ThenThe Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do Itstarts.
Ten minutes in, I’m already hiding behind my hands. Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow, every whisper has me inching closer to Steven. He pretends to be bored, stuffing popcorn in his mouth like he’s watching a cooking tutorial. But when I jump at a particularly nasty scare, my hand flies to his arm, gripping tight. He stiffens, then glances at me sideways.
“You’re pathetic,” he whispers, but his voice is softer than usual. Almost teasing.
“It’s your fault,” I hiss back, though I’m half laughing.
Another jump scare makes me bury my face in his hoodie, the fabric smelling faintly of sugar and yeast from the bakery. He goes still again, and I hear his heartbeat under my ear, steady but a little faster now.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for me. “It’s just a movie.”
“I hate you for dragging me to this,” I mutter into his shoulder.
“No, you don’t.”
And the annoying part? He’s right.
By the time the credits roll, I’m practically sitting in his lap, though neither of us moved much on purpose. I peel myself away slowly, trying not to notice how warm his arm feels against my back. He stretches, yawns, and smirks down at me. “Told you you’d survive.”
I shove him lightly as we stand. “Barely. Next time we’re watching a rom-com.”
He grumbles but doesn’t argue, following me out into the night with his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket like always. And even though Fleur’s not here, even though my boots are squeaking against the pavement and the movie should’ve left me shaken—there’s something strangely safe about walking next to Steven.
-*?? . ??? ? ?.-*??
The night air outside the cinema is heavy and warm, the kind of sticky June heat that clings to your skin even after the sun’s long gone. My boots squeak faintly against the sidewalk as we walk, and Steven’s hoodie looks far too heavy for this weather. Of course, he won’t admit he’s roasting alive. He’d rather melt than take it off. Typical.
He doesn’t say much as we head back, just grumbles about the movie like he always does, but I notice how he slows down his pace so I don’t have to rush, how he shifts to the street side when a car passes, how he glances down whenever I adjust the strap of my bag like he’s making sure I’m okay.
When did this start feeling like more than just Steven being Steven?
When we reach his bakery, he pulls out the keys, muttering about locking up some dough he left proofing. “Come in or melt out here,” he says, pushing the door open.
The air inside is cooler, scented with flour and sugar and something faintly yeasty. Familiar. Comforting.
Fleur would’ve gone crazy in here—she loves hiding under the counters when I stop by—but tonight it’s just me and him.
I drop onto a stool near the counter while he washes his hands, then starts pulling ingredients from the shelves.
“You’re seriously going to bake at midnight?” I laugh, peeling my boots off because my feet are hot and swollen from walking.
“Better than listening to you complain about the heat,” he shoots back, smirking as he cracks eggs into a bowl.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Always smiling with him.
He hands me a whisk without asking, like he always does, and soon we’re side by side at the counter, the fan blowing warm air that doesn’t do much but feels better than nothing.
I burst out laughing when he smudges chocolate on his jaw and he glares like I’ve just insulted his entire bloodline.
“Hold still,” I say, stepping closer, wiping it off with my thumb before I even think. His eyes flicker down to mine, just for a second, before he turns away, muttering something about me being a disaster.
But my heart skips anyway.
Because this—this right here—has been my life for the last two years. Steven always showing up. Steven dragging me out of bed when grief made me want to sink under the covers forever. Steven forcing me to eat when I didn’t care if I starved, making me laugh when I swore I never would again, driving me to class when I couldn’t bring myself to face driving, helping me study when my brain refused to cooperate.
When my grandma went into the nursing home, he helped me pack every box, his sleeves rolled up, grumbling the whole time but never once complaining. When I lost my job at the laundromat, he sat with me until I stopped crying and then marched me around town, determined to find me something better.
And when I finally cracked—when the weight of losing Vincent, of losing everything, came crashing down—he just sat there and let me fall apart. No judgment. No impatience. Just quiet, solid, like a wall I could lean against when my own legs wouldn’t hold me up.
