirts,” I grumble, but I pull it on, the fabric carrying that faint cedar scent that’s starting to feel like home. I follow him out of the bedroom, my bare feet padding against the hardwood, the house waking up around us with the soft creaks and hums of morning.

The kitchen smells like coffee and something sizzling. I don’t even know what I’m making, to be honest. I grabbed a package of halloumi from the fridge, sliced it, threw it in a pan with herbs I couldn’t name if my life depended on it, and now I’m watching the cheese brown like it’s an experiment. I’m no chef, but this feels good, doing something with my hands while he’s here, filling the space with his quiet strength.  The pan spits and crackles, the edges of the halloumi turning golden, crisp, and I nudge it with a spatula, careful not to let it stick. The herbs, uh, rosemary, maybe thyme, release a sharp, earthy scent that mixes with the coffee brewing behind me. There’s some kind of leftover grain bowl on the counter, a couple olives, a dollop of that fig jam Steve apparently buys in bulk. A Frankenstein breakfast. Mediterranean, I guess? Or just desperate. I grab a loaf of sourdough from the counter, slicing it unevenly, the knife catching on the crust. The bread smells faintly of yeast, and I toss a couple of slices into the toaster, figuring it’ll round out the chaos.

Steve stands a few feet behind me, bare-chested and already caffeinated. He’s fussing with the coffee maker like it’s a morning ritual he’s been doing for a hundred years. The machine gurgles, spitting out dark liquid that smells like heaven. The light from the window catches the faint sheen of sweat on his shoulders, and I have to force myself to focus on the pan. My hands, meanwhile, are still slick with oil from flipping the cheese, and I’ve already cursed twice under my breath for burning my thumb. The sting lingers, a sharp reminder to pay attention, but it’s hard when he’s standing there, all lean muscle and quiet confidence, like he belongs in this moment more than I ever could.

The kitchen is cozy, with mismatched mugs hanging on hooks and a worn wooden table pushed against the wall, covered in a scatter of mail and a single plumeria flower in a glass, probably plucked from the garden yesterday. A few weeks ago, the idea of waking up in someone else’s house made my skin crawl. I hated borrowing space. Hated the imbalance of it. Thought it made me small. Now, I’m standing here, in his t-shirt, flipping cheese like it’s my kitchen too, and it doesn’t feel like borrowing anymore.

I don’t even hesitate when I reach for his mug. The chipped black one with the faded SEAL Team logo. I pour the coffee like I’ve done it every day of my life. The liquid steams, curling up to meet the morning air, and I cradle the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms. The first sip burns my tongue, bitterness is pulling me fully awake. It doesn’t even register until I’m already sipping.

Steve brushes past me, reaching over to grab something off the counter. It’s a jar of honey, the label smudged from too many mornings like this. His hand lands on my lower back. His fingers linger longer than usual, warm through the thin fabric of the t-shirt, and I can feel the calluses on his palm, rough from years of handling guns and surfboards.

I freeze. Not in a bad way. In a too-aware way. Like all the nerves in my spine are suddenly online and listening. I take in a breath, and the heat that comes with it sinks under my skin. He’s already gone, moving to the fridge, talking about needing more milk or something, like he didn’t just set my entire nervous system on fire. I just stand there like an idiot, cheese forgotten, breath caught somewhere between normal and not.

“You always make that face,” he says quietly, watching me over the rim of his mug.

I blink. “What face?” I swallow, the halloumi sizzling, but all I can think is cedar, pulse, the way his throat felt under my lips.

“The one like you're surprised this is real.” His voice curls around me like the steam from his cup. “Like you think you're gonna wake up and this’ll all disappear.”

Maybe I am, a little. I swallow. The halloumi’s probably burning, but I don’t turn around. “Maybe I am.”

There’s a beat. Not silence exactly, but something full and still and watching. Then his hand moves, slides under the hem of the t-shirt, fingertips skimming over my bare spine. That’s real, alright.

“It’s real,” he says, quiet but sure. “I’m real. You’re real. This…” he gestures vaguely between us, “is real.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Your damn cheese is gonna catch fire.”

The pan pops again, and I snap out of it, flipping the halloumi before it burns, cursing under my breath as I shake out my hand, the oil stinging where it splashed. My fingers tighten around the edge of the pan for no reason at all. I don’t look at him. I can’t, not when my face feels hot and I’m pretty sure he’d see right through me. Instead, I focus on the cheese, the way it’s crisping at the edges, the golden brown spreading like a promise of something good.

This is what it feels like to be hooked?

Not with a bang. Not with a fight.

Just... a touch. And a pause. And that familiar, spreading heat.

“By the way,” I say, sliding a slice of bread onto his plate, “this t-shirt is mine now. I’ve imprinted on it.”

He smirks. “You say that like I didn’t put it in your drawer last week.”

My drawer. He gave me a drawer. When did that happen? When did he decide I was permanent enough to have a place here?

I freeze. “What drawer?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Top one. Next to the socks. Been there since Tuesday.” You gave me a drawer, and I didn’t even notice?

“You have a drawer for me?” My voice does a weird little flip at the end. “That’s very domestic of you, Commander.”

He shrugs, sipping his coffee like we’re discussing the weather. “You keep leaving stuff here. Figured it made sense.” This is starting to feel like a life we’re building.

I stare at him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me to water your plants when you’re out of town.”

He smirks again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t push your luck. The succulents barely survive me.”

I bark out a laugh, the tension I didn’t realize I was carrying dissolving just a little.

We eat at the counter. The halloumi is salty, chewy, perfect with the toasted sourdough and a smear of fig jam that’s sweeter than I expected, cutting through the richness. The olives are briny, popping on my tongue, and I chase them with a sip of coffee, the bitterness balancing it all out. His foot brushes mine once. I don’t move it away. Instead, I nudge back, just enough to feel the warmth of his ankle against mine, a silent conversation that says more than words could.

“You’re getting fancy with breakfast,” Steve says, his voice teasing as he spears an olive with his fork. “What’s next, Danno? Crepes? Quiche?”

I snort, wiping my hands on a napkin. “Don’t get your hopes up. This is as gourmet as it gets. Next time, you’re back to your sad eggs and bacon.” Well, I’d cook for you every day if it made you smile like that.

He laughs and leans back on his stool, his bare chest catching the light. “Sad eggs? Those are fighting words. My eggs are a work of art.”

“Sure,” I say, grinning as I pop a piece of halloumi in my mouth. “If art is a plate of yellow mush.”

He shakes his head, still smiling, and reaches for his coffee, his fingers brushing mine as he grabs the mug next to me.

Afterward, I take it upon myself to clean up. Mostly because he cooked all week, and because if I sit still for too long I start thinking too hard. The counter’s a mess of crumbs and oil, and I wipe it down with a damp cloth, the motion soothing, grounding. The sink fills with soapy water, the bubbles catching the light, and I scrub the pan, the faint scent of rosemary clinging to my hands.

I’m wiping down the counter, tossing forks into the sink, poking through a drawer for a paper towel or something, the wood scraping softly as it sticks halfway. That’s when I see it in the back of the drawer. A small box. Plastic. Medical. It’s tucked behind a tangle of rubber bands and a stray bottle opener, almost hidden, like it wasn’t meant to be found. Huh? What the hell is this, Steve?

I slide it forward. There’s a worn notebook under it, spiral-bound, edges curled. The cover is faded, a deep blue that’s almost gray, and the corners are dog-eared, worn from being handled too many times.

The box clicks open easily. Inside: tablets. Some half-used blister packs. Anti-anxiety stuff. Sleep aids. A few names I don’t recognize, but they all fall under the same umbrella. Things you take when your mind’s not cooperating. The pills are small, unassuming, but they carry a weight I can’t ignore, they’re holding pieces of me I don’t remember losing. The notebook feels heavier. It’s cool against my fingers, the pages slightly warped, like it’s been left out in the humid air too long. I thumb it open. The handwriting is Steve’s, precise but hurried, the ink smudged in places where his hand must have brushed the page before it dried.

Dates. Notes. Short lines. Descriptions.

“Woke confused, 4:15 a.m. Recognized me, not the house.”

“Panic episode triggered by loud noise.”

“Asked about Grace. Forgot she’d called yesterday.”

A slow breath moves through me. He was watching out for me, even then. It’s not just a list… it’s a record of me, of the days when I wasn’t myself, when my mind was a maze I couldn’t navigate. Each entry feels like a punch, and I can’t stop reading, my eyes scanning the dates, the moments he saw me at my worst.

I don’t hear him come in. I just sense that way you do when someone you know too well enters a room. The air shifts, and I can feel his presence behind me, like he’s waiting for me to decide what happens next.

I don’t turn around. “You kept a journal?” You cared enough to write this down.

His reply is immediate, quiet. “I was scared I’d lose you. Writing things down helped me keep track. Helped me make sense of the shifts.”

I close the notebook gently, my hand resting on top of it. The cover feels worn under my palm.

“You could’ve just told me you were worried.” But I’m glad you were there. I turn now, meeting his eyes, and he’s closer than I expected, leaning against the doorway, his bare chest catching the light.

Then I nudge the drawer closed. The wood scrapes again, a quiet protest, but it shuts, sealing the notebook and the box away.

“You can destroy it. I’m here now. In my body.” My voice cracks, just a little, and I hate how vulnerable it makes me feel, but I mean it. I’m here, and I’m not that guy in the notebook anymore. My fingers brush the front of the drawer. “And I’m not going anywhere.” The words feel like a vow, and I hold his gaze, willing him to believe me.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, the early light slanting across his collarbones. His hair’s still a mess, pillow-creased on one side, and there’s a softness in his eyes that I can’t read without getting a little dizzy. He tilts his head slightly.

“You sure about that?”

As sure as I’ve ever been.  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”

He nods, and there’s something in the way he looks at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time, or maybe the thousandth, and it still matters.

I turn back to the counter and grab a towel, start drying the last plate even though it’s already dry. I need to move. My body’s buzzing, but not from anxiety or anger, just… awareness. The towel is soft, faintly scented with lavender, and I focus on the motion, the way the plate gleams under the kitchen light, anything to keep my hands busy.

Of him.

Of the way his presence feels like a gravity I was obeying.

Of the fact that I didn’t ask how long he’d been keeping notes on me.

Because some part of me already knows: long enough to matter.

“Hey,” he says softer behind me, stepping closer, though I don’t hear his footsteps.

“Yeah?” I don’t turn, but I can feel him, the heat of him, just a step away.

“You don’t have to act like this is normal.” His voice is closer now, and I can sense him standing just behind me, not touching but close enough that the air feels charged.

I pause, plate in hand. “It kind of is.” I set the plate down, fingers lingering on its smooth edge.

He snorts softly. “You’re drying the same plate for the third time, Danny.” There’s a smile in his voice, and I can picture it without looking, that half-cocked grin that always makes my heart stutter.

I look down. He’s right. The plate’s gleaming and I’ve been rubbing it like it’s a magic lamp.

I set it aside, lean into the counter. My fingers tap once, then stop. “So maybe I’m still calibrating.” But I’m happy here, with you. I turn to face him now, leaning back against the counter, my hands gripping the edge behind me.

A beat. His eyes flick over me, taking in the way I’m standing, the way his t-shirt hangs loose on my shoulders.

“You wanna get out of the house for a bit?” he asks. He steps closer, his bare feet silent on the hardwood, and I notice the way his hands flex at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out.

Anywhere with you sounds perfect. I glance at him. “Where to?”

He shrugs. “Anywhere. Beach. Harbor. One of those overpriced coffee places you complain about.” His lips twitch, and he leans against the counter next to me, his shoulder brushing mine.

“I don’t complain. I observe. Critically.” I nudge him back, my elbow grazing his side, and he doesn’t move away.

He gives me a look. “You threw a croissant once.” Okay, that was deserved.

“It was frozen. And it tasted like dryer lint.” I cross my arms.

“You made the barista cry.” He’s full-on smirking now, and he shifts, his hip bumping mine.

I raise both hands, mock-innocent. “She put raisins in a chocolate croissant. That’s a crime against humanity.” I point a finger at him and he laughs, the sound filling the kitchen like sunlight.

His smile hooks slightly to the left. The real one, the one that only shows up when he’s not thinking about it. It catches me off guard every time.

“Beach sounds good,” I say after a second. “Just… need to change.” I glance down at his t-shirt, still clinging to my skin, and realize I don’t want to take it off.

“Okay.” He straightens, steps back, gives me space. But his eyes linger, and I can feel them on me as I turn away.

But as I turn to head to the bedroom, I feel that impulse to stop again. To look back. To say something stupid and sentimental. Instead, I pause in the doorway, my hand resting on the frame, and glance back at him. He’s still leaning against the counter, watching me, and for a moment, I think about saying how much it means that he stayed, that he saw me at my worst and didn’t leave. But the words stick, and I just nod, a small gesture that says enough for now.

That weight of knowing someone saw me when I was broken. And stayed anyway. That weight’s not heavy, surprisingly. It’s... anchoring. Like I finally stopped drifting.

Before heading to the bedroom, I grab my phone from the counter, the screen dark and silent. No notifications, no missed calls, just the faint reflection of the kitchen light. I slip it into my pocket, the weight grounding me as I walk down the hall. In the bedroom, I dig through my duffel bag, pulling out a pair of khaki shorts and a light gray t-shirt. Mine, this time, not his. I change quickly, the air cool against my skin, and run a hand through my hair, trying to tame the mess. The mirror catches my reflection, and I pause, noticing the way my shoulders sit a little straighter, the way my eyes don’t look as haunted as they did weeks ago. I grab my sandals from the corner, shaking out a bit of sand that’s still clinging to them from yesterday, and head back to the kitchen.

Steve’s already changed, standing by the door with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, packed with towels and a couple of water bottles. He’s in a white tank top and board shorts, his sunglasses perched on his head, and he looks like he stepped out of a damn surf magazine. He holds up a tube of sunscreen, tossing it to me with a grin. “Don’t argue, Danno. You burn, and I’m not listening to you complain about it later.”

I catch it, rolling my eyes. “You’re the one who looks like a lobster after ten minutes, Steve.” But I tuck the tube into my pocket, knowing he’s right.

He grabs his keys from the hook by the door, the jangle loud in the quiet house, and nods toward the driveway. “Let’s go before the tourists take all the good spots.”

I follow him out, the door creaking as it swings shut behind us. The air outside is warm, heavy with the scent of salt and hibiscus, and the sun’s already climbing, painting the driveway in gold. His truck is parked under a palm tree, the blue paint chipped and faded, and it feels like an extension of him, rugged, reliable, a little beat-up but still going strong. I climb into the passenger seat, the leather warm under my thighs, and buckle up as Steve slides behind the wheel.

As we wait for the engine to warm up, I pull the sunscreen from my pocket, the tube cool and slightly dented from being tossed around. I unscrew the cap, squeezing a generous dollop into my palm, the creamy white lotion catching the morning light filtering through the truck’s windshield. The faint coconut scent hits me and I rub my hands together, spreading it over my arms first. My skin drinks it up, the lotion leaving a faint sheen as I work it into my forearms, my fingers tracing the lines of muscle. I move to my shoulders, lifting the sleeves of my t-shirt to get the exposed skin, the lotion cool against the warmth of my body. I tilt my head back, dabbing some on my neck, my fingers lingering at the base of my throat where my pulse beats steady. The motion feels deliberate and I catch Steve watching me from the corner of his eye, his hands still on the wheel. “What?” I say, smirking, as I smear a bit across my cheeks, rubbing it in with slow, circular motions. “You want some of this too, or you planning to fry out there?”

He snorts, shaking his head, and there’s a faint flush on his cheeks. “Just making sure you don’t miss a spot, Danno. You’re not as thorough as you think.”

I roll my eyes, but I keep going, making a show of it now, spreading the lotion across my calves, my hands gliding over my skin, the texture smooth and slightly tacky.

“Better?” I ask, holding up my hands, fingers splayed, the last traces of sunscreen glistening on my palms.

“Passable,” he says, but his grin betrays him, and he starts the truck, the engine rumbling to life.

We don’t talk much on the drive. The engine rumbles to life, a low growl that settles into a steady hum as we pull onto the road. The windows are down, ocean on the left and the breeze rushes in, carrying the sharp tang of salt and the faint sweetness of plumeria from the trees lining the street. It’s one of those rare Hawaiian mornings where the world feels freshly rinsed, the sky hasn’t been used up yet. There’s a softness to it. A hush. Steve doesn’t put music on, and I don’t fill the silence with my usual commentary. I just lean back in the passenger seat, one arm draped out the window, and let the breeze slap against my skin. My fingers catch the wind, curling slightly, and I watch the coastline blur past, the waves glittering like they’re showing off. A few surfers dot the horizon, their boards slicing through the water, and I feel a strange calm settle over me.

Steve’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his fingers tapping lightly to some rhythm only he can hear. The sunlight catches the lines of his jaw, the faint stubble glinting, and I steal a glance, hoping he doesn’t notice. He does, of course, because he always does. “Eyes on the road, Danno,” he says, not looking at me, but his smirk gives him away.

“I’m not driving,” I shoot back, leaning back further, my head resting against the seat. “Just making sure you don’t run us into a palm tree.”

He chuckles, shifts gears, the truck picking up speed as we round a curve. The road hugs the coast, winding past rocky outcrops and patches of green, and I catch sight of a small fishing boat bobbing in the distance, its nets trailing like gossamer in the water. “You’re gonna love this spot,” he says, glancing at me now, his eyes bright with something like excitement. “Hidden cove, no crowds. Just us and the waves.”

“You and your secret spots,” I say, shaking my head, but I’m smiling. “What’s next, you gonna show me a hidden waterfall? Some ancient Hawaiian treasure?”

He grins, his sunglasses slipping down to his nose now, and he pushes them back up with one finger. “Don’t tempt me, Danny. I know places that’d blow your Jersey mind.”

I laugh, the sound caught by the wind, and for a moment, it’s just us, the road, and the ocean, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

The parking lot’s half-empty when we get there. It’s still early, sun barely starting to bite. The gravel crunches under the tires as Steve pulls into a spot near a cluster of low shrubs, their leaves dusted with sand. A faded sign points to a narrow trail leading down to the beach, half-hidden by overgrown grass. We walk in slow silence down the narrow trail, shoes in hand. The path is soft with dirt and sand, flanked by gnarled roots and small rocks, and I can feel the earth under my feet.
Steve picks a spot without asking. Flat rock, shaded by a crooked tree that looks like it’s seen a few hurricanes. Its branches twist toward the sky, gnarled and weathered, and a few leaves flutter down as the breeze picks up. He tosses our towels down, kicks off his shirt like it’s nothing, and sits with his knees up, forearms draped over them. His skin is golden in the sunlight, the faint scars on his arms catching the light, and I have to look away before I get caught staring again. I stay standing for a moment, watching the waves. They keep folding over themselves, white foam curling at the edges, hissing as it meets the shore. The water’s a deep turquoise, shifting to emerald where it meets the horizon, and I can smell the salt. Then I sit beside him. Close, but not touching. The rock is smooth under my palms, worn by years of tides, and I trace a small spiral etched into its surface, maybe a fossil, maybe just a quirk of the stone.

A breeze rolls in. It’s cool, carrying the scent of seaweed and damp earth, and it tugs at my shirt, making it ripple against my chest.

Steve’s the first to break the quiet. “You ever think about how different things could’ve gone?”

I squint at the ocean. “You mean, like… if I’d stayed in Jersey and you’d stayed in the Navy?” Hard to imagine a life without him now.

“No.” A pause. “I mean, with us.” I can feel his eyes on me.

I glance sideways. “You mean the part where I was half-catatonic and snapping at you every time you tried to help?” I keep my tone light, but there’s a weight to the words, a memory of those dark days when I wasn’t sure I’d make it back.

“Yeah. That part.” A small smile. “And the part where you still stayed.” He shifts, his shoulder brushing mine,.

I let out a breath through my nose. “That makes two of us.”

Steve doesn’t respond right away. He shifts, stretches his legs out, then lays back completely, hands behind his head. He squints up at the branches above us. The leaves cast dappled shadows across his face, moving with the breeze, and I notice a small bead of sweat trailing down his temple, catching the light.

“You’ve changed,” he says. “Not in a bad way.”

I lie down too, but keep my arms folded across my stomach. The sky above is so bright it hurts. “Yeah. I guess I have.” The rock is cool against my back, and I let my eyes trace thin clouds, drifting across the blue.

Another moment passes.

“You still feel like yourself?” There’s a vulnerability in his tone and it catches me off guard. That question sits in my chest.

“I feel…” I hesitate. Then, “I feel more like myself now than I did before it all started.” The words feel true, and I turn my head to look at him, finding his eyes already on me. You helped me get here.

He hums, like he gets that.

“You know,” I add after a second, “a few weeks ago, the idea of staying at your place and waking up in your bed would’ve felt like losing myself. Like disappearing into you.”

“And now?” His eyes don’t leave mine, and I can see the question there, the hope, the fear, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

“Now it feels like I got somewhere to come back to.” The words slip out, and I feel exposed, but I don’t take them back.

Something flickers across his face. Not quite a smile. Not quite surprise. It’s something softer, like I’ve handed him something precious.

He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush mine.

I don’t pull away. Instead, I let my fingers curl slightly, brushing back.

We stay like that for a long time. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more. The rock under us is hard but warm, and I can feel the faint vibration of the waves through it.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t tick like a clock, just spreads. The breeze picks up, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed, and I close my eyes for a moment, letting it wash over me. Not to sleep, just to feel it all better. The warmth on my skin, the salt clinging to my lips, the faint cedar scent mixing with that clean, damp smell of the ocean. The world feels soft, like it’s been sanded down to its edges, and I let myself sink into it, the rhythm of Steve’s breathing beside me a steady counterpoint to the waves. His fingers are still near mine, the backs of them brushing gently with every shift of wind. Neither of us moves to hold hands. Neither of us pulls away.

The waves keep rolling in and out. They’re louder now, the tide creeping closer, and I can hear the faint cry of a gull overhead.

He sighs beside me, one of those deep, effortless exhales that vibrate through your ribs if you’re close enough.

And I am.

It’s stupid how much I’ve come to depend on this. On him. On the way he fills the space around me, not with noise or demands, but with a quiet that feels like home.

I open my eyes slowly. The sky’s blinding. The sun’s higher now, the light sharp, but it’s softened by the shade of the tree above us.

“You ever get scared it’s too easy?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Steve turns his head. “What do you mean?” His eyes are steady, and I can see the faintest crease between his brows.

“This. Us. All this… normal.” I gesture vaguely at the beach, at him, at the space between us that feels so small now.

His gaze softens. “You don’t think it’s real?”

“I think…” I sit up, rubbing my hands over my knees. “I think I’m not used to wanting something that doesn’t try to kill me.”

A beat. Then Steve sits up too, a little closer than before. His shoulder brushes mine, and I can feel the heat of him.

“You think I’m not dangerous anymore?” he teases, nudging my foot with his.

You’re dangerous in the best way. I huff a breath. “You still drive like a lunatic, Steve. Don’t get cocky.” I nudge him back, my foot catching his.

But the joke breaks the tension. He grins, leans back on his hands, and lets his head fall toward the sky. The sunlight catches his hair, turning the dark strands gold, and for a second, I just look at him. His profile is sharp against the horizon, the curve of his jaw a line I could trace with my eyes closed. The lines at the corners of his eyes from too much sun and not enough sleep. The faint bruise still fading along his collarbone. The way he sits, so at ease, like the world could throw anything at him and he’d still be here, steady as the tide.

And I let myself want.

I reach out before I can talk myself out of it. My hand moves slowly, and I let my fingers rest on his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint pulse under my touch. Fingers graze his forearm. The muscle shifts slightly under my hand. He turns his head again, and for once, doesn’t ask what I’m doing. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a softness there, a question he doesn’t voice.

He just lets me touch him. And I do, my fingers tracing a slow line up his arm, stopping just short of his shoulder, where the skin is warmest.

No reaction big enough to break it. No need to label it. Just his skin under mine, and the sound of the ocean, and that silence that’s stopped feeling empty a long time ago. The waves crash, steady and unending, and I let my hand linger, my thumb brushing the edge of his collarbone, where the bruise is fading but still visible.

The breeze picks up, tugging at my shirt, and I shift closer, my knee brushing his. He doesn’t move away, just tilts his head slightly, like he’s giving me permission to keep going.

We haven’t said a word in minutes. The ocean keeps talking for us. The waves are louder now, the tide creeping closer, and I can see small shells scattered in the sand, glinting like tiny jewels in the sunlight. Every detail feels like a gift today.

Steve’s got one knee up, an arm slung lazily over it, like this is the most natural way to exist.

Sunlight’s caught in his hair, highlighting the pieces that went gold over the last few weeks. He has that stupid tan now, like he belongs more to the beach than to people. Lips just slightly parted. His breath is slow, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way the light catches the faint scars on his shoulder.

And there’s a weird ache in my chest. It’s not pain, not exactly, but a fullness, like my heart’s trying to hold too much at once. It’s that kind of swollen tightness that sneaks up on you when you’re not ready for it.

Contentment.

That’s the word.

He turns his head, catches me watching him. His mouth twitches into a soft half-smile.

“Still with me?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just… soaking in the vitamin D.” I try for casual, but it comes out softer. Really, I’m just soaking in him.

Steve smirks. “You mean staring at my abs again?” He shifts, stretching his arms above his head, and I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the way my gaze flicks to the lean lines of his stomach.

I scoff and throw a handful of sand at his leg. He doesn’t flinch. The grains scatter across his skin, catching in the light, and he brushes them off with a lazy swipe of his hand.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re sunburned. It’s gross.” I’m lying, and he knows it, but I lean back on my hands, the rock cool against my palms, and try to play it off.

He hums, unbothered. “Still looks like admiration to me.” His smirk widens, and he leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine again.

God, this man.

And still I feel the urge to reach for him. My hand twitches, wanting to slide over his, to feel the warmth of his skin again, just place my hand on his. Slide fingers between fingers.

I shift my weight, digging my heels into the sand. My palm itches to move, but I don’t let it. The sand is soft, yielding, and I focus on the texture, the way it shifts under my feet, anything to keep my hands from doing something reckless.

Because once I touch him like that, I don’t know how to untouch him. So instead, I take a breath. Push my voice into something normal. “You hungry?”

“Always.” He stands, and offers me a hand. His grip is strong, and he pulls me up with an ease that makes my heart stutter.

I stand, brushing sand from my thighs. “C’mon then, surfer boy. Before your ego eats itself alive.” I nudge him with my elbow.

“There’s a food truck up the road,” he says, grabbing the towels and shaking them out, sand flying in a small cloud. “Best spam musubi on the island. You in?”

“ Ugh, you and your musubi obsession” I already follow him, my sandals dangling from one hand.

“You’ll thank me later,” he glanced back. We head back up the trail, the sand giving way to gravel, and I notice a small red-crested cardinal hopping along the path, its feathers bright against the muted greens. The air feels warmer now, the sun climbing higher, and I can feel the heat on my shoulders, the faint sting of a sunburn starting.

Steve comes back with a paper tray in each hand and that stupid pleased-with-himself look on his face. His tank top is slightly damp with sweat, clinging to his chest, and I have to force myself to focus on the food, not him.

“Guess what I got,” he says, already handing me the drink. It’s a plastic cup, condensation beading on the sides, the straw bent at an awkward angle from his grip.

I take a sip. Sweet, cold, way too thick to get through the straw without aggressive effort. The pineapple flavor is sharp, slightly tart, and it hits my tongue like a burst of sunshine, making my cheeks pucker.

“A pineapple smoothie?” I squint at it. “You’re trying to kill me with sugar.” I set the cup on the tailgate, wiping my hands on my shorts, the fabric gritty with sand.

“You said you wanted something light,” he shrugs, sitting beside me, way too close as usual. His thigh brushes mine, and I can feel the heat of him. “And this is practically a health food.”

“Yeah? And this-” I eye the stack of spam musubi in the tray he sets between us. The tray is grease-stained, the musubi neatly wrapped in wax paper, each one a perfect rectangle of rice and spam, bound with a strip of nori. “Protein therapy?”

He pops one into his mouth. His jaw works as he chews, and I notice the way his throat moves, the faint glisten of sweat on his skin.

“It’s tradition,” he says around the bite. “You’re not living in Hawaii if you don’t eat these on the beach at least once.” He leans back, one hand braced on the tailgate, and I can see the muscles in his arm flex, the sunlight catching the faint hairs on his skin.

“Tradition, huh?” I roll my eyes but reach for one anyway. “What’s next, you gonna make me do a hula dance?” He’d probably love that, the jerk.
The rice is warm, soft, sticky in just the right way. The spam is glazed and slightly crispy on the edges. Sweet soy. Seaweed. Salt.

He snorts. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Keep dreaming,” I’m already biting into the musubi. The first bite is a burst of flavor, the rice melting against my tongue, the spam savory and rich, the nori adding a slight crunch. I chew slowly, savoring it, and I can’t help the small hum of approval that escapes me. Okay, he was right about this one. It’s stupidly good.

I don’t say anything. Instead, I take another bite, the flavors settling into something comforting, familiar, like I’ve been eating this my whole life.

We sit on the tailgate of the truck, legs stretched out into the sun. The sand’s still cool under the tires, but the light’s getting hotter, pouring over us like syrup. The truck’s tailgate is warm, the metal creaking slightly as we settle, and I can feel the faint vibration of the engine cooling beneath us. The ocean rolls in, and somewhere behind us, the food truck sputters and hisses, metal and heat and meat. The truck is parked in a small lot near the beach, surrounded by a few other cars and a cluster of picnic tables, their wood weathered and splintered. The air smells of grilled meat and diesel, mingling with the salt from the ocean.

Steve nudges me with his elbow. I glance at him, and his mouth is glistening with soy sauce. It catches the light, and I have to fight the urge to lean over and wipe it off myself. I grab a napkin and toss it at his face. It flutters through the air, catching the breeze, and he snatches it before it hits him, his reflexes annoyingly sharp.

“You got something,” I mutter.

His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s a playful spark again.

“Was hoping you’d lick it off.”

I stare at him. Not blinking. My heart does that thud again, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck, but I keep my face neutral, like I’m not imagining it right now. He winks.

“Jesus,” I mutter, biting into the musubi again, mostly to keep from smiling. Or saying something I’ll regret. Or leaning closer, just to feel that warmth coming off him in waves. The rice sticks to my fingers, and I lick them clean, catching the way his eyes flick to my mouth before he looks away, pretending to focus on his own food.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” I say, shaking my head. “Keep your dirty talk for the bedroom.”

He laughs, and leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “Noted, Danno. But you’re the one blushing.”

I roll my eyes, shoving another musubi in my mouth to shut myself up, but I can feel the heat in my face, betraying me.

We eat in silence after that. The waves whisper. The breeze catches the back of my neck. The air is warm now, heavy with the scent of salt and grilled meat, and I can hear the faint chatter of a family at one of the picnic tables, their laughter mingling with the cries of gulls overhead. His knee brushes mine now and then. Not by accident, I don’t think. Or maybe I just don’t care if it is.

There’s a moment when he hands me the last musubi. Doesn’t say anything, just holds it out. Fingers warm from the sun, rice slightly falling apart. His hand lingers near mine, the wax paper crinkling softly, and I notice a small cut on his knuckle, barely healed, probably from some reckless stunt I don’t know about yet.

I take it without thinking. My fingers brush his, and I feel the warmth of his skin.

The last musubi is softer, the rice starting to break apart, but it’s still perfect, the flavors melding into something that feels like Hawaii itself.

And it feels like I’ve been doing this my whole life. Sitting here, on the tailgate of his truck, eating spam musubi with Steve, the ocean stretching out before us, the sun warm on my skin. I glance at him, catching the way he’s watching the horizon, his eyes soft. I want to ask what he’s thinking, but I don’t. Instead, I lean back, my shoulder brushing his, and let the moment settle.

The sun’s climbing higher now, turning the sand into a shimmering haze that stings my eyes if I stare too long. The air’s thicker, heavy with the kind of heat that makes your skin feel alive, every pore open to the salt and the breeze. I’m still sitting on the tailgate of Steve’s truck, legs swinging lazily, the metal warm under my thighs, radiating heat like it’s soaked up every ray of the morning sun. The last bite of musubi sits heavy in my stomach. Steve’s beside me, one hand resting on his knee, the other dangling off the edge of the tailgate. The ocean keeps its rhythm, a soft, steady pulse that feels like it’s syncing with my own heartbeat, and I let myself lean into it.

“You’re quiet again,” Steve says, looking out at the water, his profile sharp against the bright horizon, the sunlight catching the faint stubble along his jaw, turning it gold.

I tilt my head, squinting at him through the glare, my sunglasses forgotten in the truck. “Just thinking,” I say, keeping it vague, because I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack the tangle of thoughts in my head. Thoughts about how this feels too good, too easy.

“About what?” He turns to face me now, his eyes catching mine, seeing right through me. His knee nudges mine again.

I shrug, brushing a stray grain of sand off my shorts, the texture rough against my fingers. “Just… this. How we got here.” My voice is quieter than I mean it to be, and I look away, out at the ocean, where a wave curls and crashes, sending a spray of foam into the air.

“You think too much, Danno,” he says finally, but there’s no teasing in it now, just a quiet kind of certainty, like he knows exactly what’s going on in my head and isn’t scared of it.

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep us grounded,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I glance at him, catching the way his lips curve.

“Grounded, huh?” He leans back, stretching his arms behind him, his hands braced against the tailgate, muscles shifting under his skin. “Thought that was my job. You’re the one who’s always flying off the handle.”

I laugh, a short sound that feels like a release, and I nudge him with my elbow, hard enough to make him sway slightly. “Says the guy who thinks driving eighty in a forty is a personality trait.”

He grins. “You love it.”

I lean back too, mirroring his posture, my hands braced against the warm metal of the tailgate. “Maybe I just tolerate it,” I’m smiling, and I know he can see it, can feel it in the air between us.

We sit there for a while, the tailgate creaking faintly under our weight, the ocean stretching out before us, endless and blue. A couple of kids run by, chasing a frisbee, their laughter sharp and bright against the steady hum of the waves. I watch them for a moment, their small figures darting across the sand, kicking up clouds of it, and I think about Grace, about how she’d love this, how she’d probably drag us both into the water without a second thought.

“You think Grace would like it here?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Steve’s quiet for a moment, his eyes still on the water, but I can see the way his jaw tightens, before he relaxes. “Yeah,” he says finally. “She’d be out there building a sandcastle the size of a small country, probably bossing us both around.”

The image so clear it hurts, and I can feel the warmth of it spreading through me. “Yeah, she’d have you digging trenches and me fetching water like some kind of servant.” She’d run the show, and we’d let her.

“She’d have us both wrapped around her finger,” he says, and there’s a fondness in his voice that makes my throat tight.

“She already does,” I say, and I mean it, and for a moment, we’re both quiet, lost in thoughts of her, of the life we’re building, the one that feels so fragile and so solid all at once.

The breeze picks up, carrying the sharp tang of salt and the faint sweetness of pineapple from the food truck behind us. I shift, my shoulder brushing his again, and I let my hand slide closer, my fingers brushing his where they rest on the tailgate. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, but I feel the slight shift of his hand, his fingers curling just enough to meet mine.

“You wanna go for a swim?” he asks after a while, his voice breaking the silence.

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow, my lips twitching. “You just want an excuse to show off your Navy SEAL water skills.”

He grins, standing and stretching, his arms reaching up, muscles flexing in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “Maybe I just want to see you flail around in the waves like a Jersey tourist.”

I roll my eyes, hopping off the tailgate, the sand warm under my feet. “Keep dreaming, McGarrett. I was swimming in the Atlantic before you were even a gleam in your mother’s eye.”

He laughs, and grabs the backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as we head toward the water. The sand shifts under my feet, and I can feel the grains sticking to my skin, a gritty reminder of where we are. The waves are gentle today, lapping at the shore, inviting us in, and I pull off my shirt, tossing it onto the towel we left on the rock. Steve does the same, his movements quick and effortless, and I try not to stare again.

We wade in together, the water cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of the day. It’s shallow at first, the waves barely reaching my knees, but they get stronger as we move deeper, pulling at my legs, trying to drag me under. Steve’s ahead of me, diving under a wave with that easy grace he’s always had, his body cutting through the water like it’s part of him. He surfaces a few feet away, shaking the water from his hair, droplets catching the light like tiny prisms, and he grins, beckoning me closer.

“C’mon, Danno, don’t tell me you’re scared of a little water.”

I splash him, the water arcing through the air and catching him in the face. “Scared? I’ll show you scared,” I say, diving toward him, my arms wrapping around his waist as I tackle him into the surf.

He laughs, the sound muffled as we go under, the water closing over us. We come up gasping, still tangled together, his hands on my shoulders, mine on his hips, and for a moment, we’re just there, floating in the shallows, the waves rocking us gently. His eyes meet mine, and there’s something there, something raw and real, like we’re seeing each other for the first time all over again.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he says, but there’s no heat in it, just a grin that makes my chest ache, and he splashes me back, the water hitting my face in a cold spray.

I laugh, shoving him away, and we spend the next few minutes like that, splashing and wrestling in the waves, acting like kids who don’t have a care in the world. The water’s warm now, or maybe it’s just my body getting used to it, and I can feel the salt clinging to my skin, the sun warm on my shoulders as we finally wade back to shore.

We collapse onto the towels, breathing hard, the sand sticking to our wet skin. I lie back, my chest heaving, the rock cool beneath the towel, and I close my eyes, letting the sun dry the water from my skin. Steve’s beside me, his breathing steadying, and I can hear the faint drip of water from his hair, the soft thud of his hand as he brushes sand from his arm.

“Not bad for a Jersey boy,” he says after a while.

“Better than you, Mr. Navy SEAL,” I shoot back, opening one eye to glance at him. He’s lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow, looking at me with that same soft intensity that makes my heart stutter.

“You keep telling yourself that,” he’s smiling, and reaches out, brushing a strand of wet hair from my forehead.

I don’t pull away. Instead, I turn my head, catching his hand with mine, and for a moment, we just stay like that, our fingers tangled, the sand warm beneath us, the waves whispering in the background. It’s quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that feels full.

Eventually, he pulls his hand away, but not far, just enough to let it rest beside mine on the towel. “You want to head back to the truck?”

“Yeah,” I say, sitting up, brushing the sand from my arms. “But only if you promise not to drive like a maniac this time.” I know he won’t, but it’s fun to call him out.

He standing and offering me a hand. “No promises.”

I take his hand, letting him pull me up, and for a moment, we’re standing close. I let go, but not before squeezing his hand.

We grab our towels and shirts, shaking the sand off as we head back to the truck, the path familiar now, the shrubs brushing against my legs. The parking lot’s fuller now, a few more cars scattered across the gravel, families unloading coolers and umbrellas, their voices carrying on the breeze. Steve tosses the backpack into the bed of the truck, the clunk of the water bottle echoing as it lands, and I climb into the passenger seat, the leather warm and sticky against my damp skin.

He starts the engine, the low rumble filling the cab, and we pull out, the ocean still visible in the rearview mirror, a strip of blue that feels like it’s following us. The drive back is quiet, but it’s a comfortable quiet, the kind that doesn’t need filling. I lean my head against the window, the glass cool against my temple, and watch the world pass by, the palm trees and the coastline, the way the light dances on the water.

“You okay?” Steve asks after a while.

I glance at him, his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and me. “Yeah,” I say. “Just… happy.” Happier than I’ve been in a long time.

He doesn’t say anything, but his lips curve into that soft half-smile again, and he reaches over, resting his hand on my thigh, just for a moment, before returning it to the wheel.

We drive on, the ocean on our left, the future stretching out before us, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of what’s coming. Because whatever it is, we’ll face it together.

The truck rumbles to a stop in the driveway, the engine cutting off with a low groan that echoes in the late afternoon quiet. The sun’s dipping now, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, the kind of sunset that makes the whole island feel like it’s holding its breath. I’m still warm from the beach, my skin tight with salt and the faint burn of too much sun. The beach bag slung over my shoulder, heavy with damp towels and empty water bottles. Steve’s got the other towels tucked under his arm, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, which is still a mess from the ocean. He’s whistling something low, some tune I don’t recognize, and it’s so damn domestic I almost want to roll my eyes. We’re barely out of the truck, the gravel crunching under my feet, when I hear a sharp, eager bark, followed by the scrabble of paws on pavement. I turn just in time to see a black labrador barreling across the street, his leash dragging behind him like an afterthought. His ears are flapping, tongue lolling out, and his eyes are locked on me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. Bruno. I don’t know how I know his name, but it’s there, clear as day.

“Woah… okay, okay, buddy-” I drop the bag just as Bruno rears up, planting his big paws on my chest. His weight pushes me back a step, and I laugh, half-nervous, half-delighted, as he licks my hands, his wet nose shoving into my neck. He’s whining now, a high-pitched, desperate sound, like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. My hands come up instinctively, scratching behind his ears, and I feel the coarse fur under my fingers, the warmth of him. My body tenses, though, because this isn’t just a dog being friendly. There’s something in the way he’s pressing against me, like he knows me. This guy’s acting like we’re old friends, and it’s kinda nice.

“What’s with you, huh?” I mutter, glancing at Steve, who’s standing a few feet away, towels still tucked under his arm, watching us with a small, unreadable smile. “He’s lost it,” I say, trying to keep it light, but my voice comes out uneven, caught somewhere between confusion and something heavier. Steve’s got that look, like he knows something I don’t, but it’s okay for now.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. He just tilts his head, his eyes flicking between me and the dog.

Before I can say anything else, an older man shuffles across the street, his worn Navy cap tilted slightly on his head, a chipped mug in one hand. He’s moving slow, favoring his left leg, his free hand gripping his thigh like it’s giving him trouble. Bruno’s still half-climbing me, his tail thumping against my leg, and I’m trying to keep my balance while scratching his head, his fur sticking to my salty skin.

“Don’t mind him,” the old man says, like he’s used to apologizing for Bruno’s enthusiasm. “He missed you. Every time a car pulled up, he’d bark and scratch at your door, waiting for you to show.”

I freeze, my hand stilling on Bruno’s head. The dog whines softly, nudging my palm like he’s begging me to keep going. “Sorry,” I say quieter than I mean it to be. “We… know each other?” This is weird, but there’s something warm about it.

The man squints at me, his eyes crinkling under the brim of his cap, then glances at Steve, who’s still standing there, silent, his expression carefully neutral. “Well, sure,” the man says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re always over here, the two of you. Good to see you got him back, Steve. Thought you two might not work it out after that fight.”

Fight. Fight? My hand slows on Bruno’s fur, and I feel the dog’s warmth under my fingers, grounding me even as my mind spins. I glance at Steve, but he’s looking at the ground now, his jaw tight, the towels shifting slightly under his arm, he’s gripping them harder than necessary.

The old man doesn’t seem to notice the shift in the air. He tugs gently on Bruno’s leash, and the dog finally drops back to all fours, though he stays close, his nose bumping my knee. “C’mon, Bruno, let the man breathe,” the guy says, chuckling, and starts hobbling back across the street, the leash dragging in the gravel. Bruno whines once more, looking back at me with those big, dark eyes, like he’s not ready to let me go. That dog’s got a heart as big as this island.

I watch them go, my hand still tingling from where Bruno’s fur brushed my skin. The sunset’s turning the street gold now, the light catching on the hibiscus bushes lining the neighbor’s yard, their petals glowing like embers. I turn to Steve. “Fight?” I don’t remember it, but I’m not worried. Whatever it was, we’re past it.

He doesn’t meet my eyes right away. Instead, he adjusts the towels under his arm. “You wanna head inside?”

I don’t move. My feet are planted in the gravel, the beach bag still at my feet, and I can feel the weight of the question hanging between us. Bruno’s bark echoes faintly from across the street, and I picture him scratching at our door, waiting for me, for days, weeks, maybe longer. “How long was he waiting?” I ask. “And why don’t I remember?”

Steve finally looks at me, his eyes softening, but there’s something guarded there, too, like he’s not sure how much to say. “Danny,” he starts, then stops, shifting his weight. “Let’s just… get inside, okay? We’re both salty and sandy, and I need a shower.”

I narrow my eyes, but I don’t push. I grab the beach bag, the canvas strap rough against my shoulder, and follow him up the path to the house. The gravel gives way to the wooden steps of the porch, creaking under our weight, and the air smells of salt and the faint sweetness of plumeria from the tree by the door. Steve fumbles with the keys, the jangle loud in the quiet, and I notice the way his fingers linger on the lock. He’s avoiding something. Okay…

Inside, the house is cool, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, stirring the air. The living room smells faintly of cedar and salt, the same scent that clings to Steve’s skin, and I drop the beach bag by the couch, sand spilling onto the hardwood. Steve tosses the towels into a hamper by the stairs, his movements quick, like he’s trying to keep busy.

I lean against the kitchen counter, my hands gripping the edge, the wood smooth under my palms. The light’s softer now, filtering through the blinds in golden stripes, and I can hear the distant hum of the ocean through the open window. My skin’s still tacky with salt, hair stiff from the ocean, but I don’t move toward the shower. Not yet. The weight of the neighbor’s words is still heavy in my chest, and I can’t shake the image of Bruno waiting, of a fight I don’t remember.

“So,” I say. “What was that about a fight?” I keep my eyes on him, watching for any flicker, any sign of what he’s not saying.

Steve’s already at the fridge, pulling out a couple of beers. “ Old man’s probably mixing things up, Danny. He’s got stories about everyone on the street.” He says, popping the caps off with a bottle opener, the soft hiss cutting through the quiet. He hands me one, his fingers brushing mine for a moment, and I feel that spark again, but it’s overshadowed by the questions still buzzing in my head.

“Mixed up?” I press, taking the beer but not drinking, my thumb tracing the condensation on the bottle. “He seemed pretty sure. Said we were always together, then something about a fight. You gonna tell me what he meant, or are we playing twenty questions?”

Steve takes a long pull from his beer, his eyes on the counter, not me, and I can tell he’s stalling. “Look, it’s nothing,” he says finally, setting the bottle down with a soft clink. “You know how neighbors are. They see us coming and going, make up stories in their heads. Probably just heard us arguing about something stupid, like who left the dishes in the sink.” He flashes a grin, the kind that’s meant to disarm, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I narrow my eyes, not buying it, but I can see he’s not going to give me more. “Right,” I take a sip of the beer, the cold bitterness grounding me, giving me something to focus on besides the frustration bubbling under my skin. “So we’re just gonna pretend he didn’t say anything?”

Steve steps closer, leaning against the counter beside me, his shoulder just brushing mine. “How about we focus on something else?” he says, trying to pull me out of my head. “Like how you got your ass handed to you in the water today.”

I snort, the tension easing just a fraction, and I elbow him lightly, the contact grounding me more than the beer. “You wish, McGarrett. I was holding back. Didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the fish.”

He laughs, and it fills the kitchen, chasing away some of the shadows in my mind. “Sure, Danno. Keep telling yourself that.” He reaches out, his hand resting on my arm for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin, and I feel that familiar heat, the one that’s been there all day, all week, all our lives, it seems.

I let myself lean into it, my shoulder pressing against his, and for a moment, we’re just there, standing in the kitchen, the world outside fading into the dusk. The questions are still there, the gaps in my memory, the weight of what I don’t know, but they feel less heavy with him beside me, like maybe I don’t need all the answers right now.

“You wanna order something for dinner?” I can tell he’s trying to keep things light, to keep us here, in this moment, instead of letting me spiral.

“Yeah,” I say, setting the beer down and turning to face him, my hip leaning against the counter. “But no more spam, okay? I’m still recovering from lunch.”

He grins, pulling out his phone, his fingers moving quickly as he scrolls through a delivery app. “Pizza?” he suggests, glancing at me, and I can see the question in his eyes, the one he’s not asking: You okay?

“Pizza’s good,” I say, and I mean it, not just about the food but about this, about us, about the way we’re finding our way back to each other, even with the gaps, even with the questions. I step closer, my hand brushing his as I lean over to look at the phone, and for a moment, I let myself forget about the fight, about Bruno, about the notebook in the drawer, and just be here, with him, in the quiet of the evening.

The house feels alive around us, the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the fridge, the soft glow of the lights, and I let myself sink into the warmth of him, into the life we’re building, one moment at a time.